Christianity in the Second Century Themes and Developments isbn 978-1-107-16522-9 Hardback

Table of contents :
List of Contributors page viii
Acknowledgements ix
List of Abbreviations x
Introduction 1
James Carleton Paget and Judith Lieu
part i contexts 23
1 Empires, Diasporas and the Emergence of Religions 25
Greg Woolf
2 The Mediterranean Jewish Diaspora in the Second Century 39
Tessa Rajak
3 The Rabbis and Their Rivals in the Second Century CE 57
Philip Alexander
4 Church and Synagogue vis-à-vis Roman Rule in the Second
Century 71
William Horbury
part ii discerning continuity and discontinuity
in early christianity 89
5 The Second Century from the Perspective of the New
Testament 91
James Carleton Paget
6 Continuity and Change in Second-Century Christianity:
A Narrative against the Trend 106
Lewis Ayres
7 ‘The Gnostic Myth’: How Does Its Demise Impact
Twenty-first Century Historiography of Christianity’s
Second Century? 122
Karen L. King
8 The Gnostic Myth 137
Mark Edwards
9 Modelling Second-Century Christian Theology:
Christian Theology as philosophia 151
Winrich Löhr
part iii interpreting texts and engaging
in practice 169
10 Galen and the Christians: Texts and Authority
in the Second Century AD 171
Rebecca Flemming
11 ‘Authoritative Texts’ and How to Handle Them:
Some Reflections on an Ambiguous Concept and Its
Use in Second-Century Christian Literature 188
Joseph Verheyden
12 Belief and Practice in Graeco-Roman Religiosity:
Plutarch, De Iside and Osiride 379 c 200
Teresa Morgan
13 Lot Oracles and Fate: On Early Christianity
among Others in the Second Century 214
Laura Salah Nasrallah
part iv modelling identities 233
14 Christians as a ‘Third Race’: Is Ethnicity at Issue? 235
Erich S. Gruen
15 Ethnic Discourse in Early Christianity 250
Oskar Skarsaune
16 Pagan Attitudes 265
John A. North
7 ‘The Gnostic Myth’: How Does Its Demise Impact
Twenty-first Century Historiography of Christianity’s
Second Century? 122
Karen L. King
8 The Gnostic Myth 137
Mark Edwards
9 Modelling Second-Century Christian Theology:
Christian Theology as philosophia 151
Winrich Löhr
part iii interpreting texts and engaging
in practice 169
10 Galen and the Christians: Texts and Authority
in the Second Century AD 171
Rebecca Flemming
11 ‘Authoritative Texts’ and How to Handle Them:
Some Reflections on an Ambiguous Concept and Its
Use in Second-Century Christian Literature 188
Joseph Verheyden
12 Belief and Practice in Graeco-Roman Religiosity:
Plutarch, De Iside and Osiride 379 c 200
Teresa Morgan
13 Lot Oracles and Fate: On Early Christianity
among Others in the Second Century 214
Laura Salah Nasrallah
part iv modelling identities 233
14 Christians as a ‘Third Race’: Is Ethnicity at Issue? 235
Erich S. Gruen
15 Ethnic Discourse in Early Christianity 250
Oskar Skarsaune
16 Pagan Attitudes 265
John A. North

Citation preview

CHRISTIANITY IN THE SECOND CENTURY

Christianity in the Second Century shows how academic study on this critical period of Christian development has undergone substantial change over the last thirty years. The second century is often considered to be a time during which the Christian church moved relentlessly towards forms of institutionalization and consolidated itself against so-called heretics. However, new perspectives have been introduced as the period has attracted interest from a variety of disciplines, including not only early Christian studies but also ancient Judaism and the wider world of early imperial scholarship. This book seeks to reflect this changed scholarly landscape, and with contributions from key figures in these recent re-evaluations, it aims to enrich and stimulate further discussion. james carleton paget is the author of a number of books and many articles relating to the second century, in particular the relationship of Jews and Christians. He has also written extensively on inter-testamental Judaism and early biblical interpretation. He is a co-editor of the Journal of Ecclesiastical History, and recently coedited volume 1 of The New Cambridge History of the Bible. He is a lecturer in the University of Cambridge, and a Fellow and Tutor of Peterhouse. judith lieu has written extensively on the Johannine literature and on early Christianity in the second century in its Jewish and GraecoRoman contexts; her recent publications have concentrated on the ‘Parting of the Ways’, models of the emergence of a Christian Identity and Marcion and the origins of the idea of heresy. She is on the editorial boards of a number of journals and book series. Lieu is a Fellow of the British Academy and in 2015–2016 was president of the Society of New Testament Studies. She is Lady Margaret’s Professor of Divinity and a Fellow of Robinson College in the University of Cambridge.

CHRISTIANITY IN THE SECOND CENTURY Themes and Developments

JAMES CARLETON PAGET University of Cambridge

JUDITH LIEU University of Cambridge

University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 4843/24, 2nd Floor, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, Delhi – 110002, India 79 Anson Road, #06–04/06, Singapore 079906 Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107165229 © Cambridge University Press 2017 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2017 Printed in the United States of America by Sheridan Books, Inc. A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data names: Christianity in the Second Century : themes and developments (Conference) (2013 : University of Cambridge. Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities), author. | Paget, James Carleton, editor. | Lieu, Judith, editor. title: Christianity in the second century : themes and developments / [edited by] James Carleton Paget, University of Cambridge; Judith Lieu, University of Cambridge. description: New York : Cambridge University Press, 2017. | “This volume is the result of a conference, entitled ‘The Christian Second Century’, which was held between March 14th and 16th, 2013, at the Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities (CRASSH), University of Cambridge.” | Includes bibliographical references and index. identifiers: lccn 2016059957 | isbn 9781107165229 (hardback) subjects: lcsh: Church history – Primitive and early church, ca. 30–600 – Congresses. classification: lcc br165 .C529 2013 | ddc 270.1–dc23 lc record available at lccn.loc.gov/2016059957 isbn 978-1-107-16522-9 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Contents

List of Contributors Acknowledgements List of Abbreviations

page viii ix x 1

Introduction James Carleton Paget and Judith Lieu

23

part i contexts 1 Empires, Diasporas and the Emergence of Religions

25

Greg Woolf

2 The Mediterranean Jewish Diaspora in the Second Century

39

Tessa Rajak

3 The Rabbis and Their Rivals in the Second Century CE

57

Philip Alexander

4 Church and Synagogue vis-à-vis Roman Rule in the Second Century

71

William Horbury

part ii discerning continuity and discontinuity in early christianity

89

5 The Second Century from the Perspective of the New Testament

91

James Carleton Paget

6 Continuity and Change in Second-Century Christianity: A Narrative against the Trend Lewis Ayres v

106

Contents

vi

7 ‘The Gnostic Myth’: How Does Its Demise Impact Twenty-first Century Historiography of Christianity’s Second Century?

122

Karen L. King

8 The Gnostic Myth

137

Mark Edwards

9 Modelling Second-Century Christian Theology: Christian Theology as philosophia

151

Winrich Löhr

part iii interpreting texts and engaging in practice

169

10 Galen and the Christians: Texts and Authority in the Second Century AD

171

Rebecca Flemming

11 ‘Authoritative Texts’ and How to Handle Them: Some Reflections on an Ambiguous Concept and Its Use in Second-Century Christian Literature

188

Joseph Verheyden

12 Belief and Practice in Graeco-Roman Religiosity: Plutarch, De Iside and Osiride 379 c

200

Teresa Morgan

13 Lot Oracles and Fate: On Early Christianity among Others in the Second Century

214

Laura Salah Nasrallah

part iv modelling identities

233

14 Christians as a ‘Third Race’: Is Ethnicity at Issue?

235

Erich S. Gruen

15 Ethnic Discourse in Early Christianity

250

Oskar Skarsaune

16 Pagan Attitudes John A. North

265

Contents 17 ‘Away with the Atheists!’ Christianity and Militant Atheism in the Early Empire

vii 281

Tim Whitmarsh

18 Modelling the Second Century as the Age of the Laboratory

294

Judith Lieu

Bibliography General Index

309 349

Contributors

philip alexander, University of Manchester, UK lewis ayres, University of Durham, UK carleton paget james, University of Cambridge, UK mark edwards, University of Oxford, UK rebecca flemming, University of Cambridge, UK erich s. gruen, University of California, Berkeley william horbury, University of Cambridge, UK karen l. king, Harvard University, USA judith lieu, University of Cambridge, UK winrich lo¨hr, University of Heidelberg, Germany teresa morgan, University of Oxford, UK laura salah nasrallah, Harvard University, USA john north, University College, London, UK tessa rajak, University of Reading and University of Oxford oskar skarsuane, MF Norwegian School of Theology, Oslo joseph verheyden, University of Leuven, Belgium tim whitmarsh, University of Cambridge, UK greg woolf, Institute of Classical Studies, University of London, UK

viii

Acknowledgements

This volume is the result of a conference entitled ‘The Christian Second Century’, which was held between March 14 and 16, 2013, at the Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities (CRASSH), University of Cambridge. The editors wish to express their gratitude to CRASSH, not only for financial assistance but also for invaluable help in organizing and staging the conference. The staff, led by Professor Simon Goldhill, who took part in the event, and Mairie Lemaire, could not have been more helpful and efficient. The editors would also like to thank the Spalding Trust and the Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge, for also sponsoring the conference. The editors are especially grateful to Andy Niggemann for his or her help in the final editing of the volume.

ix

Abbreviations

AJP ANRW BASOR BICS BRCR CBQ ChHist CII CP CQ EC GRBS HTR HUCA ICS IJO JAH JbAC JBL JECS JEH JHM JJS JMS JQR JRS JSJ JSNT

American Journal of Philology Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt Bulletin of the American School of Oriental Research Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Bryn Mawr Classical Review Catholic Biblical Quarterly Church History Corpus Inscriptiones Iudae/Palaestinae: see Cotton, H. M. et al. (2010). Classical Philology The Classical Quarterly Early Christianity Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual Illinois Classical Studies Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis: see Noy, D. et al. (2004) Journal of Ancient History Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Ecclesiastical Studies Journal of the History of Medicine Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Mediterranean Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of Judaism Journal for the Study of the New Testament x

List of Abbreviations JSP JSQ JTS NovT NTS PA REAug RHE SBL SP TLZ TU VC ZAC ZNW ZPE ZTK

Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha Jewish Studies Quarterly Journal of Theological Studies Novum Testamentum New Testament Studies Philosophie Antique Revue des études augustiniennes Revue d’Histoire Écclesiastique Society of Biblical Literature Studia Patristica Theologische Literaturzeitung Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur Vigiliae Christianae Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

xi

Introduction James Carleton Paget and Judith Lieu

What is the second century? Should we, as with other ‘centuries’, talk about it in terms of a long second century,1 ascribing to it a period of time which goes beyond its strict mathematical limits? And how will any particular perspective on the century affect the way its length is calculated? A ‘Christian’ second century, for instance, may be temporally different from a ‘Jewish’ or ‘pagan’ second century.2 Whatever we think of this matter, a Christian second century has been a perennial subject of interest among scholars, in particular because of its perceived transitional character which, for many, renders it a Schlüsselepoche.3 Conventionally, it has been presented as a time of consolidation,4 seen in increased institutionalization, often in the face of crises, during which the ideas of orthodoxy and heresy were honed and the inchoate authority structures of Christianity established; hence the transition is from the rather looser conception of the Christian faith witnessed in the New Testament to the more systematic articulations of belief and practice, as well as of networked structures of authority, that emerged from the third century. Yet even this looks different if the emphasis is looking forward from the first (New Testament) 1 2

3

4

One might think in this context of discussions of the ‘long’ nineteenth century, which some propose runs from 1789 to 1914. Some would date the Jewish second century from the fall of Jerusalem in 70 to the publication of the Mishnah at the beginning of the third century (see Alexander in this volume). On the other hand, one might want to date the ‘pagan’ second century from 70 to 192 CE, that is, from the period of the Flavians to the Antonines, as is the case with the Cambridge Ancient History vol. xii. A Christian second century might run from the traditional date ascribed to 1 Clement (96 CE) to the death of Clement of Alexandria in the early 200s. Other time frames could be suggested for each different context. Löhr 2002a, 248: ‘Für die Rekonstruktion der Geschichte des antiken Christentums spielt das zweite Jahrhundert immer noch die prekäre Rolle einer Schlüsselepoche.’ See Ferguson 1981, 4, for further discussion of the century’s transitional character, not least between disciplines, which, he opined, in part accounted for what he took at the time to be the neglected state of its study. See Tröger 1988, 131, who talks about the century as marked by a ‘Konsolidierungsprozess’.

1

2

james carleton paget and judith lieu

century to the second, or if it is looking back from the more obviously ecclesial third century to the inchoate second. But over the past thirty or so years, while the belief that the century is an important one has not diminished, there has been a growing awareness that this older characterization should be revised and a more complex account of this period be undertaken. This is partly due to an emerging consensus that Christianity in this period was stubbornly diverse, a view with its roots in Walter Bauer’s Orthodoxy and Heresy of 1934, whose real effect only came to be seen in the early 1970s and beyond.5 Accompanying this conviction, but also emerging from textual discoveries and the application of new theoretical insights, is the view that many of the old categories, which had become central in descriptions of the Christian second century, categories adopted from some of the second century’s principal Christian writers, such as Justin and Irenaeus, needed to be revised. Terms like ‘heresy’ and ‘orthodoxy’, ‘Gnosticism’ and even ‘Christianity’ and ‘Judaism’ were no longer self-evident. Such terms, on this account, are constructs,6 the expressions of dangerously reified entities, which mask more complicated realities, among Christians (and Jews) in general, where identities were evolving and fluid, and where distinctions between groups, whether those traditionally termed heretical and orthodox, or Jew and Christian, were less clear. In such a view all texts, not least those written by individuals who later came to be associated with the orthodox, are read not as defences of a generally recognized ‘deposit of faith’, but as attempts, in the midst of a great and interconnected diversity, to construct one. Against such a background, made more complex by the long acknowledged lack of sources available for this period (only a fraction of the number to which Eusebius refers in his Ecclesiastical History), attempts to characterize the century in terms of the various components of a developing ‘orthodoxy’ (a view, which to varying degrees is beholden to an Irenaean/Eusebian view of the period), confronted with intermittent crises, become much more difficult, and the construction of narratives of any kind suspect, with their tendency to teleologies of various kinds. The aim of a second-century history becomes a more comprehensive, nuanced, inclusive account, where the old certitudes of a once apparently familiar map, delineating 5

6

Markschies 2007, 339–69, for a discussion of Bauer’s work, esp. 356f., where its reception is considered. See also Wilken 1981, 102, who explains why Bauer’s work became so influential from the 1970s. See, for example, Le Boulluec 1985 who uses the term ‘notion’ with reference to the conceptualization of heresy in the second century. See also Williams 1996 on ‘Gnosticism’; Lieu 2004 with reference to much earlier literature.

Introduction

3

a story of continuities, disappear and new accounts become necessary. Such accounts need not reject narrative – indeed many continue to want to tell a story of sorts – but insofar as they embrace that idea, it will be in a more complex form.7 Complementary to this shift in emphasis has been a growing sense that Christian developments in the second century should not be seen primarily in isolation from the wider cultural and religious world out of which they emerged. Rather, reflecting a trend in the study of late antique Christianity pioneered by Peter Brown, such developments should be viewed within the framework of wider changes in the ancient world. Such a shift is precisely that – Christianity has always been viewed by those who have specialized in its study as a movement emerging from a particular context and explicable in relation to that context. However, whereas the tendency has been to describe it as primarily new and marked by its ‘difference’ within the ancient world, the shift towards a more embedded representation allows Christianity to be treated as one among a number of Mediterranean religions.8 The current volume seeks to reflect this changed environment through the discussion of a number of issues and themes which are central to it. While the broad subject of the individual chapters was chosen by the convenors of the conference,9 there was no attempt to impose a particular format upon them or a unifying ideological position. In fact, as will become clear, while all the chapters reflect the shifting landscape of secondcentury Christian studies, they do so in very different ways, sometimes agreeing, sometimes disagreeing, with the broad trends that are outlined earlier and will be discussed in greater detail later, but always feeling the need to engage with them. It is not the purpose of the chapters to provide either an introduction to the complexities of the new landscape outlined earlier or a comprehensive analysis of them.10 The subjects treated do, in different ways, reflect key aspects of the changing world of second-century studies, although inevitably they could be extended in many directions; moreover, the adoption of different levels of approach, some more abstract, others more detailed 7 8 9

10

See n. 27 below and our discussion of Markschies and Löhr. See Salzman and Sweeney 2013; and Spaeth 2013. At the original conference, which took place between March 14 and 16 of 2013, individual speakers spoke in pairs about specific subjects, with the freedom to explore the subject as they wished. The resulting network of intersecting insights and concerns led the editors to arrange the volume differently from the conference and to categorize the chapters under different general sections. A handbook would require more extensive treatment of such topics as the Second Sophistic, of ritual, of the so-called Apocryphal texts and other subjects, too.

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and specific, offers a combination of broader theory and assessment with text-based analysis. The volume also reflects the shifting environment to which the previous paragraphs have referred through the identity of its contributors. While some of these hail from departments of theology and/or religious studies, others are classicists or scholars of ancient Judaism. While it would be wrong to imply that people from the latter two disciplines have not been participants already for some time in the discussion of the Christian second century, they are more so now than was once the case, a fact which reflects, in part at least, a growing sense that ancient Christianity can illuminate the development of ancient Judaism and of the pagan world out of which it emerged as well as the study of those subjects illuminating it. It is hoped that, together, the variety of subject and of approach, inevitably selective, will provoke further conversations between participants from different backgrounds and contribute towards re-envisaging this period. In what follows we attempt to locate the chapters within the framework of some of the formative debates, both of subject and method, within the study of second-century Christianity, and invite readers to join in the conversation that ensues.

1

Methods of Study

It cannot yet be said that the second century has become the conscious focus of methodological experimentation to the extent that has been the case with the New (and Old) Testament. In the latter, the primacy of the so-called historical-critical method, with its attention fixed on questions of sources, dating, authorial intention and readerly context, has been effectively challenged, particularly by approaches which either prioritize the ideological agenda introduced by the investigator, or immerse themselves in the literary strategies of the narrative, and in the play between the reader and a text, which is the sole reliable producer of its ‘world’. Many students of the second century are still more concerned in general to uncover ‘what happened’, and are largely confident of being able to do so, even while acknowledging, at least in the case of both the Jews and the Christians of the Graeco-Roman world, that the exercise is constrained, if not distorted, by the fact that the surviving evidence represents a small fraction of what was produced at the time. Yet even in this endeavour the focus of attention has perhaps shifted. As in other history-writing, it is no longer assumed that the story is to be told through the ‘great, the good and their dastardly opponents’, that is through the church men [sic], their hierarchies and

Introduction

5

institutions, and their triumphant battles over the forces of opposition, whether external ‘paganism’ or internal ‘heresy’. There may be only limited interest in describing the ‘everyday life of the early Christians’, which was probably not so different from the everyday life of their neighbours, but that latter fact itself becomes a point of interest rather than of disdain. Moreover, the varying perceptions and practices of those who did not leave literary texts are no longer treated as of secondary interest or status; hence, as shall be seen, ‘archaeology’ and the study of material culture are now recognized as offering an alternative window into the past, capturing such experiences, in contrast to the older picture of ‘biblical archaeology’ as being in the service of demonstrating the truth and antiquity of the texts.11 This is taken up by Laura Nasrallah’s chapter, which enables a dialogue between the material evidence for dice oracles and literary texts in order to offer a new perspective on Christian participation in fundamental human experiences and the philosophical questions they provoked. This example reflects the broader concern to hear alternative voices to those that speak through the texts which previous accounts have traditionally treated as the authoritative record of the past. That concern coincides with other related ones, and with similar ones elsewhere in the humanities. The pervasive current emphasis on the diversity of emergent Christianity, as also of the Judaism of the period, reflects this widespread rejection of allegiance to the controlling narrative of the supposed victors.12 That this is but a subset of the rejection of a single master-narrative, which is characteristic of post-modernity, need only alert us to the fact that previous accounts of the period were no less contextually framed. So, too, the contemporary rejection of established authorities is played out here in the fascination with non-canonical texts of the period, whether long-known or newly discovered, and with the theories of past political manoeuvering that ensured their suppression, both as popularized (The Da Vinci Code) and in more scholarly circles (the claims for the priority of Marcion’s Gospel).13 Perhaps most illustrative of the method would be the now familiar example of listening to the alternative voices of women, a subject not treated in this volume. Here, the study of early Christianity has followed in the wake of that of the New Testament, while also being enriched by what has been happening in scholarship on Late Antiquity. Initial 11 12 13

Nasrallah 2010; for Judaism, see Levine 1998, 2012. For the later period, see MacMullen 2009. Ehrman 2003. Vinzent 2014; and Klinghardt 2015.

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strategies merely named the women, either whose presence in the texts had long been ignored (e.g. Junia in Romans 16.7) or who were to be found in writings that had been marginalized in the political processes of the following centuries, and gave them their place in the history, often in conscious challenge to subsequent histories and vested interests that denied them a continuing role. Subsequently, greater awareness of the text itself, and of the rhetorical strategies embedded in all writing and even the apparently ‘purely informational’ or ‘documentary’, has challenged an optimistic historicism.14 More recently, attention has turned from ‘women’ to ‘gender’, a category from which none can escape, but which nonetheless is recognized as a cultural construct; hence the interest has been on how the constructions of gender characteristic of the Graeco-Roman and Jewish worlds can be seen to play out within Christian texts, and how, if at all, the latter subvert these. The intersection between cultural studies and the study of Late Antiquity, particularly in North America, has been especially creative, with reference mostly to the fourth century although with an impact also on the second.15 Yet an emphasis on ‘construction’, the so-called literary turn, may successfully undermine any attempt to parrot the received master-narrative, but may also exclude the retrieval of any alternative narrative after all available.16 The same dilemmas of ‘construction’ also plague the recent interest in identity and its formation.17 Past confident histories of Christianity and its neighbours in the second century inevitably assumed a stability and unanimity regarding the subject of the story. Contemporary critiques of the essentialism that has accompanied modern discourses of race, ethnicity or nationhood have joined forces with sensitivity to the rhetoric of the literary texts (as also of material culture) as being no less engaged in the persuasive construction of a reality. The reverse side of the coin of the recognition of the diversity of early Christianity(ies) has been the recognition also of the strategies by which the literary texts project an uncontroverted account of what it is to be ‘a Christian’, even if that is not a term all prioritize. Students of the classical world have examined how, out of a disparate set of peoples, histories and experiences, a sense of ‘being Greek’ was shaped, regardless of whether all signed up to it; the same was 14 15 16 17

Lieu 2004. Burrus 2000, 70–7; and Castelli 2004. The influence of Michel Foucault (1976) has been paramount. Cameron 1989; and Clark 1998a. For the intersection of these concerns, see Nasrallah and Schüssler-Fiorenza 2009.

Introduction

7

true of ‘Roman-ness’.18 How far did the construction of a ‘Christian’ identity follow the same lines? Some, echoing their early forbears, would emphasize that Christian texts play little attention to such defining ‘ethnic’ characteristics as language, territory or descent. Erich Gruen and Oskar Skarsaune are largely agreed in what follows that the formula ‘a third race [genos]’, found in a few early texts, does not point to any ‘ethnic’ characterization of the early Christians within the second century, either by outsiders or by themselves. Both highlight the primary concern of the texts cited as one of negotiating the relationship between the new movement and the Jewish matrix and heritage of its birth. More implicitly, both are engaged in a refutation of those interpreters who, with more emphasis on the constructed character of all such attempts at self-definition, whether or not dubbed ‘ethnic’ or ‘racial’, would contend that the strategies deployed by early Christian writers are in practice of a very similar order to those of their ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ peers, as also to those of the theoretical modelling of identities.19 However, such methodological concentration on the nature of literary rhetorical strategies and on the instability of construction may lead some to question whether any study of ‘early Christianity’, and so of its fellow journeyers, is able to identify the object of its endeavours.

2 Narrative or No Narrative Can a story of second-century Christianity be told? Is such an undertaking desirable? These questions can be raised on a number of accounts. First, the issue of Christian diversity, however understood, problematizes privileging particular versions of Christian truth over others, and so telling a particular story, which necessarily excludes and so, by extension, misrepresents. Related to this is the issue of teleologies – that is, the difficulty of telling a story without assuming a particular result, or put another way, the linear character of stories always assumes an endpoint, which, again in an exclusionary way, dictates the way the story is told. Third, does the rise of theoretical considerations, discussed before, make the telling of a story seem passé, perhaps impossible, even if in the end it may be difficult to avoid? Those who have been strong advocates of diversity have not always abandoned narrative. Bauer had a story to tell, which assumed the temporal precedence in many parts of the empire of what came to be called 18 19

Miles 1999. Buell 2005.

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heresy, and then proceeded to show how Roman orthodoxy won the day. Those who sought to revive what they took to be Bauer’s correct instincts and wished to see Christian history in terms of the development of different trajectories also had stories to tell, even if they were stories of diverse developments.20 Those who have been keen to take seriously Bauer’s geographical emphasis have told stories of a local kind.21 And even a writer such as Ehrman, who has sought to popularize a particular vision of Christianity’s diversity at the beginning of its history, suspending all judgements on issues of truth, has still wanted to tell a story in which a so-called proto-orthodox Christianity wins the day over its rivals. Such a story is not told approvingly – it is a study of how a particular battle was won and the means by which the victory was achieved. It might be, and indeed has been, objected that a view such as that of Ehrman, albeit in a different guise and with different emphases, is a continuation of older stories of decline, in which the Christian second century plays an important role, in this instance from diversity to an imposed unity.22 It typifies a certain kind of narrative, dubbed by some the horse race model,23 which anticipates from the start the victory of the proto-orthodox horse, and tells a story from that perspective, however much the attempt is made to overcome the risk of losing sight of diversity and to recognize the ‘constructed’ character of the orthodox victory. Moreover, such a model, like nearly all the diversity models mentioned earlier, assumes the discreet and bounded nature of different Christian groups, who were somehow able to compete with each other. An alternative perspective would draw on the methodological assumptions discussed earlier, namely by pointing to the fluid, ever-changing and constructed character of identity, and drawing attention to the complex interactions between different representatives of Christianity, rather than to the core stabilities of mooted groups, apparently in competition with each other. Here, texts written by, for instance, the so-called protoorthodox are less reflections of a reality than rhetorical attempts to create an ideal; the phenomenon of early Christianity ceases to become a battle of groups but a complex interaction between texts which converge at surprising points. Examples of such approaches are visible in Karen King’s contribution here, as also in her recent book on the Secret Gospel 20 21 22 23

Koester and Robinson 1971, with recent critique by Kaufman 2011, 120–4. Edwards 2005. Ehrman 2003. Much of this paragraph is indebted to Brakke 2010.

Introduction

9

according to John where the text is not seen as a representative of Gnosticism but on its own terms as a text which draws together different traditions from within Christianity.24 A similar set of debates has been characteristic of discussions of Jewish-Christian relations, too, where, as shall be seen, narratives based around the apparently neat idea of the parting of the ways have come under critical scrutiny and different accounts proposed, which suggest muddier and more complex identities. Such an approach, with its implicit opposition to narrative, is at one end of the spectrum of approaches to the Christian second century, and it would be wrong to suggest that there is now a mass of scholars who have given up entirely on some kind of narrative account of the period.25 Yet, many of its assumptions can be seen in what might be termed more standard works on early Christianity; thus, people have become increasingly sceptical about the use of such terms as Jewish-Christian or Gnostic, or of genealogical approaches to Christian groups; they have become more keenly aware of the hybrid character of early Christianity, so that those once dubbed heretical come not only to be seen as part of any account of early Christian history, but also as individuals sharing much in common with those subsequently dubbed ‘orthodox’ and indeed contributing to the articulation of their views.26 As in wider historical scholarship, terms like ‘teleology’ and ‘grand narrative’ have come to be viewed with suspicion.27 While such accounts do not reduce themselves solely to the fine-grained study of texts, or relinquish any notion of a kind of Christian continuity, narratives are balanced with alternative models, as in that of a laboratory discussed later, or are offered in a more nuanced form. Elements of this debate about narrative, and the related issues of continuity and discontinuity, identity and history, are reflected in this volume, albeit in contrasting ways. At the front end of the period, James Carleton Paget questions the distinction often drawn between the New 24 25

26

27

See King 2006. See, for instance, Mitchell and Young 2006, xiii. ‘We have endeavoured to capture the complexity of early Christianity and its socio-cultural setting, whilst also indicating some of the elements that make it possible to trace a certain coherence, a recognizable identity, maintained over time and defended resolutely despite cultural pressure that could have produced something else.’ A thesis most recently exemplified in Judith Lieu’s work on Marcion (Lieu 2015), where the aim is to play down the construct of Marcion as a heretic and focus on seeing him alongside his contemporaries, both Christian and pagan. See Löhr 2002a, 248 and esp. 261: ‘Es kann heute nicht mehr darum gehen, eine legitimatorischen Interessen dienende Grosserzählung des antiken Christentums im 2. Jh. vorzulegen oder zu bestätigen . . . ’; Markschies 2007, 381, who in a discussion of a crisis-based view of the second century, speaks of it as ‘mit einer unbrauchbaren Teleologie verbunden’.

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Testament and the second century, emphasizing the extent to which the New Testament is a product of the second century, acknowledging the difficulties such an observation produces for a continuing narrative that straightforwardly links the second century with what precedes it. While he draws critical attention to some of the prevailing narratives from the last two centuries of study, which join the New Testament and the second century, both ones of decline and more positivistic ones, he tentatively argues against a dissolution of the categories, New Testament and second century. Karen King, reflecting an ongoing theme in her work to which reference has already been made, refuses to talk at all about continuities or genealogies, as she puts it. Writing against the background of the breakdown, and now of the accepted fall, of the old certainties that sprang from the idea of ‘Gnosticism’, as she presents it, she argues for a complex remapping of early Christianity, which even encompasses the convergence of texts conventionally thought to emanate from disparate bounded groups. ‘Greater complexity can illuminate better how the development of Christianity was more dynamic and multifaceted than well-bounded categories or the positing of uniform and unified groups fractured from each other would suggest.’ Mark Edwards’ chapter joins King in denying the existence of an entity called Gnosticism; while he does not straightforwardly address the question of a narrative of early Christianity, his chapter traces other continuities between the so-called proto-orthodox and the Gnostics, suggesting that our sense of the difference between these two groups may arise from a misreading of the latter’s work. Lewis Ayres, on the other hand, while accepting the fact of diversity, or at least the influence it has had as a concept in recent discussion, wants, nevertheless, to retain a narrative of sorts understood in terms of an emphasis on fundamental continuities between the discursive space of the earliest Christian documents and that of what he reluctantly terms the ‘proto-orthodox’ in the period between 60 and 220 CE. This discursive space can best be understood in terms of shared narrative patterns, reproduced in broad terms by a range of writers in this period, and nurtured by complex networks of communities, initially through letters but then, in the third century, through meetings. Appealing to the kind of continuities argued for in Wittgenstein’s idea of family resemblances, Ayres seeks to advocate a moderate form of Christian continuity,28 which distinguishes between a kind of broad centre, and ideas and groups outside of that (broadly corresponding to 28

For a similarly nuanced view, see Wilken 1981.

Introduction

11

the old orthodoxy and heresy). He does, however, accept changes in the expression of this broad centre – the end of the century is marked by the advent of an exegetical and speculative culture, which he cautiously terms as ‘Hellenization’. Winrich Löhr also touches upon the subject in his advocacy of ‘philosophia’ as the appropriate model in which to locate Christianity, and as a designation that properly accommodates all those known thinkers who in the second century represented themselves as Christians; in this setting [t]he story of the laboratory of Christian theology is not a simple linear or even teleological narrative of the emergence of orthodoxy . . . but rather the story of the emergence of a spectrum of conflicting theological positions and of corresponding debates. Within this context the discourse of orthodoxy is to be seen as an attempt to order and redefine the spectrum from a specific perspective.

Here then is a story of sorts but one attempting to be as broad as possible. Judith Lieu subjects to examination the model of the laboratory, first introduced by Löhr, wondering whether it does so easily avoid any narrative, at least for those who come with a (even implicit) theological agenda, ‘[s]o long as some notion of the achievement of a broadly-held consensus regarding theological truths lies on the horizon, it is difficult to avoid treating questions as to how the far the second century is predictive of, and provides continuity for, these as fundamental . . . ’; she warns that rather than avoid teleologies, the model of a laboratory can serve to legitimate subsequent developments even more, ‘at least in a scientific age, than does an appeal to the workings of the divine.’ Each of these accounts points to a genuine difficulty: the Christian second century looks different at its beginning from its end, and its end is readily conceived of in terms of a beginning point of a movement towards what some see as the fourth-century settlement in which Christianity looks less fluid and diverse.29 This point seems to be accepted even by those who would by and large take a more radically diverse view of early Christian history, and the challenge it offers the historian of how to explain and evaluate this remains unresolved.30 29

30

Outler’s argument (Outler 1981), found in the first number of Second Century, that the second century has its place in a longer tale about the establishment of what he terms ‘catholic Christianity’ reflects a well-established point of view in the historiography of the subject. See Brakke 2002, 490–1, who, amidst the complexity of the current debate about the nature of church history, calls for a golden mean between telling the same old deceptively familiar story and not allowing what one writes to dissolve into a series of discontinuous anecdotes.

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3

Anti-Exceptionalism

While it is true that Christianity has always been studied with reference to its contemporary wider pagan and Jewish world, and that a sound knowledge of the context in which Christian beliefs and ideas were forged was essential to scholarly pursuit of the subject, there is now more awareness of, and interest in, the extent to which Christianity was an expression of wider movements in the ancient world. In earlier scholarship there was a tendency to interpret Christianity through its difference from contemporary culture, or for its adoption of aspects of that culture, in particular were defined as ‘philosophical’ or ‘Hellenistic’, which might be viewed as distorting the essential structure of Christianity.31 While such concerns may not have disappeared, early Christianity has come to be seen as a part of what is often dubbed ‘late antiquity’ and as expressive of, and contributing to, its ‘making’. Elements of this tendency can already be seen in the volume edited by Lieu, North and Rajak over two decades ago, all contributors to the present volume.32 North, for instance, argued against the view that Christianity was in some senses a new manifestation in the ancient world, to be hived off and separated from other ancient ‘religions’. Instead, it was a reflection of a development in the ancient world ‘from religion as embedded in the city state to religion as choice of differentiated groups offering different qualities of religious doctrine, different experiences, insights, or just different myths and stories to make sense of the absurdity of human experience’.33 In an influential but contested metaphor,34 Christianity emerges in an ancient world where religion is no longer seen in terms of a monopoly but of a marketplace, where choices are possible and competition and conflict inevitable. North was not arguing for the view that Christianity was no more than the expression of a tendency – he makes much, for instance, of its missionizing character, something which he sees as unique to it – but the argument of his chapter is broadly what one might term an anti-exceptionalist one. The mild anti-exceptionalism of North’s chapter has been echoed in more detailed and specific studies. Illustrative of this has been recent study of Christian heresiology: where previously even those who were keen to emphasize its constructed character saw it as strongly Christian in 31

32 33 34

See Markschies 2012 for a helpful account of the historiography of the Hellenization debate (giving a special place to Harnack), and the way in which it was conceived as both a distorting and a more positive process. See also Lieu, North and Rajak 1992, 4 Lieu, North and Rajak 1992. North 1992, 178. For a critique of the metaphor, see Price 2012.

Introduction

13

expression,35 a younger generation of scholars have located it within developments witnessed in Platonism, among sophists and other philosophical movements.36 For instance, Kendra Eshelman has argued, inter alia, that the formation of orthodoxy is something of a shared project of the second century, and that sophists and philosophers not only provide some of the same resources and techniques, which will enable Christians to create an idea of orthodoxy, but that there is a general drift in this sort of direction in the ancient world. In an exploration of developing Christian discourse, Laura Nasrallah has sought to show how Christian literature of the second century takes up themes relating to justice, piety and related religious matters, which found expression in the material culture of the period. Complementary to some of this discussion has been Rebecca Lyman’s thesis that Christian ideas of heresy simply represent a range of attempts by Hellenistic thinkers to bring together ideas of universal truth and local beliefs, thereby in some ways detoxifying Christianity’s apparent intolerance.37 Other expressions of this tendency to seek to understand Christianity as, amongst other things, a reflection of the concerns of the Second Sophistic could be multiplied. None would argue a case for Christianity being precisely like something else but the emphasis in the discussion has undoubtedly changed. The chapters in this volume reflect elements of this debate. Greg Woolf presents an intentionally anti-exceptionalist case for Christianity: taking forward the arguments of North, and the thoughts of J. Z. Smith, Woolf argues that Christianity emerged in a world, which, influenced by the rise of empires which promoted immigration and mobility, had spawned diasporic communities and undermined conventional distinctions between local and translocal cults. The new religious movements which emerged in such a context, the beginnings of which can be seen in the second century, shared family resemblances, accounted for by the shared context in which they arose. It is in such a context that competition between religions arose and with it, persecution. At a more fine-grained and specific level, and from different perspectives, Morgan and Nasrallah seek to undermine conventional distinctions between Christianity as, on the one hand, a religion of doctrine, and pagan and indeed Jewish religion as, on the other, ones marked by praxis. So Morgan shows, by an examination of Plutarch and others, that belief 35 36 37

See Le Boulluec 1985. Löhr’s chapter might be said to be situated between these two positions. Lyman 2003a.

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about the gods was in fact important, while Nasrallah, through looking at a dice oracle at Corinth, discusses the complex relationship between practices represented by such objects and the beliefs they imply, beliefs, which in complex ways could be seen to be reflected in Christian texts. Other chapters, which are not consciously engagements with this question, adopt more ambivalent positions on it. So John North, while clear that Lucian’s presentation of Christianity is not one marked by a sense of repulsion at the phenomenon, that is, an ingrained sense of its alien character, shows how Lucian can be seen to align it with Cynicism, but still suggests that Lucian is struggling to place it on his religio-cultural map, a struggle reflected in other writers, even Christian ones like Diognetus. Tim Whitmarsh, in his contribution on Christians as atheists, sees the former as both using contemporary understandings of atheism in a variety of rhetorically charged ways, but also as contributing to a development of the term. Rebecca Flemming, on the other hand, in a discussion of textual authority amongst various medical writers in the period, especially Galen, highlights the broadly eclectic approach to this matter. True, Galen can speak of a kind of ‘sect-mania’ when it comes to some medical writers, but this is misleading when the sources are analysed closely. Christians are difficult to situate on this map but their unified approach to knowledge does not, as Eshelman argues, reflect a well-established characteristic of the age. For Verheyden canonization or the movements towards it, which seem to mark out second-century Christianity, could be taken to reflect tendencies in that direction in the Second Sophistic, partly because Christians have left no record of their reasons for proceeding in such a way.

4 The Parting of the Ways Of the various themes addressed in this volume, the remodelling of the relationship between ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ has been perhaps the most securely established in scholarly discussion. The older model, according to which ‘Christianity’, conceived, if not already brought to birth, in the person of Jesus or of Paul, had broken away from ‘Judaism’ by the end of the first century, taking with it the Scriptures (‘Old Testament’) in their Greek translation, and effectively leaving its erstwhile parent to ossify in legalism, has now largely been confined to the annals of the history of scholarship. This triumphalist model was replaced by one which gave greater recognition to the ongoing but separate history of Jewish communities, which for a time continued to present a seductive threat to early

Introduction

15

Christian groups.38 Dubbed as ‘the Parting of the Ways’ at a time when it was already breaking down, that model had assumed that it was reasonable to speak of ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ as discrete entities, confused only by ‘Jewish Christians’ who defied the inevitable and so were viewed as ‘heretics’ by both. As has been seen, even before the relationship between the two came under scrutiny, the unitary character of each was being dissolved; at the same time the Dead Sea Scrolls and a re-evaluation of Hellenistic Jewish texts meant that a more variegated ‘Judaism’ seemingly provided a less hostile environment within which Jesus, ‘the early Jesus movement’ and, indeed, its successors into the second century could be located. The ‘alternative voices’ evidenced by the patterns of archaeological remains often resisted unequivocal definition as either Christian or Jewish (or, indeed, pagan); these, together with the shadowy figures presupposed by the polemic of texts whose legitimate authority was no longer given historical priority, pointed to more complex patterns of coexistence and of porous boundaries as well as of elasticity of doctrinal definition.39 Dissatisfaction with a single grand narrative directed attention to the different stories of particular localities or texts. The result was the continually unstable and proliferating ‘PartingS (and perhaps Re-joinings) of Ways’, the time frame for which could be extended into the fourth century and even beyond.40 It has to be admitted that this is not the picture that the texts project, as the chapters by Gruen and Skarsaune both demonstrate; equally it is not the picture that seems to be presupposed by the accounts of persecution ‘as a Christian’, even by those suggested by the Roman authors such as Tacitus, and, unsurprisingly, not by the majority of ‘Martyr Acts’, which are penned by ‘Christians’. These latter, in the second century most notably the Martyrdom of Polycarp and that told in the Letter of the Churches at Lyons and Vienne, are constructed around the self-defining statement ‘I am a Christian’, giving little role, or only a highly ambiguous one, to the Jews.41 This last position, of the ‘difference’ established by persecution, is to a considerable extent defended by Horbury in this volume, although he too acknowledges to a greater degree than have some scholars the extent to which Jewish communities also faced the political authorities with 38 39 40 41

See, for example, Simon 1986. Carleton Paget 2010, 1–24, for an introduction to this discussion; Lieu 2002a. On the archaeological evidence, see Crawford 1999. Becker and Reed 2003, esp. 1–34. The development of martyrdom literature is a theme for which there is no space in the present volume but that also illustrates many of the trends explored here. See Moss 2012 (who also questions the conventional dating of these texts). On the role of the Jews, see Lieu 1996, 57–102.

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troubling insecurity. In so doing he examines a larger range of sources than is commonly considered in the debate to allow some similarity between the Jewish and Christian experience, although at the end it is difference in status that is most marked; this, then, implies that the difference between Jews and Christians was recognized by outsiders, and that they could be distinguished in times of persecution.42 However, the new model has been to underplay ‘difference’, and to stress shared experiences, allegiance and perhaps communal practices. Yet, to the extent that it can still generate a broad narrative, this has often remained a ‘Christian’ one. As was also the case in the period under review and in its sources (as is well illustrated by Skarsaune’s chapter), the ‘problem’ has been largely one of and for Christian history and theology – although this is not to deny the important contributions made by Jewish scholars, especially more recently.43 Both Alexander and Rajak show, however, how it can also be treated as a Jewish narrative. Alexander’s chapter intersects with the vigorous debates within scholarship on early Judaism as to whether the rabbinic texts reflect directly the dominance of the rabbis in Palestinian Judaism from the second century, or whether they are the product of the constructed or imagined world of a self-defining caucus, and/or whether they are essentially irrelevant even for the history of Syria-Palestine under the Roman Empire.44 Alexander seeks a mediating path, admitting the minority status of the Rabbis but offering a model for their developing influence without ignoring the other groups whom the rabbinic perspective seeks to marginalize, including the Christians. It has been the weight of literary sources that has inevitably led the rabbinic perceptions to dominate both the old and the new narratives. More recently, careful attention to the archaeological remains, monumental and inscriptional, alongside Jewish texts written or preserved in Greek, has redressed the balance and allowed the Jews of the Diaspora a voice of equal authority to that of the land and city they recognized as a motherland. Tessa Rajak addresses the much-debated question of the nature of the interaction between Jewish communities and their GraecoRoman context, avoiding simplistic antitheses of (syncretic) assimilation versus stubborn isolationism. In so doing she draws on the model of being a ‘translation culture’, particularly in the light of the function of the 42

43 44

See also Horbury 1996, for a clearer statement of his view that Jews had a developed sense of their own identity, and so could, from an early stage, have enacted a separation from Christians. See also Goodman 2007, for an equally strong statement in favour of an early attempt to separate. Boyarin 2004. Schwartz 2001; Cohen 1987, 214–31; and Schiffman 1991.

Introduction

17

Septuagint and other Hellenistic Jewish texts.45 The irony of this approach, which seeks to restore to those Diaspora communities their own distinctive and self-chosen identity, is that these Hellenistic texts, of which there are very few that survive, were for the most part transmitted and preserved through Christian channels, and the literary and conceptual frameworks within which they can be read are those provided by surviving Christian literature. Hence, even a narrative that seeks to be told in its own voice is hard put to escape the shadow of ‘the Parting’.

5

The Shifting Challenges of Studying Texts

Despite the important corrective of the voices from material culture already noted, the recovery of the second century is necessarily dominated by texts and the reading of texts. This is not simply a matter of the nature of the evidence that survives, or of the inclinations and opportunities of those who study it: there are indeed few material remains that can be unequivocally assigned to a Christian provenance from the second century, but literary works, even if but the tip of the iceberg, have been transmitted, while others, once lost or suppressed, have been recovered – such as the Nag Hammadi texts which have revolutionized the study of ‘Gnosticism’ (as reflected in the chapters by King and Edwards). It is also the case that, even among Christians, the production of texts and the debates over the authority ascribed to texts were a primary mechanism for developing self-understanding, or for the construction of an identity (so Verheyden). Thus both Gruen and Skarsaune, in asking how far Christians understood themselves as ‘a new (or third) race’, are driven to the close reading of texts as well as to seeing how these texts in turn are engaged in the reinterpretation of earlier texts, the ‘Jewish’ scriptures. Despite debates over the limited extent of literacy, however defined, in the Empire, and the expectation that Christians (and perhaps Jews) would have been positioned at the lower levels of the social range,46 texts dominate contemporary understandings of the distinctive character of the period.47 In an age where, it has been argued, the popularization of philosophy extended deeply across society, the proper interpretation of 45 46 47

Rajak 2009. Harris 1989; and Hezser 2001. Gamble 1995; Haines-Eitzen 2000; and Johnson 2010. Note, too, how the debate Alexander addresses is about how far the rabbinic texts, which survive in such huge compass, reflect real or only imagined realities.

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the inherited writings of the past, whether of Homer or of Plato, was a major preoccupation. As noted by Löhr, this was a period in which the commentary, the lexicon and the handbook of excerpts flourished, as too did the hermeneutical challenge of allowing the ‘myths’ of old to address the sensibilities of the present. In exploring the nature of ‘Gnostic myth’, Edwards presents a contextually rooted hermeneutical lens that provides an alternative to the extreme fantasizing encouraged by the more literal accounts of so-called ‘Gnostic’ writings given by the heresiologists such as Irenaeus or Epiphanius. Some have argued that it was at this textually and hermeutically focused point that the early Christians, and perhaps their more elusive Jewish neighbours, might look most like the other textual enthusiasts of their day; indeed Christian ‘intellectuals’ may have had more in common with their intellectual peers of whatever persuasion than with some who ‘only’ shared their faith in Jesus. Such approaches make possible an account that sidesteps the value-laden categories of canon or of inspiration, as Verheyden’s analysis of the functions of the ascription of authority indicates. Yet it is striking that he and Flemming take different positions as they try to locate the practices of ascribing authority to texts among the early Christians and their philosophical neighbours. From another perspective and challenging representations of the Christian institutional form, ‘the church’, as a new phenomenon, owing something to the Jewish diaspora synagogue but developing under its own momentum, Löhr, as already noted, argues that the model of ‘philosophical school’, where such textual debates were carried out, best fits the framework in which many of the more creative Christian thinkers worked. With its porous boundaries and opportunities for debate and experimentation, Löhr finds here too the framework within which the diversity of Christian thought and practice in the second century can be understood without the prejudicial use of terms such as ‘orthodoxy’, ‘heresy’ or even ‘heterodoxy’. Such models would emerge only beyond our period with the development of new institutional structures. All this can seem a long way from the older approaches that treated the texts as documentary evidence to be excavated to uncover the ‘real world behind them’. Yet such approaches are not excluded; North begins by setting out how the complex literary strategies of a Lucian need careful negotiation in order to get beyond the playfulness of the text, and yet he still argues that such negotiation is possible and that it can yield valuable results in suggesting how Christian communities may have appeared, or at least how they can have been credibly represented, to a curious readership.

Introduction

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6 Religion or Appropriate Categories for Christianity As questions of identity formation have come to play an ever greater role in the study of early Christianity, the problem as to how best to characterize the movement has loomed large. In one sense the answer to this question has appeared simple – Christianity is a religion; indeed, more often than not the movement is discussed in that context, that is, as a part of the religious history of the ancient world. In this context the second century is sometimes held to be the period in which that identity came to be more precisely defined.48 Yet it is at this point that one of the most hotly contested definitional questions emerges: namely, is it possible to talk about religion in the ancient world? Is it a category that the ancients would have understood or that makes sense of the experiences and phenomena to be described? There is broad agreement that what the Romans described as religio and the Greeks as threskeia are not the same as what is understood by ‘religion’ in a contemporary context, if that is taken to refer to private or personal spiritual activities and experiences separate from those activities conventionally designated as secular, such as those associated with politics, economics or family life. It is a truism that in the ancient world so-called religious activities permeated all areas of life,49 whereas the ‘religious’ versus ‘secular’ dichotomy can be held to be a product of the early modern age when, for a number of complex reasons, a concept of secularity came to be developed.50 This is not to deny that certain acts were performed in the ancient world that might most naturally be dubbed ‘religious’, nor that, for some at least, there was something like a kind of embedded religion;51 nor even that there are signs at points prior to the early modern age for the idea of religion as a separate category.52 Perhaps inevitably, many discussions of the topic and of the period, even while expressing considerable caution about the term ‘religion’, nevertheless feel that it can be used, albeit with a considerable health warning, and even that it has to be used.53 Within this context how should Christianity in the second century be categorized and where should it be positioned in the broader cultural 48 49 50 51 52 53

See Löhr’s characterization of Christianity in the second century as ‘Religionswerdung’ (Löhr 2002a, 248). On this, see Rüpke 2007, 6; and Beard, North and Price 1998, 1–43. This case has recently been argued by Nongbri 2013, but he is quite heavily dependent upon Asad and Cantwell-Smith. For arguments against this idea, at least as a descriptive rather than a constructed category, see Nongbri 2013, 151–2. Boyarin 2004, This is discussed and rather superficially dismissed by Nongbri 2013, 53–7. See Beard, North and Price 1998, x-xi; and Salzman and Sweeney 2013, 2–3.

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background of which it was a part? To what extent, indeed, did Christianity mark a significant point in the creation of something called religion, or perhaps reflect a wider changing religious landscape? A number of the chapters here touch on aspects of this dilemma, examining both the issue of Christianity’s place within a wider religious environment and aspects of its own self-designation. As has been seen, Greg Woolf, building upon the work of Jonathan Z. Smith and John North, sees the second century as a transition period between a world in which there was no distinction between religious identity and ethnic or familial identity to a time when the world was beginning to be organized by religions, or, as he prefers to call them, emergent religions, products in some sense of ‘convergent evolution’, and in that sense only gradually evolving entities. The term ‘emergent’ does not only express this overall gradualism, but also refers to those characteristics he wishes to associate with religions (a distinctive world view; an exclusive membership; unique rituals, symbols and perhaps texts of special significance for co-religionists; institutionalized authority). The tone here is tentative but Woolf is clear that a text like Apuleius’ Metamorphosis, with its exploration of different religious ideas and modes of thought, and Lucian’s Alexander, where Epicureans and Christians are presented as competing to have their truth claims accepted, could not have been written in earlier centuries. Here, then, there is an acceptance of a transition in the history of religion as an idea, but one in which Christians are participants but not the only participants. John North explicitly raises the question about the appropriateness of the term ‘religion’ in this period. He accepts that the term can only be used advisedly but at the same time highlights the way in which writers like Lucian struggled to find an appropriate term with which to describe the Christian movement, noting in passing how the author of the Epistle to Diognetus can describe the movement as a theosebeia, a genos and a epitedeuma (Diog. 1.1), in the space of a few lines, indicating the lack of an appropriate category with which to describe the latter. Löhr adds a further designation, philosophia, and demonstrates that objections to its use on the grounds of the apparently ‘religious’/revelatory attitude to knowledge amongst Christian philosophers fail to take sufficient account of the religious content of pagan philosophy. William Horbury notes the shared nomenclature between Jews and Christians, not least in their usage of biblically charged words like ‘assembly’ (ekklesia), or a ‘gathering’ (sunagoge) or a ‘people’ (laos) to describe themselves. While he does not discuss the religious dimension of such terms, he does hint at their political

Introduction

21

import. Erich Gruen and Oskar Skarsaune comment further on the idea of Christians as a race or a people, particularly on the epithet ‘third race’;54 despite their scepticism about its ‘racial’ associations and their attempt to highlight what they take to be its religious characteristics when used by Christians, it can hardly be denied that this, and the other terms discussed, used both by others and themselves in this period, further complicates the debate about Christianity’s identity as a religion. As will have become obvious, it has not been the task either of this Introduction or of the volume as a whole to provide a new and settled account of the second Christian century. Participants in the conference which initiated the book were agreed that it had stimulated many conversations which had a long way to run, with yet other questions waiting to be asked. The chapters that follow are intended both to introduce those unfamiliar with the period or with recent debate to both, and to invite both them and the more seasoned students to engage in further exploration and mapping.

54

See p. 235, 250.

part i

Contexts

chapter 1

Empires, Diasporas and the Emergence of Religions Greg Woolf

A World of Empires From the Atlantic to the China Sea, the second century CE stands out as an age of empires, products of long-term processes of political growth and symbolic accumulation across the breadth of temperate Eurasia. The first empires – by which I mean stable systems of political domination exercised by one people over a group of others, established by force and maintained by taxation, terror and ideological production – appeared in the last millennium BCE. Significantly they appeared first in the centre of the region with the Assyrian and Achaemenid Persian empires, and only subsequently in North India, the Mediterranean world and north China. The Mauryan and Macedonian empires can be seen as in some senses successor states to Persia. Empires reached the western Mediterranean and East Asia a little later. Sinologists commonly date their imperial era to 221 BCE and Roman historians worry about how much of the Republican era to term ‘imperial’, but the broad contemporaneity of the phenomena is evident. These empires typically grew incrementally through piecemeal conquests that accelerated in their last two generations of growth. Interruptions such as the shift from the Qin to the Han dynasty in China, the shift from Republic to monarchy at Rome, the replacement of Achaemenid by Macedonian states in the Near East and the rise of the Kushan in what is now Afghanistan, Pakistan and northern India were of great significance at the time. But none of these convulsions resulted in major changes to the scale at which power was exercised.1 This chapter emerges from research funded by a Leverhulme Major Research Fellowship. It has been greatly improved by the comments – collaborative and sceptical alike – of other participants in the Cambridge colloquium. 1 Recent collections comparing early empires include Alcock et al. 2001; Morris and Scheidel 2009; Bang and Bayly 2011; Bang and Kolodziejczyz 2012. Synoptic studies include Eisenstadt 1963; Kautsky 1982; Doyle 1986; Hardt and Negri 2000. For comparisons of Roman and early Chinese empires see Mutschler and Mittag 2008; Scheidel 2009. Most of these owe a good deal to Weberian styles of comparison, including the focus on empire rather than imperialism.

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greg woolf

Empires formed the background for the emergence of a series of entities that bear some resemblance to what we today call ‘religions’.2 Buddhism, diaspora Judaism, Christianity, Manichaeism and Islam are among these entities, but there were others too.3 Treating the age of empires as a key explanatory context for the emergence of early religions has several consequences. First, it involves an implicit rejection of internalist accounts of that process, accounts in which religions muscle themselves into history against the social and political grain. Second, focusing on empires in the plural stands against one traditional account that stresses Christian exceptionalism, and presents other religions as essentially calques on Christianity.

Diasporic Cult By ‘diaspora’ I mean a dispersed population whose members deliberately cultivate a sense of a common history and a common identity, of metaphorical or actual kinship. That special sense of self distinguishes the members of a diaspora from their host populations and connects them to distant parts of an imagined community. Human mobility has been common for millennia, but most migrants settle, assimilate or simply return home. Diasporism requires real effort and is possible only in certain historical situations. Diasporas are common within empires but have never been confined to them. The earliest Mediterranean diasporas were the result of projects of trade and settlement in the early Iron Age, and from the start there was a cultic dimension to their formation. Phoenicians took the worship of the major deities of Tyre to the far west.4 Evidence for cultic links between Greek cities new and old is abundant.5 Empires created diasporas through forced population transfers and the deployment of levies and slaves far from their homes, and they facilitated diasporic movements when they invested in transport infrastructure and common languages, currencies and 2

3

4 5

It therefore sets itself against the analysis of Jaspers 1949, who saw the formative period of transcendental religions as in an (earlier) axial period of independent city-states and small princedoms. In part this difference reflects that between Jaspers’ interest in the age of great thinkers and mine in the emergence of social movements. Creating a complete list is difficult partly because of lack of information about some religious phenomena, especially those which did not give rise to modern successors, and partly because of the difficulty of dating the origins of a number of them, including Zoroastrianism. Bonnet 1988; Aubet 2001. Graham 1964; Malkin 1994.

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security. Our knowledge of the Persian Empire derives very largely from texts written by Greeks and Jews who moved back and forth through it. The Babylonian captivity, the wider connections attested by the Book of Tobit and the records of the military settlement at Elephantine in Egypt sketch the first Jewish diaspora. And the fortification tablets from Persepolis record many other nationalities working at the heart of the Persian Empire. Soldiers from Greek and Carian communities fought throughout the Near East and settled in many locations, in Syria, Mesopotamia and Egypt. This pattern would endure for millennia. Diasporas have long been held to play an important role in the early history of religious pluralism, simply because they brought into contact peoples with different views of the divine. The later books of the Old Testament are much preoccupied with such encounters. Pre-socratic critiques of traditional Greek religion responded to a growing awareness of the diversity of religious beliefs. Efforts to equate gods from different systems were ubiquitous from the researches of Herodotus to the bilingual Pyrgi tablets, which asserted the equivalences of Etruscan and Phoenician deities. Gods were repeatedly translated back and forth until the rise of religious systems that made absolute claims to cosmological knowledge. By the second century CE the extent of these empires and the diasporas they contained had grown enormously. Traffic across the Romano-Persian border was easy and ideas, images and ritual practices were easily transferred to and from central Asia, northern India and beyond. Greek representational styles had already been imitated in Gandhara and beyond the Oxus. Buddhist maxims appear from central India to what is now Afghanistan. There were Jewish communities scattered from Rome to Babylonia, and perhaps beyond. Along Rome’s long temperate European frontier, local deities were repeatedly hybridized and interpreted in Roman terms. For some historians it is primarily this increased movement of traders, soldiers and slaves that explains the appearance in Italy and in Rome’s western provinces of dedications and temples to deities originating in Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine and Egypt. People moved – rather than religions – and took with them their ancestral gods.6 Diasporas and empires have been invoked in a slightly different way by Jonathan Z. Smith in support of his influential thesis that from the 6

MacMullen 1981, 1984 opposing interpretations in terms of the conversion of more and more individuals to movements that in some way offered more than traditional civic religions, as argued by Cumont 1906.

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Hellenistic period on, two forms of religion became common: one he termed ‘locative’, the other ‘utopian’.7 Most religions, according to Smith, existed in both forms, a locative one based in the original homeland under the control of traditional priesthoods, and a utopian one dispersed through a wider diaspora and typically led by charismatic leaders. Ritual practices and beliefs varied between these two forms, locative religions being more often focused on local sacred topographies, utopian religions orientating themselves more on universal ideas and visions. Both forms represented transformations of earlier ritual and cosmological systems. Locative cults had been drawn into relationships with neighbouring Greek poleis, while utopian ones were coloured by their diasporic and imperial contexts. Most diasporic versions seemed, to Smith, to be Hellenized while many of the locative versions seemed in some senses resistant to imperial powers, generating apocalyptic literatures and messianic movements. This schema works best for the case of the Jews, and reasonably well for other Levantine traditions such as the worship of the Syrian goddess, and that of the Baalim of Doliche and Heliopolis. It also describes some of the experience of Anatolian Cybele and Egyptian Isis in the wider Mediterranean world. For Smith it was the utopian forms of cult which in the end had the greatest historical significance, since it was among them that transcendent visions of the divine thrived, making them ancestors of today’s world religions.8 That dichotomy now seems too stark. Leaving aside forty years of debate over concepts such as ‘Hellenization’ and ‘resistance’ – which would at the least require some of this thesis to be rephrased – the relationships between localized and globalized versions of religious movements now look much more complex. This is true even in the case of the Jews whose experience suggested the paradigm. Well before the destruction of the Temple there were multiple ‘locative’ forms of Judaism in the Near East, some based on Jerusalem, some in Palestine more widely, not to mention the traditions based on the Samaritan temple and on the temple at Leontopolis in Egypt. Equally there were a range of diasporic Jewish traditions, as illustrated by the various Jewish literatures created in Greek in Egypt, and in Aramaic in Palestine and Babylonia. Some diasporic Jewish communities sought to relocalize religion, building temples and elaborating new local traditions. Others continued to cultivate 7 8

Smith 1978a, xiii–xiv. A longer version of this argument is contained in his review article Smith 1971. Smith 1998; Masuzawa 2005; Woolf 2009b. For the concept of transcendence, see Jaspers 1949; Eisenstadt 1986; Bellah 2011.

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connections with the Jerusalem temple. Rather than seeing two versions of Judaism, it seems preferable to see a family of cognate traditions, partly alienated from each other yet not completely separate. Their continued connection depended in part on kinship and mobility across the diaspora, in part on ambivalence about separation and in part on the tendency of surrounding populations to treat all Jews (including Christians) alike.9 Utopianism and locativism are better seen as two tendencies or emphases, each offering different ritual and theological possibilities. Other cults tell a similar story. Isis in Egypt was not utterly disconnected from the Hellenized Isis of the wider Mediterranean world, even if we can identify typically Mediterranean varieties of image and cult and also others unknown outside Egypt.10 The Syrian goddess of Lucian’s essay was not wholly separate from the actual cult that took place at Hierapolis.11 The concomitant impulses to universalize and localize, and to seek identities defined in terms of both universal and local co-ordinates, are part of a general diasporic sensibility and a special case of what is sometimes termed ‘glocalization’.12 All the same there is something to be said for Smith’s analytical distinction. Diasporic conditions certainly pushed ritual practice in particular directions. Rituals linked by myth to particular places were obviously less viable. Many dispersed communities did not contain members of traditional priestly families of the kind that existed in many Greek cities and in Judaea. Divine pantheons tended to be reduced to their basics: Most cult of the Egyptian deities outside Egypt was paid to Isis, Serapis, Harpocrates and Anubis. The hundreds of Roman deities listed by Varro were reduced in the western provinces to a small group: Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, Mercury, Hercules, Venus and Juno account for the great mass of dedications. Conversely forms of cult that depended on more portable objects of veneration – icons for example or sacred texts – became more prominent. Provincial Roman cities had simpler calendars and small numbers and varieties of priests, and had abandoned ceremonies like the triumph or the Lupercalia associated with particular sites in the City. Meanwhile animal sacrifice and the veneration of the emperors became more central.13 9 10 11 12 13

Schwartz 2001; Barclay 1996, 2004. Bricault and Versluys 2010. Lightfoot 2003, 2005. For discussion of this in relation to the Greek east, see the essays collected in Whitmarsh 2010. Some western analogues are discussed in Millar 1968; Woolf 2011. Rüpke 2006a; Ando 2007; Rüpke 2006b; Woolf 2009a.

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Emergent Religions No single watershed divides the world of religious diversity from a world marked by a plurality of religions. Religious exchanges, syncretisms and encounters between people with different views of the divine and notions of ritual propriety intensified through the age of Persian, Macedonian, and Roman and Persian empires. Isis was worshipped in the Aegean before Alexander conquered Persia. Neither the Roman conquest of the East nor the destruction of the Temple effected a dramatic change. Nevertheless, by the fourth century CE it was possible for both Roman and Persian emperors to issue edicts about Christians and Manicheans which presume that it was relatively unproblematic to identify individuals as belonging to one group or another, and perhaps also that most people had a single allegiance. Even texts that purportedly adhere to conventional religious and moral values – such as the classicizing history of Ammianus Marcellinus – employ a language of religious identities that would have made no sense even a few hundred years earlier. Religious groups policed their own boundaries too, and the notions of schism and heresy appeared. Look back to the fourth century BCE and the contrast is clear. Many of the larger cities certainly contained temples to many gods, yet there was no sense that those who worshipped one might not worship another, nor that adherents of any particular god would have a distinctive attitude to ritual practice or moral conduct. The idea of a religious identity distinct from one’s ethnic, civic or familial identity was unthinkable. The second century CE stands between a world without religions and a world increasingly organized by them. Whether or not it is appropriate to call these new groupings ‘religions’ is controversial. I have used the term ‘emergent religions’ partly to signal a difference from analyses that treat religions as phenomena that intrude fully formed into the social landscape of antiquity.14 ‘Emergent’ recognizes that many key characteristics of religions-in-a-modern sense came together not in a single moment but rather gradually. Those features include a distinctive world view, an exclusive membership, some unique rituals and beliefs, a group of distinctive symbols and perhaps texts of special significance for co-religionists, a characteristic ethical stance and usually also some structures of authority not congruent with those of wider society. Not all these properties were common even in late antiquity, and some 14

That criticism may be levelled in particular at Cumont 1906, on which see Bonnet, PirenneDelforge, and Praet 2009; Bonnet, Rüpke, and Scarpi 2006. More recent studies vary in the extent to which they use this language.

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scholars have argued that the generalization of the entire package is very recent indeed, or even that not all contemporary religions fit this template.15 That list of emergent characteristics also illustrates one reason why it is difficult to explain these changes. Which are the key elements and which are subsidiary in the emergence of religions? I have stressed the appearance of identities that were no longer congruent with civic or ethnic identities, following the suggestion of John North in an influential paper in which he argued that the key narrative was a development from religion as embedded in the city-state to religion as choice of differentiated groups offering different qualities of religious doctrine, different experiences, insights or just different myths and stories to make sense of the absurdity of human experience.16

That formulation allowed him to point to structural similarities between Jewish diaspora communities, groups of Christian converts and Bacchists among others, and to point to a growing mutual awareness and the likelihood of exchanges between them. At some point – but when? – it becomes meaningful to see these entities not just as similarly distanced from the public cults of the city-state,17 but also in competition with one another. This is not the only way to tell the story of religious change in this long period. Others place the emphasis on the end of animal sacrifice, on the rise of sacred literatures, on the spread of monotheisms, on a growing sense of transcendence or on the emergence of a new preoccupation with the body as a site of ritual observance and with individual conduct.18 There are obvious dangers in choosing to emphasize the emergence of discrete group identities over these other criteria of change – not least the teleological one it involves, emphasizing issues that seem especially important today. But an historical-sociological approach of this kind offers some 15

16

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Smith 1964 with Asad 2001. For accounts situating ‘religion’ entirely in a post-Enlightenment world see Masuzawa 2005; Nongbri 2013. Treating religion as an emergent phenomenon has at least the advantage of avoiding argument over the key watersheds. North 1992. The quotation is from page 178 and cites as inspiration Gordon 1980. The latter is reprinted as Chapter V of Gordon 1996. A broadly similar account had been presented in Gordon 1990. On the recent debate over the limits of civic religion, see Gordon 1990; Woolf 1997; Bendlin 2000; Kindt 2009, 2012. North 2010 provides a very full list of possible criteria for change. For a parallel and more discursive discussion, see Stroumsa 2009. There is no reason of course to see all changes taking place in this long period as closely connected one to another.

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advantages if we wish to connect religious change to its diasporic and imperial contexts.

An Evolutionary Approach to Religious Change What most needs to be explained is not the origin of various religious innovations – which are almost always unknowable – but rather why some innovations flourished while others did not. We must presume that new ideas about the gods, new rituals and new ways of representing the divine were constantly being generated, as they are in every age. The real question is why did certain innovations flourish and provide the basis for the emergence of religions. This approach is evolutionary in that it seeks to explain the broad trajectory of religious change as an adaptive response to the selective pressures exerted on religious innovation by its broader environment. The success of any innovation depends on the comparative advantage it confers on a particular group in their competition for resources, and/or their struggle for survival. Selective pressures in this case acted not on religions (which barely existed as discrete entities for much of this period) but on particular ritual and organizational traits, such as the language of cult, criteria of membership, forms of sacrifice and so on.19 Traits of this kind that proved successful were rapidly transferred between religious groups despite their apparent differences. Those that did not were, presumably, lost rather rapidly. A good example of selection concerns the language of cult. Rituals were to begin with conducted in hundreds of local languages across the archaic Mediterranean, but cults that adopted Greek terminology had potentially a wider appeal in the Mediterranean than those that made use of, say, Aramaic or Egyptian, let alone local Celtic, Libyan or Iberian languages. It is no surprise that when Egyptian deities began to be worshipped around the Mediterranean, it was in Greek guise. Utopian cults were, in fact, very largely conducted in Greek with Latin being the only plausible rival. Some selective pressures emerged from a set of common expectations about the divine that had already grown up around the Mediterranean world during long interaction between its populations. For example, the notion that the gods were most appropriately represented in human form was not widely shared at the beginning of the last millennium BCE. Many 19

For a different Social Darwinist approach to the issues, see Runciman 2004 arguing for the comparative advantage conveyed on Christianity, relative to its rivals, by its meme-set.

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Egyptian deities were portrayed as animals or animal-human hybrids, aniconic stones (baetyls) were objects of cult in part of the Near East, and many peoples (among them Jews and Germans) are described in classical testimony as resisting any representation of the divine. Yet Greek norms of anthropomorphic representation became widespread whenever the gods left home, and eventually at home too. Where the same groups of artists serviced different communities, stylistic transfers were particularly marked. The wall paintings from Dura-Europos present Jewish, Greek and local myths in essentially the same representative style. Pagan, Christian and Jewish mosaics share a family resemblance. Late pagan images of gods from Egypt are often anthropomorphic, some even adapting the iconography of the Roman military to depict warrior deities.20 One crucial innovation in this period was the development of the differentiated religious groups noted by North. The idea probably had many roots, among them initiation cults, some modelled on the mysteries of Eleusis; philosophical ‘schools’, especially those which encouraged exclusive allegiance and invested their founders with particular mystique; perhaps also collegia, which had strong membership criteria, were voluntary associations and undertook some collective rituals; and diasporic ethnic groups like Syrians and Jews whose religious practices clearly fascinated some outsiders. Many scholars prefer to write of ‘elective cults’ or ‘voluntary associations’, precisely because the terms underline the rarity in antiquity of religious recruitment by choice rather than birth.21 Although this innovation clearly appears on a number of occasions, it was evidently well adapted to the specific selective pressures of antiquity. The stages by which ancients became aware of the existence of these ‘differentiated groups’ is unclear. At first it is difficult to distinguish such groups from diasporic communities. Early imperial texts often seem to assume that the worshippers of Egyptian gods were mostly Egyptians, and that only Jews worshipped Yahweh. By the end of the first century CE this was not true: Isis and Serapis had imperial patrons in Rome and many non-Egyptian worshippers in Italian and Greek cities, while god fearers and converts surrounded some Jewish communities in Asia Minor. By the second century CE some texts presume an awareness of this emergent religious pluralism. Apuleius’ Metamorphoses takes its protagonist on an odyssey through a series of religious modes from witchcraft, 20 21

Elsner 2001a setting these images in local and translocal context. Price 2012 making perhaps too sharp a distinction between ‘ethnic’ and ‘elective’ religions.

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through the cult of Cybele, and the allegorical myths of Cupid and Psyche, to the mysteries of Isis.22 Lucian’s Alexander offers a vision of an Anatolia in which oracles, Epicureans and Christians compete to have their truth claims accepted. His Peregrinus offers another metamorphic journey in which Proteus/Peregrinus tries out successive allegiances. It is difficult to imagine any of these texts written in earlier centuries. The key question is: What were the pressures that led to selection in favour of elective groups of this kind from within the vast range of ancient religious activity? We should also note that many other religious forms flourished in the second century CE. Civic elites were never as powerful as under Roman rule, and they continued to patronize traditional templebased worship. Oracular shrines and healing sanctuaries attracted visitors from very distant places. Festivals of all kinds proliferated as never before. A second-century observer might have been unlikely to pick out the rise of differentiated groups as the religious innovation of his or her age.

The Urban Environment The most important social environment to examine in this connection is the ancient city, especially that small proportion of ancient cities with populations in the tens or hundreds of thousands. These seem on a priori grounds the most likely places for religious innovation to take off. Cosmopolitan cities were the places where different diasporas met. Most of the two-thousand-odd cities in the Roman Empire had populations in the low thousands: We must imagine that most of these were fairly traditional societies. It is the largest most cosmopolitan cities – Antioch and Alexandria, Athens and Ephesos, Carthage and Rome – created in the main by imperial states, that generate most stories of religious conflicts and encounters. Megalopoleis of this kind are often considered to be the places where new movements originated. They not only offered the widest range of resources for projects of bricolage, translation and syncretism: They were also those social settings in which individuals were least constrained by custom or traditional authority.23 Mithraism is thought by many to have been invented in Rome,24 Christianity in Antioch, Manichaeism in 22 23

24

Winkler 1985. Its significance as a document of religious change was recognized by Nock 1933. Sfameni Gasparro 2007; Woolf 2014. It is less likely that Hellenizations were engineered for the benefit of diaspora populations, let alone their hosts, so much as to create unifying cults suitable for Macedonian-ruled kingdoms; cf. Malaise 2000. Beck 1998.

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Ctesiphon, the cults of Hellenistic Isis and Serapis in Memphis and Alexandria, and so on. Cities were also change agents because of their nodal position on ancient communication networks. Paul’s mission made use of existing diasporic connections and well-established transport routes. The worship of Isis spread beyond Egypt via first major and then minor Aegean ports, then to well-connected western Mediterranean coastal cities and finally to their continental hinterlands.25 Network analysis is now being used to interpret the spread of the cult of other deities through networks of communication across the Roman Empire.26 Unsurprisingly, road systems, maritime routes and caravan roads all seem to have played a major part in explaining the distribution of new cults. What kind of selective pressures did urban environments exercise on religious innovation? During the second century CE, civic authorities remained the main groups that regulated religious life, whether directly or via institutions such as priestly collegia or gerousiai. Emperors rarely issued edicts about religious matters before the third century CE when magic, Manichaeism and Christianity began to be focuses of attention. Civic authorities by contrast had for centuries based much of their power on the control of public rituals, and since at least the fourth century BCE had occasionally attempted to regulate religious change. The disciplinary activities of civic authorities might represent one selective pressure on religious innovations. That said, the number of such incidents recorded is very small. The trial of Socrates in 399 BCE and the Bacchanalian controversy in Rome in 186 BCE have both been discussed endlessly, but they seem to have been exceptional incidents.27 Jews, Egyptians and Christians were stigmatized and expelled at various stages in the late Republic and early Empire.28 But the famous correspondence between Pliny and Trajan in 112 CE shows not only that Christians were distrusted but that they were rarely encountered, at least in the west. These high-profile episodes of persecution stand out against a background of religious coexistence. New cults continued to arrive in Athens throughout the fourth century BCE, and in Italian cities in the second. Most likely the presence of these groups was mostly ignored but it was sometimes 25 26 27 28

Bricault 2001, 2004. Collar 2007, 2011. Compare the data on the locations of mithraea and those who dedicated them to Mithras gathered in Clauss 1992. North 1979; Pallier 1988. Versluys 2004; Barclay 2004.

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officially sanctioned, since some of their most exotic features were often positively valued.29 Local communities varied in their attitudes. What counted as alien clearly changed over time.30 The worship of Cybele and later of Isis was incorporated into the public cults of Rome and of a number of other Roman cities, just as Isis had been in a number of Greek cities during the Hellenistic period. Typically alien gods and rituals were accommodated at the price of conformity to local norms about religious authority. Perhaps much more important as a force influencing religious evolution were the more subtle pressures exercised by ancient civic societies, the terms on which new groups were deemed acceptable. Cults of diverse origins came to be described using a standardized terminology, mostly employing vague terms like ‘collegium’ and ‘κοινωνíα’. This language might be applied to Jewish or Syrian communities, to worshippers of Serapis or to adherents of Mithras alike. Religious epigraphy commonly uses conventional Greek or Latin terminology to represent each cult association to the outside world, however exotic its esoteric discourse and practice may have been. We might compare the way that modern states have developed a vocabulary of generic descriptors such as ‘religious/community leaders’, ‘places of worship’, ‘religious services’ and ‘faith schools’. Secular states have thereby developed a generic (and tacit) account of what a religion is, a normative model, one calqued largely on Protestantism to be sure, but one that can form the basis for public policy. Ancient cities were not secular authorities and they had far less social power of course, yet some of the same effects can be seen. Religious groups emerging from diasporic communities – such as the Jews – end up looking rather similar to groups involved in cults that have Greek origins, such as Bacchists, or even in some respects those devoted to such Roman novelties as the imperial cult, such as the seviri Augustales. North’s ‘differentiated religious groups’ partly resembled each other because they responded to the same sort of pressures emanating from civic authorities. Not only did these different groups come to look alike, they came to instantiate a notion of religious groups in the abstract, with perhaps the implications that they were equivalent entities in just the way Lucian and Apuleius presented them.

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Gordon 1972; Beard 1994. Gruen 2002 for a helpful stress on the importance of local context in understanding the pattern of religious interactions.

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Convergent Evolution The broad family resemblance of these emergent groups exemplifies the principle of convergent evolution. Convergent evolution in the biological sciences is the process by which quite distantly related species come to acquire similar characteristics when subjected to similar selective pressures. Sharks, dolphins and ichthyosaurs are a commonly cited case of how competition to succeed in similar niches – in the case as marine top predators – brings about superficial similarities in very different species. Where social evolution is concerned, the process can be much more rapid. Religious leaders were able to observe the innovations of their rivals, to imitate the successes and avoid replicating those that did not work. Numerous examples present themselves from the ancient Mediterranean world. The idea of mysteries, probably originating in Eleusis and Samothrace, was progressively ‘acquired’ by those who managed the temple of Artemis at Ephesos, by the diasporic priests of Isis, by the inventors of Mithraism and metaphorically by Christian writers.31 Astrology is another case of an innovation that travelled far and wide: It originated in Babylonian temple-cult but was recruited by a whole series of religions of the first century CE, including those of the city of Rome, Judaism, Mithraism, Christianity and the hybridized cults of the Roman Rhineland. The idea of sacred texts, originating among the Jews and appropriated by Christians, was so successful that virtually all new religions created since the third century CE incorporated it. The thesis that religions emerged from a number of different starting points to become more and more similar contrasts markedly with the idea that modern religions are in some sense all descendants of a common Abrahamic model. It does not of course mean that religions were or are set on a course that will minimize their diversity. Processes of convergence can intensify competition within a given niche. The more similar ‘religions’ came to look, the easier it was to discern their differences. The success of Christianity has sometimes been explained in terms of some comparative advantage it may or may not have enjoyed over its competitors. A mild controversy concerns how helpful it is to envisage this in terms of a ‘marketplace of religions’.32 Emphasizing convergence reminds us that the nature of competition (as well as the shape of the competitors) was 31 32

Burkert 1987, with the important historicizing comments of Sfameni Gasparro 2011. North 1992; Stark 1996; Runciman 2004; Beck 2006.

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changing over time. Temples vying for donations is not exactly the same thing as Manicheans debating with Christians in public contests. Yet that competitive dynamic, one of the drivers of religious innovation, was a constant. Some innovations were game changers. Once rival groups began demanding exclusive adherence and claiming the absolute veracity of their cosmological claims, the scene was set for a truly mediaeval clash of religions.

chapter 2

The Mediterranean Jewish Diaspora in the Second Century Tessa Rajak

Introduction ‘Diaspora’ cannot be exactly delimited for the Jews of the second century CE, and indeed the term itself is a retrojection, not all of whose modern connotations would have been meaningful at that time. But whatever vagueness or problematic implications attach to it, we cannot easily do without the term as shorthand, and it maps well enough onto an alreadyexisting dichotomy between the Land of Israel and everywhere outside it. My interest is to see what can be said about the culture of the main diasporic areas of Jewish life that lay within, or close to, the Roman imperial domain: in effect, the predominantly Greek-speaking (and Greek-writing) Judaism of the Eastern Mediterranean,1 following the destruction of Jerusalem. Roughly speaking, Jewish communities outside the heartland of Judaea and Galilee fall within the designation, although the boundaries of that heartland could not, and cannot, be drawn in hard and fast terms.2 Subsumed also are the Jewish populations of Greek cities in the mixed territory that lay on the geographical periphery of the Land of Israel, such as Scythopolis, Gadara or Askalon, and equally those from cities of partly Greek but essentially Semitic culture on the periphery of Rome’s dominion, such as Palmyra.3 The multilingual Jews for whom the 1

2 3

The Greek-speaking Eastern Roman Empire supplies us with minimal documentation for this period, while of the communities of Spain, Gaul, the Rhineland and the rest of the Latin West, we know virtually nothing. To avoid confusion, we should note that when the growing Jewish communities of Babylon and the Upper Euphrates are taken into account, and from the vantage point of Rabbinic Judaism, this Diaspora of the Eastern Roman Empire becomes the ‘Western Diaspora’. So also in Edrei and Mendels 2007, 2008; Mendels and Edrei 2009. Cf. Alexander in this volume, for whom Syria is a third entity, labeled the ‘Near Diaspora’ due to its closeness to the Land of Israel, of which more later. The wide variety of different rabbinic delimitations for halakhic purposes of the boundaries of the Land is a consequence of the absence of obvious boundaries. For an analysis of the cultural mix in these regions, see Millar 1993, 293–336; 437–81.

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famous synagogue of Dura-Europos was constructed and painted may be included in this Diaspora. Valid generalizations are not easy to achieve, although commonalities certainly existed. A detailed review of these diverse Jewish societies, in terms of their networks and of their connectivity with different non-Jewish worlds, remains to be written.4 Here I shall try to get some sense of the conditions that governed life in the cities of that Diaspora, and of its literary self-expression in the medium, primarily, of Greek, during the second century CE. I shall look especially towards the Syrian region, for reasons that will shortly become clear. The residence and presence of Rabbis in certain Diaspora cities, above all in Syria (including Sidon), are attested in the Mishnah and even more in the Tosefta; the significance of these reports is hard to gauge, and I shall not attempt here to incorporate them into the picture.5 In chronological terms, I take the ‘long’ second century to begin with the fall of the Temple in 70 CE. It is less evident how we should map Jewish history through this period.6 The early years were rough. Roman punishment was exemplary. The massive and humiliating defeat and the widely known loss of central shrine and mother city will have had a tangible and dramatic effect on Jewish standing and self-esteem everywhere, in a world where every deity had his or her temple. Josephus, writing through the following decades, reflects these consequences, and we shall shortly see them played out in the city of Antioch. This much seems to me indisputable; how we evaluate the immediate and the longerterm impact of the destruction of Temple in 70 CE on Judaism, Jewish society and Jewish institutions, especially in the Land of Israel, is a separate and more controversial question.7 On any interpretation, the Diaspora revolt under Trajan of 115–117 CE and the Bar Kokhba uprising in the Land of Israel between 132 and 135 CE flowed from the defeat of the earlier 4 5

6

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Schürer and Millar 1986, 1–176, is still the best survey of the evidence. Barclay 1996 covers only the period to Trajan, while Gruen 2002 ends in 66 CE. See Hezser 1997, 157–71, for a discussion of this evidence, as well as statements about visits made by Rabbis to Antioch, Asia Minor and Rome in Genesis and Leviticus Rabbah and in the Jerusalem Talmud; even if there is no reason wholly to distrust such stories, it is hard to assess them. Alexander in this volume tackles the large question of the relationship between non-rabbinic types of Judaism and the rabbinic movement. Carleton Paget 2010, 391–400, links the issue of periodization with a critique of those older supersessionist narratives that saw this Diaspora as played out and Hellenistic Judaism as becoming defunct. Thanks to his labours, among others, it is no longer necessary to rehearse the arguments against this theologically driven distortion. Note also his views on rabbinically oriented Jewish counterparts to those readings of history (p. 384, nn.2 and 3). Schwartz and Weiss 2012 is a collection that explores this question. See especially the introduction by Schwartz.

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rebellion,8 and in their turn they created their own shock waves. Moreover, those waves are unlikely to have instantly calmed with the failure of Bar Kokhba in the Land of Israel.9 It is often suggested that the era falls, therefore, approximately into two parts. But even this much is not clear. Martin Goodman detects continuing and protracted public difficulties for the Jewish ethnos, way beyond the range of the revolts right through to the Severan period.10 He reminds us that (apart from Emperor Julian’s abortive attempt) the Roman government kept the Jerusalem cult firmly closed, and that Jews everywhere continued to be forced to contribute instead to Jupiter Optimus Maximus through the fiscus iudaicus, the Jewish tax. A negative statement by the third-century writer Philostratus shows that the three costly Jewish rebellions were still cause to denigrate Jews, wherever they lived, as enemies of humanity,11 while in the same period, it was commonplace to dismiss their religion as superstition, impiety or fanaticism.12 The continued maintenance of Jewish privileges in major cities, which allowed the Jews the legal standing of an ethnos, was, on this view, no more than a matter of Roman pragmatism. With such hostility emanating from above, there would have been few sunny uplands, even in the latter part of our period, according to Goodman. While this interpretation relies upon a narrow evidence base, what can be set against it is only a little weightier. Along with the scattering of disputably dated Jewish texts – for we lack a coherent record – there are the archaeological traces of a growing synagogue culture apparently rooted within its civic environment and reflecting quite a high degree of integration with local societies and local norms.13 Some resolution to this uncertainty lies, I suggest, in reflecting upon the general conditions of diasporic life: a minority group bent on group survival is necessarily subjected to a precarious existence, characterized by dramatic ups and downs, in which good times, however protracted those might be, could give way to disaster with alarming rapidity, be it due to local circumstances or due to changes in the policies of the state. Two major developments in Jews’ conceptualization of the world, an intensification of an apocalyptic cosmic view (broadly including in this the 8 9 10 11 12 13

On this point I agree with Goodman 2012. See Goodman 2007, 453–504. Goodman, ‘Jewish Diaspora Communities in the Antonine Age’, forthcoming. Vit. Apoll. 5.33, in a speech attributed to the sage. Apuleius, Flor. 6; Aelius Aristides, Or. 46; de Quattuor viris 309. Even if, as Goodman observes, synagogues are not much noticed by the Roman literary sources. Discoveries of synagogue remains made possible a new appreciation – perhaps overstated – of the confident integration of Jewish Diaspora communities. See especially Kraabel 1992.

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outlook expressed by the Jewish-Christian Sibylline oracles14) and a martyrological strain that placed an exceptionally high valuation on suffering in the Name of God, appear to support a picture of mixed fortunes, though we cannot go much further than this. It would not be possible to associate such shifts in mindset with any specific clusters of events; and we should resist the temptation to try and date specific texts through their supposed allusions to historical developments – an inherently circular process, if historical conclusions are then drawn from those dates.15 Texts and artefacts rarely map in a direct way onto the happenings on the ground, even where evidence is plentiful. In reality, responses to oppression and suffering (whether on a local level or widespread) are often long delayed, while initial responses go on to be retooled for service as memorials to past troubles or as encouragements to group loyalty.16 Changing political circumstances will undoubtedly have hit different Jewish communities in different ways. Sadly, our capacity to differentiate between localities, often advocated by scholars and indeed in principle highly desirable, is once again severely limited by the paucity of the evidence. While it is hard to believe that the enormity of the fall of the Temple and the horror of the devastation of Jerusalem were not very generally felt by Jews,17 the same breadth of impact cannot be assumed of the crushing of the revolt under Trajan, which was evidently confined to specific theatres – Alexandria, Cyrenaica, Cyprus and Mesopotamia – that were somehow interconnected, but whose exact scope remains uncertain.18

The Case of Syria One area where we can surmise that Jewish life, while sharing much with the rest of the Diaspora, still came under influences not quite replicated elsewhere is the large and richly diverse Roman province of Syria (here by definition excluding the predominantly Jewish territories in that province). Much of the substantial Jewish population of the region (Josephus, 14 15

16 17 18

In doing so, I follow Lightfoot’s perceptive categorization (2007, 111–31). The criteria most frequently applied are Temple-related: the presence or absence of mention of the cult or else the presence or absence of acknowledgement of the destruction. The fallibility of these is evident. Fully fledged lamentation for the destruction is a somewhat surer guide, but even then it is not always possible to distinguish the First Temple from the Second Temple. The pattern of responses to the Holocaust over the past seventy years offers abundant demonstration of this process. See above n.7. See also Horbury 1996; Horbury 2014.

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BJ 7.43) was within relatively easy reach of the Land of Israel; and, indeed, as we shall see, no ancient body of Jews is on record as picking up reverberations from Jerusalem more than Antioch, which was also the Roman administrative centre. We may suspect that this line of communication with the homeland generated more turbulence and greater tension in relations with the local residents than necessarily arose elsewhere, and, of this we do catch echoes. It was perhaps a case of the diasporic situation writ large, rather than of circumstances altogether different from those in other centres. Here, then, is one good reason to pay attention to Syria. And there are others. We find revealing stories in the post-war narrative in Book Seven of Josephus’s Jewish War, where developments in Antioch are singled out for attention. Tantalizing echoes of the legendary Jewish martyrs who died during the Maccabaean revolt also linger in Antioch, merging in an interesting way with a later Christian cult. Indeed the very importance of this city for the beginnings of the Christian church should invite questioning about its Jewish community in addition to consideration of its contribution to the ‘parting of the ways’.19 On the other hand, the archaeological and epigraphic evidence for the Jews of Syria is, for reasons that cannot entirely be explained, astonishingly slim, compared, let us say, with the surviving material from Asia Minor or Italy or Cyrenaica, itself by no means extensive.20 The only exceptions are two remarkable sites, the Dura-Europos synagogue with its paintings and graffiti and a handful of Aramaic and Greek donor texts dating to the mid-third century CE (and to the very extremity of the Roman province) and the Apamea synagogue with its fourth-century carpet mosaic flooring and its scheme of (originally) twenty donor texts in Greek.21 These two sites apart, the gap between the evident importance of Syrian Jewry and this silence of the material evidence poses a challenge.22 19 20

21 22

On Antioch as the ‘Birthplace of “Gentile Christianity” ’, see Meeks and Wilken 1978, 13–8. See Acts 11:19–26; 13:1–2; 15; Gal. 2:11. The Diaspora geographical survey in Schürer and Millar 1986 has just two pages relating to Syria (excluding Dura-Europos which comes under Mesopotamia), compared with nineteen pages for Asia Minor. Again Noy & Bloedhorn 2004 is a thin volume: of its 214 Syrian pages, eighty cover Dura-Europos, and thirty-two cover Apamea; there are fifty-one pages for the Phoenician coast going as far south as Dor (now in Israel) and ten for Trachonitis and Batanea, erstwhile Herodian territory. Explanations for the gap offered by Millar (who was reviser of the survey, p.15) are absence of the ‘epigraphic habit’ together with under-excavation; these may have been compounded by the attested Syrian Christian destruction and overbuilding of synagogues, and perhaps, very much more recently, by disregard of Jewish remains. Noy & Bloedhorn 2004, 133–212 (Dura-Europos); 84–116 (Apamea). For possible literary traces of Jewish Syria in the second century, see Carleton Paget 2010, 457.

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Thanks to Josephus, we know something of the dramatic reversals in the fortunes of Antioch’s distinguished Jewish community in the aftermath of the Jewish revolt. His accounts reveal, on the one hand, permeable religious and social boundaries that imply close interaction with neighbours and, on the other, very sharp fault lines. According to Josephus, the Jews were particularly numerous and integrated (anamemigmenon) in this city in his day, and he also claims that they had been designated ‘Antiochenes’ and granted citizenship rights (politeia) and equal rights with the Macedonian and Greek settlers23 by the founder Seleucus I Nicator, as well as an oil allowance from the gymnasiarchs for those Jews who did not wish to use Gentile oil (AJ 12.120). This notable community expressed its pride by making costly offerings to the synagogue, which thus became one of unusual splendour,24 well suited to its environment of beauty and prosperity: Antioch in this period was one of the four great cities of the Roman world.25 Throughout Syria, many Greeks (as Josephus designates the local people) were apparently attracted to Jewish observance (thrēskeia), and this was the case in Antioch above all; the Jews had ‘in some measure incorporated them’, he writes, perhaps with some exaggeration (BJ 7.45).26 And yet three distinct crises are recounted by Josephus, and another alluded to. To understand post-revolt developments, we first need to go back to the summer of 66, as he does. As tensions rose between the Jews and Rome, various mixed towns and cities, including Damascus, had been affected by racial violence between Jews and the local population (usually called Greeks). At that point, Antioch had been one of the few places free of any attacks on Jewish residents; the city is singled out by Josephus for special mention, along with Apamea and Sidon – ironically, in the light of what would soon happen. For a matter of months later, an enraged populace set upon their fellow Jews with extreme brutality. An individual who had been born a Jew, revealingly named Antiochus, accused the community of plotting to incinerate the entire city in one night. Among those whom he denounced at a public meeting in the theatre were his own father, a respected man who held the post of archon of the Jews of Antioch, 23 24 25

26

Josephus, CA 2.39; AJ 12.119. For uncertainties over the exact legal import of Josephus’s perhaps deliberately unclear statement, see Meeks and Wilken 1978, 37, n.5. Josephus, BJ 7.45. Josephus’s word hieron, sacred place, refers naturally to the synagogue just mentioned and not to the Temple, as often translated. Brown 2001, 43–5; 48–9, evokes the good life at Antioch; and see Kondoleon 2001 (the illustrated catalogue there under review). The famous series of second- to fifth-century mythological mosaics from Daphne is the leading witness to its culture. Cf. also Downey 1961. On the Jewish community of Antioch, see Krauss 1902; Kraeling 1932; Meeks and Wilken 1978; Brooten 2001.

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as well as a number of Jews who were alleged to be strangers to the place (perhaps from Judaea). Jerusalem was already in revolt and the Roman legate of Syria was in the front line of responsibility. That Vespasian too was in Syria, on his way to tackle the Judaean crisis, made no difference. After those identified as the chief culprits, allegedly the outsiders, had been dragged into the theatre and burnt alive, the mob was satisfied only by an official move to make the Jews worship the pagan gods; the majority did not submit and were killed. The procedure, according to Josephus devised by the villain Antiochus, matches with what we read of the formal handling of early Christians.27 The immediate consequences of this shocking incident were not confined to Antioch. Apparently still under the influence of Antiochus, Sabbath observance was banned, just as it had been by King Antiochus during the Maccabaean persecution (2 Macc. 6:6). The Roman ban applied also to other Syrian cities, no doubt including Apamea, which, like Antioch, had been quiet in the previous year. It is likely that the Sabbath was simply singled out in the report as the most important of a bundle of observances under attack. We do not know how the situation was resolved, but we can be sure that this violent trail of events will have profoundly shaken Antioch’s Jews, as well as many further afield. If even the top echelon of Jews in the Syrian capital, including the archon who was father to Antiochus, could have been so readily undermined, then every member of this community risked being tarred with the brush of disloyalty, conspiracy and insurrection, both towards his or her neighbours and towards Rome. In reality, the Greek-speaking Diaspora did not participate in the revolt, and it is unlikely that respectable Antiochene Jews were sympathetic to armed resistance to Rome, and yet, charges of insurrection were levelled against members of the wealthy elite elsewhere too, notably in Cyrene and Alexandria (BJ 7.437–53). Once the revolt was finally subdued, and Jerusalem in ashes, Vespasian hastened to Rome to assume the imperial powers, while Titus made a triumphal progress through all the cities of Syria (as Josephus puts it). At Caesarea Philippi (where Domitian’s birthday was celebrated) and in the Roman colonia of Berytus (where Vespasian’s birthday was similarly honoured), Titus held shows and games that involved the mass display and slaughter of recently captured prisoners: the Jews, says Josephus, had to enact their own destruction (Josephus, BJ 7.23–4; 37–40). In this 27

Pliny, Letter 96 and 97, offers early attestation. Given the early and visible presence of Christians at Antioch, perhaps such tests had already been applied to them there.

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atmosphere, Antioch, where we may presume that games were also held,28 flared up again, and when a real fire broke out and destroyed many public buildings, the ever-present Antiochus ensured that the Jews were once again incriminated; once more the Jewish population was at the mercy of the mob, to be rescued only by the acting Roman governor, who, this time, imposed restraint, launched an investigation and found other culprits (BJ 7.41–62). On Titus’s arrival, the Antiochenes produced a petition for the expulsion of the remaining Jewish population, now more than ever vulnerable, for, as Josephus has Titus say, they belonged nowhere and had no place to go to, their home city being in ruins.29 Titus refused, according to Josephus (who, of course, was particularly well disposed). After receiving a gold crown from the king of Parthia at Zeugma, Titus returned to Antioch, and, meeting with the senate and people in the theatre, he once more turned down their insistent demands; nor did he grant their alternative request, the abolition of the Jewish rights in the city, as inscribed by decree on bronze tablets. For the Jewish community, this second crisis would have vividly recalled the terrors and the tragedies of the previous, still fresh, onslaught, quite apart from bringing its own, new traumas. In this corner of the Roman world, then, we have been able to observe at close quarters the dynamics of Diaspora life. We have observed the unravelling of those ties that had bound Jews and non-Jews together in Antioch before the troubles began, and we have understood the severe limitations of that co-existence and its inherent instability.30 Josephus exposes the process with grim realism, indicating the interplay between external and local pressures on the Jews; the part played by divisions within the Jewish community and within families; connections with Jews in other places; the susceptibility of the Antiochene mob; the underlying hostility, when push came to shove, of the civic leaders; and the parameters of Roman intervention. The historian offers an extraordinary picture of exactly how a large, influential and well-resourced community could be struck down. An additional cause of vulnerability, and a distinctive feature of Antiochene Jewry, was a destiny shared to an extent with the Jews of Palestine: a special tie is observable to Judaea and Galilee and to events 28

29 30

So also Millar 1993, 178–9, who points out the symbolic significance of incorporating these city populations in the victory celebrations. Josephus seems to have accompanied Titus (Vita 422), which could account in part for his dwelling on the events at Antioch, and especially for the appreciation he expresses for the Flavian protection (AJ 12.1122–4). It is suggested in AJ 12.120 that there had been an earlier attempt, rejected by C. Licinius Mucianus, governor of Syria, i.e. between 67 and 69, so perhaps linked with the pre-revolt violence. See Rajak 2002a, 453–6, for qualifications to the picture of untroubled co-existence.

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in Jerusalem, explicable in large part in terms of geographical accessibility. It is interesting that geography seems to have been similarly important for the first Christians in Antioch (Acts 11:19–30). Ease of communication enabled Aidesios, a gerousiarch of the Antiochene Jewish community, to achieve a desirable burial in the Galilee as attested by an epitaph from the mainly third-century necropolis at Beth She’arim; he was surrounded by six members of his family, and nearby catacombs held rabbinic tombs. Behind the geographical connection lies quite a long history.31 When Antiochus IV had entered the Temple, he had supposedly taken back with him ‘to his own country’ the precious objects, and much valuable material besides, out of the inner shrine, which he presumably deposited in his capital, Antioch (1 Macc. 1:22–4). Josephus tells us that it was this king’s successors who presented brass items from the Temple to the city’s Jews, earmarked as votive offerings for their synagogue (BJ 7.44). It is not fanciful to say, in the light of what we have seen, that Antioch reflects in a particularly immediate way the impact of the Judaean revolt against Rome. We note that the visit to Antioch during which Titus stood firm against the attempts to dispose of the Jewish population is directly followed, in Josephus’s telling, by the powerful scene of the victor’s return to Jerusalem, site of his victory, where he is depicted contemplating the desolate ruins and reflecting on their former glory (as well as on the misdeeds of the rebels), before finally travelling on to Alexandria and embarking for Rome (BJ 7.112). A sixth-century historian, John Malalas, announces, though Josephus does not, that Titus installed, high on the southern gateway to Antioch, the cherubim removed from the Temple before its destruction.32 While Malalas’s information is often garbled, here he is on his home territory.33 The presence of the Temple impedimenta of an earlier intrusion already marked the city out, and allusions to a third exile at Daphne in rabbinic sources and to a ‘captivity’ by John Chrysostom have led to the suggestion that Antiochus may also have transported Jewish prisoners thither.34 Malalas adds that a theatre was built on the site of a synagogue in Daphne, just to the south of Antioch; here could be read the inscription ‘from the booty of Judaea’– ex praeda iudaeae. We owe to an eleventh-century Arabic writer from North Africa, 31 32 33 34

Rajak 2001, 491; BS 2, no.141. Malalas, Chron. 12.260–1. Josephus, as Meeks and Wilken 1978, 5, point out, may therefore ‘have put too happy a face’ on Titus’s conduct. One could, however, argue that this is a twisted doublet of the information given to us by Josephus about the brass vessels. For these sources, see Meeks and Wilken 1978, 3 and n.7 (following Krauss).

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Nissim ibn Shahin of Cairouan (surviving in a manuscript written in the Hebrew alphabet), information on the existence, at some moment, of an Antiochene synagogue called Shmonit (or Sheminit), said to be the first built after the destruction of the Temple. It is hard not to take the name as a derivation of Hashmonit – i.e. Hasmonean or Maccabaean: the place was evidently understood as commemorating the Maccabaean martyrs, thus bringing together in the public consciousness the Maccabaean struggles with the first Jewish revolt against Rome.35 The late antique sources offer no more than hints, but they do seem to have some substance. Whatever we make of that material, the dramatic events that unfolded at Antioch, from 66 onwards, are far better known to us, thanks to Josephus, than the vicissitudes of other cities; and although the Syrian Jewish milieu, and its major metropolis in particular, had special characteristics, we need not doubt that the larger pattern of relationships was replicated elsewhere in the Diaspora. It is worth noting that Josephus also alludes to similar Alexandrian demands when he mentions in the Antiquities (12.122–4) the Antiochene attempt to cancel Jewish rights in 70.36

A Translation Culture We can safely say that the Jews of Antioch were Greek speakers. Aramaic bilingualism among some inhabitants is probable, as well as Hebrew knowledge in scholarly circles of teachers or translators, but we have no direct information. The integration of the community into the polis milieu is attested by Josephus and exemplified by the ability of the Jewish archon’s treacherous son to transform himself into the leader of the anti-Jewish movement and to throw his weight around the city over a long period. Moreover, it is a reasonable surmise that Jewish-Greek culture flourished in Antioch and in much of Syria more generally, though it was a very large and diverse Roman province.37 This by now mature form of Jewish self-expression was perhaps fertilized and invigorated by the ties that bound its Jews to both Palestine in the west and eastwards across the Euphrates. In any event, Greek language and culture were constant and dominating factors in the Jewish life of the wider Diaspora. The great paradox of the 35 36 37

For Nissim, see Obermann 1931, 254–9; Bickerman 2007, 474; Downey, 110, n.116. The mediaeval historian apparently believed that there were authentic martyrs’ tombs beneath the synagogue. The disastrous breakdown of communal relationships at Seleuceia on the Tigris in the 40s CE, described by Josephus at AJ 18. 372–8, has features in common with the later Syrian episode. For a description of the province’s several zones, see Millar 1993, 236–335.

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Antiochene story is that, even while antagonism and conflict were constructed as a battle between Jews and Greeks, the Jews of the city were also culturally, Greeks. If there was any Jewish resistance to ‘Hellenism’, it was remarkably selective. The most extraordinary encapsulation of the paradox is probably provided in a literary work. The Fifth Sibylline Oracle, which may well belong to our period, exults over the destruction of pagan temples in sustained (if inelegant) Homeric hexameters. Again, while the section of the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies that has a strong claim to be a Jewish text of the second century (Hom. 4–6) excoriates Greek myth in a text full of Greek learning, as Carleton Paget emphasizes,38 we find a similar core contradiction in the martyrology in the Second Book of Maccabees chapters 6 and 7 (of the Hellenistic period), together with the Fourth Book (on which see below): both books depict unwavering opposition to a tyrannical and brutal ‘Greek’ ruler and to his attempted imposition of Greek cults and Greek ways, but in both of them, and especially in the later of the two, the antagonism is expressed by an author deploying with skill Greek literary genres (in the latter case, historiography, dialogue, philosophical argument and epideictic oration) and a range of Greek literary tropes.39 The core texts for the communities in question were their scriptures in Greek, and above all the Greek Torah, a translation launched in Alexandria under the early Ptolemies and ongoing for several centuries. I have elsewhere interpreted the form of koinē Greek in this translation as facilitating a two-sided reaction to the implications of ‘going Greek’, for it embodied in its Hebraisms both acceptance of and resistance to Greek influence. The idiom, with its marked ‘foreignizing’ tendency, was in my view a permanent reminder of the Hebrew text underlying it; the perpetuation of this linkage was more a badge of cultural identity than an expression of kid-gloved reverence for the sacred tongue.40 It is relevant to us that this striking translation language had a remarkably long life, for all its internal variations as a system. This meant that Greek-speaking Jewish groups shared, across space and over time and continuing into the second century, their central asset, a large corpus of translated texts. Here was a common tradition – a binding force and a source of continuity, even allowing for the need for diverse interpretations of a fundamental text. 38 39 40

The style of the Jewish-Christian Sibyllines is analysed in Lightfoot 2007, 153–202, in relation particularly to the first three books. On the Pseudo-Clementines, see Carleton Paget 2010, 418. Gruen (1998) does much to illuminate such twists and inconsistencies in a previous phase of Hellenistic-Jewish literature. Rajak 2009, 125–75.

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The Bible of Diaspora Jews thus reflected their lives, enabling them to bridge two societies, two systems of thought and expression. They were exponents of what I have called a ‘translation culture’. Put simply, the term indicates that dependence upon a translated Bible which made it possible for the Jews in the Greek cities to live Judaism through the medium of the dominant local language, Greek; and for this reason, the world they created for themselves has at times been deemed second-rate, implicitly, or even, explicitly. Rabin wrote of the ‘essentially alien character of Hellenistic Judaism, receiving isolated principles but without the attendant intellectual atmosphere’.41 This is a strange description indeed, if we are to think of Philo’s large and intricate system of Biblical exegesis, conducted through the medium of a sophisticated Platonic philosophy. A more recent version of Rabin’s judgement is to be found, I suggest, in the ideas of Doron Mendels and Arye Edrei. Seeking to explain how the centre of gravity in Jewish history shifted eastwards, to the rabbinic world of Babylonia and to the Aramaic language, they claim that the ‘western Diaspora’ (the term is here used of the Greek world) was end-stopped and disappeared entirely into Christianity, precisely because of its dependence on Greek and its detachment from the Hebraic sources of its creativity. This kept it out of the enlivening and protective sphere of the rabbinic movement. Such a picture does not do justice to the power and durability of Jewish life lived in Greek, nor yet to the value of the Greek Bible in preserving communities over centuries, nor to the impact of those communities in providing new lessons and new models for Diaspora living, both through their texts and through their adaptation to their surroundings. This contrasted strongly with the single-minded agenda of the Rabbis, an observation which may go some way to answer the interesting question posed by Mendels and Edrei as to why no Greek translation of any rabbinic documents emerged from the Jewish Diaspora.42 Rather, the central activity of Diaspora Jews was a negotiation between two traditions and two domains. Theirs was a translation culture also in this second, stronger sense. As a nursery for Jewish identity, the GraecoRoman Diaspora was far from wasted. Constant and challenging interaction with a dominant society, and within a dominant language, served to sharpen a sense of difference. That was in the long run historically 41 42

Rabin 1968. Mendels and Edrei 2009, 66–70 (English versions, Edrei and Mendels 2007, 2008). Their own preferred answer is to invoke the oral character of rabbinic teaching.

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more significant than the number of individuals who may have fallen away to Christianity or to assimilation. At some point during the second century CE new versions of biblical books were made in various centres, seemingly still by Jews or converts or people somehow associated with Judaism, notably that of Aquila, which was known and liked by the Rabbis, though not in its origins associated with them.43 According to Christian tradition, Aquila was a proselyte from Pontus who had converted from Judaism to Christianity. His translation was famous as an even more word-for-word rendering than the Old Greek. But there were other translators too, working at this time;44 and whatever the provenance of earlier translators, during our period both Jerusalem and Alexandria, between which the output is customarily divided, are falling out of the reckoning. The obvious consequence is that a scholarly class in a range of Greek cities must be posited to continue the active work of reception, translation and revision. Such work might imply the hope of a good reception and, even more important, a livelihood, for those who rose to the challenge, toiled and completed the task, be it in Caesarea or in Antioch or elsewhere. In such labour, we discern a suitable occupation for a scholarly elite in our world. In what framework did they toil? How were they categorized? How did they see themselves? They were hardly co-extensive with the leaders of the synagogues, judging at least by the epigraphic self-presentation of the latter.45 Given that a handful of Jewish inscriptions in Greek designate individuals as such, while Eleazar, the elderly martyr who went to his death before the mother and her seven sons, is designated a priest in 4 Maccabees (as contrasted with his scribal status in 2 Maccabees), might priests have had a special role? How prominent were sophodidaskaloi, mathētai sophōn or nomodidaskaloi, terms known to us from sparse, but still significant, appearances in the Jewish epigraphy in Greek from various periods? And what of the audiences? Perhaps they were to be found in schools, in study groups or in associations like the ‘lovers of knowledge’ at Aphrodisias?46 Did they congregate around the synagogue? I think we can safely suppose, at any rate, that the educated elite must have constituted 43

44 45 46

Here I differ from Alexander in this volume, for whom Aquila represents the spearhead of the rabbinic movement’s Hebraizing thrust. For in-depth studies of Aquila’s translation and of his standing among the Rabbis, see Law and Salvesen 2012; Labendz 2009. Ibid. On Symmachus, see Salvesen 1991. General observations in Rajak 2009, 310–3. Philomath(oi) at Aphrodisias: Ameling 2004 IJO 2, no.14, l.4; sophodidaskalos: IJO 2, no.63 (Sardis); mathētai sophōn: Noy 1995, JIWE 2, no.544 (Rome); evidence for nomodidaskaloi: Ameling 2004, 238, n.155.

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a thin layer and that below them came a widely literate ‘middle class’, artisans and the like, who heard sermons or orations, prayed and studied, had their children taught both Bible stories and the basics of Greek paideia and perhaps read Jewish novels such as the tale of Joseph and Asenath – for this was, after all, a peak period for the popularity of the Greek novel.47 It is incontestable that the Hellenistic-Jewish heritage had to be transmitted through Judaism to reach Christianity. The crucial question is how far this transmission continued, how long active engagement with the corpus of Greek-Jewish literature went on and when the composition of new additions to it eventually tailed off. A sharp disjunction is virtually inconceivable, and the durability of this Jewish milieu may have been seriously underestimated.48 It is possible to identify a certain number of apocryphal, pseudepigraphic or other works that were evidently translated from Hebrew or Aramaic into Greek, likely by Jews, and whose present shape has a good chance of belonging to our period. This activity must be seen as distinct from the task of translation of the Greek Bible,49 and from the revision or even retranslation of the already translated biblical books. Even if originally written in Palestine, such works could have been translated anywhere. A list of free, though scripture-based, compositions whose Greek translations may belong to the post-70 Diaspora will probably include 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch (surviving in Syriac), 4 Baruch, the Martyrdom of Isaiah, the possible Jewish prayers in the Apostolic Constitutions; parts of the Testaments of the XII Patriarchs, especially the Testament of Issachar; and the Testament of Abraham. One point is worth making here. It is telling that such literary creations are agglomerative in character.50 Thus, even if translated somewhat earlier, they are, at the very least, likely to continue to have been added to through our period; and translation may well have gone hand in hand with further modification, as we can see in the case of an earlier translation, the Greek Esther: because that book became canonical during the Second Temple period, we are able to compare a surviving Hebrew with the Greek (in fact in more than one form) and to identify at least in broad terms the additions made by an early generation of translators.51 In general, however, we can rarely catch the process of accretion at any particular point. 47 48 49 50 51

Wills 1995 postulates a distinct genre of ‘Jewish novel’. Carleton Paget 2010, 388–91. Some believe this was not finalized until the second century, with the kaige versions of Ruth and Ecclesiastes. See Rajak, 2009, 312. See Lightfoot 2007, vii. Detailed study of this translation is further complicated by the existence of the so-called Alpha text alongside the LXX. See de Troyer 2003; Rajak 2009, 183–5.

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4 Maccabees Our prize specimen takes us back to Antioch. If not a translation – for it is Greek adapted from Greek – 4 Maccabees certainly represents a case of rewriting and adaptation of part of earlier literary work; and it is the epitome of a negotiation between cultures. This is a Jewish martyrological work of high rhetoric and drama, encased in a philosophical disquisition. The author combines a Stoic/Platonic outlook, with scriptural exempla and with vocal loyalty to the Jewish (or Hebrew) people, their nomos and their God in a more or less harmonious co-existence. The nineteen chapters are a re-writing with elaboration of the martyrology of the aged Eleazar, and the mother and her seven sons, that appears in chapters 6 and 7 of 2 Maccabees.52 While the provenance of this work is unknown, the leading candidate remains, indeed, Antioch in Syria, historically a capital city for the persecuting Antiochus IV, and in due course the place where the Christian cult of the Maccabaean martyrs took root. This cult pinned itself to the claim of being a physical successor to Jewish veneration of the martyrs’ remains in a synagogue constructed over them, and even if there was no such Jewish cult, memories of the martyrs do seem to have had a hold over the Jewish community.53 Without any context, it is hard to see why the Christian cult of the Maccabees should have arisen specifically in Antioch. In Apamea, some hundred miles from Antioch, originated the second century CE Pythagorean Numenius, famous for his dictum that Plato was Moses speaking Attic.54 4 Maccabees fits nicely here.55 A date between the late first and the mid-second century CE is probable, on the basis of cultural and stylistic affinities with the second sophistic culture, on the one hand, and with the thought world and vocabulary of Ignatius of Antioch or the Apostolic Fathers on the other. Bickerman’s still influential argument for a mid-first-century dating, derived from 52

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54 55

The critical text in the Göttingen LXX is under preparation by Hiebert. Each of the following commentaries makes its own contribution: Hadas 1953; Anderson 1985; Klauck 1989; Scarpat 2006; deSilva 2006. On language and style, see Breitenstein 1976. For the philosophical background, see Renehan 1972; Weber 1991. My interpretation of the book is spelled out in Rajak 2013, 2013b. On the Hashmonit synagogue, see above. On Antioch and the martyrdoms, see Rajak 2013a. On the Christian cult, Triebel 2005 is now the starting point. See Rajak 2013b, n.13, for further bibliography on this cult. Stern 1980 2.363. Van Henten 1994, 1997, 78–81, endorses an older ascription of 4 Maccabees to Asia Minor with the observation that the opening formula of the imaginary epitaph conjured up for the martyrs by the author (17:9) is replicated in the non-Jewish epigraphy of Lycaonia, Galatia and Phrygia. Without further support, the linkage remains insecure.

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the possible implications of a single geographical specification in the text, should be abandoned.56 While the book says nothing about its own composition, its points of reference are Jewish.57 ‘Hellenized’ Diaspora Jews are surely the producers and core hearers or readers of this blend of Greek philosophy and rhetoric with Jewish sermonizing and advocacy for the Torah. At the same time, 4 Maccabees clearly belongs in that ‘marketplace’ of religions and ideas that characterized the Eastern provinces of the Roman Empire and it is appropriate to think about the possibility of interest in certain circles outside the Jewish community, a possibility that hitherto has barely been acknowledged. Moderately well-educated Greeks would have responded, on the one hand, to the work’s philosophical content and dialogic aspects, with its Socratic features58 and its Stoic underpinnings, and, on the other hand, to the drama of the confrontation between tyrant and martyrs and to the graphic depiction of the atrocities perpetrated by the ‘tyrant of the Greeks’. Even more important, however, as sharers in some sense in this text, were Christian groups, for whom imitation of Christ was the basis of martyrdom, and some of whose first martyrologies contain striking echoes of 4 Maccabees.59 We may reasonably envisage this anonymous author, therefore, as speaking from a setting in which Jews shared in a mixed culture and participated in the civic as well as in their own paideia. So it may even be that he (or she) was addressing a mixed audience, people whom he (or she) might expect to interest and impress with an exemplary narrative drawn from the Jewish past. If this was an audience of citizens of Antioch, it certainly seems that, from their lowest point in 70, relations between communities had been repaired. A final point may be drawn from 4 Maccabees. It appears to have escaped notice that the dependence of the author of this work on 2 Maccabees chapters 6–7 makes it highly likely that 2 Maccabees (or this part of it at least) was still available to Jewish readers when the reworking was produced, even if an update was by then desirable. The content of the older work must still have been to an extent credible and meaningful. If we 56 57 58 59

Van Henten 1997, 74–5, demonstrates that the deductions of Bickerman 2007 are fallacious on a number of counts. See Rajak 2013b on the range of terminology. On Socratic modelling in the portrayal of Eleazar, apparent in both 2 and 4 Maccabees, see Rajak 2001, 120–2. Notably the martyrdom of Polycarp and the martyrs of Lyons and Vienne. In neither case is there an agreement on the date and genesis of the surviving acta.

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accept 4 Maccabees as Jewish, then we have, if not quite proof, at least a pointer to continuing Jewish involvement with the Hellenistic-Jewish heritage, in, let us say, the first quarter of the second century. This is significant, as supplying a depth of potential cultural past for Diaspora Jews in the late first and early second centuries, and a backing to their translation culture. Moreover, the indication that at least one work, 2 Maccabees, remained in currency into the high empire suggests that other items may still have been circulating among Jews, be it in Antioch or elsewhere. It should not be forgotten that Josephus, in his Antiquities (‘published’ in the 90s), replicated, with minor tweaking, the greater part of the Letter of Aristeas (AJ 12.1–118) and also much of 1 Maccabees (AJ 12.240–13.218).60 Wacholder, discussing Clement of Alexandria’s extended citations of the HellenisticJewish philosopher Aristobulus, may have been too hasty in concluding that its Jewish origin had been ‘half-forgotten’ by Clement’s day.61 The chasms in our evidence make it easier to ask questions than to answer them. We are fortunate to possess that one valuable survival, in 4 Maccabees, to which we can attach a tentative second-century date and a tentative Antiochene provenance, and thence to make plausible connections. But we are not allowed to forget for long that these are, indeed, tentative. Moreover, we are reminded often enough that we owe to the interests and choices of the early Church, not only the survival of this book, along with that of the rest of the literary heritage of the larger Jewish world with which we have been concerned, but also our very ability to offer a contextual interpretation of the work’s rich, three-way hybridity. Without reference to the Christian literature of the period, the thought-world of the last of the Maccabaean books would have been difficult indeed to grasp. This sobering, but not depressing, reflection leads to my first concluding observation. To assert that a central and inescapable dimension of the history of the Greek-speaking Jewish Diaspora over the second century was negotiation of the parting, or nonparting, of the inextricably intertwined ways is not to diminish, not 60

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Less significant are Josephus’s allusions in Against Apion (1.216–8) to the poets Theodotus and Philo, and the historians Demetrius (wrongly dubbed Phalereus) and Eupolemus. He does not appear to know them at first hand, and he uses them as external corroboration of Jewish antiquity, either disingenuously or naïvely. Wacholder 1974, 58–60. However, Wacholder accepts the more problematic claim that themes and interpretations in the Dura-Europos synagogue paintings of the mid-third century ‘illustrate the popularity of the Graeco-Jewish writings among the semi-Hellenized circles of the Diaspora’. On the question of Clement of Alexandria’s response to and possible knowledge of Jews, see Carleton Paget 2010, 91–102.

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inappropriately to ‘Christianize’, that history but to recognize its full complexity. Second, it is the historian’s responsibility to remember that there did exist, and continue to exist in that world, a vibrant and extensive Jewish life, concerned with the full gamut of tasks and problems involved in the preservation of communal life and group identity within Greek-speaking pagan society.

chapter 3

The Rabbis and Their Rivals in the Second Century CE Philip Alexander

Histories of the Jews and Judaism in late antiquity tend to be written from the standpoint of the rabbinic movement. This is understandable. Rabbinic Judaism in antiquity is still widely regarded by historians, if not as orthodox Judaism, at least as formative or even normative Judaism. That is to say, it stands on a trajectory that arcs from late biblical times down to Judaism, in all its forms, as we know it today. This perspective can, with some reason, be seen as justifying prioritizing Rabbinic Judaism among the varieties of ancient Judaism. The priority is proleptic – it looks forward to what happens next. Moreover, Rabbinic Judaism, as a matter of fact, is the best documented variety of Judaism in late antiquity: it produced impressive texts – the Talmudic literature – which still survive, and are massively authoritative within contemporary Judaism. If our intention is to write the genealogy of present-day Judaism, then favouring Rabbinic Judaism makes good sense, but if we want to describe Judaism at any given point in the past – say, the second century CE – then this may be tendentious and problematic. The present chapter will attempt to demonstrate why. I will show that there were other groups who did not accept the authority of the Rabbis, nor subscribe to their distinctive worldview, but whose Judaism had as much legitimacy in its day as had theirs.1

**** The Rabbinic Movement That said, I shall, nonetheless, begin my account of second-century Judaism with a characterization of the rabbinic movement,2 and move 1

2

The picture I paint here is a synthesis of more detailed work I have done elsewhere. I cannot document every claim I make, but footnote only a selection of relevant secondary sources. Much of the ground has been covered by important recent studies such as Schwartz 2001; Hirshman 2009; Lapin 2012. The most comprehensive overview of the rabbinic movement remains Hezser 1997.

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out from there to other forms of Judaism. This is purely a matter of convenience (dictated largely by the availability of evidence) and carries no value judgement. We have to begin somewhere, and I would have been happy to have started at a different point had the sources been as substantial. Even for the rabbinic movement in the second century, which I define as a long second century stretching from 70 (the destruction of the Temple) to 210 (the death of Judah ha-Nasi), sources are somewhat meagre and highly problematic as the basis for an historical narrative. We are in effect confined to the Mishnah, which was published under the auspices of Judah the Patriarch. There may be strata in other rabbinic texts which also date from the second century – e.g. parts of the Tosefta as well as Baraitot in the Talmuds and traditions in the so-called Tannaitic Midrashim and the other early rabbinic Bible commentaries. But there is only one text which, with a few exceptions (notably Massekhet Avot), can plausibly be dated to this time, and that is the Mishnah. All other rabbinic texts are post-Mishnaic compositions and, in various ways, signal their postMishnaic status. So our account of the rabbinic movement in the period under review has to rely mainly, though not exclusively, on that document – a document, I repeat, which does not offer itself willingly as a basis for narrative history.3 What picture, then, emerges from the Mishnah of the rabbinic movement in the second century? It was a movement led by Torah scholars – sages (Hakhamim) who bore the title ‘Rabbi’, ‘My Teacher’. That title ˙ seems to have been quite old and widespread, and someone who bore it did not necessarily belong to the rabbinic movement (we should not assume they did when we find it on inscriptions4), but the Rabbis may have tried to appropriate it exclusively to themselves. The claim of the Rabbis to leadership in Israel was, in the second century, based entirely on their expertise in interpreting and applying the Torah of Moses. The institutional power base of the rabbinic movement was the rabbinic Beit Midrash – House of Study, where, for a time students (talmidei hakhamim), mainly young men it would seem, sat to learn at the feet of ˙ a master. These Batei Midrash were very simple organizations, usually nothing more than a teacher and a group of students who studied with him. They have been aptly called ‘disciple-circles’ – though this description should not be used to deny that they were schools. Most schools at 3

4

On the problems of using rabbinic literature as a historical source for late antiquity, see Goodman and Alexander 2010. Few have attempted to sketch the Jewish world in Palestine in the second century strictly on the basis of the Mishnaic evidence. A notable exception is Goodman 2000. See Cohen 1981, 1999.

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this time were of this type. The academy, i.e. a school which lasted over generations and had permanent, dedicated premises with several teachers and staff, was the exception throughout antiquity.5 Disciple-circles often did not have their own buildings, and after the death of the teacher, the students may have scattered, some, perhaps, setting up disciple-circles in their own right, others returning to everyday life, to live out the rabbinical way of life and spread rabbinical ideas. The schools were funded by contributions from supporters and patrons, who, if they had private means, may occasionally have attended classes and sat in positions of honour at the front. The teacher himself may have had a secular profession (blacksmith, sandal-maker or the like), either simply to make ends meet or, for more exalted moral reasons, to avoid the charge that he was using the teaching of Torah as ‘a spade to dig with’, i.e. he was charging for passing on to people what could be deemed necessary truths.6 The schools were small religious communities. Study was regarded as a divine commandment, and the students ate, slept and prayed together. The curriculum was based not only on the study of the Torah of Moses, but also on traditions inherited from the past (at least in part from the pre-70 Pharisees7) that interpreted and augmented it, particularly its legal prescriptions, traditions known as Halakhah. Instruction was oral, stress being put on memorizing: this was not simply to save money (though books and writing materials were expensive), but was in accord with almost universal educational theory in antiquity that what you could not recite by heart, you did not truly know.8 Instruction was in Hebrew, and it may have been a mark of members of the rabbinic movement that they spoke Hebrew to each other. However, the vast majority of the general Jewish population in Palestine by the second century was almost certainly speaking Aramaic. Rabbis were probably diglossic – speaking Hebrew in their schools and among themselves, but Aramaic in the street.9 5

6

7 8 9

The term ‘disciple-circle’ seems to have been coined by Goodblatt 1975, and he used it deliberately to distinguish between a disciple-circle and a school or academy. Hezser 1997 took the distinction over and applied it to Palestine. But both Goodblatt and Hezser pressed the difference too hard. On education, see further Hezser 2001. Mishnah Pirqei Avot 4.5. See further Hock 1980. Curiously Rabbis with names that clearly declare their profession (e.g. smith, sandal-maker) do not seem to be attested before the third century. Did the Rabbis of the second century have private means? The discontinuity between the pre-70 Pharisees and the post-70 Rabbis, argued in some recent scholarship, should not be overplayed. See Reed 2013. See Alexander 1990. See further Jaffee 2001. On the linguistic situation in Palestine, see Smelik 2010.

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The rabbinic movement, then, in second-century Palestine consisted of a loose network of disciple-circles, held together by mutual recognition based on shared religious values, shared legal traditions, and shared methods of study. There was no central organization, and no leader, though one of the Rabbis seems to have been recognized in some sense as ‘chief’, and to have borne, for a time, the title Rabban, ‘Our Teacher’. A talmid hakham ˙ on of became a Rabbi through a form of ordination, initially by the laying hands by his own teacher, then by declaration by three Rabbis, and finally, in the time of Judah ha-Nasi, by some form of official appointment by the patriarch.10 The schools were few in number, located mainly on the coastal plain (the Sharon) and in the lower Galilee. For the most populous of the rabbinic generations, the Mishnah records the names of only around forty scholars, and while this might not be the sum total of the sages at that time, it is surely indicative. Even if we assume that each of these scholars had a school, and assign to him a generous cohort of talmidei hakhamim, it is still rather obvious that the number of active members ˙of the rabbinic movement would have been tiny within a Jewish population in Palestine, which may have numbered around half a million in the second century.11 Smallness, of course, does not in itself mean lack of power or influence. Small elites can dominate large communities, but all the evidence suggests that the rabbinic movement in the second century had effectively no other means than persuasion to impose itself on the Jewish community of Palestine. Its role was not officially sanctioned by the colonial power (though the colonial power, insofar as it knew of the Rabbis, would probably not have disapproved of their activities); it had few supporters of wealth in the landed classes; and it did not possess retainers who could threaten those who did not support its policies, though the young talmidei hakhamim may, on occasions, have been in a position to threaten violence ˙ against those who flouted their Rabbi’s will. Yet as a movement it had huge aspirations and ambitions. These were inherent in the logic of its position. The Rabbis set themselves up as experts on Torah, but Torah legislates for all aspects of Jewish life: it is the blueprint for a total polity. In claiming to be its custodians and true interpreters, the Rabbis were at the same time claiming to be the true guides of Israel in all aspects of her life. They were 10 11

For rabbinic ordination (semikhah), see Hezser 1997, 79–93. Newman 1950 remains useful. See further Levine 1989. Population figures for antiquity are notoriously speculative, especially in our period when major wars could have had a dramatic effect on numbers. But it is vital to try and reach some sort of estimate. I am assuming around 500,000 for second-century Palestine and possibly double that figure for the Diaspora. See Broshi 1979. See further Schwartz 2001, 10–11, and Baron 1971, 870–72.

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committed to imposing Torah-observance, as they understood it, on the Jewish community at large. Unlike some of their rivals, they were not a single-issue party. They offered a total worldview, implicit in which, from the very outset, was the assertion that it constituted orthodoxy. There were a number of ways in which Rabbis sought to spread their message within the Jewish community. The first was by example: they and their students lived out the distinctively rabbinic way of life among their fellow Jews. In their day-to-day contacts with fellow Jews, they doubtless impressed some by their dedication to the Torah, and acquired charisma as holy men. I stressed earlier that the basis of rabbinic authority in the second century was expertise in interpreting the Torah. In the third century, Rabbis came to be viewed at times as possessing, additionally, occult powers – as wonder-workers (anshei macaseh). There is little sign of this in the second century, but great scholars can have charisma and attain extensive followings among the wider public simply through the power of their learning. Stoic and Epicurean philosophers contemporary with the Rabbis exercised similar authority within their communities. In addition, Rabbis could offer services to the community in the sphere of religious law. Civil disputes within the Jewish communities in Palestine for most of the second century were largely decided by ad hoc local arbitration. By ad hoc I mean that there was no fixed, regulated system of courts. Broadly speaking, parties in dispute chose a mutually agreed arbitrator who adjudicated the case, and they were then supposed to abide by his decision. This arbitration might be done by local ‘bigwigs’, who would have had retainers who could threaten violence to enforce decisions. But Rabbis could also offer their services, and if they displayed impartiality and legal competence, they could well have built up, as dispensers of justice, an extensive clientele. They faced, of course, a problem of enforcement. Here rabbinic authority, as I have already hinted, looks weak, but the Rabbis had always the weapon of the ban (the herem). They could call ˙ if the community, or upon the community to boycott the offender, and, even a substantial part of it, answered that call, the offender could have found life very difficult, and been forced into compliance.12 Finally, the synagogue offered a platform for the Rabbis to spread their influence. The synagogue was not a rabbinic institution. It was controlled by local patrons, who had the money to keep it going, but there is evidence 12

As the Babatha archive seems to show, Roman Palestine was a patchwork of parallel jurisdictions, in which Roman officials only occasionally intervened. See Hannah Cotton 1993; Cotton 2002; Cotton and Eck 2005.

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that in the course of the second century, the Rabbis made a concerted effort to influence it, and exploit it as a platform from which to proclaim the rabbinic worldview. They had an obvious point of entry in the fact that an important part of the synagogue service was the public reading of the Torah – the Torah in which they claimed to be the leading experts. They attempted to regulate how the Torah was read, stressing, e.g., the primacy of the Hebrew text (of which they were masters) over the Aramaic translation. They may also have supported the institution of the sermon (the derashah), offering themselves as preachers whenever they could. This would have afforded them a pulpit from which to proclaim the rabbinic view of life. There is also evidence to suggest that they tried to influence the wording of the synagogue prayers so that they conformed to rabbinic ideas. These are all bottom-up rather than top-down mechanisms of influence, and they take time to have an effect. They also rely heavily on the physical presence of the Rabbis, or of their students, within the communities, and, given that they were few in number and confined to small areas of Palestine, it follows that their influence can only have been limited in scope. But the evidence suggests that over the course of the second century, the authority of the rabbinic movement in Palestine grew steadily, till at the end of the century it was worth the Patriarch’s while to ally himself with it politically.

Competitors of the Rabbis a The Priesthood The rabbinic claims to religious leadership in Israel were challenged by a number of different groups. First among these was the priesthood. The priesthood was dealt a severe blow by the destruction of the Temple in 70, but it did not disappear. Priests continued to live in the Jewish communities, and to be accorded respect. Many observant Jews still paid them tithes – a practice supported by the Rabbis, probably because tithing was such an obvious part of Torah law, but maybe also because it helped them gain the support of the priestly class. Even while the Temple stood, only a small number of leading priests resided in Jerusalem. The majority lived in the countryside, and only went up to Jerusalem to serve when the rota fell to their particular Watch (Mishmar). These rural priests might well have been no worse off financially after the destruction of the Temple, because they were now dependent on tithes paid locally, rather than on tithes channelled through the Jerusalem authorities. And with the loss of

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an altar, they had not entirely lost their raison d’être. They still had their Torah-teaching functions, which the Torah explicitly assigned to them. This was surely a trump card against the upstart Rabbis whose Torah expertise was not recognized by Torah. The priesthood seems to have recovered gradually as the second century wore on, and to have regained some economic stability and social cohesion. Tradition suggests that a number of the priestly Mishmarot relocated to the Galilee, so there may have been a concentration of priests there, ready and willing to offer religious leadership to their local communities. They would have had their own distinctive lore and expertise, going back to the pre70 period. There was a system of education associated with the Temple designed to train young priests in their complex duties – the Torat Kohanim – and there is no reason to suppose that the traditions which this generated would have simply vanished after 70. One would have expected priests to have been particularly expert in the laws of purity and sacrifice, but their learning would have gone much wider. There is circumstantial evidence to suggest that they may have considered themselves the guardians of the Hebrew text of Torah. This had long been a priestly function: master copies of the Torah had been held in the Temple, and these may still have been in the hands of priestly families after 70. In the system of primary education in the Jewish communities of Palestine, based on learning the Torah in Hebrew, it is not unlikely that the schoolmasters who taught in the Torah schools would have been, by and large, priests. Inscriptional evidence suggests that priests may have exercised authority in some synagogues. In short, indirect though the evidence may be, a reasonable case can be made that the Jewish priesthood after 70 had the manpower and the intellectual resources to offer leadership in Israel, without reference to the rabbinic movement, in much the same way as the Samaritan priesthood led the neighbouring Samaritan communities.13 The relationship of the rabbinic movement to the priesthood is complex, and not well understood. Some priests may have become Rabbis or talmidei hakhamim, and certainly the Rabbis were obliged to recognize the ˙ authority of the priesthood, because it is so clearly stated in Torah, but, arguably, they subordinated priestly to rabbinic authority by implicitly claiming that it was the Rabbis who could correctly interpret the Torah of the priests and so could tell the priests how to perform their functions in the God-appointed way. The massive Order of Qodashim (dedicated to sacrifices and other Temple matters) may have been included in the 13

For a review of the evidence, see Alexander 2009.

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Mishnah precisely to make this point. It is an assertion to the priestly class and to the Jewish world at large that the Rabbis are competent in priestly matters; it carries an implicit claim to rule the priesthood. Be this as it may, the basic point remains: priest and rabbi are two categorically different types of religious authority: the former is legitimated by descent, reinforced by training, and the latter by training, sanctioned by ordination. b

The cAmmei ha-aretz

The priesthood offered a strong challenge to the claims of the Rabbinate – one, as we have said, rooted in the Torah itself. But there is evidence that others within the Palestinian Jewish community also stood out against the Rabbis. The Rabbis have much to say in the Mishnah about the cAmmei ha-aretz – ‘the Peoples of the Land’, and make it clear that this group did not accept key rabbinic rulings. We must be careful how we construct the c Ammei ha-aretz on the basis of the deeply hostile notices of them in rabbinic literature. As the name suggests, they were not a sect or party – a socially cohesive, organized opposition to the Rabbis – but represented basically the generality of the Jewish people who resisted the Rabbis’ heightened religious demands. To assume that these people, as the Rabbis claim, were ignorant of the Torah and impious because they didn’t follow rabbinic Halakhah is tendentious. The rabbinic movement was a renewal movement, determined to bring the mass of the people to a more rigorous observance of the Torah, as they understood it, and it is not surprising that many ordinary people resisted Rabbis’ demands, and were content with their own, age-old religious way of life. It was their alleged laxity of practice in the areas of tithing, purity, and the sabbatical year that particularly drew the Rabbis’ ire – though they charged the cAmmei ha-aretz with other fundamental breaches of the mitzvot as well (e.g. regarding mezuzot and tzitzit). Tithing and the sabbatical year are suggestive and may indicate that there was an element of class conflict here. The cAmmei ha-aretz were probably made up largely of the agrarian masses who lived off the land, and who would have been particularly affected by any tightening of the laws of tithing and the sabbatical year. Enforcing these rigorously would, in effect, have increased their tax burden, and this may have been especially galling because the rabbinic movement was strongly urban and artisan, and so its members would have been less financially disadvantaged by their own super-piety. The Rabbis urged their followers to avoid social contact with the cAmmei ha-aretz. There was a logic to this: it was difficult for rabbinical Jews to eat with those who

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were (as they saw it) careless about tithing, since they might eat food that belonged to the priests’ portion. It is hard to tell what effect this ostracism would have had in persuading the cAmmei ha-aretz to conform to rabbinic Halakhah. Probably not much. In the third century, when Rabbinic Judaism became genuinely a mass movement in Palestine, the Rabbis softpedalled on these sticking points of law, and reached an accommodation with the cAmmei ha-aretz.14 c

Minim

c

Rabbinic sources see the Ammei ha-aretz as fundamentally ignorant and lax in their Jewish observance, but they also mention other groups whose opposition is much more principled and ideological, sects or parties like themselves, who offered to the Jewish people at large an alternative vision of Judaism. The Rabbis invented a comprehensive term for this group – Minim, usually translated ‘Heretics’, though other more or less synonymous terms were also used: tzeduqim, epiqorsim and so forth. We can clearly identify two of these groups in second-century Palestine – the Jewish Christians (the Notzerim) and the Samaritans (the Kutim). The Samaritans were a sizeable population, located in the uplands of Samaria, but with settlements elsewhere, and a not inconsiderable Diaspora. Rabbinic opposition to the Samaritans was simply carrying forward an ideological split over the true site of the Temple, which went all the way back to the Achaemenid period, with roots possibly even earlier in pre-exilic history. The Notzerim were a new group – followers of Jesus of Nazareth – like the Rabbis, a renewal movement with a message for all Israel. Their numbers were small, but they were determined. It was in response particularly to the Notzerim that the Rabbis began to develop in the late second century a vocabulary of orthodoxy – the concepts of ‘heretic’ (min) and ‘heresy’ (minut). The idea that the Rabbis were the guardians of orthodoxy was implicit in the rabbinic position from the outset, but the new language made it explicit. The Rabbis were implacably opposed to the Minim. While they probably saw the cAmmei ha-aretz as erring Jews, whom they would have been willing to welcome back into the fold if they mended their ways, the Minim were apostates (meshummadim), who had to be forced out of Israel by every possible means (social and legal), and their Jewish legitimacy denied.15 14 15

The most comprehensive analysis of the cAmmei ha-aretz is Oppenheimer 1977. See Alexander 2007.

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The Rabbinic Movement and the Diaspora The picture I have sketched suggests that throughout the long second century, Judaism in Palestine was diverse, with the rabbinic movement constituting only a small plot in a wide landscape, albeit the plot where the future of Judaism was to grow. But what of Judaism in the Diaspora? There were probably twice as many Jews living outside Palestine in the second century as were living inside the old homeland. They were scattered in communities from Spain and the Maghreb in the west to Persia in the east. We can distinguish three main areas: (1) the near-Diaspora in Syria, a region with close economic ties with Palestine proper, and which actually lay, on some definitions, within the borders of the Land; (2) the eastern Diaspora in northern Mesopotamia, Babylonia, Media and Persia; and (3) the western Diaspora in Egypt, North Africa, Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, Southern France and Spain. Broadly speaking, the eastern Diaspora was Aramaic-speaking, the western Diaspora Greek-speaking, and the nearDiaspora a mixture of both Aramaic and Greek speakers, with the rabbinic movement in Palestine firmly ensconced in the Aramaic camp. It would be hard to overestimate the disruption caused by the destruction of the Temple in 70 to the networks which had built up in late Second Temple times, linking Jews in the Diaspora with Jerusalem and Palestine.16 At least from the time of the Maccabees, the Jewish authorities in Jerusalem had posed as leaders of world Jewry, and one of their most potent instruments in promoting that policy had been the hajj.17 But pilgrimage to Jerusalem and support for its shrine depended on the existence of a temple. Once that had gone, there was little or no reason why Diaspora Jews should have been drawn to visit Jerusalem, or even more broadly Palestine, though towards the end of the second century it may have become fashionable in some well-to-do quarters to be buried there. The First War against Rome decimated the ruling classes in Judaea, and with their destruction and dispersal, no one stepped in to replace them. Such leadership as did emerge in Palestine would not have had the standing or the resources to impose itself much beyond its immediate locality. It is remarkable that the local leadership recovered enough to mobilize and organize the Second Revolt against Rome, but that was a desperate affair, a forlorn hope, and it is deeply unclear to what extent it attracted interest, let alone tangible support, 16 17

I speak here primarily of the social and political impact on the Jewish world, but I would argue that the religious impact was also considerable. See the discussion by Goodman 2012. See Goodman 1999.

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from the Diaspora. Certainly the defeat of Bar Kokhba would have dealt a further blow to any attempts on the part of the Jewish leadership in Palestine to project its authority outside its home territory. And yet there are tantalizing snippets of evidence suggesting that, for all of their lack of resources, the rabbinic movement in the second century aspired to lead not only Palestinian Jewry but Diaspora Jewry as well, and, within its slender means, it implemented policies clearly aimed at this end. It promoted the myth of the Beit Midrash at Yavneh as the legitimate successor of the Jerusalem Sanhedrin,18 and it arrogated to itself the authority to set the calendar. Rabbis travelled abroad, to the nearDiaspora, to solicit contributions to support the Palestinian Batei Midrash. A few went even further afield: Rabbi Meir’s trip to Asia (i.e. Asia Minor) was long remembered.19 Towards the end of the century, students from the eastern Diaspora began coming to study in the Palestinian Batei Midrash, reviving a pattern well-attested in Second Temple times. Perhaps the most interesting of the rabbinic Diaspora policies was to promote new translations of the Tanakh, which accorded with rabbinic interpretation of Scripture. One of these, aimed at the western Diaspora, was the Greek version of Aquila: there can be little doubt that this was done under Palestinian rabbinic auspices. It is also possible that the Rabbinate sponsored the Aramaic version of the Torah we now know as Onqelos for use in the eastern Diaspora. Onqelos was not in origin a rabbinic version, but there may have been a revision of it under rabbinic auspices. Certainly it came to be highly regarded in rabbinic circles.20 The ultimate aim of the Rabbinate was to assert the primacy of the Hebrew text of the Torah, and to get Diaspora synagogues to read the Scriptures in the original, but these versions were a useful step to that end, and a valuable tool for acquiring a knowledge of the Hebrew language.21 Paradoxically the evidence that the Rabbinate in the second century tried to influence the Diaspora is somewhat stronger for the Greek-speaking west than for the Aramaic-speaking east. I say 18 19 20

21

See Schäfer 1979, 43–101. Tosefta Megillah 2.2. See further Neubauer 1868, 308–20. Yerushalmi Megillah I, 71c, claims that Aqilas the proselyte translated the Torah before Rabbis Eliezer and Joshua. There is no doubt that the reference here is to the Greek version of Aquila, which was thus, it is claimed, issued under impeccable Palestinian rabbinic auspices. Curiously it is the Babylonian version of the same tradition that established the rabbinic credentials of the Aramaic version known as Onqelos (Bavli Megillah 3a). This does not mean, as has been suggested, that Aquila was responsible for both a Greek and an Aramaic version! ‘Onqelos’ is a corruption of ‘Aqilas’. But the Babylonian Rabbinate undoubtedly used this tradition to validate the Onqelos Targum, which originated in the west, and which they may have revised to bring it broadly into line with rabbinic views. See Alexander 1999.

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paradoxically, because, of course, it was in the east that Rabbinism was to have its greatest success outside the Land. But that success was probably more due to serendipity than design. Some able young Babylonians, notable among them Rav, studied in Palestine at the end of the second century, and, taking back with them to Babylonia Palestinian Rabbinism, including a copy of the newly promulgated Mishnah, successfully planted Rabbinism there. But when all is said and done, it is highly unlikely that these policies singly or together would have had a major impact in the second century. Rabbinic authority did not have the resources to impose itself on Palestine or the near-Diaspora, let alone the Jewish communities of Egypt or Babylonia or Asia Minor or Italy. Communications were difficult, and the linguistic barriers were formidable. Knowledge of Greek was scant in Palestinian rabbinic circles, and even though the Palestinian Rabbis shared Aramaic with the eastern Diaspora, it is a moot point whether the western and eastern dialects of that language would have been mutually intelligible. Jews in the Diaspora may increasingly have become aware of the Rabbinate in Palestine as the long second century wore on, but they would have had little chance of learning its distinctive views of Judaism, or of accepting its guidance, even if they had wanted to. They would have been thrown back largely on their own resources, to shape their own religious life and maintain their own religious identity. All the evidence suggests that by and large they managed successfully to forge a Judaism resilient enough to survive without support from the Palestinian centre.22 What was the nature of this Diaspora Judaism?23 It would have been built on simple but strong foundations: the centrality of the Torah – in the west in Greek translation, in the east in Aramaic;24 the synagogue as a focalpoint for communal life;25 a religion based on a cycle of prayers, festivals, and rituals, particularly the observance of Shabbat and circumcision; and the acceptance of some form of kashrut, which helped police the social boundaries with non-Jews. There were ineradicable elements within 22

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24 25

I take issue here with the thesis of Doron Mendels and Arye Edrei that the lack of rabbinic theological underpinning made western Judaism easy prey to the Christian mission, whereas, because it was rabbinized, the eastern Diaspora resisted better. See Mendels and Edrei 2009, a reworking of Edrei and Mendels 2007, 2008; for some refinements, Mendels 2013. That the rabbinic movement lost the west but won the east is too simple. Excellent, standard surveys of the Jewish Diaspora tend to concentrate on the earlier period, down to the beginning of the second century CE. See Barclay 1996; Gruen 2002. The Diaspora from the second century CE onwards has been somewhat neglected. See Goodman 1994. On the importance of the Greek Version for Jewish identity in the west, see Rajak 2009. The same arguments could be applied to the Aramaic Targum in the east. See Levine 2000; Olsson and Zetterholm 2003; Runesson, Binder and Olsson 2010. Apart from Levine, none of these deals with the later synagogue.

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Diaspora religion, which pointed Jews back to the old homeland. The very name by which they were known – Ioudaios/Yehudi – proclaimed their origin there, though to what extent this was recognized in actual usage is a moot point. The Torah which they read proclaimed living in the Land of Israel the highest blessing, which flowed from their ancient covenant with God, and if they observed the festival of Passover, it would have been hard not to associate with it a longing to return, however impractical that would have been. The circumstances in which they found themselves may have forced them to stress the universal in their traditions, but it would have been difficult entirely to eliminate the Land. One thing is clear: with the demise of the House of Herod, the loss of the Temple, the high priesthood, and the Sanhedrin, there was no one at the old centre able to give them guidance and direction. The fledgling Palestinian rabbinic movement did not have the resources to do so. Diaspora Jewish identity was further reinforced by external factors, such as the status of the Jews as a corporation in Roman law, and widespread anti-Jewish sentiment in the surrounding populace, which from time to time flared up into violence against Jewish life and property. A strong worldview reinforced by external pressure enabled Jewish communities to survive in the Diaspora without leadership and support from the centre throughout the long second century and beyond. Communities have survived on less. They faced a challenge from within from Christian mission, but Christianity was deeply schismatic right from the outset: it had its own conventicles, with their own leadership, its own rite of entry (baptism), its own distinctive weekly day of worship (the Lord’s Day) and its own central ritual not shared with the rest of Judaism (the Lord’s supper), quite apart from its own distinctive beliefs. Some Jews who joined the new movement may have seen no incompatibility in going to synagogue on Sabbath and church on the Lord’s Day, and social and family ties may have bound ‘Jews’ and ‘Christians’ together and scuffed the boundaries between the two communities, but institutionally it was not all that difficult to separate them. By the end of the second century, by and large the Jewish communities in the Diaspora had seen off the threat of Christianity as effectively as their co-religionists in the ancient homeland.

**** The long second century is a momentous period in the history of Judaism. It is a time of disruption, confusion, diversity, transition, reconstruction and recovery. It falls into two halves: 70–135, and 135–210. The first half is dominated by violence – the First War against Rome (66–74), the Wars of

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Quietus (115–117), and the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132–135), the two latter being in some sense aftershocks of the former. By 135 the hurricane of zealotry had blown itself out, and the Jewish people entered a period of relatively calm co-existence with Rome, of reconstruction and recovery, which culminated in Palestine in the rule of Judah the Patriarch, who did much to cement good relations between Jews and the imperial power. Looking back from the vantage point of later history, we can see amidst the confusion two interconnected developments that were to have world historical significance, though at the time it would have required almost supernatural prescience to have predicted their importance. The first was the emergence of Rabbinic Judaism – a form of Judaism which recognized certain scholars (constituting, in Islamic terms, an culema), based in certain schools (batei midrash – madrasas), as having ultimate religious authority within Judaism. The rabbinic movement was tiny within second-century Jewry, but it had big ambitions, and at the end of that century, under the Patriarchate of Judah ha-Nasi, it enjoyed its first alliance with real political power. By the death of Judah, it had developed the institutional, intellectual and human resources to mount a serious bid to fulfil its aspiration to lead world Jewry, to define Jewish orthodoxy. The other development was the emergence of Christianity. The second century is also one of diversity and confusion in Christianity, but as the century ends a certain clarity begins to emerge. We have the adumbrations of an orthodox Christianity – a Christian identity defined not only by the struggle with Gnosticism and other ‘deviant’ kinds of Christianity, but also by conscious differentiation and separation from Judaism. Before that time Christianity has to be seen as part of the inner history of Judaism. The Christians and the Rabbis fought for the heart and soul of Israel throughout the second century. In the end, it was the Rabbis who won. The Church effectively abandoned its mission to Israel and turned to confrontation, denigration and persecution.

chapter 4

Church and Synagogue vis-à-vis Roman Rule in the Second Century William Horbury

It is in the second century above all that church and synagogue match one another in martyrology and apologetic.1 The crushing of Jewish revolts under Trajan and Hadrian gives further impetus to Jewish martyr-narrative, and is followed by the rise to notoriety of Christian readiness for martyrdom, as evinced under Marcus Aurelius.2 Over the same period, a literary history of apologiae runs from Josephus to his Christian reader Tertullian.3 Both Jews and Christians are accused of innovation, superstition, atheism and misanthropy, and Christian apologies echo existing Jewish answers.4 Both also claim that their adherents are everywhere.5 Tacitus and Pliny discuss Christians without mentioning Jews, but Tacitus notes that Christianity arose in Judaea, and Celsus and Galen name Christians and Jews together.6 Jewish–Christian dissociation was

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The use of ‘church’ in a collective sense by historians is criticized by Rüpke 1997, 10–11; de Ste. Croix 2006, 202, discussed by Streeter 2006, 32; Perkins 2009, 32–3; but avoidance of ‘church’ and ‘synagogue’ in this sense might obscure historically significant loyalties. The utility of the term ‘martyrdom’ for Jewish as well as ecclesiastical history is defended by Rajak 2012, 169–72. M. Aurelius, Med. xi 3; see also n.60, below. Doubts on the existence of a literary genre of Jewish apologetic, expressed by Goodman 1999 and applied in a modified form to Christian apologies by Parvis 2007, should not disguise the abundance of apologetic within Jewish and Christian historiography and biblical interpretation, from Philo, Acts and Josephus onwards; the relatively few surviving apologies emerged amid broader Jewish and Christian concern with defence. Schürer and Goodman 1986, 610, n.134 (Jews and Christians rebut the charge of innovation); 612, n.136 (atheism); 614, n.141 (misanthropy); on superstition, Jewish (Tacitus Ann. ii 85, 4, Hist. v 8, 3; Suetonius Tib. 36; Ulpian in Dig. L ii 3, 3) and Christian (Tacitus Ann. xv 44, 3, Suetonius Nero xvi 2), see Josephus, Ap. i 208–12, Minucius Felix Oct. ix 3, xiii 5, xxii 7, xxv 8, xxxviii 7. Josephus, Ant. iv 115–16, Ap. i 194, ii 282, 285–6; Justin Martyr, Dial. cxvii 4–5 (Christians even more widespread than Jews), cxx 2 (Jews like the sand of the sea [Gen. 22:17], multitudinous but absorbing bitterness and atheism); Tertullian, Apol. xxxvii 4–8, Scap. ii 10, v 2 (Christians everywhere). Tacitus, Ann. xv 44; Pliny, Ep. x 96; Celsus in Origen, c. Cels. iii 1; 5, iv 48, v 2; Galen, De pulsuum differentiis iii 3.

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compatible with joint participation in biblical culture.7 Attitudes to Rome, both loyal and zealotic, were also shared.8 Second-century conditions can then seem to favour a case for a common Jewish and Christian front against Rome, as has sometimes been suggested.9 Christians also claimed, however, that their political position under Roman rule was distinct from and worse than that of the Jews.10 In the period between Josephus and the Theodosian Code, the two main witnesses to Jewish privileges under Rome, Christian, Jewish and pagan indications suggest a continuing protection accorded to public reading of the law and other Jewish customs.11 Whatever loss may have been suffered in Judaea under Hadrian was evidently in good part recovered later.12 This liberty of the synagogue then stands in contrast with the more precarious position of the Christians. Yet the contrast may deserve reassessment. The security and Roman loyalty of Jewish communities have indeed been reemphasized.13 Historians have also stressed, however, the friction in Jewish experience of Roman rule, and on the other hand, the likelihood that Christian experience of persecution was sporadic rather than constant.14 The position of second-century Christians and Jews under Roman rule is compared again later, but with special attention to characteristics which suggest shared experience: the collective self-designation of both communities as peoples continuous with ancient Israel, the appeal to Roman decrees in their apologiae and their martyrological traditions. From each 7

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For rivalry within a shared culture, see Simon 1986, 65–111; a cultural continuum is shown by Boyarin 2004, 11–19; Binder 2010 finds both intertwining and rivalry in Tertullian’s Carthage; de Lange 1978 notes that within the Roman Empire only Christians partially shared Jewish attitudes to Rome. de Lange 1978; H. Löhr 2003, 334–60; Horbury 2014, 39, 145–6. Baer 1961, taking up Baer 1936, 6–9; a similar but more qualified view in Frend 1958, esp. 143, developed and modified in Frend 1965. Tertullian, Apol. xviii 8 (Jewish libertas of public scriptural reading), xxi 1 (religio of Jews certe licita); iv 4 (Christians are told non licet esse vos); xxxviii 1 (should not the Christian secta be classed inter licitas factiones?). Schürer and Millar 1986, 123–5; Tertullian, xviii 8, xxi 1 (n.10, above); Cassius Dio, Hist. xxxvii 17, 1; Hippolytus, Ref. ix 12, 7–8 (protected Jewish cult in Rome c. 190); IJO i, Mac1, Mac3–4 (Stobi synagogue inscriptions); Origen, Ep. ad Africanum xiv (Jewish ethnarch in Judaea). On HA Hadrian xiv 2 (a ban on circumcision caused Jewish revolt), see nn.81–2, below, envisaging a punitive ban in Judaea. Liberty for Jews to circumcise their sons (not others) is confirmed in a rescript of Pius (Dig. xlviii 8, 11); but continuing Roman hostility and Jewish insecurity are envisaged by Goodman 2007, 453, 491. Meyers 2002; Gruen 2002; Gruen 2011, 185–6. On friction, see Goodman 2007; Schwartz 2001, 2010; on sporadic second-century persecution, see Clarke 2005, 616; Rebillard 2012, 34–43. Compare Origen’s claim that Celsus exaggerated martyrdom (c. Celsum iii 8 ‘a few, easily enumerated, died at times’).

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viewpoint, Roman attitudes to Jews and Christians, respectively, seem to differ. Finally, two sources which have suggested Roman repression of Jews and Christians jointly are reconsidered. The focus overall is on relations with imperial government, but the allied question of Jewish and Christian status in Greek cities in the empire receives some notice.15 In both connections some of the local evidence which is important for second-century Jewish and Christian history is considered.16

‘Church’, ‘Synagogue’ and ‘People’ Second-century Jews and Christians represented themselves collectively as an assembly (synagogé, ekklesia) and a people (laos, ethnos, Israel). In the Septuagint Pentateuch synagogé represents the ‘congregation’ (‘edah, qahal) of Israel in Exodus, Leviticus and Numbers, and once or twice in Deuteronomy.17 In Deuteronomy, however, qahal is more often translated by ekklesia, as is usually the case in non-Pentateuchal biblical books; but within the Pentateuch, ekklesia and synagogé can seem interchangeable.18 Among second-century Christians, however, synagogé and ekklesia, with their Latin transliterations, are commonly distinguished and applied to the worldwide or local bodies of Jews and Christians, respectively.19 Christians as well as Jews continued to claim the Pentateuchal descriptions laos, ethnos and Israel.20 The external political impact of these titles has been perceived as broadly similar for both communities, but may perhaps also be differentiated. This second-century Christian application of synagogé probably reflected contemporary Jewish usage, after a development in which the word came to be aligned not only with biblical ‘edah and qahal but also with Aramaic kenishta and post-biblical Hebrew keneseth, nouns which can be rendered 15 16 17 18 19

20

For discussion of Jewish status, see Schürer & Millar 1986, 126–37. On the importance of local evidence for this period, see Schürer & Millar 1986, 123–4; Edwards 2005, 588. Deut. 5:22 (qahal); 33:4 (the cognate qehillah). Campbell 1948; Schürer, Vermes, Millar and Black 1979, 429–31; Dogniez and Harl 1992, 136. For example, Justin Martyr, Dial. cxxxiv 3 (‘Leah is your laos and synagogé, but Rachel is our ekklesia’); Tertullian, Adv. Marc. v 4, 8 (synagoga Iudaeorum, and ‘our mother’ [Gal. 4:24] ‘the holy ecclesia’). For Jewish self-definition as laos: Rajak 2002b, 32, and Noy, Panayotov, Bloedhorn 2004 IJO I, Ach1 (Larisa, fourth century), with the commentary; as ethnos, Philo, Dec. 96; as Israel, Goodblatt 2006, 129–39; for similar Christian claims, Buell 2005, 94–115: laos, Barn. v 7, Justin Martyr, Dial. cxix 3, Clement of Alexandria, Paed. i 5; ethnos, I Clem. x 3, Justin Martyr, Dial. cxix 4, Eusebius, Hist. i 4, 2; 12 (see Johnson 2006, 220–7); cf. Tertullian, Adv. Iud. i 3–5 (Jews and Christians alike are the populus and gens of Gen. 25:23); Israel, Justin Martyr, Dial. xi 5.

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‘gathering’ or ‘assembly’ and recall inter alia the ingathering or assembly of Israel, universal or local, evoked in later biblical texts with the cognate verb kns (Ezek. 39:28, Ps. 147:2, Est. 4:16).21 Targumic renderings with kenishta which may have originated as early as the second century include versions in Onkelos of Pentateuchal texts on the congregation of Israel, where LXX has synagogé.22 In most attestation from the period, both Jewish and Christian, synagogé applies not to the worldwide body but to local assemblies and their meeting places.23 The universal sense reappears, however, in the revised Jewish Greek biblical versions made or current in the second century.24 The Pentateuchal and Jewish background of these titles and the national and local overtones of ekklesia and synagogé, all need emphasis here. By contrast, the influence of the titles as part of the Greek political vocabulary has been justly stressed. Christian comparisons of the church with a civic ekklesia underline this point.25 Yet for second-century Jews and Christians, the Pentateuch must also be recognized as a current and peculiarly influential text. Again, Pauline use of ekklesia in the universal sense (I Cor. 10:32) is early enough to have encouraged suggestions that it was primitive Christian usage which influenced both Christians and Jews to attach this sense to synagogé and keneseth.26 Pentateuchal influence, however, seems more likely to have been primary. In the second century, ekklesia and synagogé remained to some extent interchangeable terms, as they can appear to be in the Greek Pentateuch; a Jewish biblical translator could continue the use of ekklesia for the whole congregation of Israel, and a bishop could call the universal church synagogé as well as ekklesia.27 Lastly, although in Greek politics ekklesia brings the thought of the demos, the national overtones of ekklesia and synagogé are fully audible only when it is 21

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24 25 26 27

For synagogé in the context of national assembly and ingathering, see Ps. Sol. 17:48–50 ‘in synagogai he will judge the tribes of a sanctified laos . . . blessed are those who will be in those days, to see the good things of Israel in the assembling (synagogé) of the tribes’. Targ. Onkelos, e.g., on Exod. 12:3, 19, 47. For a basic text of Onkelos as current in the early second century, see Alexander 1988, 247. The modest position of synagogé among early post-biblical Jewish Greek terms for Jewish collectivities was stressed by Rajak 2002b, 2009, 113 (without discussion of Jewish Greek biblical translation). For the Roman period in particular, the strength of attestation of synagogé, as opposed to other terms, was underlined in Schürer and Millar 1986, 90–1. They add that this may reflect a shift among Jews towards claiming the identity of a private religious association rather than a people, but the continuing use of the word in national contexts in biblical translation must also be noted. Num. 3:7 (Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion); Ps. 73 (74):2 (Aquila). Justin Martyr, Dial. xlii 3; Origen, c. Cels. iii 30. Lieu 2003, 190–5 (synagogé); Krauss 1922, 14 (keneseth yisra’el). Ps. 39 (40):11 Aquila; Irenaeus, Haer iii 6, 1 (the church as the ‘synagogue’ of God, Ps. 82:1); iii 31 (48) 1–2 (Lot’s two daughters signify the two ‘synagogues’ of the old and new covenants).

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recalled that these titles linked Jews and Christians with the congregation and people described in the Greek Pentateuch as ekklesia and synagogé, and as laos, ethnos and Israel. With such titles was also linked the secondcentury conception of a ‘third’ class or people consisting of Jews or Christians.28 Christians thus shared Jewish identification with the congregation and people of Israel described in the Pentateuch. The vocabulary of ‘church’ and ‘synagogue’, ‘people’ and ‘Israel’, forms one clue to the ethos of Jewish rising and martyrdom and Christian millennialism and martyrdom in the second century. Scholarly emphasis falls on the use of such words to hinder the claims of neighbourhood, position and occupation from prevailing over awareness of belonging to the church or the Jewish people.29 More positively, the collective terms represent a political force: the tides of Jewish and Christian loyalty which issued in second-century uprising and martyrdom. Harnack, showing the significance of this vocabulary for ‘the political and historical consciousness’ of Christians, traced a link between their second-century self-definition as a people, pagan reaction to it, and Roman treatment of the church in the third century as a threatening ‘state within the state’.30 In this development, however, ‘the synagogue had everywhere led the way’.31 Harnack seems to envisage that Jews and Christians were repressed in turn, the Jews under Vespasian, Trajan and Hadrian and the Christians under Decius and later. For Mommsen the Jews were deprived of their temple and the high-priestly rule, losing national status to become simply followers of an ancestral religion, because they had been seen as a ‘state within the state’.32 Harnack took a more positive view of the Jewish condition after the fall of Jerusalem, but held that the Christians suffered in the end for the same reason.33 It is not far 28

29 30 31 32 33

Preaching of Peter 2 (three ways of worship), referred in Clement of Alexandria, Strom. iii 10, 70; vi 5, 41–2 to three laoi; see Harnack 1924, i, 264–7, E.T. i, 309–14, and Skarsaune and Gruen in this volume. On Jewish origins for the usage, see Baeck 1958 (1938), affirmed by Karpp 1954, col. 1125; Lieu 1995, 492. Rajak 1985 (2002), 358; Lieu 2004, 232–8. Harnack 1924, i, 259, 288–9 (the first edition appeared in 1902); E.T. i, 300–1, 351–2. Harnack 1924, i, 268, E.T. i, 314–15. Mommsen 1885, v, 538–44, E.T. ii, 216–25 (v, 544 ‘den Staat im Staate, zu dem das Judenthum sich entwickelt hatte’, E.T. ii, 225); Mommsen 1907 (1890), 398–9, 417. Harnack 1924, i, 19, n.1 (after repression under Hadrian and Pius Jewish liberties were partly recovered), E.T. 15–6, n.3 (reflecting a text without the additional concluding sentence just summarized); 288 (from the mid-third century, Christians feared ‘als Staat im Staate’), ET i, 351; cf. Ramsay 1895, 356 (Christians repressed as ‘a unity independent of, and contrary to, the Imperial unity’).

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from Harnack and Mommsen to Baer, who underlined the common attitudes and common experience of repression, but questioned the scheme which put this Jewish experience in the past. This parallel between repression of Jews and Christians brings out fear of both bodies, but the Roman estimate of each seems also to have differed. The Decian persecution intensified earlier treatment of Christianity as disloyal and unlawful.34 Vespasian, however, was subduing the rebellion of a subject nation. Josephus shows that his measures could be defended as a moderate form of the punishment to be expected. They did not mean, as Mommsen argued, that the Jewish body was now no longer seen as an ethnos, but only as an association for religion.35 Contemporary external reaction to Jewish and Christian collective language in the later second century, as represented by Celsus, does indeed suggest differing political situations for Christians and Jews. Celsus condemns Christianity as a network of secret societies (synthekai) and a revolt against the Jewish community (koinon), which was itself formed by revolt against Egypt.36 The Jews, however, did become a nation (ethnos), with its own laws and customs as is the case with other nations, and its own worship which, however constituted, is at least ancestral.37 Similarly, when Celsus urges that the deity honoured by Jews and Christians has been no help to either, the worst he can say of the Jewish situation is that Jews are left with no land or home – but he claims that any Christian who might still wander about in secret is sought out and condemned to death. This is a further exaggeration, but it accords with what can be called, however sporadic martyrdom itself was, the ‘constant threat of persecution’ faced by Christians in the second-century Roman Empire.38 Exploration of collective terms including ‘church‘, ‘synagogue’ and ‘people’ then underlines the shared ethos of Jews and Christians as a nation continuous with the ancient congregation of Israel. The vocabulary represents a loyalty which makes its impact as a political force on external observers and Roman government. Yet later second-century reception of 34 35 36

37 38

Clarke 2005, 624–8. For critique of Mommsen, see Juster 1914, i, 224–5; ii, 19–23; Schürer and Millar 1986, 114, n.28. Harnack 1924, i, 285–8, E.T. i, 343–51; Celsus in Origen, c. Cels. i 1, iii 5; 14, viii 2; 49. The influence of Christian conceptions of the church on external views of the Christians as imperilling the unity of the empire is affirmed in connection with Celsus by Engberg 2007, 37, 297–9. Celsus in Origen, c. Cels. v 25. Celsus in Origen, c. Cels. viii 69; the quoted words are from Barnes 2010, 49, on the period from Trajan to Septimius Severus (he judges that the danger of being put to death for Christianity began to decrease after Marcus Aurelius). The charge that the deity has been of no help is envisaged from the Christian side by Justin Martyr, II Apol. iv (v) 1; Clement of Alexandria, Strom. iv 11, 80.

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notions of the Christian church, Israelite though they are, highlights the separate situation of the Christians. In the outlook represented by Celsus Jews find some recognition as a nation within the general fold of humanity, but Christians are viewed as rightly repressed. Now this seeming difference in situation can be further explored through comparison of Josephus with Christian apologetic.

Josephus and Second-Century Christian Apologetic Josephus wrote his Antiquities under Domitian, and then Contra Apionem, probably in the early years of Trajan. Both works deal with the position of the Jews in the Greek-speaking world under Roman rule, and note the attraction of non-Jews towards Judaism, but Contra Apionem also underlines Jewish willingness to suffer martyrdom for the law (i 43; ii 219, 233). This presentation of readiness for martyrdom highlights a theme which is already important in the War and the Antiquities, and suggests that at the beginning of the second century, in the aftermath of the Jewish revolt, an ideology of martyrdom had become significant among Jews.39 Josephus here indicates those harsher aspects of the Jewish situation, which suggest that Jewish and Christian negative experience of Roman rule was similar. By contrast, however, as at first it may seem, the Antiquities present three series of documents, amounting to about thirty decrees and letters, on Jewish rights and privileges under Roman rule (Ant. xiv 185–267, 301–23; xvi 160–78). These include letters and edicts of emperors from Caesar to Claudius, communications from governors and decrees of city councils or assemblies. As Rajak showed, however, these rulings belong to the atmosphere in which martyrdom was a possibility, for they were often sought by Jews as defences against injurious behaviour by city populations and authorities.40 They were quoted eventually by Josephus with ‘the Greeks’, as he says, particularly in mind, to show them that, being treated with all honour, ‘we were never forbidden by the rulers to observe any of our ancestral customs’ (Ant. xvi 174–8). He cites these decrees often, he adds, to reconcile the other nations to the Jews and to remove causes of hatred felt by unreasonable people on both sides – for there are always great differences in custom between nations and cities (the point acknowledged by Celsus when allowing that Jews could claim to be an ethnos). 39 40

Rajak 2012, 174–80, and in the present volume. Rajak 1984 (2002).

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In the present connection, these documents bear witness to the striking prominence of an argument for rights (so characteristic of Christian apologists) in Jewish apologetic writing. Second, however, the extent of what it was thought plausible to claim is notable, irrespective of the question of authenticity: protection for keeping the sabbath and other customs, for the prayer house and its goods and ornaments – an array of traditional rights or privileges.41 Third, the rulings indicate the sometimes tense relationship with neighbours, which was also the setting for antiChristian charges. Christians too could cite the rulings of governors and emperors for protection against neighbours, including civic or provincial authorities. A setting like that suggested by Josephus on these decrees, but a different position within it, is glimpsed about fifty years later in Justin’s Apology for the Christians, addressed to Antoninus Pius, with the shorter Second Apology (these appear in the opposite order in the main witness to their text, Parisinus gr. 450, copied in 1364).42 Here too events and documents are important.43 What Justin claims, however, is almost pitiable by comparison with the claims in Josephus. Justin’s chief document is Hadrian’s rescript (122/3) to Minicius Fundanus, proconsul of Asia, replying to a question from Fundanus’s predecessor Granianus.44 It directs that actual charges against Christians are to be considered, not simply petitions or shouts. It seems to be valued by Justin mainly for the proviso ‘if an accuser proves that they are doing something against the laws’, which Justin takes to mean general evil-doing but could also be understood just as membership of the Christian body – as seems to be assumed earlier in Trajan’s reply to Pliny’s question whether punishment attaches simply to the name of Christian or to the crimes associated with the name.45 It has been plausibly suggested that this rescript arose from a demand to the governor for action against the Christians made by the common council (koinon) of Asia – an occasion like that of some Roman reaffirmations of Jewish privileges is noted by Josephus.46 41 42 43 44 45

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Schürer and Millar 1986, 116–21. Minns and Parvis 2009, 3–5. Millar 1992, 562–3. The view that it is integral to Justin’s work was reaffirmed after discussion by Minns 2007. Justin, I Apol. 68.4–69.2, as interpreted by Blunt 1911, 104; de Ste. Croix 2006 (1963), 118–19; Barnes 1968, 37; Minns and Parvis 2009, 267, n.6. Cf. Pliny, Ep. x 96 (97), 1–2. The proviso was interpreted in Justin’s way by Mommsen 1907 (1890), 414–15 (attributing it to Hadrian’s exceptional outlook); Birley 1997, 127 (attributing it to Christian editing). Harnack 1895, 38–9, 62; Bickerman 1986 (1968), 158–68; Hengel 1996b, 374; Birley 1997, 125–7; the point is not discussed by Minns 2007.

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Correspondingly, in the Second Apology Justin complains that Urbicus, urban prefect in Rome 146–160, has put two Christians to death simply because they admitted that they were Christians.47 All Justin hopes for by appeal to rulings is removal of the practice of condemning Christians simply because they are willing to be identified as such. A little later this desire is reattested in the letter of Lyons and Vienne; Vettius Epagathus, a Christian of good position, protests to the governor that the Christians accused are guilty of nothing ungodly or impious.48 The same motive for citing documents reappears in the Apology addressed to Marcus Aurelius by Melito. Complaining of ‘new decrees’ for the harrying of the pious in Asia, Melito urges that accusations and new measures against Christians have been restrained by emperors including Hadrian, who wrote to Fundanus, the governor of Asia, and Pius, who wrote to cities including Larisa, Thessalonica and Athens, ‘and to all the Greeks’ – perhaps the Achaean League.49 The documents Melito cites, genuine or not, are restraints of accusation rather than affirmations of liberty of assembly and practice. The attempt to cite precedent for such restraint reappears in two ostensibly imperial documents, which have received Christian editing, probably in the late second century. Eusebius quotes a ‘Letter of Antoninus to the koinon of Asia’, after his quotation of the opening of Justin’s First Apology (H.E. iv 12–13, 7).50 This letter is also quoted, with differences, at the end of Justin’s First Apology, after the rescript to Fundanus, in Parisinus gr. 450.51 Here again, the aim, expressed at the end of the document, is that anyone accused simply on the ground of being a Christian shall be released from the charge, even if he is a Christian, and furthermore that the accuser shall be subject to penalty. The claim that accusers of Christians have been made liable to punishment is sharpened 47 48 49

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Justin, II Apol. 1.1–2.20. Eusebius, H.E. v 1, 9–10. Melito, quoted by Eusebius, H.E. iv 26, 5–11. So Harnack 1895, 53 and n.1; Bickerman 1986 (1968), 162. It seems possible that Melito refers to letters none of which is otherwise mentioned in surviving Christian texts; but Barnes 1968, 37 suggests that the letter to ‘all the Greeks’ may well be the ‘letter of Antoninus to the koinon of Asia’, discussed later. Discussed by Lightfoot 1889, 481–5 (‘from beneath a heathen mask we hear a Christian voice speaking in every line’); Harnack 1895 (edited form of a genuine letter); Barnes 1968, 37–8 (a fabrication, but at the date supposed there may have been a genuine letter of Pius mentioning the Christians). Minns & Parvis 2009, 30, n.84; they do not reproduce the text, for which see PG vi.433–6; Blunt 1911, 131–3, with comment; Marcovich 1994, 165–8. In Eusebius (H.E. iv 12), Pius is named as the writer, but the opening of the letter ascribes it to Marcus Aurelius; in the text handed down with Justin’s ‘Apologies’ Pius is named both in the heading and the opening. That Pius, petitioned by Christians, sent a rescript to the koinon, as Eusebius says, was judged not impossible in principle by Millar 1992, 392, 560–1.

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in a second document, the ‘letter to the senate’ ascribed to Marcus Aurelius, which follows the ‘Letter of Antoninus’ in Parisinus gr. 450. Here Marcus is made to affirm that the rain which wonderfully refreshed the army fighting against the Quadi, as described in Cassius Dio lxxi 8, 10, was (here differing from Dio) an answer to the prayers of Christian soldiers; the letter ends with a ruling, also absent from Dio, that Christians accused, if their only offence is Christianity, shall be acquitted – and in that case the accusers shall be burnt alive. This last point seems already to have figured in the letter as known to Tertullian, who speaks of the ‘more savage’ condemnation for accusers, which Marcus added.52 These letters of Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius, in the Christianized forms which survive, are thus meant to bear further witness to the restraint on delations exemplified in the genuine responses of Trajan to Pliny and Hadrian to Fundanus. What is claimed, however, in the probably late second-century elements of Christian editing of these documents considered here, is still no more than that. Unlike Josephus, these Christians cannot cite precedents for full protection of assembly and observance. Martyrdom against this background will have been well known both inside and outside the second-century church. ‘Martyr’ had now acquired its special sense, and Christian martyrology highlighted a situation which was indeed sometimes dangerous.53 Justin perhaps predictably says that, while still a non-Christian Platonist, he ‘saw that Christians were fearless in the face of death’.54 Comparably, however, Galen praised the contempt of Christians for death, and allowed that some of them rivalled true philosophers. Marcus Aurelius rejected such positive views when he wrote that the resolve to die is admirable if made by decision after reflection, not out of sheer opposition (kata psilen parataxin), as in the case of the Christians.55 This familiarity of Christian martyrdom and the severely limited nature of the concession sought in Christian apologetic bring Christian 52

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Tertullian, Apol. v 6, ‘adiecta etiam accusatoribus damnatione, et quidem taetriore’; the agreement of Tertullian’s adjective ‘more savage’ with the ‘letter’ on burning is not discussed by Kovács 2009, 113–21, dating the ‘letter’ after 311. Eusebius, H.E. v 5, 6, citing Tertullian, speaks only of a threat of ‘death’ to the accusers, but Tertullian himself reflects a second-century Christian tradition, probably found in the ‘letter to the senate’ as he knew it. In the second century, martys in the special sense of ‘martyr’ had given rise to Latin martyr in this sense, as shown by Hoppenbrouwers 1961, 7–13; on martyrology as amplifying the echoes of earlier struggles, Moss 2012, 12. Justin, II Apol. 12.1. M. Aurelius, Med. xi 3, quoted with Justin in connection with this passage of Galen (from his summary of Plato’s Republic, preserved in Arabic) by Walzer 1949, 69.

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insecurity again into view. By contrast, as noted earlier, a relative Jewish security is attested in the late second and early third centuries. Celsus, as noted, affirmed the Jews’ national status, but spoke of Christians as hunted down. In Rome, Callistus, later bishop, was said to have been exiled by the city prefect Fuscianus (in office 185–190) for interrupting a synagogue assembly on the sabbath; the Jewish accusation began, according to Callistus’s foe Hippolytus, with the claim ‘The Romans have permitted us to read out publicly the ancestral laws’.56 In Africa at the end of the second century, Tertullian, who still has to make the case for the Christians, which was exemplified earlier by Justin and Melito, can speak enviously of the Jewish liberty of public assembly for the reading of the Law, ‘vectigalis libertas’, that liberty which they pay for by tribute (Apol. xviii 8) for their religion is very famous and certainly permissible (Apol. xxi 1). Confirmation of this Jewish liberty, from Macedonia in the late second or early third century, is given by the donation inscriptions of Ti. Claudius Polycharmus, father of synagogé at Stobi, cited earlier; having conducted his daily life as a citizen according to Ioudaismos, he gave rooms ‘for the holy place’ and paid for painted wall decorations.57 The same liberty is indicated when, in Syria about the beginning of the third century, Domnus moves from Christianity to Judaism at a time of persecution.58 Then not long afterwards Cassius Dio, writing generally about the Jews, notes their bitter fighting against Rome, their yet greater suffering at Roman hands (xlix 22, 4), but also their success in vindicating their position: even non-Jews who adopted Jewish customs, though often repressed, have increased exceedingly, and won freedom for their way of life (xxxvii 17, 1). Dio does not mention Christianity, perhaps through aversion from it, but the contrast between the Jewish situation as he depicts it and the precarious position of Christians as presented in Tertullian is considerable. Consistent with Dio’s comments, Origen later notes the Jewish ethnarch in Judaea, and finds willingness to die for the law of Moses and for circumcision among Samaritans, but not Jews; and in Smyrna under Decius Judaism is still a refuge for persecuted Christians.59 56 57 58 59

Hippolytus, Ref. ix 12, 7–8, discussed by Smallwood 1981, 523–5; Schürer and Millar 1986, 124. Noy, Panayotov, Bloedhorn 2004 IJO I, Mac1, lines 2–16, and Mac3-4; in comments here Panayotov and Noy favour a date earlier than that suggested by Bloedhorn in Hengel 1996a. Eusebius, H.E. vi 12, 1 notes the writing addressed to Domnus in these circumstances by Serapion, bishop of Antioch 199–211. N. 11, above; Origen, Comm. Matt. xvii 29, on 22:23; c. Cels. ii 13; Mart. Pionii xiii 1 ‘the Jews invite some of you to the synagogues’, with comments by Robert 1994, 82–3.

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It appears then that the protection of Jewish custom which was described and sought by Josephus also prevailed in the later second and early third centuries. Yet, is this the whole story? Rabbinic tradition on the Jewish risings under Trajan and Hadrian continues the martyrological strain of Josephus on revolt. Now Jewish as well as Christian martyrdom is recalled, and attention turns to Judaea, in connection with two late sources which have helped to suggest Roman repression of Jews and Christians jointly.

Jewish and Christian Martyrdom One passage, from the beginning of the fifth century, occurs in the Chronica of the Christian historian Sulpicius Severus. Titus, he says, held a council when the Jerusalem temple was still being defended. Some thought that the temple should remain as a witness to Roman restraint (modestia); but others, including Titus, opted for its destruction, ‘in order that the religion of Jews and Christians might be more entirely taken away; for these religions, though contrary to one another, had the same origins. The Christians arose from the Jews; when the root was removed, the stem would readily perish’.60 J. Bernays argued that the source of this passage was the lost portion of Tacitus, Hist. v. The first part of the passage contradicts Josephus’s statement that Titus resolved to spare the temple.61 Tacitus may possibly be reflected, but even so there is a good case for taking the account in Josephus to be more reliable.62 Tacitean origin is, however, less likely for all the second part of the passage, on the removal of both Jewish and Christian religion. This part seems more like that of Sulpicius Severus, who similarly takes Hadrian as intending to destroy Christianity when he puts up statues of deities on the sites of both the temple and Golgotha, and debars Jews from approaching Jerusalem – inasmuch as most Christians were thought to be of Jewish origin.63

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Sulpicius Severus, Chronica ii 30, 6–8; Stern 1980, 64–7, no. 282. Compare Orosius, Hist. vii 9, 4–6 (Titus deliberated, but, since the church was now growing, the temple was to be removed by divine decree as useless, and Titus therefore burned it). Josephus, B.J. vi 236–43; Bernays 1885, 159–81. Rajak 1983, 206–11; Goodman 2007, 441; Leoni 2007; Horbury 2014, 117–8, nn.68–9. Detectable mis-statement would have harmed Josephus’s case; Tacitus scorned the temple service and would have expected a negative verdict. Sulpicius Severus, Chronica ii 31, kindly drawn to my attention by Dr J. Carleton Paget.

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The report that Titus sought the removal of the religion of Jews and Christians then probably represents special Christian development of the old association of the two seen in Celsus and Galen.64 The statement, taken as Tacitean, nonetheless encouraged Ramsay and later Frend (who however soon recognized it as Christian) in holding that Jews and Christians, being viewed by Romans together, were persecuted for the same reason, either consecutively (Ramsay) or simultaneously (Frend).65 Frend stressed, however, that it was in the setting of Jewish insurgence that Roman protection accorded to Judaism was withdrawn, so that Jewish martyrs outnumbered Christian ones; it was in this way that Jews and Christians, despite mutual hostility, presented a common front against paganism.66 This co-ordination of Jewish and Christian sufferings brought Frend close to Baer; Simon by contrast, also viewing second-century Jews and Christians together, had stressed the relative tolerance accorded to both from Pius onwards.67 Yet the synoptic view of Jews and Christians which ancient perceptions encourage should not overlook differences. Christians indeed developed their own form of the established and contemporary Jewish martyrology. Josephus’s presentation of the deaths of Essenes and Sicarii under Vespasian was continued in the second century and later by rabbinic accounts of suffering in connection with later risings, including the deaths of Pappus and Lulianus under Trajan and R. Akiba and others under Hadrian, and the prolonged self-concealment of R. Simeon b. Yohai, a story probably reflecting conditions under Pius.68 These accounts, like their Christian counterparts, belong to a developing nexus of tomb-related remembrance, and to ‘a mystical epopoiia of martyrology’.69 In Josephus and rabbinic tradition, Jewish sufferings are endured for the sake of the commandments, not just as punishment for revolt; ‘those who love me and keep my commandments’ (Exod. 20:6) are ‘those who dwell in the land of Israel and give their lives for the 64

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Furneaux 1907, ii, 421, n.1 judged that Sulpicius Severus had simply substituted religio and religiones for superstitio and superstitiones in the lost original; but a greater degree of Christian colouring was shown to be likely by Simon 1986, 445, n.1; Barnes 1977, 227–8; Stern 1980, 65–6, on no. 282. Ramsay 1895, 253–6, 354–60; Frend 1958, 143, revised in Frend 1965, 178. Frend 1958, 153–8; Frend 1965, 180–2, 222–8, 237–8; Frend 1974, 334–5. Baer 1961, 79–88, on the second century; Simon 1986 (E.T. from the reissued original of 1948), 98–103. Josephus, B.J. ii 152–3 (Essenes); vii 415–9 (Sicarii); on Pappus and Lulianus, Sifra, Emor, ix 5, on Lev. 22:32, discussed by Horbury 1999; on Akiba, jSotah v 6, 20c, discussed by Oppenheimer 2005a, 325–7; on Simeon b. Yohai, Ber. R. lxxix 5–6, presented with parallels by Levine 1978. Prohibitions of Jewish observance attributed to Hadrian’s time are collected by Herr 1972. Herr 1972, 123–5, on third-century and later martyrology.

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commandments’.70 The clause ‘who dwell in the land of Israel and give their lives’ also indicates that, as among Christians, flight or collaboration were alternatives to martyrdom.71 Thus far resemblance is paramount. Yet, as both Baer and Frend had noted, the Christian political situation differed from that of the Jews.72 One aspect of this difference is the association of Jewish martyrdoms with Roman counter-insurgency, from Vespasian to Pius.73 Outside areas of rebellion it seems that protection of Judaism continued during the Flavian period and the later second century. The Christian position under Hadrian, when restraint of accusation appears in the rescript to Minicius Fundanus, should then be contrasted not so much with the local punitive repression of Jewish custom in rebellious Judaea, as with protection accorded to Judaism elsewhere.74 A ban on circumcision was mentioned as the cause of Jewish revolt in the Historia Augusta, but it probably belongs to Judaea in the time of repression, in the light of precedents under Vespasian and Trajan.75 A second late source suggesting Roman action against Jews and Christians jointly, now at the end of the second century, is the life of Septimius Severus in the Historia Augusta. ‘On his way [to Alexandria] he conferred many rights upon the Palestinians; he forbade anyone to become Jewish, under a heavy penalty, and made the same ordinance in regard to Christians too’.76 This passage, once seen as attesting a forerunner of the later general persecutions, was important to Baer for its association of Jews and Christians.77 The fourth-century date of the Historia Augusta, however, and the coupling of Jews and Christians in some of its biographies have made the report widely doubted; in the case of Christianity reserve 70 71 72 73

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Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Yithro, Bahodesh 6, on Exod. 20:6, in Lauterbach 1933, ii, 247; discussed with parallels by Schäfer 1981, 207–9. On differing rabbinic views of martyrdom, see Oppenheimer 2005a. Baer 1961, 85, 115; Frend 1965, 226–8. For continued unrest under Pius, see HA Antoninus Pius v 4 with comments by Stern 1980, 622, no. 512. The association of Jewish martyrdom with rebellion was emphasized in reply to Baer by Simon 1986 (from an original of 1964), 403–4. The contrast with Hadrianic persecution of the Jews is exemplified in Simon 1986, 101–2; Frend 1965, 226–8. HA Hadrian xiv 2 ‘moverunt . . . et Iudaei bellum, quod vetabantur mutilare genitalia’, discussed from the opposite point of view by Stern 1980, 619–21, no. 511; for the view followed above, see Oppenheimer 2005b. That the ban on circumcision was a not unfriendly attempt to ‘naturalize’ Judaism, which Jews accustomed to epispasm might have welcomed, was suggested by Bazzana 2010; but given Jewish numbers and zeal, could such a ban have been envisaged as likely to receive sufficient welcome to preserve peace? HA Severus xvii 1 (Stern 1980, 625, no. 515). Allard 1886, 57–66; Baer 1961, 84–5.

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is heightened by the lapse of three years between Severus’s journey through Palestine, if dated in 199, and known persecutions, in Egypt and Africa, which might reflect the edict.78 Yet this biography draws on a source from the Severan age, Marius Maximus or another, and the alleged edicts are not without precedent. With varying interpretations some have accepted their attribution to Septimius Severus.79 To state a view of this kind with emphasis on their probably Palestinian setting, under Pius Jews had been permitted to circumcise their own sons only; the report of a ban on gentile adoption of Judaism suggests a similar later measure.80 The reported ban on becoming Christian may also have a precedent, for Christians were probably affected by Marcus Aurelius’s rescript ordering exile to an island for any who caused people to be superstitiously terrified.81 These edicts are mentioned in connection with the record of rights granted to the Palestinians. Gentile Palestinians are likely to have sought measures against Jews and Christians. In the mid-second century, Lucian (Per. xi) presented Palestine as the place where Peregrinus learned Christianity. At about the same time Aelius Aristides described ‘the impious in Palestine’, signifying Christians as they might have been portrayed in a Palestinian city like the ardently Hellenic Scythopolis, which he had visited.82 The rulings would then have been, as Hadrian’s less unfavourable rescript probably was, elicited through pressure from a particular locality – here, one in which Jews and Christians were both 78

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de Ste Croix 1963 (2006), 119, n.63; 1967, 220; Barnes 1968, 40–1; Schürer and Millar 1986, 123 (‘a poor source’); authors surveyed by Daguet-Gagey 2001, 11–12; Clarke 2005, 620; Engberg 2007, 271–3. Millar 1993, 375, noting that the journey ‘is not precisely dated’, suggests 200/201. Thus, for example, Frend 1974 (the edicts as they stand suit the historical context); Daguet-Gagey 2001 (Septimius Severus’s decrees on associations were understood by the biographer as restricting Jews and Christians); for the edict on Judaism, Stern and Isaac, cited in the following footnote. Stern 1980, 625, on no. 515; Isaac 2004, 461 (the report ‘may possibly be trusted’). This contextualization of the edict seems preferable to Daguet-Gagey’s view of the statement as referring to the effect on Jews and Christians of Severus’s laws on association. Dig. xlviii 19, 30, from Modestinus (third century, discussed with Sent. Pauli v 21, 2, a similar ruling against those who bring in new and unknown religions, ‘whereby men’s minds are disturbed’, by Lightfoot 1889, 502; Barnes 1968, 44 (noting that no Christian is known to have been banished to an island for this particular reason). Tertullian, Apol. xii 5 complains both of condemnation to the mines and banishment to islands; he took exile as the reason why John was on Patmos (Rev. 1:9; Tertullian, Praescr. 36), but this need not be the sole instance in his mind, for under Commodus Callistus and other Christians served sentences in the mines of Sardinia (Hippolytus, Ref. ix 12, 9–12). Aelius Aristides, Or. xlvi, discussed with Or. xxxvi 82, on the orator at ‘Scythopolis of Palestinian Syria’, by Stern 1980, 217–20, nos. 370–1 (preferring interpretation of the ‘impious’ ‘who have somehow seceded from the Greeks’ as Jews); on Hellenism, Jews and Christians (attested from the third century) in Scythopolis and Millar 1993, 6–7, 198–9, 378; Belayche 2001, 258–68.

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resented. Neither ruling as reported, however, threatens the existence of the Jewish or Christian body.83 Palestinian requests for such rulings would have been made in advantageous circumstances. The emperor’s journey through Palestine followed his second Parthian war. During the war, hope for Parthian victory, verging on messianism and shared by some inside and outside the Jewish community, is suggested by Tertullian’s report of visions of the heavenly Jerusalem in the Judaean skies during this campaign, and by Eusebius’s annal for the year 197 on the stirring of Jewish and Samaritan war, perhaps to be interpreted as incipient revolt.84 A contrasting customary attestation of Jewish loyalty to Rome is formed by an inscription in honour of Septimius Severus from Kh. Kasyoun (Qitzion), east of Gischala in Galilee.85 The edicts attributed to him can indeed, like Celsus and Galen, suggest a Roman view of Jews and Christians jointly; but they will primarily reflect the local view, adverse to both, which was taken by gentile Palestinians.

Conclusions Roman awareness of the Jewish connections of Christianity is indicated from Tacitus to Celsus and Galen, and has justifiably encouraged a synoptic view of Jews and Christians under second-century Roman rule. Yet the liberty of the synagogue, as Tertullian emphasizes, seems to stand in contrast with the precarious political situation of Christians. This contrast is questioned, however, by scholarly emphasis on Jewish–Roman friction, recalling earlier conceptions of a joint Jewish and Christian front against Roman paganism. Reassessment of the contrast here begins with self-definitions like ‘church’ and ‘synagogue’. These are not simply terms for religious associations, but share the national overtones of terms like ‘people’; they show that both communities identified themselves with the Pentateuchal congregation of Israel. Jewish custom was indeed recognized as national, and protected. Christians, however, were treated as a separate group with no genuine claims to tradition. 83 84 85

This point was stressed by Mommsen 1907 (1890), 405. Tertullian, Adv. Marc. iii 24, 4; Eusebius, Chronicle, Severus v, ‘Iudaicum et Samariticum bellum motum’, discussed with other sources in Horbury 2003, 285–7. The Kh. Kasyoun Greek dedicatory inscription of Ioudaioi in honour of Septimius Severus (CIJ 972) is from ‘a monumental building, perhaps a synagogue’ (Tsafrir, Di Segni & Green 1994, 209).

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The same point emerges from comparison of the political apologetic aims pursued by Josephus on the one hand, and Christian apologists on the other; the full protection recalled and sought in Josephus contrasts with the limited restraint on accusations sought by Justin Martyr and others. Similarly, both Jews and Christians suffered martyrdom in the second century, but Jewish martyrdom occurred, by an exception to the usual liberty of the synagogue, during or after Jewish disturbance in particular localities. A contrast remains between relative Jewish security, and relative Christian insecurity. At the beginning of the century, there was probably no Roman aim to destroy Judaism and Christianity jointly, as Sulpicius Severus might suggest. At the end of the century, a report of edicts of Septimius Severus against conversion to Judaism and Christianity alike is probably less unreliable than is often thought; but it may attest local Palestinian animus against both Jews and Christians rather than any consistently unified Roman treatment of church and synagogue.

part ii

Discerning Continuity and Discontinuity in Early Christianity

chapter 5

The Second Century from the Perspective of the New Testament James Carleton Paget

1 Introduction Some might question the title of this chapter. They might wonder whether there is such a thing as a New Testament perspective on the second century, however we understand the latter’s chronological limits;1 and, as I shall show, there have been a variety of such perspectives adopted by New Testament scholars over the years. They might continue by asking to what extent it is appropriate to divide the New Testament, at least as a whole, from the second century, as the title implies one should. After all, some might argue, there are a number of New Testament texts, perhaps even a majority, which should be dated to the second century.2 And related to this, they might continue, is it not the case that the New Testament canon, or at least something approximating to it, emerged in the second century, and so could be said, in broad outline, to be a product of that time?3 Or put another way, the New Testament as a collection of authoritative texts only begins to have traction in the second century, and so dividing it off from that century makes little sense,4 a point that applies not just to the contents of the collection itself but also to the development of its text.5 Related to the previous point, it might be asserted that a New Testament perspective 1 2 3

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For a discussion about the extent of the period, see ‘Introduction’. See Lieu 2010, 402. See Verheyden 2013, 399, who notes that while we cannot speak of a concerted effort throughout the second century to establish a formal canon, ‘one must . . . also acknowledge that by the end of that century much of the canon is already in its place’. See the words of the manifesto of the editors of Early Christianity. After emphasizing their desire to incorporate ‘later’ Christian sources into the remit of their journal, they continue: ‘this self-limitation (canonical self-limitation understood) makes no sense, given that the collection known as the “New Testament” is itself the outcome of a reception process that extends to the end of the second century and beyond’, asserting also that ‘the second century is in practice widely regarded as marginal to the core concerns of New Testament scholarship’ (2) (‘An Editorial Manifesto’, 2010 2). On this, see Lieu 2002, 197–9; Lieu 2004, 53.

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on the second century assumes too easily that the New Testament is a separate area of investigation and that it corresponds to a coherent field of study. And yet as Albert Outler stated many years ago, in an introductory essay to the first volume of the journal Second Century, if we think of a coherent field of study as bordering two important termini, then the study of the New Testament, the hiving off of this period, makes little sense, even if we move its endpoint into the middle of the second century, for we can hardly speak of this time as marked by a significant terminus, either external and Roman or inner-Christian. In fact, in Outler’s opinion, we would do better to slot the New Testament into a much larger area of study, which runs from approximately the period of the Maccabees in the second century BCE to that of Leo the Great in the middle of the fifth century CE, with a possible stopping off point at the death of Septimius Severus in the third, that is, to make it a part of a wider story, which Outler takes to be the study of the creation of what he terms catholic Christianity; similar opinions, differently expressed, are found elsewhere.6 I shall begin this chapter by directly addressing the first of these questions, that is, the question about the variety of perspectives that New Testament scholars and others have adopted concerning the relationship between that set of texts, and what can be loosely termed the second century. The other two questions will emerge as concerns as the chapter advances.

2 New Testament Perspectives on the Second Century? a Dating the New Testament One perspective is to use texts normally associated with the second century to provide evidence for the dating of New Testament documents, by providing termini ad quem, and so clear proof that the texts were written by a certain time or that they were not. From an earlier period one thinks of the battles between F. C. Baur and J. B. Lightfoot,7 which in different ways have continued to repeat themselves into the present century, and from which divergent narratives of Christian development emerge.8 Here 6

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This view has its origins in the work of William Wrede (Wrede 1973) at the end of the nineteenth century, and is given clear expression by Helmut Koester who asserts that ‘it should become a general rule that the literature of the first three centuries must be treated as one inseparable unit’ (Koester 1971b, 273). For a discussion of this debate, see Neill 1988. One could argue that Baur’s position on the dating of the New Testament texts depended on a preconceived idea of the development of the Christian church. See Baur 1878–9.

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debates relating to the dating of the Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles loom large. So in relation to the former, scholars have taken strikingly variant positions on the point at which we can argue that the canonical Gospels begin to be quoted in a way that demonstrates that they had definitely been written by the end of the first century. In part, the debate centers on the kind of criteria one uses for establishing evidence for the use of a document. Helmut Koester and others argue that one can only be certain that an author is quoting a complete version of the Gospel if one can demonstrate that the author is not using an oral source, or fragmentary record, and that is only really achieved by showing that he is quoting from redactional sections of the Gospel concerned. Proof, then, of the usage of the Gospels becomes very difficult, and is made more so by the level of similar wording required.9 Some question Koester’s criteria by arguing that a fragment of a Gospel source has never been found, and, along similar lines, claiming that the criteria are too stringent.10 Alternatives are then developed but without universal agreement being arrived at.11 The debate is not only dependent upon the criteria one adopts but also upon when one dates the second-century text in which the apparent quotation is found, and upon this strikingly different conclusions have been reached, not least concerning the Ignatian Epistles, which proved to be so central to the variant positions of Baur and Lightfoot.12 Matters are compounded by the fact that the earlier part of the second century is much more fragmentarily sourced than the later part.13 The benefit of continuing to have the debate is that it sends us back to the New Testament texts, whether it be the Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, or some of the Catholic or supposedly pseudo-Pauline epistles, and makes us ask again, why it is that we date them when we traditionally do. While few would agree with the conclusions of Markus Vinzent’s Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament Canon,14 which seeks to date many New Testament documents, including the Gospels, to the middle of the second century, Vinzent 9 10 11 12 13

14

See Koester 1957. See Hill 2010, 184f. See Gregory and Tuckett 2005, 61–82, for a balanced assessment of this debate. For renewed attempts to challenge the conventional dating (c.110–115 CE), see Edwards 1998, and Brent 2007, 95–143. For the earlier part, we are heavily dependent upon the so-called Apostolic Fathers and some other, mainly fragmentary texts. From about the middle of the century, works of a more substantive kind connected with Justin, Theophilus of Antioch, Irenaeus as well as other works, not least those from Nag Hammadi, begin to emerge. These, of course, constitute but a fraction of what was written. Vinzent 2011.

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reminds us that dating some New Testament texts is a complex business, often dependent upon fragile evidence, some of which comes from the second century. b

The Second Century and a Narrative of Christian History

In the historiography of the subject under discussion, one could argue that the relationship between the New Testament and the second century has often been seen in broadly qualitative terms. Hence scholars have been keen to answer the question to what extent the Christian movement, as it developed in the second century and moved toward a more institutional settlement, changed from its New Testament manifestation. So James Dunn, in the first part of his three-volume work entitled Christianity in the Making, notes that one of the three ‘great’ questions for students of Christianity’s beginnings can be so framed: ‘Was the Christianity that emerged in the second century as a predominantly gentile religion essentially the same as its first-century version (understood as New Testament version) or significantly different in character and kind?’15 Dunn’s response to this question is yet to be published, and his answer may not be an evaluative one in the sense that it passes judgment on the second century in relation to some mooted notion of New Testament truth. But the historiography of this subject shows that evaluative judgments proliferate. So, for many Roman Catholic scholars, stretching back to the nineteenth century to the work of Johann Adam Moehler, the story is a positive one, marked by continuity.16 For Protestant scholars, from F. C. Baur onward, but well before him, too, influenced by a doctrine of sola scriptura17 and a number of concomitant conclusions deriving from that doctrine, it is a story marked by disjunction and decline,18 the movement away from a religion 15 16

17

18

Dunn 2003, 3. ‘Conventional Catholic and Orthodox historiography has turned this business just the other way around. The resultant fourth-century liturgics, polities, doctrines and church-state-society notions are normative and linear developments of apostolic Christianity – and this by divine design and direction. These end-results must . . . have been contained in the apostolic message and the New Testament as entelechies, whether or not their biblical foundations can be detected or their historical development traced’ (Outler 1981, 12). For a discussion of Moehler and other Catholic writers on this matter, see Nagler 1994. ‘From this (a theory of sola scriptura) it follows . . . that the New Testament may be studied as a singular corpus, with its cognate studies controlled by the student’s soteriological interests – as the self-contained deposit of Gospel revelation, the chart and compass of the history of salvation. Thus, the second century can be ignored or depreciated’. Outler (1981, 12) argues that this is the case with Protestants, whether conservatives or liberal. See Editorial Manifesto 2010, 1–2: ‘Influenced by the traditional protestant views of church history, some New Testament scholars have seen the second century as a period of decline, associating it with

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characterized by the freedom of the spirit, a doctrine of grace and a charismatic vision of office, to one marked by law, office, and the quenching of the spirit, a settlement often described by such terms as ‘Altkatholizismus’, ‘Katholizismus’, and, then from the time of Ernst Troeltsch, as ‘Frühkatholizismus’ or ‘early Catholicism’.19 Not all these stories of continuity or decline are the same, nor are Roman Catholic or Protestant scholars predictably followers of one course rather than another. For instance, the Anglican B. H. Streeter’s vision of the development of church offices in The Primitive Church,20 with its emphasis on continuity, might be deemed more Catholic; and there is a considerable difference between Sohm’s vision of ecclesiastical decline and the perhaps more pragmatic vision of Harnack with his theory of Hellenization, or the more nuanced view of Troeltsch whose use of the word ‘Frühkatholizismus’ was meant to be value-neutral, a way of describing the emergence of what he termed ‘the church’, rather than a sect or a mystical organization.21 But I am emphasizing tendencies in study, not seeking to be comprehensive. It is also necessary to note that early Catholicism is not always detected only in non-canonical documents, but that its presence is seen even within the New Testament itself. A classic example would be the work of Ernst Käsemann, in which the New Testament comes to be divided between early catholic and Pauline works. Here early-catholicizing ones are seen to be present in the midst of the New Testament;22 and it can, though it need not always, be the case that some of these early catholic texts come to be placed in the second century, precisely because they are seen to bear some sort of relationship to works often associated with that century, for instance, the works of the so-called Apostolic Fathers. This move need not always be influenced by confessional presuppositions. A tendency to place documents in the second century, to see them as somehow different from an assumed core of the New Testament, can sometimes be motivated by

19 20 21 22

‘the early catholicism’ or ‘Greek metaphysics’ or ‘proto-orthodoxy’ that allegedly corrupted the original apostolic testimony’. For a partial endorsement of this view, here looking more generally at attempts to periodize church history, see Markschies 1999, 31–2. On this, see Nagler 1994. Streeter 1929. See Nagler’s discussion of Troeltsch. For Käsemann’s attitude to early Catholicism, see Nagler 1994, 69. While Käsemann objected instinctively to the development of early catholic ideas, and criticized Catholic theologians for arguing that such tendencies went back to the origins of Christianity, he accepted the necessity and inevitability of these: ‘E. K. kritisiert aus theologischen Gründen die Wirkungsgeschichte der historischen Entwicklung Frühkatholzismus, während er als Historiker die Bedeutung und Notwendigkeit dieser Übergangsphase für die Konsolidierung der frühen christlichen Gemeinden durchaus erkennt und anerkennt’.

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more secular ideologies. So a scholar with liberal inclinations may wish to see texts in the New Testament that move away from an assumed early radicalism as late, and so bound up with tendencies reflective of the second century – the routinization of charisma, the erosion of an egalitarian spirit, and a coming to terms with societal norms, for instance, seen in the suppression of women’s voices. In this perspective, the second century, loosely conceived, can become a dumping ground for texts and tendencies seen as conservative; and such a scheme, as with other ones, is based upon specific conceptions about the development of Christianity.23 In such an approach, there is the risk of essentializing, of seeing the New Testament, or a privileged part of it, as characterized by one thing and not another, of seeing the second century in such terms, and of viewing Christian history through evaluative and distorting prisms. c

Trajectories

Another broadly narratival approach is associated with the word ‘trajectory’. Those who first adopted the word in the study of early Christianity were inspired by Walter Bauer’s Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity, published in 1934, but which only became a subject of intense interest in the early 1970s24 when it was first translated into English.25 Bauer argued that early Christianity was not marked, as Eusebius had claimed, by the persistent presence of an eternal entity called orthodoxy that was prior in all parts of the Roman Empire, and deviations from which were termed ‘heresy’. Rather in many parts what was subsequently understood as orthodoxy was preceded by what Bauer called heresy. Orthodoxy, then, was often a secondary imposed reality, which had developed in Rome and spread to dominate Christian communities more widely distributed in the Roman Empire. Bauer’s thesis that emphasized the diversity of early Christianity, seen especially in regional variations, was the first concerted effort to overthrow what some have termed the ‘Irenaean model of Christian origins’ but which Bauer termed ‘Eusebian’. Bauer did not apply his thesis to the New Testament26 but inspired by his work, and assuming that the second century gave voice to a diversity already 23 24 25

26

Some of this is seen in Aageson 2008, and also in many other places. See Wilken 1981; Harrington 1980. See Markschies 2007, 356, for matters relating to the German reception of the book. He admits that it only began to be intensively discussed after Bauer’s death in 1960 but that on its appearance it elicited 34 reviews. See Koester 1971a, 119.

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present in the New Testament,27 a number of scholars sought, first, to demonstrate that diversity and then to show how these variant forms of Christianity produced other types of Christianity, all related to the first type and moving in a variety of trajectories. For such scholars, then, diversification is there from the beginning in Christianity,28 seen not only in the views expressed by New Testament authors, but also in the reconstructed views of their opponents, and in non-canonical sources, thought to be implied by some documents in the New Testament, such as ‘Q’, and by ones outside the canon like the Gospel of Thomas.29 But such diversification is not random, not a kind of amorphous pluralism, but one marked by trajectories. So we can follow lines moving from the Pauline school, in one manifestation leading from Ephesians to 1 Peter, Luke-Acts, and the Pastorals, and broadly onto orthodoxy, and in another from Colossians, Valentinus, Basilides, and Marcion onto heresy.30 The trajectories approach is related to a tradition of New Testament interpretation. While the term ‘trajectory’ had not been used before in the analysis of movements growing out of texts in the New Testament canon, they had come close to positing the same sort of thing. Baur and his followers like Albert Schwegler had argued for specific trajectories, Jewish Christian and Pauline/Gentile Christian, and had sought to write particular narratives of early Christian development making use of these.31 And from a different perspective, B. H. Streeter, in the aforementioned The Primitive Church, had sought to show how different theories of church order had grown up in different places, all of them finding their initial inspiration in different New Testament sources. But trajectories when introduced by Koester and Robinson emphasized diversity more strongly, seeking, as we have noted, to find it both in the New Testament texts themselves, and also in their mooted sources (not least ‘Q’), and in the oppositional voices of Christianity these texts implied. In such a view of early Christianity, no privilege could be attributed to the texts of the New Testament themselves, and for Koester and Robinson, the New Testament became a part of the study of early Christian literature. They also differed from Baur and the Tübingen school in that they were 27 28 29 30 31

For presuppositions operative in Bauer’s book, particularly as this related to Bauer’s liberaltheological position, see Markschies 2007, 352–6. ‘We have to do with a religious movement marked by diversification from the very beginning’ (Koester 1971a, 117). For an assessment of the importance of Bauer in evolving study of early Christianity, see Brakke 2010, 6f. See Koester 1971a, 155–6. For a recent discussion, see Kaufman 2011, 120–6. See Baur 1878–9.

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less bound by the telling of a particular narrative, which ended in some kind of a church. Rather the trajectories approach emphasizes the ‘sect’ aspect of Baur’s reconstruction, leading less to an idea of a church including many warring factions than to a more abstract idea of the history of thought developing on a number of different lines. The model has been criticized.32 First, some have accused it of being similar to the Irenaean/Eusebian model it attacks in that, like the latter, it has a strongly teleological character. As Kaufman has written: ‘In effect, it simply takes the central aspect of the classical view and multiplies it. Instead of one direct line of tradition proceeding from the apostles, we have many, and the progress and direction of these lines is pre-determined at the outset’.33 Such a criticism is unfair, emphasizing too much the sense of a missile being fired off and following a predictable path, which is suggested by the metaphor of a trajectory, but is not necessarily an element of the metaphor pursued by its advocates.34 A more significant criticism lies in noting that it is very difficult to make the connections that those interested in arguing the trajectories case would make, for many of them are speculative. It is difficult to track the assumed trajectory that led from Paul to Marcion, from John to Valentinus, from Matthew to Ignatius, and from James to the Ebionites. Such a criticism is based not only upon a skepticism about how we can fill in the gaps between these individuals and groups at either end of the trajectory, but also upon a belief that seeing texts as part of a trajectory demands that we interpret a text against a constructed background, which can lead to a distortion of its content. So, for instance, to examine the Epistle of Barnabas along a so-called Pauline trajectory may lead us to overlook the real differences between Paul and Barnabas, and so to examine that text against a wholly inappropriate background. Related to this observation are two others. First, a trajectories approach can assume that individuals like Valentinus or Ptolemy or others were only influenced by a single trajectory, and yet both these authors have a strong interest in John as well as in Paul.35 Second, the emphasis upon the trajectories as diverging can too easily overlook the fact that in certain places Christians with apparently different positions lived together; that is, while there was difference, there need not have been divergence, or separation – early 32 33

34 35

For the most recent criticism, see Hurtado 2013. Kaufman 2011, 124. The same sentiment is now found in Hurtado 2013, 452: ‘in place of the ecclesiastical model of a uni-linear development originating in a primal unity followed by subsequent diversity, the trajectories model can seem to posit multiple uni-linear developments’. See Koester and Robinson 1971, 14, who are critical of taking the metaphor in this sense. This is well illustrated in the Letter of Ptolemy to Flora.

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Christianity was a more complex phenomenon than the trajectories approach would imply with interaction as key to its development. In a trajectories approach, the assumption can be of groups developing in almost complete isolation from each other.36 And yet the extent to which the trajectories model has become a part of the fabric of the study of early Christianity is seen in the volume entitled Trajectories through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, where the term is never defined by the editors37 and one is forced to discern what it implies from the variegated contributions (here its meaning is equivalent to influence, broadly conceived, though on occasion authors attempt to discern variant manifestations of individual traditions, construed as developments).38 d Reception Related to the trajectories approach is one that looks differently at the question of development. Here the interest is not so much in telling a narrative, but in delineating the way in which New Testament texts were received and interpreted in the second century. Such an approach can be taken in a specific way to talk about the reception of particular New Testament texts or collections of texts, like Paul’s letters,39 or as an exercise in the history of interpretation, showing how different texts were understood in a variety of ways, with whatever conclusions appear consequent upon that.40 But it can also imply another agenda, which goes to the core of the problem of the relationship between the so-called second century and the New Testament. As Francis Watson has argued, if we only have a collection of writings called ‘the four gospels’ because of the way these texts were received, then it makes no sense to study them in abstraction from the reception process, or to confine the process to its intra-canonical manifestations (Matthew and Luke ‘receiving’ Mark, etc.). New Testament scholarship can only maintain its conventional limits by marginalizing 36 37 38

39 40

An example of this can be seen in the early Roman Christian community. Gregory and Tuckett 2005, 1–7. For these two different implied definitions of the term, see the essays of Lindemann 2005 and Jefford 2005. The fact that the term can be used without the editors feeling any need to define it shows how widespread the use of the term has become. See Gregory and Tuckett 2005. A number of conclusions could be drawn: one might argue that such diversity of interpretation is proof of the complex character of the texts concerned, and one could go on to argue, along more radical lines, that a text has no meaning apart from the history of its reception. Equally, one could draw no conclusions and simply assert the interesting character of such work.

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reception, regarding it as an optional extra rather than as ‘integral to the phenomena themselves’.41 The need, then, to take seriously the reception of the New Testament in the second century is not an optional extra, because it is in this century that the collection called the New Testament comes to be formed, including the different units that make up the collection (Gospels, epistles, etc.). Here the sense in which the two can be distinguished, not just temporally, but substantively, is questioned. What Watson’s phrase ‘integral to the phenomena’ means is a question. It may be true that if our object of study is a collection of material selected from a wider pool, some time after the texts were written, and that if our approach is to be historically responsible, we must study the collection and its subcollections as such, not just the individual texts, for otherwise we perpetuate the assumption that the New Testament is simply a given rather than a construct. So it must be important for our examination of Paul’s theology to know that the letter collection was probably made in the second century and is the result of a set of choices, a set of choices that inevitably affect the way we understand Paul. And the same observation obviously applies to the Gospels. And yet such a statement, while rightly drawing our attention to the fact that the New Testament is, broadly speaking, a second-century collection with all the cautionary consequences that flow from that, does not tell us how we should interpret those texts in the light of such an observation, to what extent study of these documents irrespective of their place in a collection made at another time from when they were written is possible; or put another way the extent to which their meaning is only constituted by their reception. Moreover, one wonders also if the student of reception, expressed in this way, becomes involved in a kind of infinite regress in which the reception of the second century in later patristic sources and the reception of those texts in later periods must also become an object of study. But again such a criticism might miss the point, for the point, as indicated earlier, is best treated as a cautionary one about the artificial character of a collection, not necessarily a guide as to how we might make use of such an observation in a precise and agreed-upon way. e Second-Century Documents as Elucidatory of Christian Origins Related to these observations is the way in which some scholars interested in the New Testament examine the second century as a means of supporting views they hold either about specific New Testament documents or 41

Summary of an email communication dated 3.vi.2013. See also Watson 2013, 3f.

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about the character of earliest Christianity. For instance, those who see John’s Gospel as theologically problematic in its character, even ‘heretical’ when judged against an evolving orthodoxy, emphasize what they take to be the apparent lack of interest in John in the second century as well as the attention focused on him by so-called heretics;42 and similarly those who assert that Paul’s pivotal position within the New Testament collection distorts his actual importance in evolving Christianity argue that this is supported by evidence in the second century of the neglect of Paul, and his use by so-called heretics.43 Connected to this, there are those who point to the ongoing importance of what they term ‘Jewish Christianity’ in the second century to draw out hints in the New Testament of an apparently significant, but neglected, movement within early Christianity.44 Related to the above is what one might term ‘the archaeological use of sources’ dated in the second century. In this context, scholars have mined later (second-century) material for earlier versions of texts present in the New Testament (this approach is classically associated with those interested in the Gospel of Thomas and some of their attempts to argue that the latter contains versions of some of Jesus’ parables earlier and so more reliable than those in the canonical Gospels) or have sought out in such texts material which is new and very early (the so-called agrapha or material in the Didache etc.). Some of this work can be used to support the idea that the New Testament canon – with its favouritizing of Paul and John and Peter over others, of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John over, let us say, the Gospels of Peter and Thomas and the Egerton papyrus – is a misrepresentation of the inclinations of many Christians, an imposition from above, which left, arbitrarily and by an act of force, many lost Christianities.45 Equally, New Testament scholars intent upon arguing for the broadly catholic and representative character of the New Testament canon as it has come down to us argue the opposite case; that is, for a view that Paul, John, and others were always at the centre, however one might understand the manner in which they were interpreted.46 In all 42 43 44

45 46

For this point, see Hill 2004, 445. See Lindemann 1979 for a thorough review of this kind of argumentation, though from a negative perspective, arguing against Harnack, Käsemann, and others. A similar kind of approach to those I have outlined earlier can be seen in Young 2005, 104. Drawing out the conclusions she has arrived at about the minimal interest in wisdom as a Christological category in the writings of the Apostolic Fathers, she writes: ‘To what extent do we owe this maximalist reading (of NT material understood) to later developments?’ See Ehrman 2003; and for a refutation of this view, see Hill 2010. See Hill 2010.

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of this, study of the second century becomes central to the question of the representative character of the New Testament, eliciting contradictory and mutually exclusive conclusions. f

Summary: The Study of Marcion

The study of Marcion brings many of the different perspectives into focus. For some scholars, broadly reflecting an Irenaean view, Marcion’s decision to adopt a canon of Paul and apparently Luke’s Gospel in defence of his views on the character of the Christian Gospel and its relationship to the Jewish scriptures is a reactive measure and confirms the view that something close to our collection of New Testament books existed prior to his writing; and that his adoption of Paul in particular shows the evident importance of Paul for the earliest Christian communities as well as Luke and by extension at least Mark and Matthew.47 But for others, Marcion marks a caesura in the history of the New Testament: his adoption of Paul an oddity, his text of Luke witnessing to a text other than Luke but one that looked like it, and canonical Luke emerging from this either as a text with a fluid tradition or in fact one that is a conscious response to Marcion’s Gospel. Similarly it is Marcion who creates a corpus of Pauline epistles to which some non-Marcionite Christians must respond. In such a view, the formation of the New Testament canon is a response to Marcion, the term itself his own invention; and in some theories, its constituent parts held to be products of the second century, even direct responses to him,48 raising considerable questions about what we might hold to be formative ideas and characters at the beginning of the history of Christianity.49 More complex positions, which might be thought to embrace different parts of these poles, also exist.50

3

Summary and a Final Observation

The uses, with their underlying perspectives, to which the second century has been put by New Testament scholars and those interested in the New Testament and Christian origins are multiple. Issues to do with dating, historical development, often allied to confessional or related agendas, and, more recently, reception have loomed large. Many scholars have asked the 47 48 49 50

A position represented by Moll 2010, and by Metzger 1987, 98–9, from an earlier era. See Lieu 2010, 401–2, here referring to theories that the Pastorals are anti-Marcionite. Vinzent 2011 represents this view. See Lieu 2010, 406–7; Lieu 2015.

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question as to whether the New Testament, as the earliest, and, to some, most authentic, set of Christian documents, is properly reflected in the development of the church in the century, which by and large, they hold to be ‘post-apostolic’ (indeed, often the term ‘second century’ in the hands of New Testament scholars means ‘post-apostolic’). Others have proceeded differently, questioning the extent to which the New Testament is a set of documents properly reflective of earliest Christianity, whose diversity ab initio was multiple, and whose formation occurs in a century marked, especially at its end, by a desire to exclude, define, and limit in the face of such variety. In this view, the collection of documents in the New Testament is not so much reflective of what Christianity was like at its beginning (in fact many of the documents may be products of the second century), but how the Christian movement was starting to be conceived during a time of retrenchment, in which questions of difference, whether manifest in the development of concepts of heresy or in adversus Judaeos literature, were being formalized.51 Such a view questions the extent to which the New Testament is conceived as in some sense a meaningful area of study, and not simply a part of the study of early Christian history understood more expansively. It also questions the substance of the title of this contribution by suggesting that we would do better to talk about a second-century perspective on the New Testament rather than the reverse. Such a view could be overplayed, however. So, for instance, Leander Keck notes that ‘in the debates generated by the literature on its way to becoming canon, we have one body of material which discloses what it was that the diverse Christians were arguing about, and which was at the same time a growing factor in the development of the ethos, liturgy, and selfunderstanding of diverse communities’.52 For Keck canonization was to a considerable extent ratification of texts that were becoming authoritative, and this, he implies, is supported by the fact that we have no evidence of a decision to canonize one set of books rather than another. This fact, and the diverse character of texts that constitute the developing canon, adds support to this point. Nevertheless, Keck is clear that what was becoming canonical not only nurtured piety, but also shaped the Christian ethos; and that, he claims, is precisely his point. Unless one is content to document diversity endlessly, or unless one attempts to write the story as the account of the clerical abuse of Gnostics, 51 52

See Lieu 2004, 53–4. Keck 1981, 32.

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james carleton paget Montanists and Marcionites; or unless one regards the development as an unfolding of a dominant idea, one requires a point of reference, a constant which participants themselves recognized – at least as a shared bone of contention. In short, the emerging canon provides the historian with an organizing principle, which abets the grasp of the whole.53

Keck accepts some of the arguments of those who are keen to emphasize diversity at the beginning of Christian origins, but in arguing his case, he articulates a vision of that century that is guided by the notion of what Robert Wilken called an emerging ‘center’,54 which can act as buffer to a vision of the century as a kind of chaotic diversity.55 This, in turn, raises questions about how one understands the term ‘New Testament’. As we have indicated there are genuine problems with seeing the term as referring either to a canon (Keck does not make enough of this) or to an era. But if we begin to see it as referring to the core texts of that canon (here, of course, we are faced with the problem of selectivity – the New Testament canon’s contents are not all equally significant, either in the second century or beyond), then it becomes clear that in the second century such texts begin to become formative in the definition of Christian identity. The second century could then be seen as a transition point where people begin to differentiate themselves from a Christian past and to treat that past as normative. There was a growing sense that people were living on the other side of epoch-making events, the true understanding of which had been vouchsafed to a generation previous to their own.56 The texts of the New Testament, then, are not just received in the way Matthew receives Mark, but received as texts that are in some way in a different category from contemporaneous texts. This is not the same as saying that there was a consensus about that past, or that all references to it were self-evidently textual, or that the past was not being ‘constructed’. It is, however, a way of saying that the second century witnesses the beginnings of an admittedly contested debate 53 54

55 56

Ibid., 34. In his vision, Wilken 1981, 109–10, argued for a center in terms not only of doctrine, but also of practice, understood both morally and liturgically. Such a vision is not so far from Keck’s for the New Testament canon encompasses similar concerns to the ones Wilken identifies as features of an evolving center. See Hill 2010 for a vision much closer to that of Keck. For the persistence of this account, see Brakke 2010. See Barn. 8.3; Polycarp, Phil. 6.3; 1 Clem. 42.1–3; Hermas, Sim. 9.16–17; 2 Clem. 14.2; and Diog. 11. Especially interesting in this context is the Muratorian Fragment, which appears to exclude Hermas from its list of books to be read in church because of the fact that it was written recently (nuperimme temporibus nostris). Of course, people continue to write pseudonymous texts in the second century, as if they were in some way a part of the Christian past.

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about the past in which constituent parts of what came to be known as the New Testament played an important role, along with other corpora, not least what Christians came to call the Old Testament. This phenomenon may not permit one to speak of a New Testament perspective on the second century but it suggests that attempts to elide the two are problematic.

chapter 6

Continuity and Change in Second-Century Christianity A Narrative against the Trend Lewis Ayres

Introduction How should we narrate continuities and discontinuities in Christian belief over the second century? At the end of the first century, one narrative might run, most of the key texts that will be incorporated into the New Testament (and some that will not) have been produced. In these texts we see inchoate models of ecclesial structure and very brief forms of Christian confession. But, by the end of the second century, our sources imply a widespread Christian community scattered through the Mediterranean basin, deeply concerned with establishing and maintaining right belief against a multitude of ‘heresies’. The model of a single bishop exercising rule over each Christian community seems to have taken hold across the Mediterranean, and each bishop seems to have seen himself as the protector of a faith originally expressed by the apostles. We also see quasi-credal statements (the rules or canons of faith or truth), sharp polemical rhetoric and new styles and genres of theological writing. If the story can be told like this, has not Christianity undergone many and significant shifts since the end of the first century, shifts that render any simple belief in continuity rather naive? Treating the question of continuity and discontinuity by considering only these two poles would now seem inappropriate to many. To such scholars, the vastly increased number of texts that have become available through the Nag Hammadi discoveries demands that we speak of a plurality of Christianities, of a range of responses to the life and teaching of Jesus. From within this set, one group gradually rose to dominance – the I dedicate this chapter to Elizabeth A. Clark on the occasion of her retirement, and in thanks for her friendship.

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‘proto-orthodox’ community – and presented itself as the single guardian of an apostolic orthodoxy, while the others are the ‘lost Christianities’ that await modern recovery.1 Quite a number of scholars also advise us to avoid attempting judgments about which of these various groups or traditions bears the closest relationship to Christianity in the late first century for that, too, exhibits considerable diversity.2 As a contribution to considering these complex questions, I will argue that when we narrate the development of Christianity during this period, we can legitimately begin by emphasizing fundamental continuities between the discursive space of our earliest Christian texts – say in the period between 60 and 120 CE – and the discursive space of proto-orthodox writers in the period between 180 and 220 CE.3 This is so even if we are also appreciative of the great shifts in Christian culture that took place during this period and even if we are attentive to the complex diversity of expressions we find within second-century Christianity.

The Discursive Space of Christianity c. 100 CE I will begin with some observations offered in Rowan Williams’s very helpful 1989 essay ‘Does It Make Sense to Speak of Pre-Nicene Orthodoxy?’ Williams suggests that our earliest Christian texts share a very particular concern with the relationship of believers to the story of Jesus: ‘the canonical narrative tradition’ gives priority to the task of bringing the believer into ‘dramatic’ relation with the subject of the story, offering a place within the story itself.4

Williams’s presentation is brief and formal, but it will provide a fruitful point of departure for thinking about unity and diversity among late first-century Christian texts. I will fill out Williams’s comment by sketching some interrelated features within what we might term earliest Christianity’s ‘discursive space’, by which term I designate both the 1 2

3 4

The reference here is to the title of Ehrman 2003. For what is perhaps the strongest proponent of such a view, see King 2003, esp. 228ff. and 2011. For other rather different versions, see Ehrman 2003 and (in a careful and subtle form) Brakke 2010, Chapters 4–5. In the case of King’s analysis, I do not see that genealogical argumentation necessarily involves naive assumptions about unitary origins. I would also draw attention to Talal Asad’s point (see Asad 1986) that discursive spaces are necessarily discursive traditions and that, hence, some form of genealogy is unavoidable – as the form of King’s book itself demonstrates. For ‘discursive space’, see below n. 6. Williams 1989. The essay also attempts a sophisticated characterization of ‘Gnostic’ types of religious experience; this aspect of the essay is outside my purview and my argument does not depend upon it.

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interrelated conversations of early Christian discourse and the social contexts that fostered and shaped these conversations.5 Thinking first about ‘interrelated conversations’, we see our earliest texts consistently using conceptual resources from Israel’s thought world to create explicit and implicit narrative patterns that link Christ’s work with the act of creation and, then, with Christ’s continued presence within the contemporary Christian community. My use of ‘narrative patterns’ is intended to indicate that I am not primarily concerned here with passages that offer explicit summary narratives (there are, of course, relatively few), but with the narratives that underlie accounts of Christ’s actions or teachings, accounts of the earliest Christian community, exhortations and critiques of practice or belief taken to be erroneous. For a first example of these narrative patterns, I will turn to Hebrews. An initial exegetical discussion locates the unique Son as the creator designated by God and worshipped by the angels. Because the Son is the one ‘through whom and by whom all things exist’ (2.10) ‘he who sanctifies and those who are sanctified have all one origin’ (2.11). The other side of the narrative frame is then formed by the promise that we might enter his, Christ’s, ‘rest’. We, who strive between these sides of the frame are the Israelites in the desert (3.15–19), but the Israelites with a perfected priest who has entered once and for all (8.12). And yet because he also shared all that is human, and because God continues to work through him in us (13.21), we live toward that rest in faith. The narrative structure here is one that relates Christians to Christ by emphasizing both our status as believers who treat his story as pivotal, and the continuing work of Christ among us. In one sense we are subsequent to Christ’s determinative actions, and prior to our ultimate rest; in another sense, this time is defined by Christ’s continuing presence and work known only in faith. A parallel narrative pattern may be discerned at many points in John’s gospel. Recall, for example, Jesus’s high priestly prayer at John 17. Jesus 5

The concept owes much to Foucault 1972, 40–46. Subsequent uses of the concept are also influenced by Habermas and MacIntyre. For a use inspired by MacIntyre that emphasizes ‘discursive spaces’ as also ‘discursive traditions’, see Asad 1986. My own use is influenced in particular by that found in those cultural theorists who have explored the ‘discursive spaces’ of emergent minority communities (e.g., see the work of the Jamaican/British theorist Stuart Hall – with comments by Bhaba 2005, esp. 40–45, 252ff). In such contexts the valorization of power relations is particularly complex because the ability to exercise power, however complex, is also a necessity for the shaping and encouraging of such discursive spaces. Note that the relationship between the two dimensions I name in the text is not merely that of discourse and the environment that makes it possible. The social structure of a discursive space – the character of the institutions and relationships that have grown up to foster a discourse – also shapes that discourse, sustaining some aspects while suppressing others: social structures exercise a significant role on the development and change of ideas.

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prays to the Father for the glory that was his before the world (17. 5 and 14). The language of glory coupled with the insistence that Jesus has come from the Father (17.8, cf. 16.28 and 30) points us back to John’s first chapter, and to Christ possessing glory as the Word with God in the beginning. The eschatological end of the narrative is given inseparably with an account of where those whom the gospel addresses stand. They are those to whom the promise is made that Father and Son will dwell in them, those who may become one even as Father and Son are one (17.11 and 21–3). Jesus prays that those who are his may come to be where he is and to see his glory (17.24), a reference that is partly eschatological. But, of course, from John 1.14 we know that we ‘have’ already seen that glory and thus Jesus’s comments in John 17 about the time when his glory will be seen and when those who are his will be drawn toward unity in him are about the time of the church as a time of the end. So, once again, a narrative frame locates Christ’s life and teaching; it begins with insistence that he comes from the Father and is not ‘of the world’; at the other side of the picture, as it were, Jesus returns to the glory that was his before. In the middle of the story we are connected to Jesus by attending to the events of his earthly ministry, and also as those among whom he now works and among whom the end is already begun.6 To point to these parallel patterns is already to point to a phenomenon that indicates both continuity and diversity. These texts use distinct and yet overlapping sets of terminology, and by means of that terminology create accounts of central themes and figures that sit in complex relationships. This is particularly evident, to take an important example, in the differing terms used to name that which was present in Christ. Overlapping sets of terminology are used around the central name of Christ; thus, for example Hebrews uses, among others, Son, Glory, Word and Priest while Colossians uses Image, Beginning, Firstborn, Fullness and Head – and this is only 6

The same narrative patterns are embedded also, to give a rather different example, in Matthew. The locating of Christ with reference to the God of Israel (who is also ‘Lord of Heaven and Earth’ at 11.25) is apparent through Matt. 1, in the baptism scene (3.16–17), in the description of the relationship between Father and Son at 11.27, in the quotation of Ps 110.1 at 22.44 and most widely in the constant emphasis of the early chapters that Christ acts in order to fulfill prophecy. One example of how Matthew considers the relationship between Christ and Christians is found in his discussion of Christ’s authority. Christ acts with the authority of God (e.g., 9.6–8), with the authority of one greater than the temple and as one who is the Lord of the Sabbath (12.6–8). This authority is given to the apostles (10.1; 28.18–19), and its exercise is connected with the continued presence of Christ (e.g., 18.20; 25.30; 28.30). But this exercise of authority is conditioned by the uncertain timing of Christ’s return in judgment (24.36ff) and should be governed by the belief that while the Kingdom has begun, it reaches ‘abundance’ and fullness only at the judgment (13.31–50), and hence this time is one of taking up the cross (16. 24–28).

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to indicate some individual terms rather than parallel phrases. The interpretation of each set is a complex enough matter; attempting to grasp the relationship between different sets adds yet another level of complexity.7 And yet, across the texts that use such sets there are clear continuities. The narrative patterns to which I have pointed do also offer a certain boundary marking; even complex sets of terms such as these create a field wherein judgments that can sustain negotiations and judgments about whether given accounts are or are not consonant. Even as we must be attentive to this mix of unity and diversity, I suggest we have warrant for what, to some, will seem a frighteningly naive statement: these narrative patterns seem to be present in (or at least not directly contradicted by) all the surviving Christian texts that can plausibly be dated before c. 120.8 We must be cautious here for a number of reasons. The earliest surviving non-canonical materials such as the Gospel of Peter or the ‘Unknown Gospel’ of P.Egerton 2 are too fragmentary to enable firm conclusions. Proponents of an early date for the Gospel of Thomas might well suggest that there is at least one piece of evidence against me. However, in the first case, and unless one opts to date the whole of the text very early (a move of which current scholarship seems increasingly shy), most of the logia that seem to offer the clearest evidence for an alternative basic narrative framework for ‘Thomasine Christianity’ are usually those ascribed to a much later layer of the text.9 In the second case, with such logia excluded, it is not at all clear how the remainder could (as they sometimes are) be judged to offer a ‘sapiential’ Christianity sans narrative structure without us knowing far more about the intended function of such a text.10 It certainly seems that Christianity began in a context that was replete with possible tracks for cosmological speculation, and it seems that some ventured out early on those tracks. But the nature of the beliefs they espoused is mostly unknown to us.11 When reading such 7

8

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In particular, while genealogical/etymological treatment of each term certainly provides a key foundation, the task remains of adjudicating both how the various terms function as part of a set and how their application to Christ involves a unique twist on prior usage. Of course, there has long been a strain of criticism arguing that certain key texts that eventually make it into Christian scriptural canons postdate Marcion (e.g., most recently Vinzent 2011). I do not find this writing at all convincing, for reasons set out well in Carleton-Paget 2012. E.g., Log. 50, but also such sayings as 1, 3, 19, 24, 114. In all honesty, I should also admit that I find a great deal of sense in Goodacre 2012 and Gathercole 2014. The same remark would apply also to some construals of Q as ‘sapiential’; but at present I am unconvinced of Q’s existence, and have not discussed it here. The most compelling evidence here is famously provided by 1 Tim 1.4, 6.20 and Col. 2.8–19. For examples of more oblique allusions, which may represent evidence for early Christians taking such paths, see 1 John 4.2, 2 Peter 3.16 and Jude 1.4–8.

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texts we must also remember that scholars who think complex Gnostic myths were ‘in the air’ in the mid- to late first century are now rare. This is so both because rejection of older accounts of a pre-Christian gnostic myth fits well with the paucity of actual evidence within our earliest Christian texts and because we seem to be able to trace a development toward the more mythologically complex within at least a few of those second-century groups that would eventually be counted heterodox.12 If we were also to include in our set of texts those that most likely date from the first half of the second century, such as 2 Clement, Letter to Barnabas and Ignatius’s letters, I do not think it would take long to show that these texts also contain narrative structures (expressed once again in overlapping terminologies) parallel to those I have indicated earlier. And thus, unless we significantly multiply lost Christian writers from this period, or suppose an extremely widespread lack of consonance between the beliefs and practices of Christian communities and those within them who produced our surviving texts, it seems that these narrative patterns can fairly be described as fundamental in our earliest Christian texts. However, attending to the conversations of this discursive space provides us with only a small part of the picture. The essay by Rowan Williams, referred to earlier, also makes claims about the drive toward communication between communities that seems to have marked those early Christian communities of which we have secure knowledge. While (obviously enough) we cannot speak of a unified institutional organization in this period, we do see complex networks of communication between Christian communities. Williams points to Paul’s reference to the ‘collection for the saints’ (1 Cor 16.1–3), to networks resulting from relationships of dependence on a missionary founder, and to networks that seem to reflect an assumed pattern that intercommunication between Christian groups was foundational.13 These networks are first revealed in the Pauline corpus, and may be traced well into the second century. Thus the genre of the letter occupies a central place in the literature of the early second century. We have, for example, the letters of ‘Clement’, Ignatius and Polycarp, and we know of a number of other writers whose texts are now lost. While, in some cases, these letters reveal to us communities in serious disagreement, it is noteworthy how often their writers adopt a tone of correction, assuming that they deal with disagreements within communities that might be resolved without breaking communion. An emergent 12 13

King 2003, chapters 5 and 6, nicely documents the history of scholarship here. Williams 1989, 12.

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marking of boundaries seems under way in this network of communities, but we are still dealing with a network for whose dispersed leaders mutual communication was perceived as an important task.14 It is, of course, difficult to speak concretely about the contexts within which the gospels were produced (either institutional contexts or contexts within particular traditions of education and thought), but the bare fact that they appear to have been nurtured within communities that sustained patterns of intercommunication offers us a fundamental point of departure and warns us against assuming too easily simple distinctions between different earliest Christian groups.

On Diversities At this point the question of what one means by ‘unity’ and ‘diversity’ has begun to impinge. Recent scholarship on diversity within second-century Christianity has focused on uncovering diversities hidden by rhetorics of unity. While this theoretical perspective has been extremely useful to many scholars of early Christian thought and practice, its success has perhaps diverted us from sufficiently attending to tools for examining different types of diversity. That problem is perhaps peculiarly apparent when we consider Christianity at the turn of the second century. As fewer and fewer scholars retain faith in the idea of an early fully formed Gnostic myth, the assertion of a plurality of Christianities at the turn of both the second and third centuries begs significant theoretical questions. Believers in such allencompassing plurality must claim the ‘plurality’ of late first-century Christianity, but what sort of plurality may now be plausibly suggested?15 As a contribution to theoretical reflection I suggest once again the usefulness of Wittgenstein’s famous ‘family resemblances’. Discussing what it is that enables the category ‘games’ Wittgenstein writes: we see a complicated network of similarities overlapping and criss-crossing: sometimes overall similarities, sometimes similarities of detail . . . the various resemblances between members of a family: build, features, colour of 14

15

For a strong argument that the marking of boundaries concerning ‘heresy’ and ‘orthodoxy’ was inherited by Christians from Second Temple contexts, see now Royalty 2013, partly in opposition to Le Boulluec 1985. For my own part, I think Le Boulluec accurately charts the rise of a particular mode of marking distinction. In a subsequent essay, Le Boulluec (1996) also points to the necessity of a certain scriptural culture for this mode of boundary marking – a point to which a number of my points later in this chapter are parallel. Such a statement of Christianity’s ‘pluralism’ at this point in time may be found in Karen King’s chapter in this volume.

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eyes, gait, temperament, etc. etc. overlap and criss-cross in the same way . . . and for instance the kinds of number form a family in the same way. Why do we call something a ‘number’? Well, perhaps because it has a – direct – relationship with several things that have hitherto been called number; and this can be said to give it an indirect relationship to other things we call the same name. And we extend our concept of number as in spinning a thread we twist fibre on fibre. And the strength of the thread does not reside in the fact that some one fibre runs through its whole length, but in the overlapping of many fibres.16

The adaptation of Wittgenstein’s discussion by the social anthropologist Rodney Needham provides a particularly useful example of how this principle may be used.17 In reflecting particularly on kinship relations Needham’s model envisages a set, say of five individuals A–E. A, B and C share three characteristics, 1, 2 and 3. Individuals C and D share characteristic 3 and another, 4. D and E share characteristic 5, while E shares characteristic 6 with A. B and E thus share none of the six characteristics, but they are intertwined in a network of relationships that constitute a class. From one angle, this model provides a theoretical basis for thinking about how we might speak about a highly pluralistic set ‘Christianity’ at various points in the second century, some members of the set sharing only a few features with other members (and perhaps none with some others). But, the same model also presses us to think more clearly about those forms of Christian belief that are most like each other, and hence about elements within the Christian mix that are peculiarly continuous. With reference to the question of Christian beliefs at the turn of the second century, the model, I suggest, enables us to note the fairly dense set of family resemblances with reference to the narrative patterns to which I have pointed. Noting family resemblances is a complex art, requiring a certain aesthetic judgment whose results will always be open to contestation. For an example, an expanding on my observations in the previous section of the chapter, I would suggest that one of the striking family resemblances between the sets of terms used to describe that which was present in Christ lies in a common space, a common begging of and hinting at ontological questions of intra-divine relationship that remain unanswered. This space is not only that within which some of the fundamental doctrinal debates of the second century will emerge, but also one that surely helps to stimulate or at least make possible some of the avenues of cosmological speculation of 16 17

Wittgenstein 2009, §66–67. Cf., 1958, 17ff. See Needham 1975, advancing on his earlier discussions of kinship and drawing on a parallel appropriation of Wittgenstein’s model in the botanical sciences.

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which I have spoken. Thus, we need not fear that the identification of family resemblances necessarily involves corralling data into a class that hides complexity; the concept may actually focus our attention on common patterns of ambiguity and complexity within a class.

The Discursive Space of Proto-Orthodox Christianity c. 200 Let us now leap forward to the end of the second century. I want, first, to point out at the heart of proto-orthodox writers the very same patterns that I identified earlier. It might seem that one obvious source for identifying basic narrative structures in such writers would be their ‘rules of faith’; these ‘rules’ actually tend to say only very little about the relationship of Christians to Christ.18 Longer summary statements of the economy of creation and redemption certainly do say much more, but I have picked two brief examples that show my narrative patterns underlying complex exegetical argument.19 This procedure not only shows them to be deeply embedded in the imaginative world of these thinkers but will also highlight a significant difference between the two periods on which I have commented. In Against Heresies 5 (written c. 190) Irenaeus emphasizes that just as the one Son and Lord grants creation to us, he saves through establishing the Eucharistic bread and wine as his body and blood, that body and blood through which he redeemed us (quoting Colossians 1.14, and alluding to a number of creation texts). His body and blood nourishes our fleshy bodies so that, when they die, like cuttings from a vine which eventually bear their own fruit, they will rise, despite decomposition, into immortality. The nourishing of our bodies now, and their rising from decomposition, occurs through the power of God (quoting texts from 1 and 2 Corinthians, Ephesians and Luke), and in that nourishing, we see at work the Spirit and Word who sustain the whole of creation. The resurrection that we will undergo is a resurrection into the glory of God.20 The action of Christ in saving is thus linked to the act of creating, and because the same agent is at work throughout, Christians find themselves drawn toward the 18

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For a strong argument that the regulae have a narrative structure, see Blowers 1997. See also Blowers 2012 for an extended argument that a basic narrative of creation and salvation governs much early Christian discussion of the creation. For an example that does offer a summary treatment of ‘salvation history’, see Irenaeus, Dem. 4–5, 40–41. Paras. 42b–97 offer detailed discussion of Old Testament texts that draws out these earlier summary statements. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 5.2.2.

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eschaton through their relationship to the pivotal action of the Creator in Christ, and because of the continuing act and presence of Christ and the Spirit. With this passage, compare an observation Tertullian offers in his polemic Against Marcion (written c. 207/8). At 5.7 Tertullian comments on 1 Cor 5.7’s ‘cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new lump’: so that the unleavened bread was to the Creator, a figure of ourselves, and in this sense too Christ our Passover was sacrificed. Yet how can Christ be the Passover except that the Passover is a figure of Christ because of the similitude between the saving blood of the [paschal] lamb and of Christ? How can [Paul] have applied to us and to Christ the likenesses of the Creator’s solemnities, if they were not ours already?21

Christ is the Creator’s Christ, coming from him before all things, and all things in creation point toward him. Thus, the history of Israel, ordered by the Creator, prepares the way for Christ and points toward what he will do for us. When Paul links together Christ, the events and rites of Israel’s history, and the life of Christians, he does so because this is how the Creator sees those relationships. This dense comment relies on a narrative assumption that links Christ’s incarnate activity to the Creator, and our lives to Christ as not only savior but also revealer of the creation’s true purpose. The principle enunciated here sums up a practice Tertullian has already deployed in many places. At 4.40, for example, Tertullian comments on Christ’s institution of the eucharist, Why does Christ say at Luke 22.15: ‘I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you’? It cannot be, Tertullian jokes sarcastically, just because Jesus likes lamb. Rather it was because Christ sought, in the first place, to fulfill prophecy and thus reveal the meaning of Israel’s scripture. But, in the second place, Christ also creates figures and symbols out of himself that enable us to grasp the new mystery of our existence. Here, these symbols identify Christ’s actual body as the bread that gives us life now and until the end. From one perspective, such passages show us an important continuity between our earliest Christian texts and those of the ‘proto-orthodox’. We see the same narrative patterns embedded in texts at both ends of our temporal spectrum, and in both cases, we see similar sets of biblical terminologies used to express those patterns. Before I remark on some fundamental differences that are also apparent, allow me to make a further point about the discursive space of proto-orthodox Christianity. While the 21

Tertullian, Adv. Marc. 5.7 (Evans 1972, 550–51).

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rise of mono-episcopacy has been the feature of ecclesiological organization that frequently grabs the attention of scholars, this period also sees a subtle development in continuity of that drive to intercommunication of which I spoke earlier. The letter continues to be a central feature of early Christian literature. It is, however, during the late second and early third centuries that we begin to see evidence of reasonably large-scale meetings of Christian leaders, and we also know well-known figures were occasionally called on as mediators in theological disputes (Origen’s travels are perhaps the best example).22 Once again, the importance of shared narrative structures seems to grow in importance when they are seen to be shared by figures whose milieu was one that promoted mutual interchange. In the essay to which I have referred throughout this discussion, Rowan Williams also argues that the persistent desire for mutual communication is also part of the pressure that drove Christians from the very early stages to a negotiation over boundaries.23 I think there is much in this suggestion, and focusing on the wider phenomenon of mutual communication between communities who seem to have shared similar implicit narratives helps us to think more clearly about what is actually distinctive about the manner in which the protoorthodox marked doctrinal boundaries. This last sentence draws us to the significant differences between our two periods, and some of the most important stem from the character of late second-century exegetical culture. Proto-orthodox writers treat the texts of the emerging ‘New Testament’ as part of a scriptural corpus, all of which is appropriately examined using methods adapted from Hellenistic traditions of literary analysis.24 Adopting these methods has significantly shaped the character of Christian speculation. For example, in the late second and early third centuries, Christian writers increasingly engage in careful parsing of individual terms and phrases in both ‘Old’ and ‘New’ testaments using ancient literary-critical techniques – identifying connotations, exploring ambiguities and interpreting terms 22

23 24

Peter Lampe inadvertently offers an interesting parallel on the micro level in his seminal study of Christians in Rome during the second century. One of Lampe’s central concerns is to articulate what he calls the ‘fractionation’ of the Roman Christian community, the manner in which Christians seem to have divided, from a very early date into diverse small ‘house churches’ through the city, possibly mapping onto the shape of the Roman Jewish community. And yet, even though Lampe argues strongly that there was no one Roman bishop exercising sole command of these communities until the last couple of decades of the second century, in his discussion of fractionation and theological plurality, Lampe finds himself noting the extent to which these communities were also able to act together in situations of dispute. See Lampe 2003, 385–408. Williams 1989, 14. For my own contribution to the context within which this culture emerges, see Ayres 2015. Seminal here is the work of Young 1997 and Neuschäfer 1987.

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with contemporary philosophical content, commenting on the grammar of sentences that speak of ‘Father’ and ‘Son’ in relationship – and this work plays a vital role in how beliefs are defined and explored. What we see in the rise of this exegetical practice and speculative tradition is, in other terms, one of the most important ways in which we can still usefully think of Christianity as being (further) ‘hellenized’ during the second century. Even though there are (thankfully) very few scholars of this period left who think of the second century as a period in which Christianity moves from being expressed in ‘semitic’ terms to being expressed in ‘Greek’ (the complex continuities between hellenized Jewish traditions and the thought world of late second-century Christianity have rendered the idea far too blunt a tool), there are contexts in which the concept remains helpful. Christoph Markschies argues that there is only one in the second century, and that is with reference to the evolution of ‘school’ structures (especially in Alexandria and Rome) that mirror ancient philosophical institutions.25 Within such contexts, modes of Christian thinking that incorporate pre-Christian Hellenistic academic practices and styles of speculation are adapted to Christian use and thus a more intensely and consciously ‘hellenized’ Christian speculative practice emerges; ‘hellenization’ in this sense is a negotiation within the Hellenic tradition, rather than an entering into it from ‘outside’.26 While the concept of ‘hellenization’ once served to mark clear cultural distinctions, in this revised and somewhat chastened form, it may help us to explore complex relationships of continuity and discontinuity. Now, Markschies’s argument is extremely helpful, but also rather restrictive in his focus on Alexandria. While there are certainly particular forms of this development in Alexandria, we see this exegetical culture appearing in a number of centres across the Mediterranean during the period between 160 and 220 CE – Irenaeus and Tertullian both being excellent witnesses to the phenomenon. I suggest that the development of a particular exegetical and speculative culture is actually at the heart of this late second-century ‘hellenization’. One of the best examples of what this process means for this chapter is provided by discussion in these writers of the relationship between the Father and that which was present in Christ – an area of theological speculation discussed earlier in the chapter. The same basic range of terminology found in our earliest texts is apparent in the texts of this latter 25 26

Markschies 2012, 2012a and 2007. In this sense, I would endorse considerable portions of Lyman 2003a.

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period, and yet the mode of discussion has changed. At the risk of significant oversimplification, we should note both the increased attention to how the terms are used in particular scriptural passages and the increasingly sophisticated arguments about which philosophical resources can most persuasively be brought to bear to press the ambiguities of the text (which in part involves judging how the text governs and shapes such appropriation). This new speculative dynamic is, fairly obviously, dependent on shifts in notions of how the text of scripture should function in argument. Our earliest texts witness to the adaptation of earlier Jewish (and hellenized Jewish) conceptualities, and that adaptation proceeds in part by some basic exegetical maneuvres that may find their origins in both Jewish and Greek contexts; toward the end of the second century, we see an intentional claim made on and a far denser use made of techniques of hellenistic literary analysis, and we see those techniques now used on an (at the least) implicit canon of Christian texts. This latter phenomenon involves a significant shift – and certainly involves the increasing centrality of those particular sets found within these particular texts as opposed to other earliest Christian sets that did not receive much coverage in those texts that became canonical – and yet, we must speak of a shift accompanied by considerable continuity. Recent work on the history of Christian thought would also resist the sense that the developments we see here are best comprehended as simply a move from a lack of doctrinal definition toward increasingly precise definition. There is certainly a move, partly driven by doctrinal controversy, to rule out certain options (debate over ‘adoptionist’ accounts provides a good example).27 But, even as there is a clearer marking of theological boundaries in the late second and early third centuries, the disputes of that period frequently also involve (at the very least implicit) attempts to preserve nodal points of mystery in the relationship between ‘Father’ and ‘Son’. Irenaeus and Tertullian, writing in different polemical contexts, both argue against particular construals of the relationships between Father, Son and Spirit (from rather different perspectives); but both share a belief that the text of Scripture enables a certain precision in our speech about these relationships even as what remains unsaid and the sheer distinction between human and divine existence renders fundamental features of them incomprehensible and ineffable, ultimately 27

I would be happy also to side with those who have argued that, in various respects, these debates do not simply involve the rejection of a position taken to be beyond the pale, but its cannibalization and adoption.

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approachable only through some form of analogical exploration.28 Careful attention to such discussions enables a fuller appreciation of the complex but clear ‘family’ resemblances between our earliest Christian texts and those of the ‘proto-orthodox’. And thus, if the narrative patterns to which I have drawn attention provide warrant for the claim that there are fundamental continuities between the two periods I have considered, my brief discussion of shifts in exegetical practice suggests a key context within which I think we can best explore the similarities and differences across this ‘long second century’.

Conclusion Setting apart the scholarly construct of a second-century Christian smorgasbord, of a set of Christianities each of which may claim a foundation in the diverse phenomenon of earliest Christianity, I suggest that there is one late second-century tradition that can fairly claim close family connections with themes that seem fundamental to our earliest Christian texts – and it is the tradition of the ‘proto-orthodox’. The claim by an Irenaeus or a Tertullian to have maintained the faith of the apostles of course needs much nuance, but dismissing it as naive or as deceitful rhetoric is not good history. Indeed, that this tradition demonstrates such continuity recommends the story of its development as still a (or one) suitable backbone around which we can narrate second-century Christianity. Making such a claim, however, need not involve denying the complex pluralities and diversities that are also apparent in this period.29 And so if one asks ‘what is the consequence of beginning with a story of historical development and continuity, rather than with a picture of stark plurality?’ I would say that we should find ourselves drawn toward particular forms of caution. In particular, we must show great caution about where we identify boundaries. Much excellent scholarly work has been done in recent years to show that the work of establishing boundaries was undertaken in different ways throughout the century, and was always a work in progress. Discovering where those boundaries lay was by no means obvious even to those whose grasp of the core was most strong. Obviously enough, and against the thrust of much current scholarly orthodoxy, I think the claim of the ‘proto-orthodox’ that Valentinian 28 29

Thus, for example, compare Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 2.13.2–4 and Tertullian, Adv. Prax. 10–11. An interesting parallel argument about the continuities in Christian thought over the second century is provided by Markschies 2007, 381–3.

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and Sethian mythologies were incompatible with some core features of Christian discursive space as it had developed since the late first century is not that surprising. But, to make a claim of this form does not mean that we have to assume anachronistically that the boundaries of that space were apparent to all at the time. The gradual development within Christianity of that ‘hellenized’ interpretive culture apparent toward the end of the second century is unsurprisingly presaged by earlier engagements with Hellenistic culture. Teachers such as Basilides, Valentinus and Justin copied models of Hellenistic teaching and speculation, and adapted modes of textual criticism and allegorization whose roots ran deep in pre-Christian Greek culture. But, in turn, this adaptation cannot be counted simply an alien imposition both because of the elements of hellenized Jewish thought and speculation that seem intrinsic to the conceptual world of earliest Christian writing and because the Christian documents of this period themselves make use of Greek rhetorical and compositional technique. And thus, it may both be true that from the fundamental Christian narratives of Christ’s relationship to the creative and salvific work of God developed the Christianity of the ‘rules of faith’ and that the cosmological ambiguities of earliest Christianity (and the Jewish thought worlds of the period) also at least offered a fertile soil for the speculations that flowered in the early decades of the second century. The question remains, then, whether we can or should speak of multiple Christianities during the second century. Here also, caution is in order. Perhaps we can do worse than look to the odd dynamic we see at work in Origen’s Against Celsus. Celsus condemns the Christian tendency to divide into factions. Reading him charitably, Origen responds with two rhetorical ploys. The first, in Book 3, is to argue that factions arise necessarily when the philosophically cultured differ over matters of exegesis and we should not be surprised if Christians do likewise. Here Origen allows the name Christian a remarkably broad extent.30 However, in Book 5, Origen takes a different tack and accords some of these groups distinct names, and to identify distinct doctrines that separate them from the truth. Here Celsus is wrong to speak so easily of division when some of those he classes together are simply outside the fold of the Christian.31 Origen’s account is, obviously enough, an apology for his own Christian community; but it perhaps suggests the need for a dual strategy in our own naming. Extending 30 31

C. Cels. 3. 12ff. Cf. Clement, Strom. 7. 15. 89ff. C. Cels. 5. 61ff.

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the term ‘Christianity’ in the singular or plural form is, at times, pedagogically useful and historically sensitive to those convinced by Wittgenstein’s model. But the task of comparison is also possible and necessary. As historians we must permit ourselves to explore how and where the core of this family set is to be found and we should, as historians, allow ourselves to ask questions about the evolution and development of that family’s characteristics down the generations.

chapter 7

‘The Gnostic Myth’ How Does Its Demise Impact Twenty-first Century Historiography of Christianity’s Second Century? Karen L. King

The soul, imprisoned on the earth, is brought a revelation by a messenger who comes from heaven about its heavenly origin, its home, and its return. The messenger appears in earthly, human clothing; in glory, he rises upward. Parallel to this soteriological myth runs a cosmological myth: the state of the messenger expresses the state of the heavenly Primal Man, who descended in primordial times from the heavenly world into matter by which he was overcome and imprisoned. Now the state of the messenger is assimilated to that of the Primal Man, and the messenger in his earthly form appears imprisoned and distressed, and his ascension is also his own salvation: he is the redeemed redeemer. Furthermore the fate of the Primal Man is the same as the fate of the individual soul . . . Therefore it is not always possible to be sure to whom the text is referring: the Primal Man, the messenger, or the soul. It is also therefore possible under certain circumstances to use texts which refer to the Primal Man or the soul to draw the picture of the messenger that is necessary for an understanding of the form of Jesus in the Gospel of John. Rudolph Bultmann1

In 1925, Rudolph Bultmann offered this summary of the ‘Gnostic redeemer myth’, a sketch based on materials culled from newly discovered Mandaean and Manichaean texts, Jewish wisdom literature, the Odes of Solomon, and select apocryphal Gnostic texts. He and his successors drew heavily on previous work from the history of religions school, but gave the myth a new centrality in the study of the New Testament. In the early 1960s, Carsten Colpe (1961)2 and Hans-Martin 1 2

Bultmann 1925, 104 (my translation). See also the discussion of King 2003, 141–46.

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Schenke (1962)3 dealt serious blows to the historical credibility of this ‘Gnostic myth’. They pointed out the artificiality of its composite construction, as well as crucial methodological and philological errors it entailed, arguing that it had led scholars to misconstrue Gnostic teaching and its historical relationship to the origins of Christianity.4 Subsequent critiques of the category ‘Gnosticism’ offered by Michael A. Williams (1996) and myself (2003), among others, have aimed at correcting the lingering effects of reinscribing ancient discourses of orthodoxy and heresy, and at rooting out entrenched caricatures of ‘Gnosticism’ in the modern historiography of ancient Christianity. The basis for reconsidering the accuracy of the ‘Gnostic myth’ lies foremost in detailed analyses of the Coptic literature from Egypt (especially the Berlin, Nag Hammadi, and Tchacos codices). Wide-ranging studies of these materials have challenged not only the ‘Gnostic myth’ but virtually every aspect of definitions of Gnosticism based solely upon the heresiological literature of the second to fourth centuries.5 Part of the problem is simply that no one definition is adequate to cover this extensive and extremely diverse body of ancient literature, but studies have also exposed a variety of novelties that can potentially enrich the study of ancient Christian theology, ritual, and ethics. Collectively these studies have invited a reappraisal of the place of groups and materials previously classified as ‘Gnostic’ within the history of Christianity in the second century. Thus far, the most potent and widespread effects of these studies have been a reordering of the chronological priority of ‘Gnosticism’ in relation to the New Testament, and the multiplication of the ‘varieties of ancient Christianity/ies’. In what follows I would like to sketch briefly the implications of these effects and the criticisms they have received, concluding with examples that would seem to call for a more complex mapping of ancient Christianity. 3 4

5

Especially pp. 16–33. Schenke had independently come to the same conclusion, but he offered additionally an alternative genealogy for the origins of the Gnostic ‘Gott “Mensch,” ’ firmly locating it in Jewish and Christian interpretation of Gen 1:26. Moreover, he suggested that the Pauline presentation of the church as the body of Christ belonged to this line of speculation, not to (later) Gnostic or Manichaean and Mandaean thought (see Schenke 1962, esp. 120–143, 155–56). In a later article (1991), however, he reconsidered whether this artificially constructed ‘myth of the redeemed redeemer’ might nonetheless be useful as a modern category of analysis (731–32). The patristic evidence remains of considerable importance, but inclusion of the Coptic materials has allowed a reevaluation of their contribution to our understanding of the phenomena under discussion.

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Chronological Reordering With the demise of the Gnostic myth, confidence in a pre-Christian (proto-)Gnosticism diminished, such that currently most scholars who enquire about the relation of ‘Gnostic’ literature to the New Testament consider the former to be dependent on the latter.6 There is an increased tendency (especially in the study of Valentinian Christianity) not to perceive Gnostic myth behind the Johannine prologue, the opponents of Paul at Corinth, or theological notions of Ephesians and Colossians, but rather to ask how Valentinians (for example) draw upon Johannine and Pauline ideas and images inter alia in their own narrative (mythic), ritual, and theological speculations, and how those are to be compared with the views of other Christians of the second and third centuries.7 A notable example is the question of the relationship of the Johannine prologue to Sethian literature. On the basis of comparison with the newly published Mandaean literature, Bultmann had famously posited that the Gnostic redeemer myth lay behind the Johannine prologue’s portrait of a descending and ascending savior.8 This position was undermined by the late dating of the Mandaean literature and the criticisms of Colpe and Schenke mentioned earlier, and most scholars now account for the similarities in terms of dependence of Sethian materials on the Gospel of John.9 Some Nag Hammadi specialists, however, are reconsidering the possibility of independent development and complex interaction already in the first century, especially given a revised, earlier dating for the Mandaeans. They speculate first that both Mandaean and Sethian origins can be located in the first-century Jewish baptizing ‘cults’ associated with John the Baptist and his follower Dositheus; and, second, they suggest that these groups, as well as the Gospel of John, can be linked to a common heritage in heterodox Jewish wisdom speculation. If this reconstruction is plausible, as they argue, the chronological priority of the Johannine prologue to the Sethian materials (or vice versa) becomes questionable.10 The most contentious issue for the relationship of Sethian materials to the Gospel of John, however, is how to account for the close parallels of the Johannine prologue to the Sethian Trimorphic Protennoia and to the ‘Pronoia hymn’ 6 7 8 9 10

Some scholars, for example Birger Pearson (2005), continue to regard Gnosticism as a religion in its own right independent of Christianity. Regarding Pauline literature, see, e.g., Edwards 2001; Perrin 2011. See Bultmann 1923, 1925, 1940, 1971. E.g., Nagel 2000; Hill 2004; Keefer 2006; Poirier 2010. See Schenke 1991; Patterson 2001; Turner 2010.

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found at the end of the longer version of the Secret Revelation of John. The interrelation of these three works has been charted in a wide variety of mappings, including direct literary dependence in one direction or another, independent development from a common literary or social origin, or by positing multiple interactions over a longer period of time.11 The chronological issues are far from resolved in this and many other cases, not least because many (plausible) proposals rely upon speculative reconstructions of stages in oral and literary composition tied to hypothetical social contexts. Here I would invoke that good British advice to ‘mind the gap’, warning the unwary about the dangers of falling into the space between the platform and the train. For historical reconstruction, the point would be to consider the enormous gap of all that we don’t know which lies between our very small data platform and our historical reconstructions (themselves not unlike moving projectiles that people board and exit at different stations, not all headed in the same direction).12 In the end, however, it may well be that a variety of different relations exist among the literature of the first and second centuries, and these will need to be determined on a case-by-case basis. The need for a more complex mapping of the interrelations among Christian writings is, however, already apparent, as we will see below.

Multiplying Ancient Christianity/ies A much more pervasive pattern in dealing with the new Coptic texts has been to include them in the practice of multiplying varieties of ancient Christianity or Christianities.13 Quite understandably, the first attempts to take account of the new literary materials assumed the dominant 11 12

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For a summary overview of positions, see Robinson 1990; Poirier 2010; Turner 2010. Perhaps as crucial, however, is the need to take into account the rich recent scholarship on ancient compositional practices (cf. Small 1997). And we might note as well that chronological positioning has effects on reconstructions of broader issues, such as the apologetics of orthodoxy and heresy. Positioning the New Testament literature earlier or later than Gnostic literature works respectively against or in support of Walter Bauer’s argument that heretical forms of Christianity like Gnosticism originated as early as those types of Christianity that became orthodox (Bauer 1934). At the same time, however, chronological ordering affects comparison among the views and hermeneutics of all the various second-century Christians who drew upon earlier Christian literature (with especial attention to those texts that would become part of the canonical New Testament). This practice was already well under way before the discovery of the new Coptic materials. Historical critics of the nineteenth century had already noted the differences among the New Testament literature and began to classify early Christianity into four basic types: Jewish Christianity, Gentile Christianity, Apocalyptic Christianity, and early Catholicism. For more on the problem of diversity in historical criticism, see King 2008, 67–71, 2011a.

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framework in which they were collectively classified as ‘Gnosticism’. Under this rubric, they were regarded primarily as materials that could enrich our understanding of the ancient Christian heresies condemned by polemicists such as Irenaeus. Specialized studies, however, exposed the inadequacy of a single ‘gnostic myth’ or even a single set of typological elements to characterize the considerable diversity of these materials. Subdivisions were introduced to help resolve the problem, notably Valentinianism and Sethianism.14 Further subdivisions have produced the category of Thomas Christianity15 or included new materials in vaguer groupings like ‘gnostic gospels’ or ‘apocryphal Jesus traditions’.16 Although these subdivisions arose from attention to theological and other differences within the extant literature, from the beginning they were assumed to have a social-historical basis, which was usually represented transparently as the individuals or groups who produced them. Increasingly attempts to ground the exegesis of specific texts sociologically have led historians of early Christianity to posit a separate and relatively well-bounded community or set of linked communities behind each text or text grouping, including those now in the New Testament. Each of these is represented as more or less internally homogeneous and unified. At the same time, positing different types of Christianity makes it possible to replace texts with human agents (e.g., authors or social groups), thereby making it possible for theological or other differences evidenced in the literature to be accounted for in terms of communities in competition, conflict, or isolation. So, too, with the new Coptic literature. Valentinian, Sethian (Gnostic), and Thomas Christianities have been set alongside of 14

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E.g., the 1977 Yale Conference on Nag Hammadi and Gnosticism was organized in large part around these two rubrics (see Layton 1981). Some texts had begun to be identified early on as Valentinian based on comparison with the heresiologists, notably Irenaeus. Discussion continues about precisely which texts to include in the rubric, but another, extremely interesting debate concerns whether Valentinus’s thought (as known primarily from excerpts of his work in the heresiologists) is compatible with that of later Valentinians (see esp. Markschies 1992; Thomassen 2006, 430–508). Regarding the category of Sethianism, Schenke (1974, 1981) was the first to identify a set of elements and literature under this category. Using a different method, Bentley Layton (1995) traced relations of a very similar set of literature, which he calls ‘classical Gnosticism’. David Brakke (2010) has recently made a strong argument for attributing this literature to a group of ‘Gnostics’. While I prefer the term ‘Sethian Christianity’ to ‘Gnostics’ or ‘Gnosticism’, I am persuaded of the utility of some category for this material by the fact that different methods resulted in identifying an almost identical family of theologically related literature. They should in any case be included in the rubric of ‘Christianity’. See, e.g., Asgeirsson, DeConick, Uro 2006. This category has, however, come under serious criticism (see, e.g., Poirier 1997). Notably the title of Elaine Pagels’s book, The Gnostic Gospels; on apocryphal literature, see, e.g., Markschies and Schröter 2012.

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(or in conflict or competition with or as isolated developments of) Johannine, Matthean, and Pauline communities.17 Attempts to address the diversity of Christianity by multiplying types of Christianities and differentiating the communities supposedly behind them are not, however, without problems. One problem is that the emphasis on difference is inadequate to address the question of what justifies grouping all these forms under the single rubric ‘Christianity’ or even grouping them as ‘Christianities’. While varied attempts have been made to identify a fundamental core or unifying center, consideration of the new Coptic literature has only exacerbated the situation, extending the problem well into the second century and beyond.18 A second problem regards the sociological inadequacy of linking particular literary works to more or less well-defined and homogenous communities.19 The identification of every text or author with a community whose views it transparently reflects or reproduces is problematic, to say the least. A text is not reducible to an isolated school, sect, or community, nor can it be reduced to the opinion of an isolated individual (author), as though individuals are not fully embedded socially and historically. The evidence seems rather to expose literary sources, theological continuities, and social communications (for example in letters) that suggest porous boundaries among groups and among individuals. Multiple voices are notable even within a single writing, undermining the (in any case implausible) notion that early Christian groups were internally unified and uniform. Ancient Christian writings are better regarded as partial and fluid interventions and tools deployed in an array of multiple and shifting practices by various individuals and groups shifting with changing socialhistorical contexts over time. 17

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For (contested) examples of portraying communities/traditions in conflict, see studies of the relation of the Gospel of John to: Gospel of Thomas (DeConick 2001; Dunderberg 1997); Trimorphic Protennoia (Hill 2004, 247, 278–279; Poirier 2010, 101); or Secret Revelation of John (Ekschmitt 1983, 185; King 2006, 237–38; Turner 2010, 105). Lewis Ayres’s attempt to chart continuity in fundamental narrative patterns between particular New Testament literature and second-century ‘proto-orthodox’ theologians (Irenaeus and Tertullian) offers one possibility aimed at addressing this problem (Chapter 6 in this volume). See especially the critique of Stowers (2011), who provides an extremely illuminating account of the genealogy of this now-common practice in New Testament studies. For our interest here in the demise of the Gnostic myth, it is notable that one of the pillars of orthodoxy/heresy discourse, namely the view that heresy is divisive deviance from an established, uniformly believing community, is said to stem from the Pauline (and Romantic) notion of community analyzed by Stowers. The multiplication of Christianities to include non-normative types thus departs neither from the ancient discourse of conversion and community nor from the modern differentiation of Christian literature into the so-called varieties of early Christianity.

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From the perspective of these two critiques, multiplying Christianities results in a distortion of the similarities and differences that are evident in the literature into an array of idealized individuals and groups or theologies. Internally, these appear overly homogeneous and harmonious, while in relation to external persons and groups, they appear overly fractured and fractious. Such portraits are inadequate to treat the social history of ancient Christianity in general, and so too with regard to the new Coptic literature. In the case of the latter, however, the problem of multiplying Christianities has sometimes been resolved by arranging them all back into two basic groups: proto-orthodox or mainstream Christianity on the one hand and apocryphal or marginal Christianities on the other.20 This procedure effectively reinscribes the old categories of orthodoxy and heresy under new nomenclature, leaving many complexities unaddressed. Other approaches have proven more successful at representing the dynamic and multifaceted dimensions of the Christian movement. One approach to charting the dynamics of the second century that offers considerable potential for further integration of the new Coptic literature into the history of Christianity is identity formation.21 It has the enormous advantage of focusing upon actual embodied practices (writing, speaking, exorcising, baptizing, etc.) and social-material conditions (social, ritual, political, economic, intellectual, and institutional), and is potentially able to take account of the non-totalizing character of social-intellectual formations, as well as their specific intersections and interactions with other fully embodied aspects of ancient social, intellectual, and political life.22 When the complexity and dynamic character of Christian social and literary-intellectual activity is engaged, it becomes clear that Christianity is not best reified as a singular monolithic and monological entity, but as living and ongoing (continuous and discontinuous) life forms. As David Brakke has put it so simply and eloquently: ‘No forms of Christianity that existed in the second and centuries have survived intact today; rather, they have all contributed, in greater and lesser ways, to the ongoing development of Christianities’ (136).23 The goal, then, he says, ‘should be to see 20

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Nomenclature can serve to further isolate the latter groups by not calling them Christian at all, but giving them separate names (e.g., Valentinianism, Sethianism, and Marcionism), one effect being to restore the orthodoxy/heresy divide albeit in apparently more neutral terms. Although this approach has sometimes been criticized for its potential to essentialize Christian identity, the method does not require the search for a single fundamental or core identity. Exemplary here is Judith Lieu’s Christian Identity (2004); see also Brakke on rethinking canon (2012). In conversation, Brakke indicated he would include the first century here as well, although that period is not specifically a focus of his book.

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neither how a single Christianity expressed itself in diverse ways, nor how one group of Christians emerged as the winner in a struggle, but how multiple Christian identities and communities were continually created and transformed’.24 And I would add, still are. Such an approach appreciates how religions are continually being shaped through ongoing practices, and it aids in restoring the fully historical and dynamic character of Christianity, as well as ancient life generally.25 Apart from such larger frameworks of analysis, however, specialized studies offer rich data for more complex mappings of Christian diversity within the context of the ancient world. I would like to conclude the chapter with several examples.

Mapping the Complexities Specialized studies have found much in the new Coptic literature that surprised expectation: for example, seemingly ‘orthodox’ notions such as the affirmation of the fleshly incarnation and suffering of Jesus, the derivation of all that exists from the perfect transcendent deity, affirmation of the necessity of suffering persecution, unexpected positionings vis-à-vis Judaism or Platonism (both themselves complex phenomena), and so on. Such positions were supposedly impossible for ‘Gnosticism’ as it was defined by ‘the Gnostic myth’. The discoveries of such incongruities were foundational in the demise of the definitions of Gnosticism framed prior to the discovery and analysis of the Coptic literature, and they are equally foundational for new approaches. In addition to surprising expectations, however, the new literature offers much that is novel or that had only been hinted at in the extant literature, for example, the portrait of Mary Magdalene as a leader after the resurrection or the portrayal of Judas as a particular intimate of the Savior. New formulations of Christology, notions of martyrdom or sacrifice, gendered images and discourses, and much more are becoming apparent. These surprises and novelties have sparked new paths of research and suggested new ways of framing questions for analysis, as well as offered a broader arena of approaches to addressing them. Remapping is therefore required not merely to chart shifting alignments of known issues and positions, but to account for novelties as well. 24 25

Brakke 2010, 15. Dynamic approaches focused upon practices also have the potential to go beyond charting diversity by multiplying Christianities to asking questions about what is at stake in how various problems and issues were addressed, and for whom (see King 2011a, 231–235).

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As a result, it has become necessary to complexify the mapping of early Christian theological-intellectual positions beyond any simplistic divide of orthodoxy/heresy, or winners/losers, and such, as Brakke argued. We can see already a variety of ways that such complexity has been documented. Genealogical lines of development are not always clearly unbroken and unidirectional to and from literature classified as (proto-)orthodox or Gnostic. For example, in his Catholicity and Heresy in the Early Church, Mark Edwards demonstrates how Marcion, Valentinus, Basilides, and the Gnostics each ‘can be associated with the first expression of a principle which has become an axiom of catholic doctrine’, while ‘some tenets advanced at first by catholic writers either in deference or in opposition to “Gnostic” reasoning were at last proscribed by creeds which purported to represent the immutable teaching of the church’.26 Separate trajectories or genealogies for ‘Gnostic’ and ‘catholic’ writers toward later ‘orthodox’ creeds are thus clearly inadequate. Or again, similar positions on a particular issue can sometimes be found in supposedly opposing groups, for example, attitudes toward marriage.27 The Pastoral Epistles, Ephesians, and Valentinians all argued for the legitimacy of baptized Christians’ marrying, in part because baptism exorcised demons and their polluted lust.28 So, too, Paul, Clement of Alexandria, the Sethian Secret Revelation of John, and the Valentinian Gospel of Philip all represent Christians as capable of undefiled marriage, distinguishing them from people who rape, engage in non-Christian marital sex, and reproduce from lustful desire and demonic influence.29 Some, like 1 Timothy, went so far as to condemn those who rejected marriage as liars who are possessed by demons (4.1–5) and suggested that women are saved through child-bearing (2.15), a position that would need some hermeneutical slight of hand to square with later Christian authors who considered marriage a very poor option compared with permanent virginal celibacy (e.g., Chrysostom On Virginity 11.1; 13.4). And while the Nag Hammadi treatise Testimony of Truth (30.28–20) offered the extreme teaching that Jesus’s purpose was to end the rule of carnal procreation, in the end this work advocated a Christian life that coincides very closely with 26 27 28 29

Edwards 2009, 11. For an overview of early Christian attitudes toward marriage, see the discussion of Clark 2008; King 2013a. I Tim 3.2 requires bishops to marry; see Eph 5.22–33; on the Valentinians, see Clement of Alexandria Stromateis 3.1.1; Irenaeus Against Heresies 1.6.4; Testimony of Truth (NHC IX) 3.56–58. Paul 1 Thess 4.3–5; Clement of Alexandria Stromateis III.58; Secret Revelation of John (see King 2011b); Gospel of Philip (see King 2013a).

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the ideals of the monastic life.30 Attention to the nuances and diversity of ancient Christian teaching on sexual practice and ethics again does not line up the ‘orthodox’ lovers of the flesh against the heretical haters of the body. A more complex mapping might consider questions such as: How are flesh and desire understood in relation to sexual practice, baptism, and demonology? Which sexual practices are advocated, condemned, or placed along a scale of spiritual valuation? What work is sexual ethics doing in establishing the borders of various Christian groupings, both rhetorically and in practice? How do Christians relate (various notions of) sexuality to theological images of Jesus’s incarnation or the resurrected body? And so forth. Literary works (like individual persons and social groups generally) do not fall into neat groups in which various issues always cluster in the same patterns, with the result that any text might be more closely aligned with one set of literature on a particular topic but with quite a different grouping on another issue. For example, Irenaeus and Valentinians could agree that in Jesus the divine fully became flesh, lived and died a real death, but they disagree about the reason for the incarnation, how it affects salvation, and indeed the ultimate status of flesh (and matter). For both Irenaeus and the Valentinian Gospel of Philip or the Letter of Peter to Philip, Jesus’s incarnate life was a model for believers to follow in attaining salvation. For Irenaeus, however, that model was needed to overcome human loss of the created likeness to God because of sin, while for the Gospel of Philip, Jesus’s incarnate acts were symbolic paradigms for effective salvific ritual, and for the Letter of Peter to Philip he modeled the salvific practices of teaching and healing.31 Irenaeus’s Against Heresies and Valentinian works like the Gospel of Philip and the Letter of Peter to Philip would thus be grouped together as second-century examples of incarnational theology, but be differentiated regarding the purpose and efficacy of Jesus’s incarnation. Another complexity is that different positions on an issue can be found within groups classified under the same type. For example, as we’ve seen, the pro-marriage position of 1 Timothy condemns those who reject marriage as liars possessed by demons, and states that women will be saved through bearing children. Clement of Alexandria agrees that Christian marriage can be holy, but he also affirms that a life of sexual renunciation is a gift of God to a few, a position to which 1 Timothy makes no explicit concession. Chrysostom will later claim that marriage is a poor alternative 30 31

See Test.Truth 44.2–19, which argues for an ascetic life of world renunciation, mystical communion with God, and quietism. Irenaeus Adv. Haer. 5.1.2; for Gospel of Philip, see King 2013a; for LetPetPhil (esp. NHC VIII 139.15–30), see King 2010.

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to the vastly superior life of virgins and celibates. All these are classified as ‘mainstream’ or ‘orthodox’, but their positions demonstrate more about how Christians were debating the issue of marriage than to show a single, consistent position over time. Meanwhile, it may very well be the case that from the second (first?) century to the fourth, Christians within the same church were behaving differently, some marrying and some not, and probably not always agreeing on how to understand those practices theologically. Variations in sexual ethics and actual sexual practice would seem to hold among the ‘non-orthodox’ as well. The Nag Hammadi Testimony of Truth, for example, is usually classified as ‘Gnostic’, but it condemns Valentinians along with other promarriage Christians. Indeed, only the most exclusive positions were rejected since they were insufficiently capacious to account for this range of actual practice – whether pro-celibacy, such as Encratites, Heiracas and his followers,32 and those holding opinions like those found in Thomas the Contender and The Testimony of Truth, or exclusively pro-marriage advocates exemplified by 1 Timothy.33 One way to account for this has been suggested by Edwards, that is, to pay attention to the capacity of ‘orthodoxy’ to assimilate an array of opinions and practices (‘the assimilative capacity of early Catholic doctrine’34). In my own work on torture and sacrifice, I have suggested that Christianity offers not a single, exclusive position on these practices, but rather a repertoire of stories, images, ideas and ideologies, exempla, strategies, and discourses that believers use to think with and that contribute to shaping their actions, attitudes, and affects. Such a statement could readily be applied to other issues as well. And yet this capaciousness has also always been marked by limits of tolerable difference. Taking into account both assimilable capaciousness and the limits of tolerable difference might lead to an approach that would not only account for the range and limitations of Christian diversity, but also could shift the inquiry from categorization to asking about what is assimilated (or discarded or left lying idle for a time, perhaps to be picked up again or not); how, why, and with regard to what limits; when and by whom; to what ends and effects; and in what contexts. Another example of complexity would be sacrifice.35 New work by Stanley Stowers and Daniel C. Ullucci has invited us to reconsider and 32 33 34 35

See Athanasius First Letter to Virgins 22–9 (Brakke 1995, 281–84). One could of course argue that 1 Timothy hardly lost out – it was eventually included in the New Testament canon after all, but only by harmonizing it with more moderate positions. Edwards 2009, 174. This section summarizes results from King 2013c.

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nuance the statement that ‘ancient Christians rejected sacrifice’. Stowers has shown how crucial ancient Mediterranean sacrifices were for ‘organizing all kinds of social relations’,36 and it is therefore no surprise that early Christians drew heavily upon the discursive elaborations of sacrifice not only polemically against ‘idolatrous’ practices but also constructively in their processes of imagining and forming alternative societies. For his part, Ullucci has noted that some Christians like Paul did not reject sacrifices at the Jerusalem temple, only idolatrous worship of false gods; after the temple’s destruction, however, all Christians became de facto nonsacrificers. It was not until the second and third centuries, however, that ‘post-facto rationales for non-participation’ appear.37 Ullucci’s framework helpfully does not retroject later views into the early period but instead poses a period of problem-solving (and I would say, experimentation) before Christians settled not on a single answer, but on ‘a toolbox of positions, available to later cultural producers and useful for a variety of polemical and apologetic tasks’.38 If we add the new Coptic literature to this toolbox, we see notable continuity with well-known Christian rhetoric used to define boundaries between themselves and others, argue for Christian superiority, establish models of proper and improper piety, and construct a relationship to Jewish scripture and tradition.39 And yet, they do not always employ these polemics in the same ways, to the same ends, or against the same ‘opponents’. While all Christians identify the idolatrous gods who improperly demand sacrifice with demons, false gods, or other lower world powers, several of the new Coptic texts tend to include fellow Christians – both those classified as ‘proto-orthodox’ and as ‘Gnostic’ – within their capacious denunciation of those in the thrall of sacrifice-demanding forces. The Testimony of Truth stands out in railing against sacrificial theologies tied to martyrdom as well as eucharist and baptism.40 The docetic41 Gospel of Judas, classified as Sethian, polemicizes harshly against a sacrificial 36 37 38 39 40

41

Stowers 1995, 294. See Ullucci 2012, 12–13. Ullucci 2012, 135. See Ullucci’s analysis of these functions (2012, esp. 65–118). See Test.Truth (NHC IX,3) 31.22–32.14, 19–22; 34.1–7; 43.1–20. Test.Truth does, however, use sacrificial imagery to describe positively the activity of the Son of Man’s mission in the world (‘the Son of [Man] clothed himself with their first fruits’ 32.22–24). Lance Jenott (2011, 22) disputes the characterization of Gospel of Judas as docetic by pointing toward Melchizedek. My question (and one which I need to look at more carefully) is whether we can assume all ‘Sethians’ take the same position on this issue. On the face of it, it would not appear so (even as Valentinian or ‘proto-orthodox’ Christians take a variety of nuanced positions).

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understanding of eucharist, and presents a non-sacrificial elaboration for Christian baptism. On the other hand, another Sethian work, Melchizedek, offers a sacrificial Christology, quite probably tied to baptism,42 and polemicizes against those who would deny the reality of Jesus Christ’s fleshly nature and suffering.43 The Valentinian Gospel of Philip uses radical images of human sacrifice and a human-eating God to elaborate on both baptism and eucharist (inter alia), not unlike the sometimes protoorthodox Tertullian, who also positively portrays the true God sacrificially as a man-eater (although Tertullian differs from the Gospel of Philip in portraying how the true God is related to the Genesis creator).44 The Valentinian 1 Apocalpyse of James offers yet another perspective in that it characterizes Jesus’s saving activity as priestly, while yet avoiding any intimation that the actual deaths of Jesus or James are to be interpreted sacrificially.45 We can only imagine the ire raised by many of these authors at the constructive representation of Jesus as a priest offering sacrifice. It remains to be determined how 1 Apocalypse of James or Melchizedek might relate to the image of Jesus in the Letter to the Hebrews as the high priest after the order of Melchizedek. These varied positions make it clear that if the authors of these texts knew each other’s writings (for which there is little evidence), they might very well have included each other in their condemnations. The point is not merely that positions do not line up in the ways that usual classificatory schemes would suggest they ought, but that classification based on attitudes toward sacrifice and use of sacrificial imagery would not produce internally harmonious groups, but it could make more visible the discomforts, tensions, and disputes within each group as well as the many unexpected similarities across putative divides. Muddy complexity is fine, however, where the goal is not tidy classification but greater illumination of the intellectual and social strategies, the creativity and experimentation, and the dynamics of social-formative practices. Because the new literature frequently does not fit tidily into current frameworks of analysis, it enables shifts in frameworks of analysis or at least in how questions for investigation are framed. Novelties in particular provoke opportunities to rethink afresh what we thought we knew. For example, considerable discussion has focused on the portrait of Jesus and first-century Christianity, asking questions such as: Does the Gospel of 42 43 44 45

Melchizedek does not mention eucharist practice. Melch. 5.2–11. See Gos.Phil. 62.35–63.2; Tertullian Scorpiace 7.7; further discussion in King 2013c. See 1 Apoc.Jas (Tchacos Codex) 28.10–18.

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Thomas offer ‘authentic’ sayings of Jesus? Was Mary Magdalene a leader in the early Christian movement? Was Judas an intimate of the Savior? And so on. I believe, however, that the new literature potentially offers fruitful material for addressing a different set of questions with regard to secondcentury (and third-century) Christianity. They lead to questions such as: How were Jesus’s teachings variously interpreted and lived out? When and why did Christians appeal to Jesus’s marital status? How is it that some Christians who rejected the fleshly resurrection could nonetheless advocate the necessity of suffering and dying for God? What were the roles and attitudes toward women? Toward slaves? Toward Jews and Jewish tradition? How did ancient Christians understand what it means to be fully human? Does sexuality (not) belong to being fully human? How does one embody in practice the belief that one’s true, eternal self is non-corporeal? Insofar as the new materials don’t fit the old molds, they can lead to new ways of framing formative issues and potentially a broader arena of approaches to addressing them. Finally, the inclusion of the Coptic literature broadens the evidential pool and with it the richness of ancient Christianity. Arguably ancient Christian writings were not aimed at an impartial presentation of events and ideas, but at persuading people of the truth (of their convictions) and at figuring out how to embody Christian beliefs in ritual and daily life. Including the new Coptic literature helps to illuminate the contours of these practices. A good example is martyrdom. In trying to understand and deal with the violence aimed against them, Christians developed a wide-ranging set of views about the nature of God, the spiritual utility of suffering, and practical responses. Much of the surviving early literature aims at trying to hold communities together, explain theologically what was happening, and encourage believers to hold fast. As a result, they seem to have painted a not entirely realistic portrait of Christian unanimity and courage, and scholars have regularly questioned the historical value of many martyr acts. The new discoveries from Egypt are providing evidence that helps to paint a more complex and realistic picture, not necessarily of the persecutions themselves, but of Christian responses. They make it more clear than before that Christians were far from unified in their struggle, at times disagreeing passionately about how to understand and respond to the torture and execution of fellow believers. At stake were fundamental issues about authority, power, and justice; about the nature of God and what it means to be fully human; about the value of sex, suffering, and wealth; and about what truth torture and violence tell.

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These texts offer not a single alternative, but a variety of sometimes startling new positions. We can now hear Christians who were enraged at religious leaders who encouraged fellow believers to die willingly and even joyfully for God, and who portrayed instead a God who eschewed all violence and declared universal salvation. Some like The Letter of Peter to Philip agreed that Christians had to suffer and die – but for the sake of preaching the truth and completing the creation of the world as God intended it, not because a violent death in itself would secure their salvation. Teaching the gospel and healing were necessary to oppose the ruling authorities, even if they might lead to torture or execution. The Testimony of Truth, in contrast, advocated withdrawal and quietism, and railed against worldly values like sexual intercourse or wealth – a position notably close to that taken by later monasticism. The Gospel of Mary taught about the soul’s rise to God as a spiritual discipline for overcoming fear in the face of the dangers encountered in public preaching. And it does so in the name of a woman. So, too, 1 Apocalypse of James recommends that James take women as his teachers and models in order to prepare for his own violent death. Including such literature in historical accounts of Christianity in the second century (and beyond) can allow a more accurate account of this crucially formative period of Christianity.

Concluding Reflections The examples offered here are aimed at suggesting the need for complex mappings (in the plural) of second-century Christianity. No single mapping or even a set of maps can offer a total or totalizing guide to the territory46 – but they can help to illuminate some questions or topics, especially as we recognize more fully that they will simultaneously obscure or hide other matters that are also worthy of analysis and reflection. Greater complexity can illuminate better how the development of Christianity was more dynamic and multifaceted than well-bounded categories or the positing of uniform and unified groups fractured from each other would suggest. The opportunities opened up by the demise of the Gnostic myth enable an entire literature produced by persons we call ‘Christians’ to become part of the story of the second-century Christianity (and onward) in new ways, ways that may enrich and illuminate intellectual history and theological developments, as well as many aspects of the social life and politics of Christians in the Roman world of the ancient Mediterranean. 46

I am citing not only the terms but a general point of Jonathan Z. Smith 1978a, 2004.

chapter 8

The Gnostic Myth Mark Edwards

Under this title I propose to treat two subjects: the mythical, that is fictive, character of the ‘Gnosticism’ which modern scholars have constructed as an alternative religion to Christianity, and the use of myth by Gnostics as a vehicle of religious exposition and speculation. Gathering together observations that I have made elsewhere, I shall argue that the two subjects are related, because our failure to grasp the allegorical tenor of Gnostic myth has led us to postulate an alternative theology where (to borrow an expression from Von Balthasar1) there may be no more than a dissonance of theological styles.

The Myth of Gnosticism It has been a scholarly commonplace for decades that our usage of the term ‘Gnostic’ is not coterminous with that of gnôstikos in the first heresiologists. The same is true a fortiori of the derived term ‘Gnosticism’, which, like many another ‘ism’ is a coinage of the eighteenth century. At the same time, it is commonly argued that our early witnesses were already guilty of forcing the name upon certain groups and individuals who had not adopted it as a self-designation. It is certainly true that these authors used the term gnôstikos to sow guilt by association in their philippics against named contemporaries, as I hope to have shown elsewhere;2 however, they do this not by calling every heretic a Gnostic, but more subtly (perhaps more truthfully) by constructing an invidious genealogy, with the Gnostics at or near the head of it, spawning a polycephalic litter of mutually inimical blasphemies. Gnostics, Valentinians and Marcionites form a triad for orthodox writers at the end of the second century; it was no more in their interests to confuse them than a Catholic of Bossuet’s school, arguing 1 2

Von Balthasar 1989. Edwards 1989a.

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that all protestants stemmed from Luther, would think it in his interests to maintain that they were cemented in opposition to the Papacy by a common Lutheranism. The architects of the catholic tradition were far too conscious of the etymology of the word gnôstikos to bestow it on those from whom they differed: it is not their custom to say ‘These men are Gnostics, though they deny it’, but ‘they call themselves gnôstikoi, and we deny it’ (Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.25.1). Thus Hippolytus sneers that Naassenes, ‘people of the Snake’, is the proper label for an otherwise unknown group who ‘call themselves gnôstikoi’ (Refutation 5.2 and 5.6.3–4), and when the Valentinians of the fourth century claimed this adjective for themselves, Epiphanius followed the catholic tradition in refusing to grant it to them (Panarion 31.1). We cannot infer from the fact that Irenaeus subsumes his adversaries compendiously under the rubric of ‘gnôsis falsely so called’ that he would have characterized them all as gnôstikoi. For one thing, one need only open a lexicon of Greek to see that gnôstikos is a much rarer word than gnôsis, and especially rare as an epithet for a person. For another, gnôsis is not a pejorative word in Irenaeus, for whom false knowledge is the rival of true knowledge, so that any application of the word gnôstikos to a person outside the church would be infelicitous. Finally, he does not imply, as many have assumed, that there is only one variety of false gnôsis; on the contrary (as we have seen) he harps on the want of unanimity among those who pretend to know more than the bishops teach them. As any Greek polemicist could have told these apostates,3 discord is the inevitable concomitant of error, since the plurality of falsehoods is as much a logical axiom as the unity of truth. It would seem, then, that the term gnôstikos was tolerated only where it was felt to be unavoidable; it would not have been unavoidable where a group was called, or called itself, by any other name. It has been observed that the ancient use of ‘Gnostic’ is roughly coterminous with the modern use of ‘Sethian’;4 we should not conclude, however, that the two appellatives would have been interchangeable in the vocabulary of early Christian writers. Irenaeus knows nothing of Sethians, though Theodoret5 gives a variant of this name to his Gnostici Barbelo (Against Heresies 1.29.1), who treated the Apocryphon of John as a sacred text. Hippolytus, the first to 3 4 5

See Boys-Stones 2001. Brakke 2010. Antidote 1,14, also identifying ‘Sithians’ with Ophians. His usage does not coincide with that of Epiphanius, Panarion 39 or Hippolytus, Refutation 5.19–22.

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employ the term ‘Sethian’, gives a different application to gnôstikos at Refutation 7.36.2; Porphyry the Neoplatonist, listing a number of texts that we would now describe as Sethian, states that the authors were Christian sectaries (hairêtikoi), and that he himself has added the superscription ‘Against the Gnostics’ to the treatise in which Plotinus refutes their claim to have sounded depths unknown to Plato in the intelligible realm (Life of Plotinus 16). ‘Gnostic’ is thus the more usual denomination; ‘Sethian’ is perhaps a term invented by Hippolytus to define a circle of readers for a particular text, the Paraphrase of Seth (Ref. 6.22.22). Such practices abound in Epiphanius, who transforms the individuals Secundus, Ptolemaeus and Theodotus into Secundians, Ptolemaeans and Theodotians. In Irenaeus, Secundus and Ptolemaeus are not founders of schools but followers of the arch-heretic Valentinus; some critics have suspected, not unreasonably, that the Valentinian school is itself the creation of an author who wished to circumscribe, by some other name than ‘Christian’, a handful of diverse thinkers who would not submit their preaching to the episcopal ‘rule of faith’. Whatever the status of the term ‘Valentinian’, we have evidence that those whom catholic witnesses called Marcionites applied the same designation to themselves.6 There is therefore nothing absurd or prejudicial in the supposition that ‘Gnostic’, so often juxtaposed with ‘Marcionite’, was also a title that could be borne with pride. At the same time, the self-referential use of ‘Gnostic’ raises a question not raised by the use of ‘Marcionite’: because it is derived from a common noun, not a proper name, it has not only a circumscriptive function but also a descriptive one, and therefore might be employed not so much to mark off a particular community from others as to characterize a certain attitude or sensibility that might be shared by members of more than one community. The adjective ‘pneumatic’ in Tertullian is of the second type. It is not a synonym, much less a substitute, for Christianus; it is not, as we might now say, a denominational term, for if Tertullian, like Pionius,7 had been asked what church he was of, he would surely have answered, as they did, ‘the catholic one’. Its function is to qualify the appellations ‘Christian’ and ‘catholic’, to distinguish the pneumatic from the mere ‘psychic’, though not as we now distinguish Anglicans, Methodists and Baptists. In modern parlance, ‘charismatic’ or ‘liberal’ would be words of a similar timbre, serving not as names of any discrete community but as adjectival complements to such names. 6 7

Moll 2010, 124. Martyrdom of Pionius 19.4.

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Whether ‘Gnostic’ in early Christian circles was a circumscriptive or a descriptive term, we could hope to learn only from its occurrence in Gnostic texts, and no such text has come to light. If such texts were found, they might yield evidence of both circumscriptive and descriptive usage, as is true today of the terms ‘catholic’ and ‘orthodox’. The vagaries of nomenclature are exemplified by Clement of Alexandria, for whom gnôstikos in the singular is descriptive and commendatory, whereas gnôstikoi in the plural is circumscriptive and adversarial.8 The gnôstikos is the Christian who has perfected faith by rational obedience; the gnôstikoi (more properly, so-called gnôstikoi) are outsiders to the true church, frequently coupled, though never confused, with the followers of such named heresiarchs as Valentinus and Basilides. Similarly, although the true Ioudaios is a paradigm of godliness to Paul at Romans 2.28, the Ioudaioi at 2 Corinthians 11.24 and 1 Thessalonians 2.14–15 are enemies and oppressors of the saints. What should we say to those scholars who urge that ‘Gnosticism’ is a delusive category that ought to be ‘dismantled’?9 We can certainly agree that the ancients had no notion of Gnosticism, let alone of the ‘Gnostic religion’, as a monadic rival to Christianity. However the so-called Gnostics may have defined or described themselves, we cannot doubt that Basilides, Valentinus, Marcion and Ptolemaeus were Christians in their own estimation; on the other hand, we cannot assume that all four would have taken one side whenever Justin, Irenaeus and Hippolytus took the other. Gnostics, in this capacious sense, cannot be ranked with the Papacy, the Franciscans or the Covenanters as subjects of historical inquiry. Historians, however, do not merely enquire; they also construct their own narratives, and for this purpose they will often coin their own terms, or invest a term with a sense that it could not have borne in the times to which they apply it. Wordsworth and Byron never knew that they were both Romantics; Juvenal never foresaw that he would be ranked with Hesiod and Lucretius as a didactic poet. Such predicates do not mislead so long as those who employ them take sufficient pains to define them and grant their colleagues the right to define them otherwise. If the historian stipulates (with Porphyry10) that a Gnostic is one who proclaims that this world is the work of an inferior deity, Marcion will be for him the archGnostic. Another may require the elaboration of a mythical cosmogony, 8 9 10

See now Ashwin-Siejkowski 2008. Williams 1996; King 2003. See the title of Enneads II.9.

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admitting Basilides to the guild and excluding Marcion.11 Another, taking the Naassenes as prototypical Gnostics, may argue that their gnôsis was a discerning of the mysteries beneath the veneer of a sacred text or hereditary cult. The test of such a heuristic definition is its utility, not its correspondence with ancient usage or with any supposed fact of the matter; the question will be not so much whether Marcion was a Gnostic as whether it serves the purpose of the historian to apply or withhold this predicate. In the light of this discussion, we may not feel bound to accept an embargo on the word ‘Valentinian’, even when it has been shown that no one acknowledged Valentinus as his master and that putative Valentinians did not all think alike.12 The question whether Origen or Augustine was a Platonist can be answered in one breath if we are speaking of adherence to a named master or a conscious choice between competing philosophies of their own day. In another sense, the term ‘Platonist’ may be legitimately applied to both, though failure to note its inadequacy may lead to illegitimate conclusions. Just as the posterity of Karl Barth includes some leading theologians of the Roman Catholic church, which he denounced as the antichrist, so it was possible in the second century to feel the inspiration of Valentinus without becoming his apostle. If Arius can be labelled an Origenist and Eusebius an Arian, it would be no more tendentious to speak of Origen and Tertullian, with their theories of emanation in the Godhead, as Valentinians. Stricter constraints will govern the application of the word ‘school’, but it would be too strict to demand that a school should always be a succession of licenced teachers, each observing a strict fidelity to the teachings of the founder.13 Antiochus of Ascalon was a Platonist, though he may not have held a theory of forms;14 Lucretius seems to have borrowed his account of human origins from Democritus,15 but remains a proselytising Epicurean. A school, as we learn from Origen, might be no more than a huddle of listeners in a public square (Against Celsus 3.51); succession might be no more than a public recognition of one’s fitness to wear a predecessor’s mantle. Once again, there is no brute ‘fact of the matter’ when we ask whether Ptolemaeus and Secundus were Valentinians. I would add that there is no brute ‘fact of the matter’ when we ask whether Clement and Origen were successive heads of a catechetical 11 12 13 14 15

Pearson 2007, 20. Cf. Kaler and Bussières 2006. Cf. Dillon 2004. Barnes 1989. Cole 1967, 38–45.

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school in which Alexandrian neophytes were inoculated against the errors of Gnostics, Valentinians and Marcionites.16

Gnostic Mythopoeia Gnosticism is thus a mythical construct in two senses: it is the subject of a false narrative that purports to be historical and the product of a pattern that we knowingly impose on past phenomena to render them more amenable to our interests and capacities of perception. It may be likened to the social contract, which for Hobbes was a historical event but for Rawls17 no more than a logical scenario. In modern times, the word ‘myth’ has been employed without pejorative intent by theologians, anthropologists and literary theorists; all are apt to warn us that the vulgar conception of myths as fanciful tales, unworthy of credence, betrays a profound misunderstanding of their function in ancient societies. Literary theorists have inherited this higher view of myth from Friedrich Creuzer;18 anthropologists from Bronislaw Malinowski,19 who distinguished myth as a narrative that justifies the order of things in nature and society; and from the folktales and legends that are rehearsed for pleasure or edification. By the twentieth century, it was possible to speak without offence of myth in the Bible and to argue indeed that the mythical character of a biblical narrative enhanced its theological significance. Rudolf Bultmann’s demythologization of the gospel was impugned not only by those who refused to see anything but history in these narratives,20 but by those who maintained (with David-Friedrich Strauss21) that they owed their enduring and salvific value to their mythical content. Yet Bultmann, if he did indeed take ‘myth’ to mean an unlikely tale, was speaking better Greek than his opponents, for the ordinary Greek could use the noun muthos of any story involving gods without requiring that it be true in any sense or even significant except insofar as it furnished matter for art and literature. Only the chronological arrangement of Robert Graves’s Greek Myths22 dictates that it should begin with the creation. To the common Athenian, this was an 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Cf. Van den Hoek 1997. Rawls 1973, 12. Creuzer 1810–1812. Texts collected in Strenski 1992. Bultmann et al 1953. Strauss 1835. Graves 1955.

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event of far less consequence than the beaching of the Salaminian ships by those of Athens in Homer’s Catalogue of Ships.23 For Plato muthos is a tool of sophistry, in contrast to the logos, which is the instrument of choice for the true philosopher. So at least he hints in the Protagoras, where the rival of Socrates adumbrates the first social contract theory (320c), leaving us to guess how Plato would have judged between Hobbes and Rawls. We might guess that he would have mocked them both as sophists if he had written only this dialogue and the prologue to the Phaedrus (229b–d), in which Socrates doubts that any truth can be wrung from the local tale of a nymph’s abduction by the north wind. At Republic 378b he argues that the lewd veneer of a myth will do more harm that could ever be undone by an allegorical reading. Nevertheless, as Plato’s critics were not slow to observe, the vast majority of the myths that we encounter in his dialogues are put into the mouth of Socrates or another authoritative speaker.24 From ancient times, the standard response has been that his myths are never arbitrary fables, but depictions of the eternal and transcendent in a linear form that is suited to the temporal and finite understanding of the reader. In short, they are plain examples of allegory (allêgoria), that is, of narrative so contrived that its dianoia, or radical import, cannot be deduced by the hermêneia, or parsing, of its grammatical and rhetorical elements.25 At times the dianoia lies not far beneath the surface: no-one imagines literally that Love is the child of two divine beings named Poverty and Plenty (Symposium 203b–c) or that every soul contains a man, a lion and a many-headed beast (Republic 588b–589b). The parsing of other myths, however, continues to divide interpreters of the Platonic dialogues.26 Might Atlantis not have been a real island even if its constitution represents the unity of the cosmos?27 Can the soul pass into an animal body after death, or is this transmigration a parable of its fall into brutish ways in the present life?28 If allêgoria is the construction of narratives with a hidden import, its counterpart allêgorêsis is the critical practice of detecting and expounding the hidden import of such narratives. Plato, a virtuoso in allêgoria, is no friend to the practice of allêgorêsis on ancient texts, which are superficially trivial or obscene. The Stoics, by contrast, made allêgorêsis a tool of 23 24 25 26 27 28

See Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers 1.48 on Solon’s appeal to Iliad 2.557–558. On Colotes, see Macrobius, Commentary on the Dream of Scipio 1.9. See Porphyry Fr. 475 in Smith 1993. See Stewart 1905 for a reduction of myth and the Platonic forms to Kantian categories. Proclus, Commentary on Timaeus 1, 76.1–80.3 Diehl. Cf. Augustine on Porphyry: City of God 10.30.

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theology,29 and it furnished the Neoplatonists with spectacles that enabled them to see what Plato had overlooked in Homer.30 They also applied it to Plato, though more often to the main body of a dialogue than to the mythical portion of it, which, being patently symbolic, was in less need of elucidation. Nor, although the diction of Plotinus teems with echoes of Platonic and Homeric myth, did he and his school contrive their own myths in imitation of the Athenian master. That would be to confuse allêgoria with allêgorêsis. In the course of the second century, however – that is, in the period to which we assign the first Gnostic texts in both the broad and the narrow sense of ‘Gnostic’ – not only allêgorêsis but allêgoria are woven inextricably into the teaching of two eminent figures, Plutarch and Numenius of Apamea, who give Plato a secure place of honour in their eclectic systems. Plutarch refuses to join the Stoics in their ‘violent’ handling of the Homeric narratives (On Reading the Poets 19d), but does not shrink from interpreting Egyptian gods as personifications of antipathetic qualities in nature (Isis and Osiris 32–71). In an expository treatise by Numenius, the cave of the nymphs in the Odyssey, the cave that affords a simile for human ignorance in the Republic and the vision of the afterlife that occupies the tenth book of that dialogue are expounded as a composite allegory.31 Again we may wonder whether we are literally to believe that the soul descends through Cancer and returns through Capricorn: the question is particularly germane to the present study, because one Gnostic group, the Ophites, possessed a diagram that depicted the soul’s retreat from the world by way of the seven planets (Origen, Against Celsus 6.23–31). Equally ambivalent, and strikingly redolent of the most celebrated Gnostic myth, is an excerpt from his treatise On the Good in which the physical world is said to be the product of a schism in the second mind, or demiurgic intellect. Forgetful of itself, we are told, it fails to sustain its contemplation of the primordial intellect, or form of the Good, and, looking down at matter, becomes two instead of one.32 This is a conceit without parallel in the history of Platonism, though the imagery recurs when Plotinus has to explain the surrender of the individual soul to its discordant appetites (Enneads 3.9.3). Here then is the riddle. The thought of Plotinus resembled that of Numenius so closely as to warrant an accusation of plagiarism (Porphyry, Life of Plotinus 17); two of his foremost students, Amelius and Porphyry, 29 30 31 32

Struck 2009, 143–56. Sheppard 1980. See Edwards 1990. Fr. 16 in the edition of Des Places 1973.

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admired Numenius almost without reserve (ibid. 3); yet Numenius would appear to have held the very opinions that Plotinus denounces in a treatise to which Porphyry gave the title Against the Gnostics. Since Plotinus himself gives no other title to his adversaries than ‘friends’ (Enneads 2.9.10), we might surmise that the treatise marks his own emancipation from a circle that had embraced the Gnostic element in the teaching of Numenius. But had this been the case, Porphyry would have spoken of Numenius in his Life of Plotinus much as he speaks of the Gnostics, as an intellectual charlatan, not as an eminent precursor whom it was an honour to surpass. Nor would Numenius have been a name of good repute to Proclus, over two centuries later. We should rather suppose that, being in possession of whole lucubrations by Numenius of which we know little or nothing, the Neoplatonists knew of teachings that offset or palliated the Gnostic element. I have pointed out elsewhere that we have quotations from Numenius, which are more obviously grounded in Plato’s writings, and which trace the cosmogony not to a fall or error but to the natural superabundance of the intellectual realm.33 I added that Plato too is at his most pessimistic when he is toying with a mythical idiom: the body, which is the tomb of the soul in the Gorgias and the Cratylus, is the tenement in which it achieves the vision of the Good in the Republic. It is possible to find examples of this double register in Plotinus. On the one hand, it is good that nous or intellect should exist, as logic demands that there be something for the One to unify; on the other hand, since anything that is not the One falls short of absolute goodness, the procession of nous is also an act of tolma or audacity (Enneads 5.1.1). On the one hand again, it is good that a soul should animate a body; on the other hand, soul would not exist had intellect not slackened its eternal concentration, sinking down to the realm of mobile life and temporal succession, which is the womb of coming-to-be and passing-away (3.5.9 etc.). Myths can illustrate this tragic antinomy more forcibly than logos, because they impose temporality on the timeless and separate powers that work together, leaving it to our sagacity to reunite them (Enneads 3.5.10). In the Hesiodic pantheon, Zeus corresponds to soul and his father Kronos to intellect in the serenity of its koros or repletion (Enneads 3.5.9). Repletion, however, brings on slumber, and Kronos in this state corresponds to Plenty in the Symposium of Plato. The soul herself is represented in the same myth by Poverty, who takes advantage of the torpor of Poros by mating with him and thereby causing him to beget Love. This is a psychological allegory, which means in plain terms that the soul in love 33

Edwards 1993.

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is conscious both of its craving and of the fullness that it craves. Plotinus in one sense believed in Zeus and Cronos; in a less elusive sense, he believed in the fall of souls and the evolution of intellect from the One. What in plain terms Numenius believed, when his metaphysics was released from its mythical dress, is not so easily ascertained. While it might be more false than true to say that the soul, not the cosmos, is the real subject of his myth, it would be scarcely more true than false to say that its subject is the cosmos, not the soul. Furthermore, the earlier discussion suggests that, whatever we take as the proper subject of the myth, it must be set against the countervailing passages in which logos rather than muthos is his vehicle of exposition. Further examination of Platonic texts would take us beyond the scope of the present chapter, but we have now derived two principles from the study of Numenius – that the subject of a myth may be indeterminate and that a myth may stand in counterpoint to a logos – which may also be pertinent to the exegesis of the most famous Gnostic myth. In a longer paper one might pursue a comparison between the ‘temerarious’ nous of Enneads 5.1.1 and the suffering Logos of the Tripartite Tractate; here we must be content to cite this text, with the Gospel of Truth and the Letter to Flora, as specimens of Valentinian teaching, which do not posit a maleficent Demiurge.34 These we may call the optimistic documents of the school, in contrast to the mythopoeic statement of its tenets, which we owe to Ptolemaeus. Most scholars agree that he found the prototypical myth of Sophia’s fall in (what we call) Sethian literature. The Apocryphon of John makes a long and circumstantial tale of it, while Plotinus condenses the Zostrianus into a single paragraph: They first maintain that the Soul and certain ‘Wisdom’ [Sophia] declined and entered this lower sphere – though they leave us in doubt of whether the movement originated in Soul or in this Sophia of theirs, or whether the two are the same to them – then they tell us that the other Souls came down in the descent and that these members of Sophia took to themselves bodies, human bodies for example. (Enneads 2.9.10)

Having thus advanced and eschewed the possibility of an allegoretic reading, he goes on to accuse his adversaries of stealing their most persuasive tropes from Plato – more specifically, from texts that he himself would regard as parables of the soul’s release from ignorance and discord. In the treatise written immediately before this polemic, he develops his own 34

Markschies 2000 has more difficulty than I do in reconciling Ptolemaeus’s Letter to Flora with the myth that goes under his name.

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expurgatory reading of the Hesiodic myth in which Zeus seizes the throne of his father Kronos (Enneads 5.8.3). In our present state of knowledge, we can only guess why the hermeneutic charity that he extended to Plato, the poets and even to such a recent figure as Numenius could not also be invoked to heal the breach with his erstwhile friends. Readers of Irenaeus and Hippolytus will be more familiar with the Valentinian, or Ptolemaean, redaction of this myth.35 According to this, the Father of all is an unfathomable infinity of which we can say only what it is not. From his own non-being he generates Sige, or Silence, as his consort, and they unite to produce a syzygy, or hermaphroditic pair, of aeons, from which there issues a second syzygy, then a third from this, to form the supernal Ogdoad, or group of eight. Further procreation brings up the total to thirty, or even thirty-two aeons, who in unison constitute the plêrôma, or fullness, of the divine. Dissonance arises when the last of the aeons, Sophia or Wisdom, undertakes to create without the assistance of her consort, Thelema or Will; in another version, Sophia conceives a hubristic desire to know the Father in his abysmal solitude. Her punishment is to be excluded from the plêrôma by a Horos, or boundary whose alternative name is Stauros, or the Cross. Her misplaced desire to procreate brings forth a lower Sophia (known as Achamoth), and the child of this Sophia is the demiurge, who creates a second cosmos out of the matter that congeals from the tears of Sophia. Sophia repents and is restored to stability by Christ and the Holy Spirit, who are collectively engendered by the aeons as the firstfruits of the plêrôma. The Demiurge, however, grows vainglorious, proclaims that he is the only god and sets his acolytes over the seven planets to rule the bodies that they have fabricated as prisons for the soul. He is not aware that Sophia is working through him, or that, using him as womb, she has populated his realm with spiritual beings, who will ascend to join her after their earthly sojourn. The rest are born to perish, falsely believing that the demiurge is indeed the sole god, that his heavens are the true heaven and that his law is the gospel of truth. Plainly this is a tissue of motifs from older myths, both Greek and biblical. The Father and his endogenous bride are timeless prototypes of Adam and Eve; their offspring are androgynous, no doubt, because Adam was thought to be so by certain readers of Genesis 1.28.36 Sophia’s crime, if it springs from an overweening desire for knowledge, resembles that 35 36

Irenaeus, Against Heresies 1.1–4; Hippolytus, Refutation of all Heresies 6.29–36. See e.g. Genesis Rabbah 8; Philo, Creation of the World 151–52.

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of Eve;37 both Hesiod and Homer associated parthenogenesis with deformity38, and the secret impregnation of the Demiurge is prefigured by the subterfuge of Poverty in the Symposium. So much for the genesis of the myth, but what does it signify? I have argued elsewhere that, although plêrôma, aion and Ogdoad may be exotic words in English, their equivalents ‘fullness’, ‘age’ and ‘Sabbath’ are not.39 No-one who is familiar with the New Testament would be perplexed to hear that Christ appeared in the fullness of the ages (cf. Galatians 4.4), that his peace is a Sabbath-rest (Hebrews 4.9–11) or that in his rising from the tomb he became the firstfruits of a divine plan that has yet to attain its fullness (1 Corinthians 15.20). We may think it strange that wisdom should be excluded by the Cross from the fullness of God, but we understand Paul well enough when he writes that the Cross on which the wisdom of God was crucified is a stumbling-block to the wisdom of the world (1 Corinthians 1.21–25). We may wonder how a Christian could believe that this world was created by a purblind god, but we see no heresy in Paul’s assertion that unbelievers have been blinded by ‘the god of this world’ (2 Corinthians 4.6). We are not told in the New Testament that silence is the consort of God, but Ignatius of Antioch celebrates three ‘clamorous mysteries’ that were accomplished by God in silence (Ephesians 19.1); if he also spoke of Christ as the ‘logos who proceeds from silence’,40 we have only to combine this trope with John 1.4 to explain how Silence came to be the ancestor of a Valentinian syzygy, which consists of Logos and Zoe, Word and Life. The currency of the Valentinian myth in Christian circles would be more intelligible if it meant only what one might mean today by saying that ‘the god of Jews’ or ‘the god of Plato’ is not the God of Christians.41 The Demiurge, whose name in scripture denotes a maker of images, personifies the idolatry of those who live by psychic rather than spiritual perceptions of the divine: whether they venerate effigies of stone or the written characters of the law they are ‘worshipping the beggarly elements’ (Galatians 4.9). As Eve was thought to be, Wisdom too is a paradigmatic figure, in whom we see our aspiration to forbidden knowledge, our disobedience to the will of God and our vertigo at the foot of the Cross. Redemption comes in the fullness of the aeons, through Christ the firstfruits of this fullness: those who are fit to receive it are born from above in 37 38 39 40 41

See further Macrae 1970. Hesiod, Theogony, 820ff and 930; Iliad 18.136–38. Edwards 2001; cf. Pétrement 1991, 178–80. Magnesians 8.3, though the MS reads ‘not proceeding from silence’. Cf. Pétrement 1991, 29–30.

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the freedom of the spirit, superior to the idolatry of the Gentiles and the Pharisaic worship of the Law. In all this, there is little that would not sit peaceably with the thought of Paul, of John and even of Ignatius42 – nothing, that is, except for the peculiar cosmogony that underlies the common soteriology. What are we to make of a myth in which trespass and salvation are events that not only precede but precipitate the creation of the cosmic theatre in which the same drama is perennially replayed by captive souls? Jung replies that the Father and his brood were never thought to have any existence outside the abyss of the subconscious.43 This hypothesis was warmly seconded by Gilles Quispel, a pioneer in the empirical study of Gnostic literature.44 For Jung himself, however, it was a corollary of a universal theory of religions that has barely achieved a reputable, let alone a normative, status in the academic world. Those of a more theological bent will observe that the modern world is more hospitable than the Fathers to the notion that the Godhead shares in the suffering of its creatures.45 The notion that the Godhead shares in the frailty of its creatures, however, is not so palatable, and some will prefer a reading of the myth that ascribes to Wisdom not so much a proleptic fall as a compassionate foreknowledge of our transgressions. Alternatively, and remembering Plotinus, we may argue for a purposeful confusion, or concentricity, of psychological and metaphysical categories.

Coda I am mindful of Jason BeDuhn’s complaint46 that the ‘hermeneutic of charity’ is often an assertion of the ‘etic’ at the expense of the ‘emic’ approach to a religion that one finds incomprehensible. I also admit the force of the objection that, if the difference between Valentinus and Irenaeus is simply that the former employs allêgoria alongside allêgorêsis, it is hard to account for the vehemence of the latter’s criticisms. On the other hand, we have also to explain why Valentinus passed as a Christian, and my proposal here is that his teaching stands in what grammarians call an enclitic relation to the primordial documents of Christianity. Elsewhere 42 43 44 45 46

On Ignatius as a precursor to Ptolemaeus and others, see Edwards 1998. See e.g. Jung 1960, 369–70. E.g. Quispel 1968, 236–40. Moltmann 1972. BeDuhn 2002, 259–66. The ‘emic’ is the insider’s and the ‘etic’ the outsider’s interpretation of a religious tenet, practice or phenomenon.

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I have argued that the same is true of Basilides,47 except that he ‘leans’ (to use the English equivalent of the Greek term) on the Johannine rather than the Pauline corpus. Both the enclitic character of these myths and their diversity lend weight to the hypothesis that, if Gnosticism is anything, it is a mode of theological discourse, not a codified system of doctrines, still less a sect that formed itself in bellicose opposition to the nursery of organized belief that we call the Church.

47

Edwards 2002, 26–29.

chapter 9

Modelling Second-Century Christian Theology Christian Theology as Philosophia Winrich Löhr

This chapter discusses some questions concerning the conceptualization and the ‘modelling’ of second-century Christian theology, ‘the laboratory of Christian theology’, as I have called it.1 ‘To model second-century theology’ means this: to compare secondcentury Christian theology, its institutional context and Sitz im Leben, the forms of its practice, the media of its propagation, its impact and development with similar contemporary discourses. This will allow us (i) to see Christian theology as part of a wider intellectual landscape, (ii) to grasp its peculiar features in comparison with similar discourses, (iii) to determine its specific rationality (including its truth claims) and (iv) to attend to its specific problems and internal tensions. Here I will have to limit myself to proposing the concept and practice of philosophia, such as it was understood in the second century, as the starting model of Christian theology. I try to avoid (but not to discuss) the facile assumption that second-century theology stands in smooth and easy continuity to first-century Christian discourses or that there is an unbroken tradition of something called Christian theology that stretches from the second century to the present. We must rather start from the premise that doing Christian theology could mean quite different things at different times and that during the last 1,900 years Christian theology as a discourse and as an intellectual practice has undergone repeated transformations as to its forms, media and institutional settings. We must even envisage the possibility that there are past or present Christianities without theology and that therefore something called ‘theology’ is but a contingent feature (i.e. a feature that can be and 1

It is useful to define a ‘long’ second century that includes Origen. This paper uses a couple of paragraphs from Löhr 2010 and also material from Löhr 2002; 2011; 2012; 2013 in order to nuance, complement and develop it.

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needs to be explained historically) of Christianity.2 However, the validity or otherwise of this last claim turns on the definition of the term ‘theology’.

1 Second-Century Theology Viewed as Theologia If one were to announce the project of writing the history of secondcentury Christian theology (of the whole or of certain parts of it), using the term ‘theology’ alone could rightly be criticized for begging a lot of important questions. First of all, in order to disarm some of the fiercest critics, one would readily concede that the use of the term ‘theology’ must be necessarily somewhat vague and imprecise. Does it make any sense at all to use the term in order to conceptualize and describe an intellectual discourse in the second century? After all, there existed in the second century no intellectual discipline equivalent to the modern academic discipline of ‘theology’. Nor did universities exist in the medieval or modern sense that could have provided an institutional background to such an academic discipline, nor an institution (like the medieval or modern churches) to offer employment for those who had pursued a course of studies and graduated in the academic discipline of theology. As to the semantics of the Greek term theologia, it has – surprisingly and for our present purpose unfortunately – so far not been comprehensively studied. A few characteristically learned pages from the pen of the French scholar A.-J. Festugière provide, however, a good start:3 Plato seems to be the first to use the term in order to denote the (poetical) talk about the gods.4 After Plato, it is the world itself (the kosmos) and particularly the sun and the stars which become the focus of theologia – a development which according to Festugière testifies to the rise of ‘cosmic religion’. Aristotle uses the term theologos/theologoi on the one hand to designate the early poets such as Homer, Hesiod and Orpheus.5 He distinguishes them from the physikoi, the early natural philosophers such as 2

3 4 5

Trapp 2007, 2, trying to distinguish ancient philosophia from modern philosophy, remarks in a similar vein with regard to philosophy in the Roman world: ‘And this philosophia (. . .) was not some kind of natural phenomenon; it was a human construct that had the specific form it did in the first and second centuries CE because of a past history of ideological decisions and institutional development that began in the fourth century BCE.’ The following paragraph is a summary of Festugière 1986, 598–605. See also Kattenbusch 1930; Löhr 2002a. Plato, Republic 379a5f. Aristotele, Mete. B 1 353 a 34f (Louis 1982, 50); Metaph. B 4 1000 a 9 (Jaeger 1988, 51).

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Thales.6 On the other hand, he uses the attribute theologikos in order to talk of a ‘theological science’, which concerns itself with the immutable and eternal causes of the stars. This theological science is the highest of the purely theoretical sciences.7 Aristotle thus points the way to the later use of the term as designation for an element of the philosophical curriculum, namely the highest part of physics, the science that deals with the universe. The term theologoi continued to be used for the poets who talk about the gods, and the genos theologikos designates the ancient myths, which according to Strabo contain a kernel of truth that is in harmony with natural philosophy.8 Consequently, theologia can then also designate the exegetical practice that transforms the poetical discourse about the gods into knowledge about divine things. Ancient theologia could, but did not necessarily, encompass such intellectual practices as exegesis or the exchange of arguments or polemics. We would very much like to include these modes of theology in our model of second-century Christian theology. Moreover – and here we go beyond the attested meaning of the Greek word theologia – one would very much like our concept of second-century theology to include not only things divine, but also things human, that is to say, ethics and what the modern age calls ‘anthropology’. In this sense, it would be somewhat closer to modern concepts of Christian theology.

2 Second-Century Theology Viewed as Philosophia A discourse about things divine and things human that does include ethics did, after all, exist in the second century: conceived in this way, theologia very much resembles that which the educated in the second century would have called a philosophia. Unfortunately, as in the case of theologia, we still lack a comprehensive analysis of the history of the Greek term philosophia (and cognate terms).9 As has been pointed out, by the second century, the term had acquired multiple meanings and had suffered a concomitant ‘devaluation’; in fact there were few writers in the second century who would not have claimed to be a philosophos of one kind or another.10 Those in the second century who tried to define the meaning of philosophia more 6 7 8 9 10

Aristotle, Metaph. A 3 983 b27–32; L 6 1071 b 27 (Jaeger 1988,8–9.250). Aristotle, Metaph. E 1 1026a 15–20 (Jaeger 1988 122–23). Strabo, Geog. 10,3,23 (Lasserre 1971, 82). Malingrey 1961 is a still very useful treatment of the Greek corpus, but it explicitly focuses on those features of the history of the term that explain its later adaptation by Greek Christian writers. Malingrey 1961, 99–100.

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precisely saw it as the art of living well11 and would stress its practical side: in this view, to be a philosopher is equivalent to embodying the perfect and blessed life. The philosopher, writes Dio Chrysostom, concerns himself with truth and wisdom; he cares about the gods and his own soul.12 In a narrower sense, philosophia was a discipline that had a definite Sitz im Leben insofar as it was taught and practised in various philosophical schools: Philosophia as a course of studies often consisted of dialectics, ethics and physics (theologia being the highest part of physics). In the second century, it had also become predominantly exegetical, and the writings of the philosophical founding fathers were assiduously commented upon (see next). Philosophia as taught in the institutional setting of a school aimed at teaching wisdom, that is at imparting a true and fully argued account of man and often also of the larger reality – the universe – of which man is but a part. During his apprenticeship, philosophia promised, the disciple of a philosopher will undergo a profound inner transformation in order to attain the desired objective and reasoned view of himself and the universe and thus realize the philosophical way of life, the blessed, the perfect life (eudaimonia).13 Let us see whether it makes sense to model second-century Christian theology on the example of philosophia. Regarding Christian theology/philosophy,14 it is certainly useful to propose a distinction we can also observe with regard to the non-Christian use of the term. On the one hand, there is a primary institutional context, the school of philosophia; on the other hand, there is a wider context outside the school in which philosophia is articulated and disseminated.15 Justin Martyr was head of a Christian school (Tatian being one of his disciples), as were probably prominent Gnostics such as Basilides, Carpocrates and Valentinus and his host of disciples, the Valentinians. These Christian schools of philosophy – much like their pagan counterparts – were usually small affairs; they were weak and volatile establishments which emerged as easily as they disappeared. Often they consisted of only a master and a handful of disciples. However, clearly not every important second-century Christian theologian can be cast as a teacher of Christian philosophy in this narrow sense. 11 12 13 14 15

Plutarch, Mor. 613B (Clement and Hoffleit 1969, 10–11); Malingrey 1961, 100. Dio Chrysostom, Orat. LXX,7 (Lamar Crosby 1951, 156–57); Malingrey 1961, ibidem. Hadot 1995; see also, e.g., the succinct definition of Trapp 2007, 2. The term itself (= christianikê philosophia) is first attested in the fourth century, in a homily by John Chrysostom, see Malingrey 1961, 263–88. See Trapp 2007, 18–25.

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For example, Irenaeus is known as the bishop of Lyon, not the head of a school.16 Clearly, there were Christian writers who exercised their magisterium as writers outside the institutional context of a school. In some cases (e.g. Tertullian) these Christian philosophers were, in fact, Christian ‘sophists’,17 orators who tried to popularize the Christian message. Again, there are obvious non-Christian parallels for this blurring of the boundaries between philosophy and rhetoric.18 If one pursues the basic idea of accepting philosophia and its institutional base, the philosophical school, as the starting model or perhaps the original matrix of second-century Christian theology, three fundamental features of second-century theology can be accounted for: • The first and most basic feature to mention here is its diversity: there was fierce disagreement and a lot of argument between the different schools of Christian philosophy and between masters and disciples of the same school. Doctrinal diversity resulted in a spectrum of opinions on almost every important theological issue such as, for example, the doctrine of the logos or the doctrine of creation. As is highlighted particularly by the anti-Gnostic polemics of authors like Irenaeus of Lyon or Tertullian of Carthage, disciples often discussed the finer points of their teacher’s doctrine and revised even their most basic assumptions. None of the prominent second-century schools of Christian philosophy (Justin and his disciples, the Valentinians, the Basilidians or Carpocratians) was able to establish a coherent and stable doctrinal tradition. This basic doctrinal instability is paralleled by contemporary non-Christian schools of philosophy.19 • The second, connected feature to mention here is heresiology, that is the attempt to monitor and evaluate this dissent by classifying and recording deviant doctrinal positions. A tradition of heresiological doxography emerged. The first heresiologist and doxographer was precisely Justin Martyr who was followed by Irenaeus of Lyon, Tertullian of Carthage and Hippolytus of Rome.20 These three authors define a distinct heresiological tradition within second-century 16

17 18 19 20

Chiapparini 2012, 22.24 points out that according to the testimony of the epilogue to the Martyrdom of Polycarp preserved in the Codex Mosquensis 159 (see Bihlmeyer 1970, 132, line 12), Irenaeus, before becoming bishop of Lyon and during his time in Rome, ‘taught many’. Barnes 1971, 211–32. Trapp 2007, 21 n.71. Armstrong 1990, Nr. IX, 425. Among the so called Gnostic Christian philosophers no comparable heresiology seems to have been developed. This fact calls for an explanation.

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Christianity. As Alain Le Boulluec has shown in his landmark study La notion d’héresie dans la littérature grecque IIe-IIIe siècle21, there is real continuity between philosophical doxography (as represented by, e.g., Diogenes Laertius) and Christian heresiology. Hippolytus of Rome in his Refutatio combines philosophical doxography and heresiological doxography.22 However, – as has also been pointed out by N. Brox – at this point a crucial difference emerges: whereas non-Christian philosophy has mostly a largely neutral notion of hairesis/heresy, its doxography being mainly descriptive and largely devoid of polemics, the emerging Christian heresiology proposed a notion of hairesis/heresy that is sharply pejorative.23 I will return to this contrast. • A third – countervailing – feature to mention is the attempt on the part of some Christian writers to define a doctrinal tradition in order to achieve or, at least, be able to claim some kind of doctrinal unity and stability. Reference was made to the idea of a succession of orthodox teachers, handing down the true tradition (the rule of faith) that was entrusted to them at the beginning by the master himself. The idea of apostolic succession was born (a similar conception possibly emerged in Rabbinic Judaism at about the same time), a succession of true teaching.24

3 Problems of Viewing Second-Century Theology as Philosophia Having sketched as briefly as possible the case for viewing ancient philosophy (understood as an intellectual practice, as a discourse) as the model for much of second-century theology, we must now discuss some of the problems of this claim. In fact, it is precisely the self-fashioning of parts of second-century Christianity as a philosophia that is contested territory. First of all, as regards the term philosophia, scholars have collected and analysed those passages from Christian authors of the second and third centuries, which define Christianity as the true philosophy.25 The picture that emerges from their analysis is far from clear: whereas authors such as Justin Martyr and Clement of Alexandria could identify the teaching of 21 22 23 24 25

Le Boulluec 1985. See Löhr 2011, 25–42. Brox 1984, 255–59. See v. Campenhausen 1953, 163–94; Le Boulluec 1985, 72–73, 84–91. Malingrey 1961; Schmidinger 1989, 887; Bastiaensen 2004.

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Christ as the true philosophy (Justin, Dial. 8,1–2; Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 5,32,4) or as ‘our philosophy’ (Melito of Sardes, apud Eusebius, Eccl. Hist. 4,26,7; Tatian, Orat., 35,1 ‘our barbarian philosophy’), for Irenaeus of Lyon or Hippolytus of Rome (Refutatio) the term philosophia applies only to pagan philosophy and therefore acquires a pejorative sense, all the more so because pagan philosophy – as had already been pointed out by Irenaeus and was demonstrated in great detail by Hippolytus – is to be seen as the midwife of various heresies.26 As regards Tertullian, he praises Justin Martyr as philosophus et martyr (Val. 5,1) and declares Christianity to be the melior philosophia (Pall. 6,2); however, in Apol. 46–47 he seems to adopt a critical stance towards philosophy, claims that pagan poets, orators and philosophers are dependent on the Old Testament and argues that the heresies arose from the attempt to adapt scripture to the views of the philosophers. Tertullian’s attitude towards philosophy and towards the possibility of a Christian philosophy must be reviewed – and this renewed analysis must be alert to the complexities of his attitude. Origen, too – to judge from the extant remains of his very large oeuvre – has by and large a pejorative notion of philosophia and tends to restrict the application of the term philosophia to the traditional schools of Greek philosophy.27 However, a purely lexicographical approach has clear limitations, given the fact that the word philosophia covers such a wide range of meanings. Moreover, the ‘real thing’ (philosophy as an intellectual practice that aims at self-transformation and as a discourse that articulates certain truth claims) can be present without the designation: It is precisely Origen who – despite his apparent reluctance to talk of a Christian philosophia – provides one of the most conspicuous and best documented examples of teaching Christianity as a philosophy within the institutional framework of a school.28 A second, even more serious, objection against modelling secondcentury theology on the concept of philosophia may arise from the view that there is a profound and irreconcilable opposition between philosophy’s authority, which bases itself on reason, and Christianity’s recourse to revelation. Does not the philosopher propose chains of arguments where the Christian teacher or priest prefers to quote authoritative scripture? 26 27

28

Löhr 2011, 28–37. Malingrey 1961, 159–77. But see Origen, In Cant.cant. prol. 3 (Brésard/Crouzel/Borret 1991, 128–43) where Origen proposes to read the writings of Solomon, i.e. the biblical books of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and the Song of Solomon as representing the tripartite philosophical curriculum of ethics, physics and the epoptic (concerning the contemplation of God) philosophy; Solomon has taught the divine philosophy (3,14). For Kobusch 2006, 58–63, this passage is fundamental, whereas Malingrey 1961, 174–75, plays down its importance. For useful summaries, see Hadot 1989; Bénatouil 2006.

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Clearly, much of second-century Christian theology/philosophia is exegetical: B. Aland has convincingly demonstrated that it is precisely so called Christian Gnostic writers who were the first to treat the New Testament as scripture and to provide precise and accurate quotations of New Testament writings.29 So called Gnostics like Heracleon and Basilides wrote the first commentaries on the gospels.30 The second century saw the slow establishment of canonical Christian scripture, the details of this process – despite much analysis and discussion – still being unclear.31 In the third century, the Christian philosopher Origen – who in his youth had worked as a teacher of grammar – was engaged in fully professional textual criticism and philology and in writing commentaries on the biblical books. With his Hexapla he realized a philological project of enormous ambition. However, the fact that Christian philosophers – both Gnostic and nonGnostic – drew on, referred to and commented upon a body of ‘canonical’ writings need certainly not contradict in and of itself their philosophical identity in the eyes of their educated contemporaries. P. Hadot and several other scholars have emphasized that the exegesis of the authoritative writings of the founding fathers of philosophy like Plato, Aristotle, Chrysippus or Epicurus formed the core curriculum of the schools of Greek philosophy from the second century onwards.32 G. Bétegh, for example, summarizing the period between the end of the first century CE and the third century CE, observes: Never after and, more remarkably, never before was the earlier philosophical literature so widely available. (. . .) This state of affairs was the result of the fact that from the first century BCE onwards, philosophers showed an unprecedented interest in the texts of authoritative figures of the past. This resulted in a sustained effort to organize the oeuvres and to produce canonical editions and commentaries.

And a little further on Bétegh remarks: The attitude towards authoritative texts, especially in the Platonic tradition, gradually gained a spiritual dimension: centrally important texts were considered sacred, their study a religious act.33

29 30 31 32 33

Aland 1989. Löhr 2013. See Verheyden in this volume. Hadot 1987, 1995. Bétegh 2010, 26. See also Sedley 1997, 110–29 and Frede 2003, 15, who remarks: ‘It is, of course, true that Christians relied on authority for their beliefs, even on the authority of revealed or inspired truth. But this did not distinguish them from pagan philosophers.’ Frede goes on to point out that

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It is not surprising, then, that third-century Platonists like Longinus or Porphyry excelled in philological and historical expertise. Porphyry wrote a Philosophical History whose first part contained a discussion of chronology.34 And of course, Porphyry not only accomplished the scholarly feat of correctly determining the date of the book of Daniel, but also – at the request of his teacher Plotinus – succeeded in exposing faked Zoroastrian apocrypha.35 A.-M. Malingrey has claimed that the second-century apologists, and particularly Justin Martyr, extended the more traditional (pagan) sense of the term philosophia (and cognate terms) in order to include revealed knowledge. And she concludes by analysing the term philo-sophia: philo- (. . .) traduit un désir et un amour communs de la sagesse, tandis que le second élément: sophia peut devenir un brandon de discorde, lorsque les auteurs chrétiens formulent, de facon explicite, ce qu’ils ajoutent à son contenu antérieur: sagesse révélée, référence au Christ. 36

If one follows Malingrey in construing the opposition between pagan philosophy and Christian philosophy/theology in this way, one would reinscribe into the philosophical/theological landscape of the second century the distinction between rational philosophy on the one hand and revealed theology on the other hand. It is, of course, possible to view the distinction between reason and revelation, between non-Christian philosophy and Jewish or Christian theology, as decisive and to map the intellectual landscape of the second century accordingly. But it is crucial to realize that to do so is a choice made by the modern historian, not a necessity imposed by the ancient sources. When, for example, Malingrey cites in support of her view the passage (Dial. 2,1) where Justin Martyr calls philosophy (that is the right and true philosophy) ‘the greatest possession’ and ‘very precious in the sight of God’ and claims that the philosophers are ‘holy’ and that God has sent down philosophy to human beings, it must be pointed out that Justin here only rehearses commonplaces that can also be found in non-Christian writers.37

34 35 36 37

Origen and Augustine reasoned for the authority of scripture with philosophical arguments. BoysStones 2001, 99–122, claims that the construction of the school founder as authoritative is a particular feature of the ‘Platonic movement’ in the second century. For qualification of BoysStones’s claims, see the review of Tarrant in Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2002. See also Tarrant 2011. Zambon 2004, 117–42. Porphyry, Life of Plotinus 16 (Armstrong 1966, 44–45). Malingrey 1961, 127–28. Bobichon 2003, 575.

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Justin’s praise of philosophy with its religious overtones is therefore no good reason to gainsay his self-definition as a philosopher and to closet him in the theology department. The distinction between philosophy and theology, reason and revelation was to acquire its full meaning, conceptual potential and institutional setting only much later and should therefore not be projected back into the second century.38 To employ this distinction is apt to delegitimize the project of a Jewish or Christian philosophy as little more than an elaborate piece of intellectual mimicry: Philo or the apologists did not really do philosophy; they only pretended to do philosophy in order to sell their particular versions of Judaism or Christianity to an educated audience. Here it is useful to consider a more recent essay by R. Lyman that has justly questioned the conception of ‘Christianity’ and ‘Hellenism’ as mutually exclusive categories. In the course of her argument Lyman also addresses the ambivalences of Justin Martyr’s self- definition as a Christian philosopher.39 She criticizes a widespread tendency in modern scholarship to consider Justin’s identity as a philosopher as: a literary trapping to make his new Christian discourse palatable in the mainstream or to distinguish it from Judaism.40

Lyman observes that modern difficulties in accepting Justin’s ‘hybrid identity’ as a Christian philosopher point to underlying problems with our constructions of ‘Christianity’ and ‘Hellenism’ as mutually exclusive categories. Lyman believes that for Justin ‘Christianity could be both a philosophy and more’.41 By claiming that the Logos incarnate embodied the fullness of transcendental truth, Justin could both reject and embrace central philosophical notions. According to Lyman, then, Justin – and, following his lead, Irenaeus and Tertullian – defined a Christian orthodoxy with universalist truth claims, which managed to replace the equally universalist Hellenistic philosophy.42 Although Lyman’s analysis is concerned with the opposition between ‘Christianity’ and ‘Hellenism’, her observations are pertinent for my attempt to question the slightly differently construed opposition between ‘Hellenistic philosophy based on reason’ and ‘Christian theology based on revelation’. 38 39 40 41 42

Kobusch 2006, 26–33. Lyman 2003a, 36–60. Lyman 2003a, 43. Lyman 2003a, 46. Lyman 2003a, 48.

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Lyman highlights a very modern inability to comprehend correctly the intellectual ambitions of philosophers like Philo, Justin, Origen or the various ‘Gnostic’ authors. They – educated and curious citizens of a flourishing empire encompassing many cultures and belief-systems – aimed at widening or indeed stretching the very definition of philosophy in order to allow for what Lyman in the jargon of postcolonial theorizing calls ‘hybridity’: A re-definition of that very Greek discipline of philosophy that was spacious enough not only to accommodate non-Greek wisdom, but even to privilege it as the ancient and true wisdom of which Greek philosophy is but a later elaboration or copy. It is interesting to note that A.-M. Malingrey, too, shows some awareness of the emergence of intellectual ‘hybridity’: she points out that Christian writers like Justin Martyr and, after him, Clement of Alexandria extended the application of the term philosophia by adding certain adjectives or attributes: the Christian philosophy is, according to Justin, the sure (asphalês) and useful (symphoros) philosophy. It is according to Melito of Sardes and Tatian (the disciple of Justin), the ‘barbarian’ philosophy.43 Clement of Alexandria speaks of the philosophy of the Indians or Egyptians or ‘the other barbarian philosophers’.44 For Clement, these philosophies indicate the continuous desire for God among old and exotic nations. Malingrey comments: L’important pour lui [i.e. Clement/W.L.] est de dérouler aux yeux de ses lecteurs, en une vaste fresque, l’histoire de l’humanité en marche vers Dieu à travers cet amour d’une sagesse multiforme qu’est toute philosophie. 45

If Malingrey is correct, Christian authors like the apologists or Clement of Alexandria tried to widen the meaning and scope of philosophy in an important way. In doing this, however – and this has been equally pointed out by Malingrey – they were only continuing and paralleling the work of Hellenistic Judaism (Philo of Alexandria whose ‘guiding principle was’– to quote John Dillon – ‘that Moses was a great philosopher (. . .), that all parts of his work are replete with philosophic content and are coherent and consistent with each other’)46 and Platonico-Pythagorean philosophers, particularly in the second century.

43 44 45 46

Justin, Dial. 8,1; Melito, apud Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 4,26,7; Tatian, Orat. 35,1; Malingrey 1961, 118ff. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1,71,3–4; 6,38,1 (Stählin and Früchtel 1985, 45.450). Malingrey 1961, 147. Dillon 1977, 143.

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In his treatise De Iside et Osiride Plutarch of Chaironeia could propose an allegorical and philosophical interpretation of the Egyptian myth of Isis and Osiris and thus provides another example of a conflation of religion and philosophy. Moreover, Plutarch seems to have subscribed to the view that there existed an ancient wisdom, shrouded in myth and ritual and recoverable by philosophy.47 Another Platonico-Pythagorean philosopher, Numenius of Apamea, seemed also to value Hebrew wisdom.48 Again, the Platonist Celsus propagated the true wisdom of ancient nations (the Egyptians, Assyrians, Indians, Persians, Odrysians, Samothracians and Eleusinians – but not the Hebrews – as Origen points out) or sages like Pythagoras, Linus, Musaeus, Orpheus, Zoroaster or Pherekydes.49 For Celsus, Plato was the last philosopher whose teaching contained the full truth as contained in the true doctrine (alethês logos, the title of his antiChristian treatise).50 Porphyry notes that Plotinus took an interest in the philosophy of the Persians and the Indians.51 For the Neoplatonist Proclus, the divinely inspired (!) Plato was but rehearsing the true doctrines of Orpheus and other early theologians.52 However, although there is good evidence for a strong interest in ancient and exotic wisdom in the second century, there is reason to suspect that not all devotees of philosophy (not even all devotees of Platonic philosophy) in the second century shared it. Diogenes Laertius, for example, lodges a strong protest against any ‘hybridization’ of the venerable tradition of Greek philosophy.53 Like their Jewish predecessors, Christian writers like Justin Martyr or Clement of Alexandria responded to the argument from antiquity by 47 48 49

50 51 52 53

Plutarch, fr. 157 (Sandbach 1987, 284–87); fr.190 (Sandbach 1987, 348–51); fr. 158 (Sandbach 1987, 294–97). See the analysis of Boys-Stones 2001, 107–11 and van Nuffelen 2011, 48–71. See van Nuffelen 2011, 78–83 who, however, contests the assumption that Numenius was particularly interested in the Jews. Origen, Cels. 1,14, (Borret 1967, 112–15): ‘There is a very ancient doctrine about which the wisest of nations and cities and men forever busied themselves.’ It is Origen who suspects a malevolent intent behind the omission of the Jews and of Moses (Cels. 1,16 [Borret 1967, 116–19]) from Celsus’s lists of wise nations and sages. It is unclear whether this suspicion is justified; Origen has to admit, after all, that Celsus notes doctrinal agreement between the very wise and ancient Galactophages, Druids and Getai on the one hand and the Jews on the other hand (Cels. 1,16). Van Nuffelen 2011, 222, tries to resolve the contradiction between 1,14 and 1,16 by arguing that Celsus distinguished two groups of ancient peoples: the Jews belonged only to the second group, which is still ancient but one step further removed from the original truth. Origen, Cels. 6,10, Borret 1969, 200–03; Boys-Stones 2001, 117, n.35 (referring to the analysis of M. Frede). Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3 (Armstrong 1966, 8–9; Boys-Stones 2001, 113). Proclus, Plat. Theol. 5,10 (Saffrey-Westerink 1987, 33–34); G. Boys-Stones, Post-Hellenistic Philosophy, 118. Diogenes Laertius, Vit. Phil. prol. (Hicks 1980, 3–22).

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pointing to Moses and the Old Testament prophets and by postulating – in various ways and with various accents – a dependency of Greek philosophy on these more ancient sources.54 Christian Gnostic philosophy, however, stressed the new and full revelation in Jesus Christ who conveys the Gnosis to his followers. Initially, there seems to have been little Gnostic concern with the argument from antiquity. Later on, however, Gnostic philosophers, too, felt the need to answer this argument: Isidor, the son and disciple of Basilides, claimed access to prophetic wisdom whose antiquity even surpasses that of the ancient sages cited by Celsus.55 The Christian Gnostics who frequented the school of Plotinus cited (fake) Zoroastrian apocrypha.56

4 Christian Theology? Having so far discussed some problems concerning the usefulness of the terms ‘theology’ and ‘philosophy’ for the conceptualization of secondcentury theology, I now wish to add a few remarks regarding the term ‘Christian’. First, it should be pointed out that in order to map the landscape of second-century Christian theology properly, the term ‘Christian’ has to be taken in the widest sense possible: for the historian, any one individual or group must be considered Christian who or which defines his-, heror itself as Christian with a minimum of consistency or coherence. This means that modern historiography should employ the term ‘Christian’ in a strictly descriptive, not as is so often the case, in a fully or semi-normative sense and that it should particularly avoid rehearsing the distinctions and dichotomies of ancient heresiology. Gnostic teachers such as Saturninus, Basilides and Isidor or the Valentinians are to be understood as, first and foremost, Christian theologians, as teachers of Christian philosophia.57 Or to put it differently: the so-called Gnostics form an important part of second-century Christianity. Any account of secondcentury Christian theology that either neglects ‘heretics’ like Marcion, Basilides and Valentin or includes them only as ‘the other’ of properly Christian theology is seriously defective and endorses uncritically the view

54 55 56 57

See Ridings 1995; Löhr 2000, 403–26; Boys-Stones 2001, 176–202. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 6,53,2–5. See Löhr 1996, 197–206. See n.35. See, however, Kobusch 2006, who – despite his fairly generous notion of Christian philosophy – does not seem to include the Christian Gnostics.

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of the emerging orthodoxy discourse of Justin Martyr, Irenaeus and Tertullian. At this point it is useful to introduce the somewhat modish term ‘spectrum’: an account of second-century Christian theology should aim at presenting the full spectrum of Christian theologies, including those of the so called heretics. Talking of a spectrum of theologies has the advantage of keeping us aware of both the differences (the reader is reminded of P. Veyne’s definition of history as an ‘inventory of differences’) and the continuities between various theological positions.58 The story of the emergence of the laboratory of Christian theology is not a simple linear or even teleological narrative of the emergence of orthodoxy (protocatholic, catholic or otherwise), but rather the story of the emergence of a spectrum of conflicting theological positions and of corresponding debates. Within this context, the discourse of orthodoxy is to be seen as an attempt to order and redefine the spectrum from a specific perspective. For example, the polemics conducted by an exponent of the orthodoxy discourse such as Irenaeus of Lyon against the Valentinians should not obscure the fact that he shares some of their premises and has perhaps even learned from them.59 A lot of ‘silent traffic’ may be going on beneath the troubled surface of an acrimonious and polarized theological controversy.60 A. v. Harnack, who perceived the self-definition of Christianity as a philosophy as the key theme of the Christian second century, proposed to identify two distinct versions of this self-definition: one being the Logostheology of the apologists and the other being Gnosticism. These two versions of Christian philosophy were, Harnack believed, distinguished by the degree of their intellectual engagement: whereas the Apologists, by and large, considered the Christian revelation as simply validating some general and widely shared tenets of religious philosophy, the Gnostics, according to Harnack, subjected Christian revelation and Christian scripture to an intense philosophical questioning. Harnack had also already pointed out that the self-definition of Christianity as a philosophy constituted an important development not only in the history of Christianity but also in the history of ancient philosophy.61 58 59 60 61

See the title of his inaugural lecture at the Collège de France, Veyne 1976. See now Löhr 2012, 360–63. See the contributions of Edwards and King in this volume. Harnack 1964, 496–504. For Kobusch 2006 the Christian philosophy of the Fathers has consummated the course of Greek philosophy and has prepared – as ‘metaphysics of the inner man’ – the emergence of the modern concept of the self.

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It is, then, only when we include the great Gnostic teachers that we can discern the true contours of the spectrum of second-century Christian theology.

5

The Rise of the Orthodoxy/Heresy Discourse: A Departure from Theology as Philosophia?

Even if we opt for such an inclusive model of second-century Christianity, we still have to account for the establishment of a self-proclaimed orthodoxy and the concomitant rise of heresiology. As we already mentioned, the orthodoxy/heresy discourse distinguishes – at least to some degree – Christian philosophy/theology from its non-Christian counterpart. Why did this systematic attempt to make heretics out of Marcion and various ‘Gnostic’ teachers on the part of Logos-theologians such as Justin Martyr, Irenaeus of Lyon, Tertullian of Carthage and Hippolytus of Rome take place? It is important to realize that, at its origin, Christian heresiology was meant to solve a specific problem of defining Christianity as a philosophy. With this self-definition, second-century Christianity entered an already crowded doctrinal bazaar. It had to compete with other schools of philosophy (Stoics, Platonists, Peripatetics and Epicureans), which all offered philosophia with its combination of transformative theoretical knowledge and a way of life. Various intellectual strategies were proposed to come to terms with this plurality of philosophies: Justin Martyr claimed that originally, before the emergence of various schools that contradicted each other, philosophy had been a gift from heaven, one and undivided.62 Justin wished to distinguish the original intention of philosophy – the one and undivided search for truth – from its betrayal and adulteration by the various schools of philosophy that no longer care about the truth but only defend their own reputation. Justin here rehearses only an anti-scholastic argument that could also be articulated by non-Christian philosophers (for example by Galen).63 Christian philosophy, the only true philosophy, Justin claimed, recovers the ancient and unitary truth, which is to be found already in the Old Testament prophets and then in the teaching of Jesus Christ. Christ is the beginning and the end of the search for truth that is the hallmark of true philosophy.64 62 63 64

Justin, Dial. 2,1–2 (Goodspeed 1984, 91–92). See Mansfeld 1994, 165–66. Le Boulluec 1985, 57f.

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However, having defined Christian philosophy as one and undivided and as such superior to non-Christian philosophy, Justin had to account for the fact that the plurality of the pagan schools of philosophy was only mirrored by a plurality of Christian schools. Pagans such as Celsus did not hesitate to inform themselves and their readers about the inner divisions of Christianity.65 The solution for Justin (and later Christian writers) was to deny and exclude Christian plurality by giving the neutral term hairesis its new Christian, that is to say, starkly pejorative, meaning.66 Justin Martyr was apparently the inventor of heresiology – the definition, classification and, above all, denunciation of Christian difference. And Christian writers such as Irenaeus of Lyon and Hippolytus of Rome extended his argument by blaming precisely the nefarious influence of the pagan philosophical schools for the divisive plurality of Christian heresies.67 With the new Christian definition of the term hairesis a second notion is born, namely the notion of ‘orthodoxy’. Two further developments are characteristic of the emergence of Christian heresy and orthodoxy. First, as has already been mentioned, various Christian writers such as Justin Martyr, Irenaeus of Lyon, Tertullian of Carthage, Hippolytus of Rome or Origen hesitated to view Christianity as a philosophy like other philosophies. Some of them even hesitated to apply the term philosophia to Christianity at all. There is a movement away from considering Christianity as the best and only true philosophy to considering Christianity as something more than a mere philosophy. These writers then seem to envisage a new discursive space for Christian theology by distinguishing it from the plurality of non-Christian philosophy on the one hand and Gnostic heresies on the other hand. Once this new space had been constructed, a re-definition of the relation between Christian doctrine and non-Christian philosophy and various reengagements between Christian theology/philosophy and non-Christian (Neoplatonist) philosophy became possible. One could discuss whether this re-definition begins to emerge for the first time in the fifth and sixth 65 66

67

Origen, Cels. 5,61–62 (Borret 1969, 164–69). Justin 1 Apol. 26,8; Le Boulluec 1985, 64–70. Lieu 2015, 18f, 28f, contends that this novel meaning of the term ‘hairesis’ cannot be attributed to any single source and that it is Irenaeus rather than Justin that marks a decisive stage in its development. Boys-Stones 2001, 151–75, observes that secondcentury Christians claimed Christianity to transmit a primordial and unitary teaching in order to answer a pagan (Platonist) critique that highlighted the internal differences of Christian philosophy. Thus a Platonist critique was answered by a Platonizing Christian dogmatism and the rise of Christian heresiology can be viewed as part of an apologetic argument. Löhr 2011.

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centuries, when Christian authors with a thorough training in nonChristian philosophy began to use its concepts in a more systematic way in order to discuss Trinitarian or Christological questions. However, already Origen, in his Letter to Gregory the Wonderworker (1,1), envisages a new role for non-Christian philosophy, which is no longer a possible rival for Christian philosophy but rather – together with other enkyklika mathêmata – a preparation for the interpretation of Scripture.68 A second development must be noted here. Heresiology, and particularly heresiological doxography, remained an important part of Christian theology long after the second century. In 375/6 Bishop Epiphanius of Salamis finished his voluminous encyclopedia of doctrinal deviance, the Panarion (medicine box), against all heresies. In this work he did present detailed descriptions and refutations not only of various contemporary heresies but also of heresies that – as far as we know – no longer existed at the time of his writing.69 Far from quickly eradicating heresy by abandoning it to a kind of theological damnatio memoriae, early Christian heresiology seemed to be almost obsessively preserving its memory. It did so because the heresiological rationale was built into the very fabric of early Christian theology: its truth claim was plausible insofar as the alternative doctrinal positions against which it was formulated continued to be remembered. Heresiology became part and parcel of the theological memory of Christianity. Moreover, it is precisely the plurality of heresy in all its disturbing diversity that served to render the unity and simplicity of orthodoxy attractive and its universalist truth claims plausible. And finally, heresiology manages to integrate and replace the plurality of non-Christian philosophy by a superseding plurality of Christian heresies. In this way one universalist and totalizing discourse (nonChristian philosophy, its debates, the plurality of questions it addresses and the plurality of arguments it proposes, the distinctive positions that result from the plurality of arguments) is replaced by another one: Christian heresiology in its variety. To put it simply: you can try to finish a debate by proclaiming your position as the only true one. It is, however, much more effective to replace the debate by a new one, to substitute one spectrum of positions and debates for another one. This is what Christianity achieved (not completely, but to a considerable extent) in Late Antiquity. 68 69

Origen, Ep. Greg. (Crouzel 1969, 186–95). See Pourkier 1992.

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6 Conclusion The self-definition and institutional framing of Christianity as a philosophy distinguished second- and third-century Christianity from first-century Christianity. This self-definition is the starting model/original model for the new discourse of Christian theology. With this selfdefinition, Christianity followed in the wake of Hellenistic Judaism, most notably Philo of Alexandria. In the longer run, this self-definition was replaced by the totalizing discourse of orthodoxy and gave way to new definitions of the relation between philosophy and theology. In modern research, the fact of Christianity’s self-definition as philosophy in the second century is often acknowledged. But it is often overlooked that it is precisely in the second century, in the state of intellectual openness and flux characteristic of ‘Post-Hellenistic Philosophy’ (G. Boys-Stones), that this particular self-definition with its particular rationale became possible. Neither the implications nor the ambiguities of this selfdefinition have yet been fully recognized. On the one hand, Christianity as philosophia shares certain characteristics with post-Hellenistic philosophy. It embodies a particular rationality (predominantly exegetical, unitary, universalist) with particular truth claims (truth being transformative and tied to a way of life, to eudaimonia). On the other hand, Christian theology again and again defines itself as being the only true and truly transformative philosophia, as, indeed, surpassing philosophia, as being the other of philosophia. In one way or another, philosophia remained the point of reference for articulating the rationale and rationality of early Christian theology.

part iii

Interpreting Texts and Engaging in Practice

chapter 10

Galen and the Christians Texts and Authority in the Second Century AD Rebecca Flemming

Galen of Pergamum, the great physician and medical system builder of the Roman Empire, produced some of the most authoritative texts of the second century AD. Whether the assessment is made on the basis of claim or reception, rhetoric or influence, Galen’s oeuvre scores impressively highly. He is also one of the few external witnesses to the presence of Christian groups, and to Christianity’s intellectual presence, in the wider cultural landscape of late second-century Rome. His remarks on the subject are, admittedly, few and slight, but their casualness has its virtues, and scholars have been increasingly drawn to the Galenic perspective on a range of contemporary developments, including the rise of the early Christian movement.1 His comments openly engage with issues of authority within this movement and, less directly, with texts. Any sense of Christianity as, essentially, a religion of the book is absent, but teaching is involved, and doctrine (doxa), both of which must come from somewhere. On one occasion Galen refers to the ‘school’ (diatribê) of Moses and Christ, which might well suggest the characteristic combination of texts and authority, within a recognisable social form, all points which have been illuminatingly scrutinised in recent scholarship.2 The approach taken here is a slightly different one. The focus will be more on the second-century setting and on Galen. The key question is how do Galen’s Christians fit into his wider strategies of legitimation and persuasion, as pursued in his writings and beyond? Where are they located within wider patterns of text and authority in this world? What is shared and what is separate in the Christian phenomenon that emerges in this context? The question has been given particular impetus recently by the work of Kendra Eshleman, whose book The Social World of Intellectuals in 1 2

For a general project of this kind, see e.g. Schlange-Schöningen 2003, including discussion of Galen, Asclepius, Jews and Christians (223–254). See esp. Alexander 1994, 2001.

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the Roman Empire: Sophists, Philosophers, and Christians is a very welcome addition to the growing body of scholarship which seeks, in a number of ways, to locate Christian writers and preachers within the horizons of the Second Sophistic.3 More specifically, Eshleman argues not only that sophists, philosophers and Christians in the (long) second century all had recourse to a similar set of ‘culturally available technologies of identity formation, authorization, and institutionalization’, but also that there was a similar direction of travel towards ‘orthodoxy’.4 The Christians took this project further, and, of course, there are other differences too, of aim and emphasis, experience and concern, between these groups; but Eshleman does want to put the idea, the practice, of orthodoxy into the general mix, not leave it solely to the Christians and, indeed, to give it some particularly Second Sophistic roots. Galen too has been increasingly drawn into the world of the Second Sophistic, and recent studies of his self-presentational and self-promotional strategies, in particular his participation in and manipulation of the epideictic culture of his time, emphasise this milieu.5 These connections will emerge quite clearly, as Galen’s Christian references are discussed in more detail, but any broader trajectory towards orthodoxy is harder to find. Galen’s project is totalising in an imperial rather than doctrinal sense, all encompassing rather than exclusive, though he is as quick to point out others’ errors as anyone. Moreover, though he is full of talk about medical and philosophical haireseis, ‘sects’, and about wrongful allegiance to them, his concerns map very poorly onto Christian constructions of heresy, despite the shared vocabulary.6

Galen on Christians Richard Walzer identified six surviving Galenic passages which refer to Jews and Christians: half in Greek, half in Arabic.7 The latter material, as Stephan Gero has since noted, is less straightforward than Walzer, a pioneer in the field of what is now called Graeco-Arabic studies, implied.8 Gero’s attention is focused on one particular passage, but the 3 4 5 6 7 8

Eshleman 2012; previous book-length projects which interpret Christian authors within a Second Sophistic frame include Winter 2002 and Brent 2006. Eshleman 2012, 7. Bowersock 1969 is followed by e.g. von Staden 1994, 1997; Mattern 2008; and Gleason 2009; with Brunt 1994 as a dissenting voice. On which, see von Staden 1982. Walzer 1949. Gero 1990.

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point he makes is more widely applicable. More than just translation stands between Galen’s Greek original and the Arabic versions Walzer presents and interprets: these are texts which have also been excerpted, compiled and otherwise reworked. Questions of transmission will be briefly dealt with here as part of a wider introductory exercise which aims to locate these references more precisely within Galen’s life and work, to give them a more firmly Galenic, and second-century setting in general, and to focus on issues of text and authority within that more specifically. Walzer presents his material in the same order as his main Arabic source, with an extra addition at the end. Ibn Abi Usaybi’a’s massive biographical history of medicine, The Best Accounts of the Classes of Physicians, composed in mid-thirteenth-century Damascus includes, of course, a rich life of Galen. This incorporates a collection of passages where Galen mentions Moses and Christ. These are taken from Ibn al-Matran, a well-known Syrian doctor, medical teacher and writer of the previous century, a Christian who converted to Islam as court physician to Saladin.9 AlMatran is quoted as reporting that Galen made reference to Moses in On Anatomy according to Hippocrates and On the Usefulness of the Parts; and alluded to Moses and Christ in the great work On the Pulse and On the First Mover; as well as in other (unspecified) places. The relevant Galenic passages are embedded in the excerpt, with the exception of the second. Walzer considers it unlikely that the compilation was Ibn al-Matran’s own idea (he probably adopted it from an earlier Christian Arabic source) but no more specific suggestion is forthcoming.10 Since On the Usefulness of the Parts, Galen’s physiological magnum opus in seventeen books, is well preserved in Greek, that Ibn Abi Usaybia’a does not include the lengthy passage in which Moses features makes little difference. Also surviving in Greek are the sixteen books, divided into four treatises, which were combined to constitute the great work On the Pulse, as it appears in the late antique medical curriculum, for example, and in the Risâla of Hunain ibn Ishaq, the descriptive epistolary list of all the translations of Greek medical and philosophical texts he (and his circle) made in ninth-century Baghdad.11 In the original 9

10 11

A much-needed new edition of this key work is being undertaken by a team from the Universities of Oxford and Warwick (http://krc2.orient.ox.ac.uk/alhom/index.php/en/), which may well revise this part of the text (as much else!). Walzer 1949, 87–88, provides a translation (from the problematic edition of Mueller). Walzer 1949, 88–89. Risâla no. 16: the Arabic text of the Risâla (with discussion and German translation) was published by Bergsträsser 1925; and there is an English summary translation (and further discussion) by Meyerhof

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tetralogy, On the Differences of the Pulse contains the passage cited by al-Matran, along with a second reference to Moses and Christ; and both are included by Walzer. In the other two instances, the Greek is lost, and though known to have been translated in their entirety by Hunain, the Arabic texts too seem not to have survived, leaving Usaybi’a as the only transmitter of these extracts, in this excerpted form.12 There are plenty of other references to On the Anatomy of Hippocrates in Galen’s extant Greek oeuvre, however, including in On the Usefulness of the Parts (14.4), though not to this statement in particular. While On the First Mover, which must be the commentary on the Aristotelian principle that The First Mover is Unmoved, listed in Galen’s autobiographical bibliography, On My Own Books, together with other works on Aristotle’s philosophy, seems to have gained more attention in the later Arabic tradition than it ever did in the Roman world.13 The final, sixth, passage in Walzer’s set is not from Usaybi’a and, as Gero has noted, is the most problematic in many ways. It derives ultimately from Galen’s summaries of Platonic dialogues, either the synopsis of the Republic or the Phaedo to be more specific, lost both in Greek and in their full Arabic translation.14 As those alternatives indicate, there are several versions of the relevant snippet in different sources, various, somewhat divergent reports and engagements; and good reason to think that the text Walzer prints has been added to, quite actively reworked, along the way from its Galenic origins. Moreover, though the summaries are listed in On My Own Books, in the section on works concerning Plato’s philosophy, they too made more mark in Arabic than in Greek; unsurprisingly, since it is uncertain whether any Arabic translations were made of the Platonic dialogues themselves.15 The inclusion of all the texts which mention Moses and Christ in On My Own Books is not only reassuring in regard to authenticity but also helps with the chronology and broader context of these works. Galen was born in Pergamum in AD 129, and his education was initially under the

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14 15

1926; both use the same numbering system. For the Arabic translation movement more generally, see Gutas 1998. Risâla nos 27 and 125. There is, of course, a chance that the Arabic texts will yet be recovered; many medieval Arabic manuscripts remain uncatalogued and/or unread. An Arabic text identified as Alexander of Aphrodisias’ refutation of Galen on the unmoved mover has been published by Rescher and Marmura 1967, and see also Pines 1961; though Fazzo 2002 has doubts. Walzer 1949, 92–93, favours the Republic; Gero 1990, 400–2, the Phaedo. See Reisman 2004.

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control of his father, the architect Nicon.16 After giving his son an excellent grounding in arithmetic, logic, geometry and grammar, Nicon steered him first towards the study of philosophy and then medicine. Galen attended lectures on these subjects and listened to a range of philosophers and physicians in Pergamum in his teens, before his father’s death in AD 148 enabled him to pursue the best teachers of his day right across the eastern Mediterranean. He initially moved to Smyrna to study with Pelops, and Albinus the Platonist, and then travelled to Corinth and Alexandria. The latter was the great centre of medical education in the Roman Empire, as it had been in the Hellenistic World, but Galen also had a more specific goal in mind: he wanted to learn from Numisianus, the most esteemed living pupil of the great anatomist Quintus. After about a decade away as a student, a very protracted educational period by contemporary standards, Galen returned to Pergamum in AD 157. He was then appointed as physician to the gladiators there, on account of his manifestly superior skill he claims, and successfully held that post until the draw of the imperial capital became too much, and he left for Rome in AD 162. Galen had, he says, already begun to write, long before his first stay in Rome, mostly for himself, and at the behest of fellow students and friends (e.g. Lib. Prop. 1.2–6 and 2.1–6: Boudon-Millot 2007 136.25–137.24 and 140.12–141.15). These early endeavours were not for public consumption, though much of his juvenilia would subsequently find its way to a wider audience. In particular, Galen was working through a range of methodological matters in these formative years. He was focused on, and obsessed with, the fundamental question of the justification of knowledge: how competing claims about the world are to be judged, and what counts as real, genuine proof – as apodeixis, ‘demonstration’ in a strong, technical, sense? His investigations involved both listening to debates and didactic expositions and studying key texts by himself. He would master the main ideas and arguments in a treatise by making systematic notes – hupomnemata – on it, producing a personal commentary on these authoritative writings. As he explains he did, first with the Stoic Chrysippus’ books on syllogisms, and then also with various logical tracts by Aristotle and his student and successor, Theophrastus (Lib. Prop. 14.9–14: Boudon-Millot 161–23). This all seems to have formed part of the build-up to his first magnum opus, the fifteen books On Demonstration, in which he elaborated his own answers to 16

For Galen’s biography, see Boudon-Millot 2012 and Mattern 2013.

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these problems in a systematic fashion: cut through the disputes of the Peripatetics, Stoics and Platonists to set out an approach modelled on geometric proof.17 Probably composed alongside Galen’s practical doctoring to the gladiators, this work was intended for a broader readership. Its completion may, indeed, have been what finally propelled Galen, now secure in his epistemological foundations and ready to take on the world, to Rome in search of an audience to match his ambition. This early, formative period of Galen’s career is the most likely context for the production of his Platonic synopses, and also his commentary On the First Mover. The synopses suggest projects undertaken for himself, and their composition at a time when his main concerns were epistemological would also help explain the content of the extract, which will be examined in more detail in a moment. The latter, though it does seem to have an external addressee of some sort, certainly dealt with subjects that received more substantial treatment in On Demonstration, and so might well have been preparatory to it, part of the intellectual work which accompanied Galen’s service to the arena. This is far from certain, and matters are further complicated by the fact that, if given the chance, Galen would work up, correct and develop those of his texts which had moved into the public domain against his original intentions. But the coverage here will be in this order, and it is worth stressing the general point that the engagement with Christianity may well have begun long before Galen reached Rome, and that the Christian groups he was writing about were those of the cities of the eastern Mediterranean as much as of the imperial metropolis itself. He may even have encountered students of Christianity searching out their own key teachers in the same locations as he was looking for his. Clement of Alexandria is a little younger than Galen, for instance, but followed a not dissimilar pedagogic path (Strom. 1.1.2.1–2). As mentioned, these two early engagements survive only in Arabic, and rather problematically so, but the content can be usefully summarised and scrutinised to some extent. In both, Christians are a group who share sufficient features with others in his social and intellectual milieu – philosophical (and medical) groupings – to be engaged with on similar terms. They also exemplify certain sorts of flawed practice in this context – that is as coherent didactic and doctrinal enterprises. Indeed, their main role in Galen’s oeuvre is that of exemplification, as it is deployed in 17

The best ideas of the contents of this, the most important of Galen’s lost treatises, can be gained from some of the sustained engagements with it in the Arabic tradition, especially the first book of Rhazes’ Doubts about Galen.

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a more generally critical manner, to illustrate, prevent and castigate a widespread set of such failings. These same themes will recur across the piece. In On the Prime Mover, this cultural comparability, overlap of form and purpose, is simply assumed. The ‘followers of Moses and Christ’ teach their students badly, emphasising obedience to, and trust in, their authority, rather than proving their claims through logical methods that start with agreed definitions. Galen had begun a discussion that way, as implied by this isolated extract, but has been let down by his audience, or maybe is moving to prevent disdain for proper procedure in debate by aligning such an attitude with the Christians, it is hard to tell. More explanation is offered in the Platonic synopsis. The Christians – maybe just ‘the followers of Christ’, but certainly not ‘the people called Christians (nasâra)’, as Walzer translates from the text he prints – are here characterised as a quasiphilosophical group.18 They are philosophical in their disciplined, ascetic lifestyle, their contempt of death, and their ethical concerns, but not in their epistemological formation. The reference comes as part of a more general critique of those who stray from the demonstrative method of argumentation and resort to rumûz, ‘mysteries’, instead.19 The Christians then appear as an example of this flawed approach, though they do exhibit these more admirable qualities too. So far, the focus has been on philosophical groups and ideas as providing the context in which Galen’s Christians operate. On Demonstration was primarily an engagement with Platonists, Aristotelians and Stoics, and the two texts and passages discussed in more detail fit that pattern too. The existence of more or less organised medical groupings has also been recognised, however, and will come more to the fore as Galen’s career develops. One of his Smyrnan compositions was entitled On Medical Experience. It is, essentially, his account of a two-day debate between his teacher Pelops and Philip the Empiricist (ho empeirikos), in which the latter attempted to demonstrate that the art of medicine could be based solely on experience (empeiria), while the former aimed to refute that argument (Lib. Prop. 2.3–4 Boudon-Millot 140–20-141.3). Galen wrote down, and reorganised, the main points advanced by both sides, ‘as an exercise for myself’; and, he says, has no notion how this text passed out of his possession.20 18 19 20

Walzer 1949, 15–16 and Gero 1990, 403–404. Gero 1990, 404–405 discusses the translation of rumûz. It is even preserved in an Arabic translation published by Walzer 1944.

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Such staged public debates were an integral part of medical culture in the Roman Empire, and clearly participate in the wider epideictic patterns of the Second Sophistic. Christians on the other hand, had to maintain a lower profile, doing most of their arguing in textual form. So, though the Platonic passage gives the impression of being based on direct experience of Christian behaviour, that must remain in doubt. Christianity certainly could be presented as a philosophy, the true philosophy, by its adherents at this time, who might well take their philosophical engagements very seriously. The death of an important exponent of such an approach, Justin, in Rome as Galen’s first stay there was ending, shows the risks at least of winning philosophical disputations in front of an audience (Eusebius HE 4.16). Still, it also indicates a range of Christian activities in these respects, beyond the textual. A couple of more particular points about the way Galen describes the participants in this debate are also worth underlining. It is noteworthy that, while Philip is labelled empeirikos, identified as belonging to the empiricist ‘school’ or ‘sect’ (hairesis) that was founded in early Hellenistic Alexandria, Galen’s teacher Pelops is unlabelled. Just as when he had been introduced (Lib. prop. 2.1: Boudon-Millot 140.16), it was as Pelops ‘the physician’ (ho iatros), in contrast to Albinus ‘the Platonist’ (ho Platonikos). Moreover, while Philip argues positively for the position of his group – that experience alone leads to medical knowledge and to sound medical practice – Pelops merely adopts the contrary perspective – that experience alone is insufficient – rather than advocating an actual alterative, providing his own vision of the medical art. Galen’s main medical teacher prior to Pelops, Satyrus, is also unlabelled, so too the more distant pedagogic figures of Numisianus and Quintus. All had anatomical interests, taught Hippocrates, and used the exegesis of Hippocratic texts – the writings associated with the legendary founding father of learned Greek medicine, Hippocrates of Cos – as a key teaching method, but that is all Galen says on the subject (Ord. Lib. Prop. 3.5–9 Boudon-Millot 98.3–25). He offers no further identification. In particular, Galen never calls them either ‘Hippocrateans’ or ‘rationalists’ (logikoi). He does not designate them, therefore, as ‘followers of Hippocrates’, on the same model as Platonists or, to take some medical examples, also originating in Hellenistic Alexandria, like the Herophileans and Erasistrateans, the followers of the two great, lineage-founding, practitioners of human dissection and vivisection in that city, Herophilus and Erasistratus. Nor does he deploy the broader category of logikos for these men, the reason-based significant other of empeirikos, though, while the latter title was internally generated, the former category was only ever used

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externally, for organisational convenience or polemical effect.21 Still, it was associated, by some of those outside reporters, with the practice of anatomy (Cels. Med. pr. 13–26). These two central themes of his pedagogic formation do come together in On the Anatomy of Hippocrates, the composition of which is explicitly located during Galen’s first stay in Rome, from AD 162 to AD 166, in On My Own Books (1.7–10: Boudon-Millot 137.1–21). This treatise, in six books, is part of Galen’s more general turn to anatomy and physiology in this period, now that epistemology has been sorted out, and it also contributes to and reflects a presentational strategy that emphasises his Hippocratic credentials in the new city. Three major works will result – On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato, On the Usefulness of the Parts, and Anatomical Procedures – though they (forty books in toto) will not be completed until Galen’s permanent return to Italy, after a brief sojourn back in Pergamum in AD 166–168. All are (or were to have been) dedicated to Galen’s most important patron of this phase in his career, the consular Flavius Boethus, an Aristotelian with an enthusiasm for anatomy and a family with practical medical needs. While On the Usefulness of the Parts, and presumably some of the earlier treatises on more specific areas of somatic operation written for Boethus too are essentially positive endeavours, about expounding, fully explaining, his own views, Galen himself labels On the Anatomy of Hippocrates, and its (also lost) partner, On the Anatomy of Erasistratus, as ‘more combative’ (philotimoteros: Lib. Prop. 1.7 and 10: Boudon-Millot 138.3 and 19). The reasons for this are worth setting out briefly, before looking a bit more closely at the linked pair of references to Moses in Anatomy and Usefulness of the Parts. They help fill in more of the significant background material. Galen blames the most senior medical figure in the imperial capital for this state of affairs. Martialos was a renowned physician and an anatomical authority of considerable weight, but Galen avers, still quarrelsome despite having passed seventy.22 They crossed swords directly on several occasions after Galen arrived on the scene in Rome, and there was also a series of proxy skirmishes. Following one of Galen’s public disquisitions on an established anatomical question, for instance, which had received high praise from all who had been present, Martialos had asked one of Galen’s friends about his sectarian allegiance: from which hairesis was he? As has 21 22

See von Staden 1982. The name appears slightly differently in different works; see Boudon Millot 2007, 185–186, n.3 for discussion.

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been suggested, this was a reasonably obvious enquiry to make, and, indeed, Galen happily described Boethus as practising his philosophy according to the hairesis of Aristotle. But Galen’s representative in this exchange responded, waspishly, that his mentor regarded those who called themselves ‘Hippocrateans’ or ‘Praxagoreans’ or whatever as ‘slaves’, while he himself took whatever was good from all of them. Martialos then, reportedly, rephrased his question to ask which ancient medical authority Galen most admired? Having heard that Hippocrates was his hero, Martialos retorted that he had nothing to offer in the field of anatomy, rather, Erasistratus was the most impressive in all areas of medicine, including this. Galen’s response was to write six books on all the valuable anatomical insights in the Hippocratic Corpus and three books against Erasistratus’ teachings on the subject. What role Moses played in this discussion of Hippocratic anatomy is, unfortunately, obscure: the extract preserved by Usaybi’a gives little away about the bigger picture. Moses is described as a lawgiver for the Jews. He wrote books but was not much concerned with demonstration, just stating ‘God commanded’ or ‘God said’. Some people, Galen reports, have critically compared those who operate in the medical domain without properly supported knowledge to Moses on this basis; but who these people were and exactly how this comparison works are unclear. Still, there seems to be some continuity between Moses’ problematic approach to knowledge and that of his Christian followers, already encountered. And Galen may be borrowing some of his critical moves in this area from others, or, at least, these kind of discursive tactics were, to some extent, shared. There is likely more going on too, and the lengthy sequence in On the Usefulness of the Parts offers some possibilities in this regard. For here, the emphasis is on the substance of Moses’ views: on the content of God’s commands and what that entails about Mosaic notions of divinity and nature. Moses features as an authoritative figure like Epicurus or Plato in these discussions. Moses’ approach to nature is, indeed, better than Epicurus’, though no match for Plato’s (or Galen’s). For he shares with the latter (in contrast to the former) a commitment to the understanding that human beings (and much else) have been fashioned by a provident creator – variously referred to as nature, demiurge or god – but matter (hylê) is missing from the Mosaic scheme, matter that imposes crucial constraint on creation.23 23

On Galen’s creator figure, see Flemming 2009.

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This is the point at which my teaching (doxa) and that of Plato and the others amongst the Greeks who have correctly handled theories about nature, differs from that of Moses. For him it suffices for god to have willed material to be arranged and straightway it was arranged, because Moses held everything to be possible for god, even if he should wish to make a horse or ox out of ashes. We, however, do not hold this, saying rather that some things are impossible by nature, and that god does not attempt these at all but chooses from amongst the creative possibilities what is best to be done. καὶ τοῦτ’ ἔστι, καθ’ ὃ τῆς Μωσοῦ δόξης ἥ θ’ ἡμετέρα καὶ ἡ Πλάτωνος καὶ ἡ τῶν ἄλλων τῶν παρ’ Ἕλλησιν ὀρθῶς μεταχειρισαμένων τοὺς περὶ φύσεως λόγους διαφέρει. τῷ μὲν γὰρ ἀρκεῖ τὸ βουληθῆναι τὸν θεὸν κοσμῆσαι τὴν ὕλην, ἡ δ’ εὐθὺς κεκόσμηται πάντα γὰρ εἶναι νομίζει τῷ θεῷ δυνατά, κἂν εἰ τὴν τέφραν ἵππον ἢ βοῦν ἐθέλοι ποιεῖν. ἡμεῖς δ’ οὐχ οὕτω γιγνώσκομεν, ἀλλ’ εἶναι γάρ τινα λέγομεν ἀδύνατα φύσει καὶ τούτοις μηδ’ ἐπιχειρεῖν ὅλως τὸν θεόν, ἀλλ’ ἐκ τῶν δυνατῶν γενέσθαι τὸ βέλτιστον αἱρεῖσθαι. (UP 11.14: Helmreich 1968, II 158.19–159.3)

The issue in question is the uniquely unchanging length of the eyelashes, which is required for them to perform their function – protecting the open eyes from small objects which might fall into them – effectively, without obscuring vision. This arrangement is not just the product of demiurgic command – because the hairs ‘fear the injunction of their master, or reverence the god who commands it, or themselves believe it better to do so’ – as Moses thinks. Rather, it is because, knowing what was needed, the demiurge implanted the eyelash hairs into a hard, cartilaginous, material, which keeps them upright, but also limits their potential growth (as the growth of plants is restricted by being in dry, rocky, soil). It is not obvious why Moses’ views should feature in this sequence, in particular; the general point is one that could have been made almost anywhere in the treatise, and the constraining work of matter is a more or less constant theme, moving in and out of focus, but always present. There are no specific references to eyelashes in Genesis that might lie behind the engagement, and scholars have struggled to find any but the vaguest biblical parallels for making animals out of ashes.24 It was, however, crucial that Galen included eyelashes in his account. Every somatic detail, from toenails to eyebrows, was explicable on his model, as he made good on his claim to take Aristotle’s maxim that ‘nature does nothing in vain’ more seriously, more literally, than its author. On the Usefulness of the Parts explicitly builds and improves on, extends and completes Aristotle’s and 24

Though van der Eijk 2014, 351–355 suggests Christian obsessions with hair may be to blame, and see also Tieleman 2005.

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Plato’s views in this domain. So, on the same pattern, it may have been important that, if anyone had mentioned Moses in any kind of teleological debates, he too should be encompassed, surpassed in this totalising endeavour. A certain rhetoric of completeness thus brings eyelashes and Moses together; but not much more. Still, the main point for this discussion is that one of Christianity’s founding figures has become a bit more substantial as a result. As befits a key authority in a quasi-philosophical grouping, he is half-comparable to Epicurus, Plato and the rest. His ideas can be discussed on the same terms, but he is not located ‘among the Greeks’. It is not his error that excludes him from this category, for Epicurus is far more wrong, but something else. Galen’s final two surviving references to Christians come in a single treatise, On the Differences of the Pulse. This was most probably composed in the years directly after the completion of On the Usefulness of the Parts, and the whole anatomical-physiological project more broadly, so in the late AD 170s. Galen was moving on to other important areas of the medical art, taking a more practical turn in his writing, towards disease and cure, diagnosis, prognosis and therapeutics. Pulse lore was an established part of the medical domain in these respects, one which Galen had staked out some initial claims to when he first arrived in Rome, and now needed to really dominate.25 A bigger and better exposition, a fuller explanation of the workings and function of the pulse, of its varieties and of diagnosis and prognosis based on understanding that typology, was thus produced, in sixteen books overall; more comprehensive and coherent than anything which had preceded it, better joined up both within itself and with the rest of Galen’s system. This shift of emphasis meant that a different set of authorities came into view. Prominent recent physicians, key writers on particular aspects and areas of medicine had to be engaged with, not just the more distant, foundational figures. In this case the most authoritative figure in the field up till then was Archigenes of Apamea, an eminent physician in the ‘pneumatic’ school, active in Rome under Trajan. This medical lineage had been founded in the first century BC by Athenaeus of Attaleia, a student of the great Stoic philosopher Posidonius; and seems to have arrived in, or at least made its mark on, the imperial capital, with Agathinus the Spartan, the teacher of Archigenes, under the Flavians.26 The grouping was named from their adoption of the Stoic notion of pneuma, as an 25 26

Harris 1973 and Barton 1994, 33–68. Flemming 2012, 75–76.

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anonymous medical handbook probably composed around the middle of the second century AD states: But the followers of Athenaeus and Archigenes declare that both all the natural [states of the body] and all diseases are constituted and controlled by the all-pervading pneuma alone, this produces the primary affection; from which they take the name pneumatics (pneumatikoi). οἱ δὲ περὶ Ἀθήναιον καὶ Ἀρχιγένην μόνῳ τῷ διήκοντι δι’ αὐτῶν πνεύματι καὶ τὰ φυσικὰ συνεστάναι τε καὶ διοικεῖσθαι καὶ τὰ νοσήματα πάντα, τούτου πρωτοπαθοῦντος γίνεσθαι ἀπεφήναντο, ὅθεν καὶ πνευματικοὶ χρηματίζουσι. ([Gal], Intro. 9.6 (22.12–17 Petit)).

It is also worth noting that the same handbook, in setting out the traditional sectarian division of the iatrike techne, and listing the key names under each heading, had put Archigenes at the end, attached to the ‘eclectic’ label (4.2). Athenaeus is classified among the ‘logikoi’ (4.1), but Archigenes, like others of his generation, had taken a more open-minded and flexible approach of ‘choosing’ and ‘combining’ aspects from everywhere. Archigenes, together with others in the pneumatic lineage, is a key figure in all Galen’s writings on the pulse; and he is very much the centre of attention in the two middle books of On the Differences of the Pulse, which are relevant here. It is his classification of the different kinds of pulse which Galen seeks to replace, which means first revealing all of its flaws and inadequacies, then showing how his own typology meets these objections and is much better overall. But, actually, what emerges as Galen’s own scheme does not look very different from Archigenes’, despite all the criticism. Archigenes appears to be someone whose authority Galen wishes to both borrow and undermine – whom he wants to distance himself from while closely resembling.27 This is a presentational strategy which demands rich and versatile rhetorical resources to stand even a chance of success, great critical range and considerable sleight of hand. The Christians feature as part of this repertoire of reproach, first directed at Archigenes himself, and then at contemporary medical and philosophical culture more broadly. The reproach is again essentially methodological, which is a good tack to take in these circumstances, since it does not, of itself, invalidate the conclusions. 27

As was presumably enacted in more detail in his eight books of ‘commentary and critique’ on Archigenes On the Pulse (Gal. Lib. Prop. 8.6: 159.5–7 Boudon-Millot).

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Archigenes began his treatise on the pulse badly, Galen alleges.28 He opened with the statement that the pulse has eight primary qualities: size, strength, speed, frequency, fullness, evenness, order and rhythm. These are the main headings under which he will classify pulses – as fast or slow, even or uneven and so on – in his text. Galen has some worries about the categories, but his main target at this point is the inadequate justification provided for this initial assertion, this foundational move. Archigenes offers no proof, no demonstration, that the initial division should be into this number; he simply says that he is following common usage by those respected in the field. This is useless, though – a formulation which meets none of the demands of formal demonstration, displaying instead a lack of training in logic and a lack of technical skill, for it falls between the two epistemologically recognised stools of either claiming that everyone agrees on something or claiming that the particularly qualified do.29 Archigenes’ opening premise is thus left unsupported and vulnerable: starting reading is ‘like coming into the school of Moses and Christ, and hearing about undemonstrated laws’/ . . . ὡς εἰς Μωϋσοῦ καὶ Χριστοῦ διατριβὴν ἀφιγμένος, νόμων ἀναποδείκτων ἀκούῃ (Diff. Puls. 2.4: 8.579 K). These kinds of failure, an inability to proceed logically and to engage in proper processes of reasoning, are more widespread. Having moved on to take issue with Archigenes’ exposition of the ‘weak pulse’, not the notion itself but some of the related details, Galen decides to widen his attack to include almost everyone.30 His superior mastery of the issue is illustrated by a spectacular prognosis he made on the basis of a weak pulse, which confounded all his rivals. When asked to explain how he arrived at his conclusions, Galen declined. Such an enterprise would be pointless, he averred, since he is surrounded by those whose unthinking and irredeemable school allegiance, their ‘sect-mania’, renders them impervious to reason and genuine dialectic: For one might more easily teach novelties to the followers of Moses and Christ than to the physicians and philosophers who cling fast to their ‘sects’ (haireseis). θᾶττον γὰρ ἄν τις τοὺς ἀπὸ Μωϋσοῦ καὶ Χριστοῦ μεταδιδάξειεν ἢ τοὺς ταῖς αἱρέσεσι προστετηκότας ἰατρούς τε καὶ φιλοσόφους. (Diff. Puls. 3.3: 8.657 K) 28 29 30

This argument takes up most of Diff. Puls. 2.4 (VIII 567–83 K), and the engagement with Archigenes continues through the rest of this book and the next. That is to claim either an Aristotelian endoxa lemma (communis opinio) or the view of the ‘wise’ (sophoi). Diff Puls. 3.3 (VIII 649–57 K).

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There is then some significant repetition across most of the passages, in Arabic and Greek. The sequence in On the Usefulness of the Parts is a bit different, but these last two, surviving as part of complete texts in their original language, allow the main overall themes to emerge more clearly. Comparison with the Christians is a weapon in Galen’s critical armoury, along with many others, and like them also, was probably shared more widely in his cultural milieu. Its negativity is expressed in two, overlapping, ways. The Christians are characterised by both logical failings and lack of demonstrative rigour and by loyalty and obedience to the doctrines which have been dispensed, but not proven, to them. They are totally committed to their project, to their authorities, and not open to thinking differently. In this, however, they are not distinctive, rather the reverse. They may be standard-bearers for this position, in the world of Galenic rhetoric, but it is, sadly, a very popular one, found in many medical and philosophical schools of the time. Indeed, these ‘sect-maniacs’ are worse than the Christians in these respects. So, as Loveday Alexander has pointed out, while Galen does operate with what might be summarised as an opposition between ‘faith’ and ‘reason’, it does not map onto a division between ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Athens’, between the Judeo-Christian and Hellenistic traditions, as Walzer suggested.31 Almost everybody is located under the former heading, while only a few – Galen and his friends – really and fully embrace the rigours of ‘reason’.

Conclusions There is a sense, however, in which Galen’s project is crucially one of misdirection, not about the Christians particularly, but both about his own approach to authority, ideas and identity, and the approaches to these same matters which dominated his milieu more generally. Authority, for example, operates in a range of ways in Galen’s own texts, as well as those of the followers of Moses and Christ, or Epicurus, or whoever.32 He may claim that he never treats Hippocrates, ‘as a witness’ (QAM 9), only accepting and adducing his opinions on account of the soundness of his proofs, but Galen’s practice is more variable.33 Citation of names, foremost among which is that of the ‘divine Hippocrates’ (and then the ‘divine Plato’), is a persuasive staple, and, while, their reasoning may also be reprised, it also 31 32 33

Alexander 1994, 64–68. Alexander 2001. See e.g. Flemming 2000, 272–285.

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occurs without reference to any arguments.34 There certainly are times when authorities are to be taken at their word, command assent and respect as such. The second point of misdirection is perhaps more important, however. For there are good reasons to doubt Galen’s overall characterisation of his time as dominated by ‘sect mania’; rather, indeed, there are grounds to suspect that the opposite might be the case. If he fits right in with, rather than standing out against, contemporary patterns in these respects, that might actually leave the Christians exposed, looking more distinctive than recent scholarship suggests. For Galen certainly represents a wider imperial trend in medicine, following an earlier philosophical development, variously termed ‘eclectic’ or ‘syncretic’ in the sources and much modern scholarship, while Elizabeth Asmis prefers ‘personal’ in a helpful recent essay.35 Whatever label is applied, the phenomenon is one in which the best doctrines are selected from amongst all those available, from all the schools and sects, and fashioned into a coherent position. This was Archigenes’ approach, for example, as mentioned, and, indeed the approach of other pneumatikoi too, becoming sufficiently widespread to be included in medical handbooks. Other medical writers have been similarly labelled on the basis of the content of their extant oeuvre, such as Rufus of Ephesus, as have a number of philosophical figures from the late Hellenistic era onwards, in addition to Potamo of Alexandria, who is explicitly named thus by Diogenes Laertius (1.21).36 Rufus, indeed, demonstrates a very similar combination to Galen on multiple levels – Hippocratism and anatomy, reason and experience, for instance – and Archigenes appears to conform to much the same pattern also. So, perhaps all Galen can realistically claim as his own is the provision of systematic epistemological foundations for what was already going on. It would, however, be an exaggeration, to assert that ‘personal’ philosophy or medicine dominated the scene by the mid-second century AD. ‘School philosophy’, to use Asmis’ contrasting term, was making a comeback, and the contemporary medical current which Galen hated the most – the methodikoi – seems to have had a more distinctive sectarian identity, and pursued a different presentational strategy with great success. Moreover, Galen is surely right that many people took their medical and 34 35 36

De Lacey 1973. Asmis 2014, discussing earlier scholarship on the subject. Flemming 2000,185–96 and Hatzimachali 2011.

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philosophical identity, and allegiance, from their father, teacher or friend (Ord. Lib. Prop. 1.3–4: Boudon-Millot 88.13–89.7), rather than from systematic scrutiny of, and commitment to, the different ideas involved, and that it was mostly a matter of location and upbringing with very little thought or critical judgement. This may well be because matters of sectarian loyalty were just not very important to most people, particularly in the world of medicine. These were labels of convenience, useful ways of organising medicine’s past, and roughly categorising the present, but not deeply felt; and the success of a medical career, even one that included teaching, was generally determined on other grounds. Doctrinal debates within medical groupings could become heated at times, and people did leave, move between sects, but no expulsions are reported. So, where does this leave the Christians? There is, then, a sense, certainly in the last passage, in which Galen could be said to align sectarian identity more with traditional civic religion than Christianity – a matter of family and city, of social connection and embeddedness – not conscious choice, deciding to think otherwise. However, even in these rather abstract terms, Christianity is not really ‘eclectic’ or ‘personal’ either. There is, Eshleman has suggested, a way in which Christians shared in the construction of a single encompassing category of past philosophical wisdom and knowledge (broadly construed), without sectarian boundaries, and which was variously understood to be subsumed, defeated and/or transcended by Christianity.37 But what Galen helps demonstrate is that, in itself, the establishment of a unified intellectual domain does not lead to the construction of a homogeneous movement, with increasingly hard edges of orthodoxy, but rather can just as easily maintain multiple haireseis, schools and currents, all under a common, in this case medical, rubric.

37

Eshleman 2012, 199–212.

chapter 11

‘Authoritative Texts’ and How to Handle Them Some Reflections on an Ambiguous Concept and Its Use in Second-Century Christian Literature Joseph Verheyden

1 Introduction Second-century Christianity has a complex and in part ambivalent relation towards the concept of an ‘authoritative text’.1 In fact there is very little evidence among second-century authors of any explicit and systematic ‘theoretical’ reflection or ‘meta-reflection’ on this matter. Rather it looks as if these authors have opted for a more pragmatic stance, demonstrating the authority of a text or a corpus by using them in arguing a case, or on the contrary, when this authority is challenged, by criticising arguments built on them. This may seem surprising in view of the importance Christianity, from early on, has given to some books and to written tradition. It is certainly surprising if one realises that the concept of an authoritative text had had a long history before it became an issue in the church. Or perhaps, it might be argued, the latter is the reason why early Christians may not have felt an urgent need to reflect any further on the concept as such: in the context in which early Christians lived it did not have to be ‘explained’. It seems that for Christian authors, it was rather a matter of applying the notion for promoting certain groups, or inversely, for discrediting other writings. In the following I will discuss four groups of texts which, in different ways, were regarded as authoritative by second-century Christianity. Together, these four groups constitute the framework within which Christian authors of that period handled the concept of an ‘authoritative text’. The presentation will, it is hoped, demonstrate that the concept is not, and never was, a static one and that its status and meaning depend on 1

For a balanced assessment of the not unproblematic concept of ‘the second century’, see Carleton Paget 2010, 383–425.

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a number of factors – the origins of a particular group of texts, the use that is made of them, the manner in which their authority is established and the way these texts are handled by outsiders or opponents. My discussion will, given space constraints, be impressionistic. The four groups that cover all of the material that either was or gradually would become authoritative in the course of the second century are (certain representatives of) the Greco-Roman ‘classical’ tradition and (some of) its successors in Hellenistic times, Jewish Scripture (and certain Jewish authors), (a number of) the earliest Christian writings and writings by Christian authors of later generations up to one’s own time or the recent past. The first two of these were, to varying degrees, established authorities which Christianity inherited from other traditions, although neither authority went unchallenged in their own tradition. The other two originated within Christian tradition, but this did not mean that they were immediately accepted as authoritative; on the contrary, it took some of these texts and their authors a long time to be actively ‘accepted’, that is, used and cited; and for the fourth group (and even some of the third) this process of acceptance was all but finished by the end of the second century. The four have one thing in common: they are all, again to varying degrees and in specific ways, heterogeneous groups. But at the same time there are also important differences in how these texts or the corpus to which they belong came to be declared or regarded as authoritative and how and by whom they were used or abused in this capacity. Each group has a number of features that it shares with some of the others, and also some peculiarities; and each has its own history to tell.

2

The Greco-Roman Tradition

Greco-Roman authors, in various fields, had been working with their own tradition for a long time; it was an integral part of shaping identity.2 This group comprises texts of different periods and genres, and never was a closed set. It could be adapted in the light of one’s interests or one’s own field, and accordingly it could be made official in different ways.3 2 3

Cf. Walde and Egger 2010. It is now commonly accepted that there did not exist, and probably never was, a formal canon recognised by everyone. But individual scholars and authors could propose their personal ‘bests’, within a specific field or on a more general level; and, of course, the educational system favoured particular authors over others. On the latter, see Morgan 1998. On the canon question in ancient and Greco-Roman tradition in particular, see several of the essays in Assmann and Assmann 1987; van der Kooij and van der Toorn 1998; and Finkelberg and Stroumsa 2003.

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Some texts and authors were virtually universally recognised as authoritative. In the Greek-speaking world Homer enjoyed this privilege, with only Hesiod and the tragedians coming close to him.4 Homer, more than any other author, had been sanctioned through a long-standing tradition of teaching and of professional research.5 Others could enjoy a temporary or otherwise selective authority – a couple of historians for some of their colleagues,6 and a number of philosophers in their own school and tradition. It did not mean that these authors were less ‘authoritative’. That may have been so when compared to the truly great ones, but in other instances, almost the opposite may have happened. Epicurus was (like) a god to his followers, while at the same time being abhorred by many others.7 Plato managed to survive the criticism of some of his own disciples, but the interpretation of his work proved in turn to be an object of debate amongst his followers in Middle and NeoPlatonism.8 Texts about mythological themes take a special place. They are a diffuse subset, partly because they were anonymous, were circulated in many different forms and formats and could constantly be reformulated and reinvented by later authors, though as a rule the variety was recognised and kept intact. These texts were considered to be authoritative by virtue of their content, but they were also open to criticism and discussion, even though they dealt with such ‘eternal’ and potentially important religious topics as cosmology or the relationship between man and his gods.9 Specifically for the late second and early third centuries, mention should be made of the highly complex, intellectual and dynamic forms of reception that were explored and applied by representatives of the so-called Second Sophistic, a movement that ‘lived in a world of books’ and considered itself to be ‘guardians of a heritage’.10 This brief survey may be enough to give an idea of the complexity and diversity of this reception history and of the consequences this has for shaping authority. 4 5

6 7 8 9 10

On the former of these, see Koning 2010, with a section on the ‘rivalry’ with Homer (239–367). The study and reception of Homer’s work began long before Christianity emerged and continued long after. On the earliest reception, see Graziosi 2002, 201–234. On its continuation and influence on other traditions, see Niehoff 2011, 2012. See also a survey etc. A survey in Bagardo 2010, 323–372. A special point of interest, already in antiquity, was the influence of Homer on Virgil: see VogtSpina 2003, 516–523. Cf. Marincola 1997. Particularly on the importance of the triad Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon in the training of students, see Nicolai 1992, 297–339. See several essays in Holmes and Shearin 2012. See Gersch and Kannengiesser 1992 and Gerson 2013. See on this whole sub-corpus, Moog-Grünewald 2008. Cf. also, with particular focus, March 1987. So Anderson 1993, 85. On the reception of Homer, see especially Kindstrand 1973.

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Second-century literate Christians were familiar with the basics of this tradition, and some often also with more than that. Overall, of course, their part in receiving and furthering this heritage was a modest one, but it included the literary,11 as well as the philosophical12 and the religious-political, tradition.13 As a rule, this tradition was approached and handled in two mostly opposite, though sometimes also complementary, ways.14 In this regard, Christian apologists did a ‘marvellous’ job of both calling upon authorities belonging to this tradition in favour of their own position and criticising these authors.15 It looks as if they are trying to have it both ways. The psychology that motivates such a double move and the view of authority which accompanies it deserves perhaps a comment. It might point to a fundamental uncertainty about the status of this tradition and express some kind of embarrassment on the part of those relying on it. It is remarkable that these early Christian authors, even when speaking positively about representatives of this tradition, do not actually refer to it for its own sake, but only in order to support their own position, which is often very different. So this tradition is authoritative only in certain well-chosen instances, and in the format and to the degree the Christian author referring to it thinks best. There is an element of insincerity and also of tension in such an approach. One might call it a pragmatic position, but there is more to it, for how authoritative is an author who is first cited positively and subsequently dismissed as nonsensical? The more an authority can be challenged, the weaker it becomes. 11

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13 14 15

For a survey of the reception of Greek poetry among Christian apologists, see Zeegers – van der Vorst 1972. For a more general cultural perspective, see Droge 1987, 49–81 (Justin), 82–101 (Tatian), and 102–23 (Theophilus), and Young 1997, 49–75 (in dialogue with Droge, 51–57). Specifically on the reception of the Stoic tradition, Spanneut 1957, who combines a thematic approach with a presentation of individual authors, argues that this influence is in general rather superficial, and concludes that the earliest Christian authors’ interest in things Stoic was mainly fuelled by apologetic purposes. On the latter, with a focus on Ignatius, see Brent 2006. The exception may be ancient mythology that was assessed rather more negatively: see several essays in Pépin 1986 (esp. §§ VII-IX). A famous case is that of Athenagoras of Athens, who repeatedly cites from Homer and many others. He condemns the former for his lack of ‘piety’ (Leg. 21.3: ‘be silent, Homer, a god does not rage!’), while recognising he was ‘divinely’ inspired (Leg. 7.2). The same goes for Plato, who is cited in support of (Christian) monotheism and the belief in the resurrection (Leg. 6.2 and 36.3), but is scorned for his attempt at constructing a hierarchy in the divine (Leg. 23.5–24.1). Rankin 2009, 167, captures the spirit of Athenagoras when noting, ‘Platonism, for Athenagoras, approaches the truth, even if it is not, in itself, the full truth. Where there is conflict, however, his loyalties are clear. He is a Christian Platonist, not a Platonizing Christian’.

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3

Jewish Scripture

The second group I have called ‘Jewish’, not ‘Hebrew’, Scripture, because Christianity as a rule did not access this tradition in its original form, but used it in its Greek dress, and this for reasons that did not only have to do with linguistic restrictions. One such Greek version could claim a venerable origin and was widely used in academic and learned circles of Hellenistic Judaism.16 This would change once Christianity started to use and handle this version as if it was ‘its own’. Here we are confronted with the interesting and complex phenomenon of ‘outsiders’ (in the eyes of their opponents) claiming to be privileged insiders and experts in the interpretation of their opponents’ most authoritative book. They appropriated and ‘christened’ it with the double purpose of demonstrating its superiority over the Hebrew original and the truth of their own interpretation.17 This raises the question of how much authority can still be granted to a text the interlocutor had largely, though not completely, given up.18 It also raises the question of who decides about which text or version is the true and authoritative one. There is a danger in such a situation of getting stuck in a no-win position because both parties end up speaking past each other rather than with or even against each other.19

4 The Earliest Christian Writings The first generation of Christians of whom we know to put pen to paper included several strong and outspoken personalities who did not hide their ambitions and status. It certainly may have helped them to achieve authority within Christianity at large. It is not an easy task to tell their history for this early period, in part because the evidence is incomplete, in part also because it is contested. Yet there is sufficient evidence to allow us to marvel at some of the surprises it contains, and to formulate some reliable conclusions. Most striking perhaps is the fact that the authoritative status of these authors cannot be measured exclusively, or even primarily, by the 16 17 18

19

On the reception history of the Septuagint in Hellenistic Judaism, see, e.g., Harl, Dorival, and Munnich 1988, 2nd edn. 1994. See Hengel 2002, esp. 26–40. For a critique of the ‘abandonment’ theory, see Rajak 2009, 288–313, though she may have somewhat overstated her case. A similar or perhaps rather more radical development can be detected with regard to the reception of Jewish-Hellenistic authors. Philo and Josephus would soon be appropriated by Christians for their own use. Cf. Schreckenberg 1972, 70–71 and 1977, 13–14; Runia 1993, esp. 87–131 and 132–157 (discussing Clement of Alexandria). Or of evoking a dialogue situation that actually is largely artificial, as is probably the case with Justin Martyr’s dialogue with Tryphon; cf. Hvalvik 1996 and Prigent 1964.

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number or format of citations from their writings. Indeed, we are confronted with the rather disturbing fact that a good number of these writings are not cited extensively, or literally. If the latter of these phenomena may be less of a problem – access to the actual texts was limited and their transmission still rather flexible and not sanctioned by any central authority – the former remains a puzzle. Limiting my comments to Paul and the gospels, it would seem that Paul’s has been the easier trajectory. The animosity of some groups, apparently marginal ones, towards his person and writings, which is echoed in late second-century and later authors (cf. Irenaeus, Haer. I.26) does not seem to have posed a threat to Paul’s status as a church authority.20 The person and work of the Apostle stood largely uncontested, but it did not mean he was cited extensively. Indeed, for most of the second century there seems to have existed a gap between the ‘theory’ and the ‘praxis’ of receiving Paul, between recognising the authenticity and authority of Paul’s letters and actually using and citing these letters.21 In part, this lack of evidence of praxis is probably to be explained by the fact that Christian authors still had to accustom themselves to calling upon Paul in support of their position on a particular issue and to citing him in a systematic or natural way. It looks as if Christian authors still had to learn how to work, think and argue with Paul. In this respect, Justin, for one, seems largely to have ignored Paul.22 At about the same time, Marcion evidently had a high esteem for Paul and a clear idea about which of his letters should be considered as authentic. Some quibbles on a few minor issues about order and some confusion about identifying one or two of the letters notwithstanding, Marcion’s view was basically taken over by his nemesis Tertullian at the turn of the second century, clear proof that his opponents were certainly not ready to abandon Paul to a ‘heretic’.23 It is very difficult to draw any firm conclusions from the sparse evidence about when precisely the ‘theory’ of Paul’s importance came into existence, and it is therefore best not to hypothesise too much about an almost institutionalised acceptance of 20 21 22 23

On Jewish-Christian groups’ ‘habit’ of condemning Paul, at least as presented by their opponents, see Verheyden 2013a, 435–461, esp. 435–445 (Irenaeus). For a recent survey of a good deal of the evidence, see the collection of essays in Bird and Dodson 2011. Foster 2011, 108–125, challenges Skarsaune’s more positive estimation of Justin’s (implicit) use of Paul. Ancient views on the person and work of Marcion have recently been challenged again. See Moll 2010 and Lieu 2015. With regard to Paul and Marcion and Tertullian, see especially Lieu 2010, 41–59 and 2015, 50–85, emphasising how the controversy shaped Tertullian’s notion of heresy and normativity.

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Paul’s correspondence from a very early date culminating in the creation of an authoritative collection of his letters, as some have argued.24 Marcion most probably should be given part of the credit here.25 The case of the evangelists is more complicated. The evidence seems clear in the early years of the century when Papias mentions four gospels and four evangelists by name, though he at the same time provides ammunition for those who would have liked also to keep an opening for the viva vox of tradition.26 It is impossible to assess to what extent Papias played a role in restraining other authors from citing at leisure from any or all of these gospels. Justin’s reference to the ‘memoirs of the apostles’ (1 Apol. 66.3) is proof of an interest in the written gospels and, as well as reflecting the praxis of certain communities, may also have been instrumental in further propagating their use, though it is difficult to know how decisive he was in causing this practice to be generally accepted.27 Then, towards the middle of the second century, still in Justin’s time, and possibly involving him, something fascinating happens. A couple of people start creating a new type of gospel text, one that is or claims to be free from tensions or contradictions. Tatian’s Diatessaron project ultimately was discarded, though his work remained in use for a long time in certain parts of the church (cf. Ephrem the Syrian’s commentary on the work).28 It is more difficult to get a good grasp on Marcion’s ‘Gospel’ and his intentions because the evidence for it has been marred by what his adversaries claimed or assumed he was doing.29 But perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this whole story is the way in which Irenaeus tries to put an end to all discussions by solemnly declaring all four gospels, and only these four, sound and safe (adv. Haer. 3.11.8). The four gospels represent the fourfold gospel without having to give up on their diversity.30 It is a crucial moment: for the first time, one sees a Christian author arguing, or rather stating, that the texts may be manifold, but that the truth is and remains one. It is a major step in defining authority for Christian usage.31 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

So Trobisch 1989, 1994. For a critical reaction, see Lindemann 2003, passim. Cf. Lieu 2015, 234–270, esp. 269. On the fragments of Papias, see Norelli 2005, 230–335. On the importance of the oral tradition, and above all, on those claiming to be its repositories, cf. Alexander 1990. On the link between Justin and Papias in this respect, see Heard 1954, 122–134 and Stanton 2003, 360–366. See Petersen 1994. Cf. Lieu 2015, 183–233, esp. 188–193 (Tertullian’s view). Cf. Stanton 1997, 317–346. The (church-)political dimension of Irenaeus’s position is duly emphasised by Watson 2013, 454–472.

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The reception history of the individual gospels in the second century has been studied in much detail and one sees again the same gap between theory and praxis that can be observed in the case of Paul. The explanation proposed for Paul may be applicable here, too. All through the second century there is evidence of Christian authors showing they know of four gospels but perhaps less evidence of a willingness to cite them by name.32 Matthew fared relatively well, even though in a good number of instances scholars still remain divided about whether these really are citations from his gospel.33 Mark is barely cited, which makes his inclusion in Irenaeus’s ‘four’ more striking.34 The evidence for Luke is far less substantial than that for Matthew.35 His case is not helped by the fact that part of his work – the Book of Acts – seems to have escaped attention almost completely, leading some to raise doubts about the unity of LukeActs.36 John is also sometimes conspicuous by his absence, but the oftencited ‘Johannophobia’ was probably less widespread than some have thought.37 All the quotations of the gospels, as well as those from Paul, that can be identified have one important point in common: they are all positive. These earliest witnesses of the Christian faith are, with virtually no exception, cited approvingly. This phenomenon may have played a much more important role in constituting their authority than one may gather from the sparse evidence that can be collected from the literature of the second century. A word, finally, on two phenomena which were considered by some to pose a threat to the gradually developing authority of ‘the four gospels’. The first of these is the production of ‘other’ gospels, for which there is evidence from the second century onwards (though probably not earlier). The case of the Gospel of Peter and Serapion shows that the mere existence of such gospels was not always immediately sensed as much of a problem, although the bishop became sensitive to the differences between this gospel and the texts he was used to reading or hearing in church and hence decided against Peter.38 The gospels which circulated in Jewish-Christian groups apparently posed less of a problem. Yet they are criticised, which 32

33 34 35 36 37 38

The phenomenon has been studied extensively for Justin leading to various solutions; see Bellinzoni 1967 (harmony hypothesis); Petersen 1994, 136–151 (‘flexible text’); Verheyden 2002, 361–377 (Justin’s redaction). For contrasting positions on this matter see Massaux 1950; Köhler 1987; Bellinzoni 1992, 197–259. Though Massaux notes some rather convincing traces of Mark in the sources he has studied. See Gregory 2003 and Bovon 2005, 379–400. For this suggestion and the discussion it has raised, see Gregory and Rowe 2010. So Hill 2004. Hill should now be read in parallel to the essays in Rasimus 2010. Cf. Foster 2010, 103–108.

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means that some at least felt uneasy about this.39 Greater concern is expressed by Irenaeus when mentioning a Gospel of Judas that circulated, and probably was composed, in (what he considers to be) Gnostic groups (adv. Haer. 1.29 and 1.31.1). The latter brings us to the second type of challenge, possibly felt rather more acutely as it involved groups and individuals who had not only started to compose their own gospel texts, but were also engaged in a project of interpreting the ‘original’ gospels, which was driven by a hermeneutics that was thought to be dangerous and disastrous for these gospels as it tended to ignore the historical truth of the events mentioned about Jesus and that are an essential part of the Christian message.40 Irenaeus takes the lead in opposing this danger, and it is therefore probably no surprise that he is the one who energetically works towards pushing through the exclusive authority of ‘the four gospels’.41

5

Second-Century Christian Authors

The fourth and last category consists of a number of second-century authors who came to be honoured and occasionally also cited by fellow Christians of their own time or of a somewhat later period. The earliest evidence for such a recognition is not to be identified with what (much) later will become ‘the argument from Patristic authority’.42 But the phenomenon is important, for it picks up on a process of creating authority that had been set in motion in the writings of the apostolic age and will be continued afterwards.43 A few examples may suffice to illustrate the point: Ignatius probably refers to Clement’s letter to the Corinthians in Rom 3.1, and maybe elsewhere. The letter was also cited favourably by Hegesippus and Dionysius of Corinth (so Eusebius, HE 4.22.1 and 4.23.11) and by Irenaeus (adv. Haer. 3.3.3 and ap. Eusebius, HE 5.6.1ff). Polycarp is known to have sent out the letters of Ignatius at his disposal to the community in Philippi, adding a recommendation to the package (Phil. 1.1).44 Irenaeus cites from the bishop’s letter to the Romans (adv. Haer. 5.28.4), and others 39 40 41 42

43 44

See, most recently, the survey in Frey 2012, 560–592, esp. 571–574 (second-century authors). Cf. Aland 1978, repr. 2009, 125–182. See Bingham 1998 and Weiss 2008. So, correctly, Graumann 2002, 1–15 and 16 n. 3, who points out that in these earliest attestations predecessors are not really used to argue a specific issue of dogmatic theology, as will be the case later on, but are rather mentioned because of their (presumed) link to the apostolic tradition. This, at least, is conceded also by Graumann when stating that through it later developments are being prepared (21: ‘angebahnt’). Cf. Brent 2006, 180–183, 312–318.

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will follow him.45 And late second-century authors relied on their predecessors in reshaping the form and contents of Christian apologetics.46 Perhaps the most interesting case is that of the Shepherd of Hermas. It is vehemently criticised by the Montanist Tertullian (de Pudic. 10 and 20), but the work receives a more positive judgement in the Muratorian Fragment, even though it was not given the same status as other works listed there as authoritative.47 Justin Martyr’s authority in matters of heresiology was soon recognised by others.48 Other texts, such as the Didache, were apparently not received, though it is difficult to draw any firm conclusions from the absence of evidence. Finally, it seems that, when it comes to attributing authority to an author, those who are excluded from one list may well have been as important or interesting as those who are included. Marcion’s fame and authority must have been great among his followers.49 The same is true for Basilides and Valentinus,50 and for Montanus.51 Authority is an odd and shaky thing when one is made the subject of dispute.

6

By Way of Conclusion

This brief survey of various groups and corpora of texts has raised awareness of the fact that there are several ways of becoming authoritative. It may be a ‘given’, something inherited from an earlier generation, as is the case with the first and second groups discussed; this at the same time can be an asset and a weakness insofar as such a corpus is never completely assimilated by the tradition that receives it and is also always partially transformed by it. Authority may also be grounded in more ambitious ways, such as claims of divinely inspired origin, something I have not addressed earlier as it is not yet a clearly defined issue in this early period, though it was not unknown.52 Such claims may be less 45 46 47

48 49 50 51 52

Notably, Origen in de Orat. 20.2 and Eusebius, who in a sense ‘canonises’ the seven letters in Hist. eccl. 3.36.7ff. Some evidence is discussed in Grant 1988, 182–190. It would not prevent later authors from calling Hermas holy scripture (Didymus the Blind) and including it, together with Barnabas, in biblical manuscripts. On the latter, see Carleton Paget 1994, 248–257. His tract against Marcion, now lost, was used by Irenaeus, who was also familiar with other works of Justin. See Le Boulluec 1985, 157–186 and passim. See Greschat 2000. Cf. Löhr 1996; Markschies 1992; Dunderberg 2008. Cf. Trevett 1996. It was an issue with regard to Jewish Scripture, and also played a role in discussions with Jewish opponents. See VanderKam 2000 and Allert 2002, 4–25 and passim.

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strong and less important than one might expect them to be, for they also have to be accepted and internalised in order for them to be effective. Authority may be constructed by merely ‘stating the case’, that is, by simply declaring a text to be authoritative, as Irenaeus does for the gospels, with a minimum of explanation, and a rather odd one at that, or by putting it on a list of ‘authoritative’ texts, as the author of the Muratorian Fragment was probably trying to do.53 But this works only if the list or the statement is also accepted by a wider audience. Otherwise one may well have created an authority for personal use, which may turn out to be a weakness. Yet a list or a formal statement by an acknowledged authority will prove to be most efficient way for developing structures or procedures which help to further a particular cause, as will become clear in a later period. In this respect it is important to note that shaping or establishing and maintaining authority is, at least in part, also always the result of initiatives taken by lesser authorities, who thereby not infrequently see a possibility for attributing a measure of authority to themselves. Finally, it has also been shown that authority can be passive or active, limited to a mere acceptance of particular texts or authors, or extended towards a real use of them in arguing for a specific position and in composing other texts, though this second format is still ‘under construction’ for some of the groups discussed earlier. Apart from citing texts, there are other ways of granting authority to a text about which we are only sparsely informed for this early period, such as reading them in public, preferably in a liturgical context.54 Later on, still other forms of promoting a text as ‘authoritative’ were developed, some of which were inspired by Greco-Roman models, such as writing scholia or whole commentaries on a particular document.55 Authority can also be achieved by ‘canonising’ a text through a formal act of promulgation of a council’s decision or by pushing further the issue of a text’s revelatory or otherwise divinely inspired origin (or inversely, using such tools to condemn a text or an author) or also, on a more modest level, by compiling anthologies of texts for various purposes (private piety, testimonia for apologetics) or by consistently citing specific authors and passages for specific issues. 53 54 55

Most probably to be dated in the late second or early third century (Verheyden 2003, 487–556). On using the concept of ‘canon’ for the second century, see Aland 2012, 519–545. See Charlesworth 2009, 149–175. With regard to the latter, it (again) looks as if the initiative came from non-mainstream authors (Heracleon triggering Origen!). Cf. Wucherpfennig 2002. On commentary writing and other forms of ‘scientific’ theology, see Young 1997, 76–96 (‘The advent of scholarship’).

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Finally, a word should be said on what it means to be confronted with authoritative texts, or to create such a category and promote texts to this status. Generations of authors and scholars definitely have felt that something was won by it; the question is whether something was also lost. Authoritative texts can provide comfort, ammunition for debate and identity for those adhering to them. But these very features are precisely what others might find frustrating, for they also somehow can limit freedom. Fortunately, most often it is a matter of finding a balance between the two, but balances tend to be shaky and the perfect equilibrium is seldom reached and never preserved for long. Fortunately also, in dealing with texts, including authoritative ones, generations of scholars and authors have equipped themselves with these most ingenious tools that are interpretation and hermeneutics. They can help make the ‘tyranny’ of authority bearable in handling such texts.

chapter 12

Belief and Practice in Graeco-Roman Religiosity Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride 379 c Teresa Morgan

One of the ways in which early Christianity is widely understood as unique among religions of the Greek and Roman worlds is in the importance it invests in what worshippers believe. The majority of Greeks and Romans (most scholars would agree) seem to take the existence of the gods for granted, and accept that it is important to offer them cult.1 Neither religious authorities nor worshipping communities, however, seek to regulate what worshippers think.2 Belief does not appear to be a basis on which anyone is declared to be in or out of any worshipping group. Nor is it the basis of cult, which, as Robert Parker says, is ‘grounded in the experience of its own efficacy’.3 To Christians, in contrast, it matters not only that one accepts the existence of the one true God and worships God but also what one thinks about God and Christ. Propositions about the nature and activity of God and Christ begin early to be developed and taught by those who are also community leaders and authorities, and they become an important, arguably the most important, basis for group membership and participation in ritual. This schematic presentation, of course, somewhat overdraws the contrast. As John Scheid has demonstrated, ritual itself encodes and expresses beliefs, even if they remain implicit.4 The early development of rituals of baptism and the eucharist shows that ritual was also important to early Christians.5 It may do more justice to the sources for both traditions to see both ritual and belief (along, no doubt, with other aspects of ancient religions from politics to art and ethics to economics) as inhabiting ranges 1 2 3 4 5

On the rarity of atheism in classical antiquity, see e.g. Drachmann 1922/1977 and Fahr 1969. This is evidently not because institutional or social forces were lacking: religious authorities existed, while other systems, such as education, self-regulated in the absence of authorities (Morgan 1998). Parker 2010, 32. Scheid 2005. Bradshaw 2002, 50–72.

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along spectra.6 Right ritual may be more important in some contexts, or to some practitioners, than others. Right belief may matter more to some people than others. In what follows, I shall argue that to some nonChristian Greek and Roman worshippers of the late Hellenistic world and the early Roman Empire, it mattered more than we might expect to hold right beliefs about the gods, and that what one believed could be seen as affecting one’s ritual practice and one’s behaviour more generally. In this respect, there is more overlap between Graeco-Roman and Christian religious thinking than we sometimes acknowledge. I begin with Plutarch, one of our richest sources for Greek religious mentalité in the early principate. On Isis and Osiris is thought to be one of Plutarch’s latest works, placing it somewhere close to 120 CE. It is a wellstudied text, especially for what it tells us about the reception of Egyptian cults in the Graeco-Roman world and for the theory of allegory which it develops. One intriguing sentence, however, has attracted little attention. Of the half-dozen major commentaries in recent decades, only one makes any comment on it at all, and only to paraphrase what it says: ͂ς ὅθεν ἄριστα λέ γεται παρὰ τοῖς φιλοσό φοις τὸ τοὺ ς μὴ μανθά νοντας ὀρθω ͂ ς χρῆσθαι καὶ τοῖς πρά γμασιν· ά κού ειν ὀνομά των κακω Hence it is very well said by philosophers that those who do not learn to understand the names of things correctly misuse the things they refer to as well. (379 c)7

Plutarch’s argument in the essay as a whole is that to understand the cult of Isis properly, we must understand it allegorically.8 The passage in which this sentence appears asserts that it is important, as a general principle, to understand the way things are spoken of (376 f–378a), and that our guide in this process is philosophy (378a–b). Right understanding matters in the first place because ‘nothing a man has is more divine than reason, and especially reasoning about the gods’ (378 c).9 ‘This’, Plutarch continues, ‘is why we command everyone who visits the oracle here [Delphi] to “think holy thoughts and to avoid words of ill omen”’ (378d). Most people, 6 7

8 9

Following Smart 1989, 12–21. Betz and Smith 1975, 47 comment: ‘Thinking true things about the gods for Plutarch is an expression of true religion’. Among important studies of Plutarch’s religion and/or this work that do not discuss this passage, or mention it only in connection with animal cult, are Oakesmith 1902, Latzarus 1920, Hopfner 1940, Griffiths 1970, Hani 1976, 440–43, Solmsen 1979, Froidefond 1986, Betz 1990, 115–18, Moreschini 1996, Brenk 1997, Feldmeier 1998, Chiodi 1994, 1996, García Valdés 1995, Burkert 1996, Frazier 2005, and van Nuffelen 2011, 48–71. The myths of Isis, Osiris and Horus are intertwined, but Plutarch’s cult focus (372e) is Isis. ‘Reason’ and ‘reasoning’ here both translate logos.

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however, behave ludicrously in their processions and festivals because they proclaim that people should use only words of good omen and then go on to say, and think the most ill-omened things about the gods (378d). At this point, Plutarch has moved on from claiming that we should understand cults rightly to do justice to the divinity of our reason to claiming that we should understand them rightly to make sense of our religious observance. Plutarch gives several examples of times and places where thinking wrong things about the gods has led to wrong ritual behaviour. Our distant ancestors, for instance, used to understand the crops as gifts of the gods. When the crops disappeared below ground in the autumn, people would mourn them as if they had died (379a). Gradually, they took to referring to the crops metaphorically by the names of the gods (379a). Later generations accepted this figure of speech without understanding it and came to believe that the gods themselves died and were reborn every year, filling their heads with ‘inappropriate, unlawful and confused opinions’ (ἀτό πων καὶ ͂ ν), which led to equally inappropriate παρανό μων καὶ τεταραγμέ νων δοξω lamentations and prayers for the return of the gods the next year (379b–c). Hence, says Plutarch, ‘it is very well said by philosophers that those who do not learn to understand the names of things correctly misuse the things they refer to as well’. Plutarch offers further examples of people whose metaphorical language has led them to think wrong things about the gods and practise inappropriate cult, notably the Egyptians, who have been misled by the fact that certain animals are sacred to certain gods into identifying the animals with the gods and then offering cult to them (379d). This has not only made a mockery of their rituals (οὐ γέ λωτος μό νον οὐδὲ χλευασμοῦ καταπεπλή κασι τὰ ς ἱ ερουργίας); worse, δό ξα δ ͂ ἐμφύ εται δεινὴ , τοὺ ς μὲ ν ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἀκά κους εἰ ς ἄκρατον ὑπερείπουσα τὴ ν δεισιδαιμονίαν, τοῖς δὲ δριμυτέ ροις καὶ θρασυτέ ροις εἰ ς ἀθέ ους ἐμπίπτουσα καὶ θηριώ δεις λογισμού ς. a dangerous opinion develops, subverting the weak and innocent into pure superstition, and causing those who are sharper and bolder to develop godless and bestial thinking. (379d)

Not the least striking aspect of this passage is that Plutarch’s main point is not that wrong opinions make a mockery of ritual practices. That claim is part of the build-up to his main point, that wrong beliefs lead to even more wrong beliefs, superstition and atheism. This is the argument he expects to be controversial, and of which he goes on to say ‘It will not be inappropriate to discuss the plausibility of these things in detail’ (379e).

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The idea that wrong opinions undermine ritual practices is apparently something he can assume his audiences will accept. It may, however, surprise modern readers. Within it, four issues can be disentangled, which are worth considering separately. In the background is Plutarch’s abiding view that thinking about the gods is an appropriate activity for philosophers. He says that people need to learn to think about the gods: Does this refer to learning within a philosophical tradition or education more widely? Learning involves understanding not just words but names correctly: What is the force of the contrast between names and things? What is the force of orthōs? Last but not least, Plutarch says that correct understanding has implications for religious practice: Does that claim resonate more widely? In the process of answering these questions, we can address another: Is Plutarch the only author of this period to express this idea, or do others voice it too? That philosophers of every school in antiquity (unless perhaps rigorous Sceptics) thought it appropriate to think about the gods needs no demonstration here. The complex of ideas expressed at Mor. 379 c is not paralleled as a whole elsewhere in Plutarch’s works, nor anywhere else that I have discovered. Parts of it, though, do have parallels elsewhere in Plutarch and beyond. Plutarch introduces the essay by saying, ͂̓ Κλεα, δεῖ τἀγαθα τους νοῦν ἔχοντας αἰ τεῖσθαι παρα τω Πά ντα μέ ν, ω ́ ̀ ̀ ̀ ͂ν ͂ ν, μά λιστα δὲ τῆς περι ̀ αὐτω ͂ ν ἐπιστή μης ὁ ́ σον ἐφικτό ν ἐστιν ἀνθρώ ποις θεω ͂ ν ἐκείνων, ὡ ς οὐδὲ ν ἀνθρώ πωι μετιό ντες εὐχό μεθα τυγχά νειν παρ ̓ αὐτω ͂ ι σεμνό τερον ἀληθείας. λαβεῖν μεῖζον οὐδὲ χαρίσασθαι θεω People of sound mind, Clea, must ask for all good things from the gods, and especially, as we pursue our quest, we pray that we may gain understanding about the gods, insofar as it is attainable by human beings, from them themselves, for there is nothing greater for a man to receive nor more holy for the god to give than truth.10

The desire for truth, he continues, is a desire for the divine itself, which seeks to learn ‘divine things’. More than that, it is a work ‘more holy than any act of purity or temple service’ (ἁ γνείας τε πά σης καὶ νεωκορίας ἔργον ὁ σιώ τερον) (351e). Here Plutarch goes even further than he does at 379 c, claiming that understanding of the gods is even more important than practice. No doubt on some level this is Plutarch the Platonist speaking. It is also, however, Plutarch the priest of Delphi addressing Clea, of whom 10

351c, cf. 378a-d, 382d.

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almost the only thing we know is that she was a Delphic priestess.11 It is difficult, in context, to think that Plutarch the philosopher can be completely divorced from Plutarch the priest. Understanding and ritual practice are linked again at 355 c–d, when Plutarch introduces his argument for understanding the myth of Isis and Osiris allegorically. He tells Clea that if she listens to those who interpret the story piously and philosophically, and also always performs the lawful rituals of worship, while understanding that no sacrifice she can offer will be more likely to please the gods than holding a true belief (ἀληθῆ δό ξαν) about their nature, she will avoid both superstition and atheism.12 Here Plutarch affirms both belief and practice as necessary and important, but with just a hint again that belief might be the more important of the two. He also articulates for the first time what he will develop further from 379d, that wrong beliefs lead to superstition and atheism. The importance of understanding the gods is also stressed in On Superstition, and in one passage (170d–e) is linked with ritual practice. Plutarch’s main concern in this passage is whether it is permissible to hold a low opinion of the gods, given that it is impious to speak ill of them (170d). He argues that in interpersonal relations, we assume that what people say and what they think go together, and we should assume the same of people’s relations with the gods. Thinking ill of the gods is therefore as bad as speaking it (170e). Both, moreover, undermine the worship and sacrifice which the superstitious man offers at shrines. The superstitious man behaves at a shrine like a man cultivating a tyrant: he may prostrate himself, pay court and put up gold statues to him, but all his activity is meaningless because it is insincere, based on fear rather than respect (170e–f). We shall return to this theme later. Not only is thinking about the gods important to almost all philosophers: it is also well established as part of philosophical education, not least because the activities of studying, teaching and learning philosophy are hard to separate.13 There are also indications that learning about the gods is part of less sophisticated and specialized educational activities. In How the Young Man Should Listen to Poems (14e), Plutarch tells his dedicatee 11 12

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She is also the addressee of On the Bravery of Women (Mor. 242e). Later (382d) he says that this concern with understanding the truth about the gods is something both Plato and Aristotle spoke of. We do not know whether Clea was a philosopher, but we should assume that Plutarch aims this, as he does in most essays, at a wider audience, not least because Egyptian cults attracted wide interest in his day and what he says about ritual and right thinking is relevant to worshippers of any god. Froidefond 1987, 225–26 and Mach 1994 discuss Plutarch’s approach.

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that even the very young gain some of the benefits of philosophy, and in particular learn dogmata, beliefs about the soul, by reading Aesop, novels and hypotheses of the poets.14 Since for Plutarch the soul originates with the divine and thinking about the soul is partly an exercise in metaphysics,15 we can infer that learning dogmata about the soul is connected with learning about the divine. To act as proto-philosophy, however, Plutarch continues, poetry must be interpreted (16e). When, for instance, poets make apparently wrong statements about the gods or about virtue, we must bear in mind that they sometimes speak allegorically or even lie (16 c–d). The rest of the essay consists of a virtuoso exhibition of ways in which we can interpret the poets in order to ensure that what we learn from them is right, and a large proportion of the examples Plutarch gives is about the gods.16 Quintilian – orator, educationalist and Plutarch’s near contemporary – seems to think that teaching young people about the divine is part of the brief (uniquely comprehensive in his conception) of the teacher of rhetoric. In his summary of the contribution of subjects other than literature, grammar and rhetoric to the creation of the ideal orator (1.10.46–8), he observes that geometry, by its calculations, demonstrates the fixed and ordained courses of the stars, and that we learn from this that nothing in the cosmos is disorderly or fortuitous. The idea that geometry points to the divine ordering of the universe, or that the order of nature is evidence of the divine ordering of the cosmos, is so familiar, especially from Platonism and Stoicism, that we are almost certainly justified in hearing here a reference to learning to understand or think rightly about the divine.17 Towards the end of the work (10.1.35) Quintilian regrets that many things which are properly part of rhetoric are taught, in his day, as part of philosophy, particularly by Stoics, among them res divinae, the study of the divine. Ps.-Plutarch’s On the Education of Children warns the reader (5a–b) that not getting the right education may lead to all kinds of bad behaviour and immorality, including a taste for Bacchanalian revels, which the author apparently regards as a wrong kind of cult activity. He goes on to say (7d–e) that the most important part of education is philosophy, because, 14 15 16 17

Cf. Mor. 591d-f (the rational part of the soul is one’s true self). Mor. 382a-b, 591e, 943a, 945a. e.g. 20e-21a, 22c-d, 23a-24e, 30e-f, cf. 21f. A young man well taught along these lines, he concludes (37b), will find the way into philosophy proper and easy. E.g. (among many possible examples) Cic., ND 2.12–15, Sen., Ep. 88.25–8 (‘the philosopher studies and knows the causes of the natural objects whose numbers and measures the geometer researches and computes. The wise man knows the rationale of the heavenly bodies, their power and their nature’ (25)), S.E. M. 9.75–6.

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teresa morgan ͂ ναι τί τὸ καλὸ ν τί τὸ αἰ σχρό ν, τί διὰ γὰ ρ ταύ την ἔστι καὶ μετὰ ταύ της γνω ͂ς τὸ δίκαιον τί τὸ ἄδικον, τί τὸ συλλή βδην αἱ ρετό ν· τί τὸ φευκτό ν, πω θεοῖς . . . χρηστέ ον ἐστι· Through philosophy and with philosophy it is possible to know what is honourable and shameful, what is just and unjust, what, briefly, is to be chosen, what to be avoided; how to behave towards . . . the gods [along with various other groups].

Philosophy, it seems, teaches right understanding, including right understanding of how to behave towards the gods. Documentary school texts from Graeco-Roman Egypt attest that teaching the young about the gods is not confined to elite educational writers. Fables and gnomic sayings from the poets and other wise men, which are both much used to teach children to read and write, include many statements about the gods such as, ‘Mind is a powerful god in us’, ‘The gods give good things to men’, ‘Love is the oldest of the gods’, alongside commands such as, ‘Honour the gods’, ‘Fear the gods’, ‘Follow the god’, ‘Do not provoke the god’.18 These texts, which are teachers’ models or children’s exercises, do not reflect overtly on their own educational aims, but they do suggest that how to think about the gods and how to behave towards them are seen as appropriate elements of literate education. Our third question concerned the force of the contrast between names and things at 379 c, and the significance of the adverb orthōs when Plutarch says that one must ‘learn to understand the names of things correctly’. When we encounter onomata and pragmata together, we inevitably think of the longstanding debate in Greek philosophy over whether or not there is a natural connection between names and things. This debate goes back to Heraclitus, is central to Plato’s Cratylus and plays a significant role in Aristotle’s Categories and On Interpretation.19 It continues to be important to Platonists; in the early principate, Plutarch himself, Philo and Galen all refer to it, along with the Aristotelian commentator Alexander of Aphrodisias. As a phrase, however, ὀ νομά τα καὶ πρά γματα (names and deeds) is also a cliché in Greek. Even when Galen, Philo or Plutarch use the phrase or the terms in close proximity, it is not always obvious whether 18

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P. Bour. 1, Mon. Epiph. 2.615, Pintaudi and Sijpesteijn (1989), Oikonomides (1980), and Hagedorn and Weber (1968); see Morgan 1998, 139–40. Widening the search from the explicitly to the implicitly educational, we might include the sayings of the Seven Sages, for whom honouring and knowing the gods is a major theme; these were not only copied in schools but widely inscribed in the public spaces of cities across the Greek East, for the improvement of anyone with (direct or indirect) access to literacy (Morgan, 2013a). Robins 1951, 25–36 and Graeser 1977.

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they are referring to the philosophical debate or simply allowing themselves a little stylistic flourish. One or two comments by Plutarch in On Isis and Osiris and elsewhere suggest that, whether or not he is referring to the philosophical debate in our passage, he does think that in general there is, or should be, a positive connection between names and the things they represent. In On the Decline of Oracles (421e), for example, he says that some people are named appropriately (orthōs) by chance, but most have received names derived from those of gods, which bear no relation to the kind of people they are. The implication seems to be that it would be better if our names did fit the people we are.20 If his claim at 379 c were in line with this, Plutarch would be claiming that it is important to understand whether and how the names of deities properly represent them. In this passage, however, that is not the point at issue. Plutarch is concerned here not with whether the regular names of god (‘Isis’, ‘Osiris’ etc.) properly represent them, but with whether we understand the metaphor in play when we call a crop ‘Demeter’ (rather than ‘the gift of Demeter’) or the jackal ‘Anubis’ (rather than ‘sacred to Anubis’). The onomata/pragmata polarity here is therefore a rhetorical flourish rather than a substantive reference to the debate about names. We have, however, already encountered the importance of understanding things orthōs, and in particular of understanding the gods orthōs, and this is a topic to which Plutarch returns repeatedly in his essays with every indication that he takes it seriously. In On the Decline of Oracles 404b, he says that we can understand why in the old days oracles were given in both prose and verse and now they are only given in prose, if only we hold right and pure beliefs about the divine (μό νον ἂ ν ὀ ρθὰ ς καὶ καθαρὰ ς περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ δό ξας ἔχωμεν). Later in the same work (416 c) he claims, ͂ ν καὶ ἀνθρώ πων δεχό μεναι πά θη φύ σεις εἰ σί τινες ὥσπερ ἐν μεθορίωι θεω ͂ ς ἔχει κατὰ νό μον θνητὰ καὶ μεταβολὰ ς ἀναγκαίας, οὓς δαίμονας ὀ ρθω πατέ ρων ἡ γουμέ νους καὶ ὀ νομά ζοντας σέ βεσθαι . . . there are certain natures, as it were in the borderlands between the divine and human, receptive to human emotions and unavoidable changes, whom, in the tradition of our fathers, we rightly take to be daemons, and whom, under that name, we worship.

In Progress in Virtue (78e), he reports Aristotle as writing to Antipater, about Alexander the Great, that he had no business to be proud just 20

Cf. 369a, 376f, 591e. Plutarch may have misread Pl., Crat. to reach this conclusion (Bestor 1980).

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because he ruled many people: anyone who thought orthōs about the gods had just as much right. In On the Fortune of Alexander (333b) he affirms, ‘We believe that all men are inherently able to make right judgements (κρίσεις . . . ὀ ρθά ς); for nature herself is men’s leader towards the good’.21 The importance, not just of thinking, but of thinking rightly about the gods is evidently consistently important to Plutarch. Three points which emerge from these and similar passages stand out in connection with the present discussion. Plutarch thinks that we can think, form judgements, and speak about the gods orthōs, and the consistency of orthōs as a term of approval in Greek puts beyond doubt that this is a good thing to do. He believes that we are endowed with this faculty by the gods themselves and that it is part of our nature. And right understanding is connected with right worship. This takes us to our final question about Mor. 379 c: how far the idea that understanding the names of things rightly or wrongly has implications for the rightness or wrongness of ritual practices has resonances outside On Isis and Osiris? Plutarch, as we began to see earlier, makes the connection at length in On Superstition. At 167e–169e, he describes all sorts of ways in which the superstitious man’s understanding of the gods affects his behaviour, both ritual and everyday, for the worse. ‘The superstitious fear the gods and flee to them, they flatter them and abuse them, pray to them and blame them’ (167e). When they sacrifice, they turn pale, pray with shaking voices, sprinkle incense with trembling hands and generally make an exhibition of themselves (169d–e). Worse: when they are ill, they will not have a doctor because they think that they cannot fight the gods (168 c); when something good happens they fumigate and abase themselves obsessively (to avoid the appearance of hybris) (168d–e); when something bad happens they refuse to fight it (168e–f) and they may be so miserable at the thought that the gods are against them that they even commit suicide (168 f).22 Wrong beliefs, it seems, cause one to perform right rituals wrongly and wrong rituals unnecessarily, and beyond the ritual context lead to self-harm and even self-destruction.23 If Plutarch is unusual in painting quite so dramatic a picture of superstition, he is not alone in claiming that wrong beliefs cause problems for 21 22 23

Cf. Mor. 323e, 379d, 385b, 386e-f, 404b, 414b, 416c, 424a, 1031d. Cf. Mor. 757f-8e: people who think the god does not care that men grow straight (orthon) in the direction of virtue are wrong: god is philanthrōpos. Curiously, Plutarch sees godlessness as having less deleterious effects: it does not stop the godless man participating in rituals, only makes him liable to laugh and make sardonic remarks during the ceremonies (169d).

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ritual. When Lucian’s Alexander (Alex. 38) makes his famous proclamation against Epicureans and Christians, he seems to imply that their being present while holding the wrong attitude to his rites would have some kind of (unspecified) negative impact on the ritual: ͂ ν ὀ ργίων, εἴ τις ἄθεος ἢ Χριστιανὸ ς ἢ Έπικού ρειος ἣκει κατά σκοπος τω ͂ ι θεω ͂ ι τελείσθωσαν τύ χῃι τῆι ἀγαθῆι. φευγέ τω· οἱ δὲ πιστεύ οντες τω If any atheist or Christian or Epicurean has come to spy on the secret rites, let him flee; let those who trust in the god complete them, with the help of good fortune.

In his introduction to On the Nature of the Gods (1.13–14), Cicero explains that his project is to set out the views of the philosophers on this subject so that the whole world can judge them and decide which views are vera, true. This is an important exercise because quid de religione pietate sanctitate caerimoniis fide iure iurando, quid de templis delubris sacrificiisque sollemnibus, quid de ipsis auspiciis quibus nos praesumus existimandum sit what we should think about religious observance, piety, holiness, rituals, good faith, loyalty to an oath; about temples, shrines, solemn sacrifices, about those very auspices which I myself preside over . . .

– all this depends on a true understanding of the nature of the gods (1.13). Nor is it only how we think about religious observance and cult practice that depends on our understanding of the gods. Earlier in the introduction (1.2–3), Cicero makes a claim which he regards as non-negotiable: despite what the Epicureans say, we have to believe that the gods are interested in human beings and have a relationship with them: sin autem dei neque possunt nos iuvare nec volunt, nec omnino curant nec quid agamus animadvertunt, nec est quod ab iis ad hominum vitam permanere possit, quid est quod ullos deis inmortalibus cultus honores preces adhibeamus? in specie autem fictae simulationis sicut reliquae virtutes item pietas inesse non potest, cum qua simul sanctitatem et religionem tolli necesse est; quibus sublatis perturbatio vitae sequitur et magna confusio, atque haud scio an pietate adversus deos sublata fides etiam et societas generis humani et una excellentissima virtus iustitia tollatur. If . . . the gods are neither able nor willing to help us, nor do they look after us in any way, nor take any notice of what we do, nor is it possible that they contribute anything to human life, what makes us give any cult, honours or prayers to the immortal gods? Piety, like the rest of the virtues, cannot exist purely as a show and pretence, and if piety goes, so must holiness and observance; and if these are taken away, life becomes chaotic and completely

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teresa morgan confused, and if we lose piety towards the gods I do not know how even good faith and human society and that most excellent virtue, justice, can survive.

If we do not believe that the gods are interested in human beings, then all our religious activity is void, and not religious activity only, but all our everyday social activities. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to explore Cicero’s rhetorically and philosophically compelling vision of how radically our experience of the world and human society would change if we ceased to believe that the gods involve themselves in our affairs. For our purposes, it is enough to note that Cicero argues, first, that there are certain claims about the gods which we must hold to be true, because if we do not, all our religious and social behaviour becomes pointless. Second, even if we take it for granted that the gods are interested in us, we still need to know the truth or otherwise of other claims, in order to think rightly about our rituals while we are doing them. If we think wrongly about them, the implication is they will be in some way adversely affected. Widening our scope beyond the writings of elites, it is a little-noticed theme in Aesopic fables that the gods like to be understood properly, and even that they do not appreciate receiving cult from people who have not understood them correctly.24 In Babrius’ version of an Aesopic fable, written late in the first century CE, a master falls in love with an ugly slave girl and lavishes gifts on her.25 The girl, thinking she must have Aphrodite to thank for her good fortune, takes up sacrificing to the goddess every day and burning lamps to her every night; she prays, makes vows and asks for advice. Eventually, the goddess appears to her in a dream, saying, ‘Do not thank me as if I were making you beautiful. I am furious with that man for thinking you are’.26 Thinking wrongly about the goddess, it seems, makes cult activity not just meaningless but actively offensive to her. At On Isis and Osiris 279 c, Plutarch’s immediate concern is that believing wrong things about the gods makes people, such as the Egyptians, perform inappropriate rituals. In the earlier passages, he and other authors, even the sub-elite storytellers of the Aesopic corpus, move beyond this idea to the claim that believing wrong things about the gods makes even right rituals inappropriate, invalid or meaningless. If this 24 25 26

Morgan 2013b, 16–19. Babr. 10 = Aes. 18 (Chambry). Cf. Babr. 63 = Aes. 131 (the man who offers cult to a hero and is told in a dream not to, as it will do him no good).

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comes unexpectedly to students of Greek and Roman religions, perhaps it should not. A strong strain of what Christopher Gill has called ‘psychophysical holism’ runs through Greek and Roman philosophy and beyond.27 Both Stoics and Epicureans hold that because the psychē, the soul, is physical, psychological activities involve both the soul and the body. Aristotle argues that the path to virtue involves physis, mathēsis, askesis: nature, learning and practice.28 By the early principate this model has been thoroughly absorbed by Platonists too. It appears in Philo as the idea that one must practise the teachings one has learned,29 while in TableTalk 7.6 (707 f) Plutarch makes the more general point: ͂ ι αἰ σχρω ͂ ι τὸ ῥ αιδίως ὑπὸ τω ͂ ν ῥ ημά των προεθίζει γὰ ρ εἰ ς τὰ ἔργα τω προά γεσθαι. To let oneself be readily led on by what is shameful in words is a training for deeds.30

When Plutarch says at 378d that, ‘we command everyone who visits the oracle here to “think holy thoughts and to avoid words of ill omen”’, he may, moreover, be saying something which is quite conventional in cult contexts as well as comprehensible in literary ones. From at least the fourth century BCE, some temples urged those who approached them to enter with a ‘pure mind’ or ‘soul’, suggesting that priests and/or worshippers imagined their ritual actions as being affected by their state of mind.31 We might go further and speculate that the Delphic maxims ‘Know yourself’ and ‘Nothing in excess’, which were inscribed on the archaic Temple of Apollo and which, on the face of it have strangely little to do with that or any cult, may have been read by worshippers as an indication of the frame of mind in which it was regarded as appropriate to approach the oracle.32 When Plutarch says ‘[I]t is very well said by philosophers that those who do not learn to understand the names of things correctly misuse the things they refer to as well’, we can, I think, conclude that he is making three claims. It matters that we think rightly about the gods. This is something 27 28 29 30 31 32

Gill 2006, 30 and passim. Dillon 1977, 152–55, 193–96, 301. E.g. Vit. Abr. 52–4, De cong. 35, 45–6, cf. Mig. Abr. 89–90. Cf. Mor. 444f. e.g. Sokolowski 1962, 91.1–5, (1969) 130. Plutarch’s remark at 378d cannot refer to these, but echoes conventional ritual phrases. The wellknown ‘confession stelai’ of the later Roman Empire record individuals as having held the wrong attitude to a god or having thought the wrong thing about a god, sometimes in cult contexts, and as having been brought to a better frame of mind (Belayche 2007, 2008).

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we have to learn. And what we think does and should affect both our ritual behaviour and our behaviour in general. There is no sign, in this chapter or elsewhere, that Plutarch thinks himself unusual in making these claims, nor that he means them to be intelligible or plausible only to Platonists or to philosophers – an impression confirmed by the traces of similar ideas that are occasionally detectable in other writers of the period. Plutarch also asserts, in On Isis and Osiris and in On Superstition, that what we think is even more important than what we do. This claim, though, he does seem to expect readers to find controversial. One phrase hovers inescapably at the edge of the consciousness of anyone reflecting on the similarities or differences between Greek and Roman religions and early Christianity: doxa alēthē or doxa orthē. It has come up just once in the passages we have discussed, but versions of it are attested in Greek as early as the classical period (not always in connection with the gods), and appear regularly in philosophical texts of the early principate before they are borrowed by Christians.33 We began this chapter by observing that one of the ways in which early Christianity is often seen as differing significantly from other religions of the Greek and Roman worlds is in the importance it invests in right belief. We can now qualify that characterization. At least some Greeks and Romans thought it was vital not only that worshippers accepted the existence of the gods and offered them cult but also that they believed the right things about the gods.34 Further, they held that if they did not believe the right things, then not only belief itself, but religious ritual and other social practices would become meaningless.35 There are, furthermore, indications in our sources that individuals in positions of religious authority thought it appropriate to articulate these views, not only as intellectuals, but also as religious functionaries. Plutarch writes On Isis and Osiris both as a philosopher and explicitly as a priest talking to a priestess. Cicero, in his introduction to On the Nature of the Gods, goes out of his way to remind the reader that he is an augur who performs some of the rituals whose validity and very existence depends, he 33 34

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e.g. Pl., Men. 98b, Tht. 202b, Arist. EN 1142b; early attestations are all connected with philosophical debates (Dillon 1988). Christians could recognize and respect this. Origen, for example, reports Celsus as claiming that Christians were both wrong in their views (CC 1.2, 23) and anti-rational (1.9); Origen disagrees but does not dispute that right (true, rational) thinking about the gods is important to Celsus. Origen also recognizes Greek philosophy’s concern with the rightness of names, which he shares (e.g. 1.24). Dillon (1986) argues that Plutarch, like later Platonists, thought that the correct way to honour the deity was through rituals traditional to one’s culture.

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believes, on what we understand about the nature of the gods (1.14). It is also notable that in commending right beliefs to Clea, Plutarch refers both to certain rituals and to certain doxai, as lawful or unlawful (355d, 379b). By invoking the lawfulness of beliefs, he attributes to them something of the authority that sacred laws about rituals have, as things authorized, perhaps even given by the gods, which human beings must fulfil in order to be worshipping orthōs. Even the well-established view that Christian pistis/ fides is exceptional because right belief is articulated and taught by individuals who are also in positions of authority in the worshipping community therefore bears modification. Christian understandings of belief are better seen as a move further along a shared spectrum of religious thinking, rather than as a radical departure from Greek and Roman religiosity.

chapter 13

Lot Oracles and Fate On Early Christianity among Others in the Second Century Laura Salah Nasrallah

We often deal with probability and risk. A woman at forty-one wonders: Should I try to conceive? A man at seventy with cancer debates: What is the probability that chemotherapy will extend my life for two years, and will it be worth it? A young couple debates starting a business. These questions emerge from situations of privilege. We can imagine many worse states of probability and risk. To put it in other words: Humans struggle to figure out how we can prepare for what’s in the stars, what’s fated, and where our agency lies. Similar questions arose in antiquity as well. A second-century lot oracle from southwest Asia Minor gives answers to the sorts of questions that ancient people had in mind in a series of answers attributed to different divine and semi-divine figures: ‘Don’t perform the activity which you are now undertaking’ offers an oracle attributed to Caring Fortune (Tyche) (6).1 ‘The gods will save the sick man from his bed’, says the oracle of Joyful Victory (Nike) (8). ‘High-thundering Zeus will be your savior and everything will be yours’, offers an oracle of Zeus Ammon (18). ‘Do not hurry this, either to buy or to sell’, says an oracle of the Delphic Apollo (24). ‘Undertake your task well—and a judicial lawsuit’, commands an oracle of the Phrygian god Mēn. This chapter investigates concepts of fate in the second century by focusing on this lot oracle in Kremna in southwest Asia Minor, one of several similar oracles collected by Johannes Nollé.2 These oracles occasionally appear in discussions of divination and sortition in the ancient I am grateful to several colleagues, especially Andrew Jacobs and David Frankfurter, for their comments on drafts, and to Karen Connor McGugan for editorial help. 1 All translations, Horsley and Mitchell 2000. 2 Nollé 2007. Lacunae and uncertain readings in the Kremna inscription have been restored by means of Nollé’s work to establish an Urtext; he has done this work by means of comparison with other oracle inscriptions from southwest Asia Minor. See also Graf 2005, who sets these oracles in a wider context of ancient religion.

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world; sometimes they are cast as evidence of the second century as a time of increasing individualization in religion and anxiety in general. Among these oracles, I choose that at Kremna because its inscription is in an excellent state of preservation and its context within the city well understood. I also turn to the oracle at Kremna for a larger reason. Such an object, which has been marginal to the study of antiquity, helps in the reconstruction of a history that focuses on the everyday and the material alongside more elite philosophical and religious literature about fate. The oracle at Kremna allows us to reconsider two historiographical problems: the categories of doctrine and practice, on the one hand, and the modern historiographical characterization of the second century as the beginning of an ‘age of anxiety’, on the other.

Doctrine and Practice? Having been asked to take up the question of doctrine and practice in the second century for the conference out of which this volume emerged, I wish to focus on fate and the oracle at Kremna to consider how doctrine and practice may be considered together rather than contrasted with each other. Fate as a topic, and the oracle at Kremna in particular, gives us a new focus for asking questions about religious life in the second century.3 In the second century, Christians and non-Christians alike utilized a common set of strategies for calling upon a divinity or divinities who were deeply interested in what happened to individual humans in the world. These practices included theological or philosophical writing and casting lots. Scholars usually study only one or the other. Yet, philosophical-theological writings read alongside divination materials evidence different yet overlapping strategies that engage the question of whether and how the gods care for humans. The act of taking the inscription at Kremna seriously as a theological object, in the context of other ancient philosophical-theological literary texts, also engages a larger trend in the study of religion: that of collapsing oft-used and dichotomous categories—doctrine versus practice,4 faith versus ritual, and (Greco-)Roman versus Christian versus Jew, which

3 4

On fate’s centrality in late antiquity, see Denzey Lewis 2013. Bell 1992 on practice versus ritual; De Certeau 1984 on everyday life as worthy of theorizing; Asad 1993, especially chapter 1, on redefining religion and on ritual; even Deissmann 1927 and his emphasis on the everyday (papyri, ostraka, etc.) as an important context for understanding New Testament texts.

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have not yet fully fallen into ruin.5 Because we (rightly) want to understand the differences between religious cults in the ancient world, we may be inclined to align such differences with the identity bins of Christian, Jewish, and ‘pagan’. But this chapter demonstrates that if we see that doctrine is a form of practice, and that practice is a way of enacting philosophical-theological ideas, we can rout the idea that those of high status, or those who were educated, could fulminate on teachings while those of low-status, the less than educated, were left to their empty-headed rituals. We can chip away at the disciplinary dichotomies even in the present: Some scholars focus on philosophical texts, and some on everyday life; conversations about ancient concepts of God(s) rarely intersect with conversations about how ancient people called upon God(s). In particular, this chapter shows that we look at a stele like that at Kremna and, instead of treating it as a quirky and marginal practice that materializes the anxieties of antiquity, say, ‘This is evidence of a philosophical-theological6 idea and practice that gods, demi-gods, daimones, and others are accessible and care to reveal words of warning and comfort to humans’. This lot oracle allows us to investigate the question: What are the strategies (or practices) by which people in antiquity sought to understand (or to develop a doctrine of) human agency and divine concern, and the operations of human agency and divine concern in light of fate or fortune?

Historiography of Fate and Anxiety One still significant historical approach to a lot oracle such as that at Kremna, or ancient debates about fate more generally, is found in the midtwentieth century. According to E. R. Dodds, the second century was the beginning of an age of anxiety that ran from the time of Marcus Aurelius to that of Constantine. Many have convincingly dismantled the pithy phrase and his idea, developed in his 1963 Wiles lectures. In 1976, in the lectures that produced The Making of Late Antiquity, Peter Brown critiqued E. R. Dodds and his scholarly cohort for their sweeping statements about crisis and their notions of sweaty religious panics in antiquity.7 5

6 7

In the midst of his otherwise often astute work, see e.g. Ando 2009, ix: ‘What sort of knowledge did the Romans possess about their gods? What kind of information, of what status, motivated their religious actions?. . . [I]n contrast to ancient Christians, who had faith, the Romans had knowledge; and . . . their knowledge was empirical in orientation’. For those who work against such dichotomizations, see among many others, Morgan in this volume; Jaeger 1961; Smith 1990; see also Denzey Lewis 2013, 9, who tries to break down these barriers precisely by looking at heimarmenē. Jaeger 1936; Corrigan, Turner and Wakefield 2012, ix–x. Brown 1978, esp. 6; Denzey Lewis 2004 on the historiography of this period.

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Fig. 13.1 Late first-Century Tyche of Corinth

Yet, we can understand why Dodds deemed this age anxious, why he saw it as a time period in which individuals sought surety and future salvation, a time when people were unusually concerned about their uncertain futures. People seemed to be thinking a great deal about Fate personified, and their own fates; representations of fate in word and iconography abound. The late first-century Tyche of Corinth (Figure 13.1), for example, is represented with a mural crown (of city walls), as is typical for such figures; we can wonder what exactly her role as protector or fortune of the city entailed. The second-century stage reliefs of the theater of Perge (Figure 13.2)—a city in southwest Asia Minor in which a lot oracle like that at Kremna, but more fragmentary, was found—depict the Tyche of the city, with her polos crown and horn of plenty, who oversees a sacrifice to the xoanon or cult statue of the civic goddess Artemis. In sculptures large and small from late antiquity, we find Tyche or Fortuna, with her horn of plenty, often famously in the form of the Tyche of Antioch, with sheaves of grain and seated atop a personification of the Orontes River, and sometimes conflated with other goddesses.8 8

See examples in Pollitt 1994; Matheson 1994. For a conflation of Tyche with Nemesis, see Hornum 1993, 15–42, plate XVII.

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Fig. 13.2 Second-century stage reliefs of the theatre at Perge

We can recuperate Dodds’ insight and the idea of anxiety while avoiding his focus on crisis and the individual, on the one hand, and his grounding in psychological frameworks and the work of William James, on the other. People in antiquity (as today) hope that the divine cares about them and the small events in their lives, and debate the theological or philosophical possibilities of divine intervention and care for humanity.

Defining Fate Even as it is difficult to understand the subtle differences between representations of Tyche and cults of Fortuna, it is difficult to understand the subtle variations between the multiple Greek and Latin terms associated with fate: moira, heimarmenē, fatum, anankē, necessitas, fortuna, tychē, pronoia, and providentia. Ancient writings contain within themselves a variety of terms, sometimes with what seem to be overlapping meanings, whether we look at Cicero’s De natura deorum and his fragmentary De fato; PseudoPlutarch’s Peri Heimarmenes; Alexander of Aphrodisias’s later Peri Pronoias; the Apocryphon of John’s understanding of pronoia, and the Gospel of Judas’s

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reference (perhaps) to fate and the stars; and the Pseudo-Clementine Recognitiones in its likely use of Bardaisan’s Book of the Law of Countries.9 People in antiquity debated the edges and overlaps of these terms.10 We find an example of this in a satirical text, Lucian’s Zeus Elenchomenos, or, Zeus Cross-examined and Exposed (3). In this dialogue, a human named Cyniscus questions the god:11 Well then, how about Destiny (Heimarmenē) and Fortune (Tychē)? They are also very much talked of, who are they, and what power has each of them? Equal power with the Fates (Moirai), or even somewhat more than they? I hear everyone saying that there is nothing more powerful than Fortune and Destiny.

Zeus replies with an epistemological trump card: ‘It’s not permitted you to know everything, Cyniscus’ (3). But Cyniscus presses on: ‘Are you gods under their [that is, the Fates’] rule too, and must you needs be attached to their thread?’ (4). The point of Zeus’s vague ‘it’s not permitted to know’ becomes clear: He doesn’t want to admit to the truth of divine subjection to the Fates. Cyniscus concludes: ‘If . . . the Fates rule everything, and nobody can ever change anything that they have once decreed, why do we humans sacrifice to you gods?. . . I really don’t see what benefit we can derive from this precaution’ (5). In Lucian’s satire, Cyniscus toggles between doctrine and practice, showing that the two are inextricably linked. He tries to discover from Zeus a dogma of Heimarmene and Tyche—a mini systematic theology—and finds there is no clarity to the terms, and no truth to the idea that the gods stand above the Moirai. In view of this, he decides that religious practices should be suspended.

Developing Doctrine? ‘Philosophical’ Writings on Fate Fate, with its cluster of multiple terms, divinities, and images, was a cutting edge topic in antiquity. What one thought about fate had implications for personal ethics (how should you make choices, or could you at all?), for one’s theology (what is the nature of the gods and their power and justice?), and also for one’s ideas about physics and the structures of the cosmos (how 9 10

11

Adamson 2009 versus Denzey Lewis 2009 versus Pagels and King 2007, who do not see a fixed fate; Kelley 2008; Denzey Lewis 2013. Various authors of entries in Brill’s New Pauly note the lack of difference between such Greek and Latin terms as anagkē, moira, heimarmenē, and tychē, and their Latin equivalents, Dräger 2013, 1:641; Frede 2013, 5.366–7. See e.g. Salles 2009, and attempts to reconstruct a Stoic doctrine or orthodoxy. Lucian of Samosata 1913, 65–67.

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did fate underpin the creation and sustaining of the universe, or did it at all?). Epictetus famously summarizes the range of opinions: Concerning the gods there are some who say that the divine does not exist at all, and others who say that it exists, but is idle and free from care and exercises no providence over anything (καὶ μὴ προνοεῖν μηδενός). Third are those who say that it both exists and exercises providence, but over great and heavenly things, not over any of the things on earth; fourth those [who say that it exercises providence] over things on earth and human affairs, but only with a view to what is common and not also over each separate individual. Fifth, including Odysseus and Socrates, are those who say ‘I do not escape your notice in my movements’. (Diss. 1.12.1–3)12

Scholars of ancient philosophy often take up the writings of Cicero or Seneca to develop a systematic Stoic (or Chrysippean) view on fate. Yet our scholarly attempt to systematize and to clarify, whether in relation to Stoic philosophy or ancient Christian theology, runs counter to the diversity of the discussion in antiquity. There were many ancient strategies to explain fate and pronoia, and while these strategies may claim to be definitive, they were contingent and experimental.

The Lot Oracle at Kremna One experimental strategy for dealing with fate is located in Pisidian Kremna, in southwest Asia Minor. In approximately 120 CE, a rectangular limestone stele, measuring 2.44 m in height and with width ranging from .62 m to .68 m, with a separate base and crown, was erected near the basilica in the city’s forum (Figure 13.3).13 The crown included a dedicatory inscription in Latin: ‘Following the instructions of Lucius Fabricius Longus, Vibia Tatia his wife and Fabricia Lucilla his daughter and heir dedicated (the statue of) Mercury’.14 The monument had been topped with a statue—now lost—of Mercury or Hermes, the god associated with commerce and travel, among other things. The main shaft of the stele is inscribed in Greek on four sides. Its users would likely cast five of the four-sided astragaloi (or would cast one such knucklebone five times).15 They would evaluate the throw of these so-called knucklebones from sheep, looking to the inscription. Each of the fifty-six 12 13 14 15

Sharples 2003, 113. Horsley and Mitchell 2000, 22–38; Nollé 2007, 68–77. Horsley and Mitchell 2000, 23. Nollé 2007, 7–10; Graf 2005, 59–61.

Fig. 13.3 Oracle at Kremna.

possible throws is linked to a short oracle. First listed is the kind of throw, its sum, and the name of the divinity or figure to whom the throw ‘belongs’. The second line (at least on sides A and B) details the fall of the astragals in hexametric verse. Three remaining hexameters contained the oracle or answer.16 Here is an example, taken from five sequential oracles inscribed on the stele’s south side (C): 16

Horsley and Mitchell 2000, 36.

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XLI 6 6 4 4 1 21 Of Demeter. Everything about which you ask me will be a smooth journey for you, and safe. Do not be afraid, for a Daimon will lead the way toward everything; and I see nothing painful for you. Go on in good heart. XLII 4 4 4 6 3 21 Of Helios, the Bringer of Light. All that you want, you will do. You will find all that you are concerned about. Make an attempt, stranger, in good heart; everything is ready. You will find what is invisible; you will arrive at a day of salvation. XLIII 3 3 3 6 6 21 Of Tyche, who leads on to success. Your deeds are favorable. This oracle proclaims that you make haste. You will escape a dangerous disease, you will take charge of everything; and the god proclaims that the man who wanders in a foreign land will return. XLIV 1 6 6 6 2 22 Of the Fates Manifest. Do not place your hand in the mouth of a wolf, lest some (harm) befall you. The matter about which you seek knowledge is difficult and unreliable. Hold back quietly from a journey away and from doing business. XLV 4 4 4 4 6 22 Of Poseidon. Throwing seeds and writing letters on the ocean, both are pointless toil and a fruitless task. Since you are a mortal do not force the god, who will do you some harm.17 This set of five answers demonstrates some of the characteristics of the lot oracles. The oracle addresses the questioner directly, with an imperative and some further information; sometimes s/he is addressed by the name ‘stranger’ (xene). Sometimes the oracle uses the first person to give its answer, as if the god were directly addressing the petitioner: for example, in another oracle (19), Tyche the Savior states, ‘then also you shall have the fruits for which you ask me’. Although the lot oracle is not a piece of systematic theology, and although it was never meant to be read through by those who used it, we can nonetheless understand some theological trends in it. The lot oracle scrambles our impulses to organize the titles of the throws or the names of divinities within them into tight categories, such as an Olympian pantheon, demigods, daimones, or personifications.18 It is ecumenical, with throws to Zeus or to Harm, to the Fates or to Demeter. Serapis and Isis, associated with Egypt, are mentioned, as is Mēn, usually associated 17 18

Horsley and Mitchell 2000, 30–33. For a chart of the divinities named in seventeen of these oracles, see Nollé 2007, 29–30; see Rüpke’s comment regarding Stoic ideas of the god and divine powers: ‘the system also derives energy from its inconsistencies’ [2007, 66].

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with Phrygia. If we tabulate mentions of the gods in the titles of the throws (‘of the inexorable fates’, for instance), we find that (forms of) Zeus are most popular, with eight oracles named ‘of Zeus’ (sometimes with additional epithets) and four mentions of him within other oracles. If we cluster concepts usually associated with fate, grouping together the Moirai, Tyche (with various attributes), Nemesis, and Adrasteia, we find nine references out of fifty-six, with one possible additional reference (oracle 16). Daimōn, on its own or with the appellations Megistos or Agathos, is associated with four throws and is mentioned in five other oracles. Hermes—the god whose statue likely topped the inscription—’owns’ three throws, and is mentioned in three others, sometimes as the ‘son of Maia’. It is hard to formulate robust conclusions from this data. The mention of Ares as well as Nike (victory), of Harm (Blabē) as well as Good Hope (Elpidos Agathē), of ‘Kronos, eater of his children’ as well as Zeus Ammon, indicates a broad and fluid approach to divinities on the part of those who commissioned, produced, and used this oracle.19 The oracle was a site where someone could gather knowledge from divinities, in part in order to minimize risk.20 Its petitioners were likely involved in business, since the oracle’s answers frequently address topics of travel, new enterprises, and buying and selling.21 A frequent message from these divinities was wait and do not hurry,22 often proffered with a consoling message. The act of making and using the oracles is undergirded by the assumption that the gods care enough to guide humans through their business and other affairs. These same gods, however, occasionally expressed frustration—even threat—at humans’ resistance to the gods: ‘Since you are a mortal, do not force the god, who will do you some harm’ (45). And there are hints that the oracles attempt to correct wrong religious practice 19

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In some editions of Christianized sortes (see discussion below), the oracular answers of the sortes are headed by the name of a biblical figure, for instance, ‘Azariah, help of God’ (decade 19, Stewart 2001, 27). Eidinow 2011, e.g., 9; Ratzan forthcoming. The stele offers a mixed message. Many oracles are neutral or positive, even exhortatory or consoling in nature, as in the case of the Demeter oracle cited earlier; however, some take a harsher tone. Of the 56 oracles, 29 are positive or slightly neutral (e.g., ‘the activity which you are undertaking will be as you desire’ [2]); 17 are negative or tend toward the negative (44 above is a good example of a negative oracle); 8 are neutral, and usually indicating that waiting is the best course of (in)action at present; 2 are so fragmentary that they are unclear. We can compare the frequency of business-inclined topics at the oracle at Kremna to another sortition device, the Sortes Astrampsychi, where such issues as inheritance, adultery, and freedom from slavery arise, amid business concerns. E.g., 23, which has both in short order: ‘Don’t hurry (μὴ σπεῦδ᾽) to do the business which you intend. Stay (μεῖνον), and what you want will happen later. This is better, neither to buy nor to sell’.

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and thought: One oracle, for example, attributed to Daimōn (15), commands: ‘Don’t devise awful thoughts or make prayers against the Daimones’. What context can we gain to understand this oracle better? It is part of the larger ancient phenomenon of divination, in this case, divinatory practices by lots, called kleromancy. Pieter van der Horst succinctly defines kleromancy as ‘prognostication, or rather problem-solving, by means of the drawing of lots [sortilegium] or the casting of dice [astragalomancy] or other randomizing practices’.23 Some might place the Kremna oracle in the category of popular religion or superstition—the astrology pages of the ancient world, consulted by sad sacks worried about their travel and business affairs, who did not have the intelligence to turn to philosophical discussions or theological debates to develop more stalwart practices that would shore them against their inevitable ruins. But even if this were true, the Kremnans were not alone in their use of lot oracles. Remains of twenty-one- seven- and five-lot oracles chiseled in stone have been found, especially in southwest Asia Minor, and they are not tucked away in alleys but located at key sites within the city centers.24 The oracle at Kremna stood near the basilica in the city’s forum, ‘where political business was transacted’, at a site that ‘certainly served as the meeting place for the colony’s governing ordo and its magistrates’. It was not placed there haphazardly; the steps up to the basilica are adjusted to accommodate the stele. The lot oracle was ‘a central feature of community life’.25 It also would have necessarily been used publicly and perhaps convivially, sitting as it does in a central place in the city and in the city’s political forum. The oracle in Kremna was not only prominently placed within the city but also dedicated by prominent people. The wife and daughter of Lucius Fabricius Longus, thrice magistrate in Kremna, and possibly a priest to the Fortuna of the city, dedicated the stele according to his instructions; his fortune had also paid for the forum, the basilica, its exedra, and marble statues within it. The lot oracle’s prominence, and that of its dedicators Vibia Tatia and Fabricia Lucilla, was enhanced by the fact that the whole building complex was dedicated to Emperor Hadrian and the divinized Caesar Trajan, as well as to the imperial household and the colony of Kremna.26 23 24 25 26

van der Horst 1998, 143–144. Nollé 2007, 19–30, who notes that four-lot oracles are also mentioned by Pausanias, associated with Greece proper. Mitchell 1995, 66–67. Mitchell 1995, 65–66.

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Thus, even if modern scholars of religion might find sortition devices like that at Kremna odd or marginal, many people in antiquity did not. Modern scholars interested in ancient ideas of fate might turn to Stoic writings on the cosmos or philosophical moral instruction as the most authoritative sources, and indeed these are significant. Yet oracles like that at Kremna also deserve to be taken seriously as theological statements and placed within this broader second-century discussion. Those who cast knucklebones at Kremna, doing so in the light of day in the main governmental forum of the town, insisted by their practices: ‘I do not escape your notice in my movements’, to quote Epictetus. They cast lots to ask for the divinities’ advice in negotiating their economic and political success, believing the gods to be involved and active: Human agency called forth the gods’ advice and even intervention in the world.

What Would Christians Do? Perhaps then these astragal-throwers, or those who adhered to Epictetus’ last doctrine on fate, should receive the praise of someone like Justin Martyr, a Christian writing in the mid-second century, whose travels included Asia Minor. He begins the Dialogue with Trypho by placing a question in the mouth of Trypho, his Jewish interlocutor: Do not the philosophers craft every discourse to be about God? And don’t they on each occasion investigate concerning [God’s] unity and providence? Is this not the work of philosophy, to inquire concerning the Divinity?

Justin replies: Yes, . . . but most have not pondered this: whether the gods are many or one, and whether they take providential care of us or not (προνοοῦσιν ἡμῶν ἑκάστου εἴτε καὶ οὔ, . . .) But they also try to persuade us that God cares for the universe and its genera and classes, but not for me and you, let alone each individually, for [if God did care] we would not have to pray to him all night and day. (Dial Tryph 1.3–4)27

One manifestation of the Christian God’s caring—and of an answer to this philosophical question of whether God cares for individuals—was the phenomenon of Christian sortes, similar to the lot oracles in their structure:

27

Regarding this and other second-century Christian texts on pronoia and fate, see Bergjan 2002; Denzey Lewis 2013, 148–152.

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A question would be posed, and one would look up a randomized answer.28 By the fourth century, manuscripts of Christian sortes appear, such as the Sortes Sangallensis, which has evident links to the Sortes Astrampsychi,29 which emerged as a written text in the second century CE or perhaps even the first.30 The Christian sortes were based in part on the earlier (and concurrent) Sortes Astrampsychi, which list questions from which the petitioner could choose. These questions are constraining and sometimes quotidian, but they can also be powerful and poignant. They give us a glimpse of the sorts of questions that the person in Kremna may have had in mind as s/he cast the astragals at the stele by the basilica: Will I sail safely? (1) Will I serve in the army? (14) Will I rear the baby? (30) Will I be freed from slavery? (32) Will I survive the sickness? (46)31

And the amusing: ‘Is it a time to consult the oracle?’ (13).32 We can think of the popular Sortes Astrampsychi and its later Christian renditions as providing evidence of some of the questions that the petitioner at lot oracles such as Kremna’s might have had in mind.

Early Christian Doctrines? Epictetus, Tatian, and Seneca Christians were using sortes, and, as we might expect, other Christians disapproved. We find Christian opposition to Christian practices of sortition (sanctorum sortes) by the fifth-century canons of Vannes.33 Yet no Christian writer offers an articulated ‘doctrine’ opposing practices of kleromancy. For that we must turn to the non-Christian Epictetus. His ‘How must one engage in divination?’ (Πῶς μαντευτέον; [Diss. 2.7]) begins, ‘Because we employ divination when there is no occasion for it, many of us neglect many of the duties of life’ (2.7.1).34 The Stoic philosopher Epictetus, 28

29 30 31 32

33 34

We might expect Christians to celebrate the idea of a caring God, but to condemn acts of kleromancy that sought to obtain the guidance of that God. Yet in the Acts of the Apostles, an apostle is chosen by lot in order to replace the betrayer Judas Iscariot (Acts 1:26). See Nasrallah, forthcoming; on Christians and ideas of fate or providence, see Bergjan 2002. Klingshirn 2002. Stewart 1995; Stewart and Morrell 1998, preface. Stewart and Morrell 1998, 292–294. Christian variations of the Sortes Astrampsychi remove questions that might offend: ‘Will I be reconciled with my girlfriend’ (66) is replaced in one version with ‘Will I become a bishop’ and in another ‘Will I become a cleric’? Stewart and Morrell 1998, 289; Klingshirn 2002, 2005. Klingshirn 2002, 84–86. Epictetus 1967, 249.

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at least as recorded by his second-century student Arrian, does not question the act of divination (in this case, by reading entrails or watching birds), but he does question the limits of the diviner’s knowledge: ‘Man, is it for you to tell me what is indicated by signs—life or death, poverty or wealth; but whether these things are expedient or inexpedient, am I going to ask of you?’35 He continues: What, then, induces us to employ divination so constantly? Cowardice, fear of the consequences. This is why we flatter the diviners, saying: ‘Master, shall I inherit my father’s property?’ ‘Let us see; let us offer a sacrifice about that matter’. ‘Yes, master, as fortune wills (ὡς ἡ τύχη θέλει)’. Then if the diviner says, ‘you will inherit the property’, we thank him as though we had received the inheritance from him. That is why they in their turn go on making mock of us. (Diss. 2.7.9).36

‘Master, shall I inherit my father’s property?’ Epictetus cites the sort of question that one had in mind when one turned to a diviner. Such questions are also found in the Sortes Astrampsychi; so too questions about inheritance may have been in the mind of the petitioner at the oracle at Kremna or elsewhere. Epictetus conjoins that question with the (religious) practice of sacrifice and with an invocation of Tyche. Epictetus enjoins the hearer to a better doctrine—a better philosophical concept—and practice. He does not encourage his audience to avoid the diviner, but insists that one must consider how to craft oneself in that encounter, and even to inure oneself to it: We ought to go to them without either desire or aversion, just as a wayfarer asks the man who meets him which of two roads leads to his destination, without any desire to have the right-land road lead there any more than the left-hand road. . . so also we ought to go to God as a guide, making use of Him as we make use of our eyes; we do not call upon them to show us such and such things by preference, but we accept the impressions of precisely such things as they reveal to us. (Diss. 2.7.10–11)37

Epictetus presents a complex doctrine, a philosophical-theological correct response to rampant divinatory practices of antiquity, to a mounting concern about how Tyche can guide and misguide. No equally eloquent second-century Christian reaction to practices of kleromancy or divination exists. Yet we find hints of one in the secondcentury Syrian writer Tatian, who attacks Greek identity and celebrates 35 36 37

Epictetus 1967, 251. Epictetus 1967, 250–251. Epictetus 1967, 251–253.

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a barbarian Christianity.38 According to Tatian, daimones work actively in the world to lead people astray (7.5, ta phantasmata daimonōn), and bad Greek theology and astrology are part and parcel of their tempting deceptions: ‘Humans became subject to their [the daimones’] revolt [against God]. Just like those who play at dice (οἱ τοῖς κύβοις παίζοντες), [the daimones] introduced fate—very unjustly—by showing diagrams of the constellations to humans’ (Or. 8.1). Tatian brings together fate, playing at dice, and the tricks of the daimones. Although the term for dice is different from that for astragaloi, his larger argument may remind us of the lot oracle at Kremna. Tatian goes on to argue that his ‘barbarian community’ escapes the depravities of the gods, the tenuous links between fate on earth and the mapping of the stars (9), as well as the ridiculousness and capriciousness of those who are subject to fate or heimarmenē. Punning on the ‘planets’ (planē in Greek also means ‘error’) and determining one’s fate through astrology, he writes: ‘But we are above fate and instead of the erring daimōnes we have known the one un-erring Lord; and, since we are not led by heimarmenē, we decline (paraiteomai) her lawgivers’ (Or. 9.3).39 Christians have exited Heimarmenē’s grasp, perhaps, as other Christian writers express, by means of baptism or other rituals.40 Mocking the Greek gods for taking bribes and being angry if they do not receive them, Tatian questions why he should worship such gods: ‘How, then, can I accept [the concept of] a fate-ordained birth, seeing that its managers (οἰκονόμους) are of this sort?’ (Or. 11.1). He rushes into a catalogue, breaking his usual prose style by the repetition of the first person singular: I have no desire to rule. I do not wish to be rich. I do not beg after a generalship. I have hated fornication. I do not pursue voyages because of my greediness. I am not in competition to have athletes’ crowns; I am set free from a mania for glory. I scorn death. I rise above every form of sickness. Grief does not consume my soul. If I am a slave, I endure slavery. And if I am free, I do not magnify being well born 38 39

40

(Or. 11.1–2).

Nasrallah 2010; Hunt 2003; Koltun-Fromm 2008. Ἡμεῖς δὲ καὶ εἱμαρμένης ἐσμὲν ἀνώτεροι, καὶ ἀντὶ πλανητῶν δαιμόνων ἕνα τὸν ἀπλανῆ δεσπότην μεμαθήκαμεν, ὡς οὐ καθ’ εἱμαρμένην ἀγόμενοι τοὺς ταύτης νομοθέτας παρῃτήμεθα. (Marcovich 1995). Denzey Lewis 2013, chapters 6 and 7.

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Tatian articulates a Christian/barbarian self in first-person assertions which look uncommonly like the negation of the queries one finds in the Sortes Astrampsychi or that one might have in mind as one consulted the oracle stele at Kremna.41 Throwing astragaloi in the courtyard outside Kremna’s basilica, you might receive the answer: ‘it is not auspicious to set out on a journey or to do business’.42 Tatian instead asserts, ‘I do not pursue voyages because of my greediness’. The multiple practices regarding fate in the second century—whether in the form of Epictetus’s development of a taxonomy of approaches to fate, or the lot oracle at Kremna—drive Tatian to articulate a Christian (barbarian) self with a different approach. He speaks philosophically about the pursuit of God, the rejection of an obsession with fate, and the interlocking puzzle of free will, death, and sin.43 His point: God is not to blame, and one must replace an obsession with Heimarmenē with a death to this world and a better apprehension of the divine. Tatian’s approach represents not a Christian disinterest in fate, but a Christian theological-philosophical way in a world stuffed with strategies for navigating fate. Moreover, it is a Christian philosophy articulated by means of reversing the statements one might be handed as answers to the practice of questioning an oracle, whether the Sortes Astrampsychi or the oracle of Kremna. But Tatian’s view is not uniquely Christian; it participates in a philosophical-theological trend of his time. To give one example, Seneca’s first-century De providentia is a precursor to Tatian, a ‘pagan’ theological ‘doctrine’ (to return us to the theme of doctrine and practice) to match the Christian one that would be written roughly eighty years later. Seneca addresses the questions: ‘Why, however, do you ask, was God so unjust in his allotment of fate as to assign to good men poverty, wounds, 41

42 43

For a more detailed argument about Tatian and the Sortes Astrampsychi, see Nasrallah, forthcoming. See also Denzey Lewis 2013, 158–159 who reads Tatian in light of ideas of fate, but argues that this passage opposes ‘second-century philosophical discussions of planetary influences’. Horsley and Mitchell 2000, 34–35, LVI. What’s it to me, if, on account of Heimarmenē, you lose sleep because of your love of money? And what’s it to me if, on account of Heimarmenē, you’re often yearning/desirous, and often die? Die to this world by rejecting the madness in it. Seek God, directly apprehending him (διὰ τῆς αὐτοῦ καταλήψεως) by rejecting the old birth. We didn’t come into being in order to die, but we die thanks to ourselves/through our own fault. Free will (αὐτεξούσιον) has destroyed us. We who are free have become slaves; we have been sold because of sin. Nothing bad has been done by God; we ourselves show forth evil. But we who show it forth are able to reject it again. See also Justin 2Apol. 7; after just discussing the Stoics, he says, ‘But neither do we affirm that it is by fate that people do what they do, or suffer what they suffer, but that each by free choice acts rightly or sins; and it is according to the working of wicked demons that earnest people, such as Socrates and the like, suffer persecution and are in bonds’. Marcovich 1997, 78; see Denzey Lewis 2013, 149.

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and painful death? It is impossible for the moulder to alter matter; to this law it has submitted . . . But why, you ask, does God sometimes allow evil to befall good men?’ (5.8, 6.1). Yet, with regard to human attitudes to fate and evil, Seneca like Tatian breaks into the first-person singular: I am under no compulsion, I suffer nothing against my will, and I am not God’s slave but his follower, and the more so, indeed, because I know that everything proceeds according to law that is fixed and enacted for all time, fate guides us, and it was settled at the first hour of birth what length of time remains for each. Cause is linked with cause. (De prov. 5.6–7)44

Just as Epictetus and Tatian encouraged the formation of a philosophical self in relation to fate, so too Seneca, but Seneca insists that the good man will ‘offer himself to Fate (praebere se fato)’ (De prov. 5.8) as even the gods do (6.1). Tatian and Seneca offer different advice to the philosophical person dealing with the question of fate. Tatian insists ‘we are above fate . . . and we have known the one unerring Lord’ (Ad graec. 9.2). Seneca pushes humans alongside the gods into the inevitable stream of fate. Tatian and Seneca deploy similar concepts to come to their two different ends. Seneca’s cosmology requires that gods and humans alike be subject to fate; he articulates philosophical practices to form a self that can resist the buffeting forces of poverty, pain, and death. Tatian’s cosmology insists that God is superior to daimones, that humans are not subject to fate (heimarmenē), but agrees that one can philosophically develop oneself so that business, wealth, voyages, desire, and competition do not matter. Seneca, Epictetus, and Tatian may differ on the question of whether one can engage in practices of divination, but in the face of fate, they offer the same solution: the practices of the philosophically crafted self. Their language about this self is informed in part by the easy accessibility and common practices of sortition and lot oracles; Seneca and Tatian argue about who they are in contrast to the sorts of questions that practitioners might put to the gods as they cast their astragals.

Conclusions Christians among others in antiquity used divination and sortition and crafted a philosophical self inured to its answers. They were surrounded by 44

nihil cogor, nihil patior invitus nec servio deo sed assentior, eo quidem magis, quod scio omnia certa et in aeternum dicta lege decurrere. Fata nos ducunt et quantum cuique temporis restat prima nascentium hora disposuit. Causa pendet ex causa . . .

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images of Fate, Fortuna, and Tyche. They encountered strategies for navigating Heimarmenē in the inscription at the public basilica or at the table of the sortition expert. They listened to philosophical-theological debates about fate and human freedom. While in the second century there are significant differences in practices and in philosophical-theological debate (or doctrine), such differences are not easily clustered by such categories as religious identity, economic status, or doctrine and practice. Debates about fate and human possibility in the second century CE occurred on multiple levels and are instantiated in various ways: philosophical and theological disputations, but also in practices. Justin complained that some philosophers did not take seriously the notion of God’s caring ‘for me and you individually’. Practices of kleromancy, oddly enough, can be interpreted as a high point in a theological articulation and practice of divine care for the individual—divine care that extends to predicting a business trip or the outcome of a sickness. Indeed, the latter are a kind of theological comfort, insisting that god/the gods/divinities are as near as the question in your mind as you sought answers from the Sortes Astrampsychi or Sortes sanctorum, that divinities were available to put a number in your mind or to guide the throw of your astragaloi, speaking from stone or from papyrus. Instead of sequestering philosophical and theological debates on the one side, from ‘superstitious’ or common practices of sortition or astrology, say, on the other, we should consider both to be engaged practices in relation to the question of human free will, divine providence, and even the structures of the cosmos that allow for or compromise free will or the gods’ care for the cosmos. That is, debates about fate and human possibility in the second century CE occurred on multiple levels, among multiple religious communities, and are instantiated in various ways. Such practices and debates are a part of the formation of doctrine—if by doctrine we mean the work of religious communities as they think through and articulate the nature of their relations with each other and the divine. Writing a philosophical treatise on fate is one instantiation of an attempt to work out relations between humans and divine. Casting an astragalos or a die in order to determine what the gods will answer is another. These different approaches are both simultaneously theological and practical, attempts to puzzle out and to invoke human relations with the divine.

part iv

Modelling Identities

chapter 14

Christians as a ‘Third Race’ Is Ethnicity at Issue? Erich S. Gruen

Paul employed a notorious dichotomy quoted innumerable times since his day: ‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female; you are all one in Christ Jesus’.1 Does this, in some sense, foreshadow the concept of Christianity as a ‘third race’, distinct from Judaism and Hellenism, entities that otherwise divided the ethnic world between them? Were Christians perceived, either by themselves or by others, as a race or an ethnic group? Or did the formulation of Christian identity involve a construct beyond race, defined as a new entity, outside the customary boundaries of Jew and Greek? Ethnicity is a tricky concept, much discussed, much debated, and stubbornly resistant to definition. Is ethnicity, in fact, a determining factor of identity? That broad and complex issue can barely be touched on here. The issue of Christianity as a ‘third race’ may not resolve the larger matter. But a careful study of the texts in which this notion appears or from which it has been inferred will cast some needed light on the question of how far early Christianity was conceived in ethnic terms. General agreement holds that ethnicity is a concocted notion, probably not much older than the mid-twentieth century, subjective and artificial, a social discourse rather than a historical reality. That matter can be considered settled. At least it will not be reargued here.2 But it raises a troubling question. If ethnicity is a construct, does it make any sense to derive identity from it? Did the ancients do so? The question is not often asked. Ethnos is a Greek word, but ‘ethnicity’ is a modern barbarism. A major problem rests in the fact that ethnos in Greek carries a plethora of meanings. It can signify something that we translate loosely as ‘people’ or ‘nation’, but can also 1 2

Gal. 3.28. Smith 1986, 6–18; Hall 1997, 17–33, 2002, 9–19; Malkin 2001, 7–19.

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apply to a social and political organization that contrasts with the classical polis, one with a less centralized structure, sometimes scorned as a tribal conglomerate by denizens of a polis. In addition, it could designate a wide array of different groups or collectives – even a flock of birds or a swarm of bees! And, as is well known, ta ethne, ‘the nations’, in Jewish and early Christian writings, could take on the connotation of ‘the Gentiles’. But we need not get bogged down in semantics. The fact that ethnos had a plethora of meanings in antiquity and that the ancients had no word for ‘ethnicity’ does not mean that we cannot employ the concept to investigate their perceptions and attitudes. Herodotus, in a famous passage, delineated the ethnicity, or rather the ‘Greekness’, of his people with a kind of checklist: they have common blood, language, shrines, sacrifices, and traditional ways of life (ἢθεά).3 That list remains foundational. Scholars have tweaked it and rephrased it, adding other elements like shared history, shared culture, shared territory, and a sense of solidarity that constitute group identity.4 The combination of characteristics is reasonable enough to describe what most would associate with a people’s self-definition. We concentrate here, however, on a particular and, for the ancients, fundamental connotation, one summed up in the first item on Herodotus’ checklist: common blood. That signifies collective descent, lineage, ancestry, and kinship – in short, race. Without claiming that ethnicity can be reduced to race, I employ the two terms interchangeably in this chapter in order to focus attention upon that aspect that was central to ancient conceptualization. Does ethnicity in the sense of race apply to early Christianity? More precisely, does it apply to the idea of Christians as a ‘third race’? The question demands some close scrutiny of the ancient evidence. In fact, the expression ‘third race’ itself appears only very rarely in the texts. Paul’s Letter to the Galatians does not so much as hint at the notion. The famous passage in question comes in Paul’s powerful contrast of νόμος and πίστις, the law and faith. The binary contrasts of Jew and Greek, slave and free, and male and female serve as images to encompass all humanity who, if they choose, will be sons of God through faith in Jesus Christ. There is no third race here; indeed the only allusion to race at all is to the seed of Abraham to which all who embrace Christ belong.5 That itself is a point of some interest. It indicates that the metaphor of seed or descent, 3 4 5

Herodotus, Hist. 8.144.2–3. Smith 1986, 22–30. Gal. 3.26–29: εἰ δὲ ὑμεῖς Χριστοῦ, ἅρα τοῦ Ἀβραὰμ σπέρμα ἐστέ.

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normally considered as a quintessential marker of ethnic or racial connection, can be employed to signal a declaration of belief. Other Pauline references simply reinforce this vision. Colossians affirms the binary contrast of Jew and Greek, circumcised and uncircumcised, slave and free, adding barbarian and Scythian to highlight the encompassing reach for which Christ is all and in all.6 No allusion to race or ethnicity here. The nearest one comes to it is an admonition in 1 Corinthians that no offense should be given to the Jews, to the Greeks, or to the ekklesia of God.7 The meaning of ekklesia for Paul, in general, remains ambiguous. The overwhelming majority of instances make reference to individual communities or gatherings of worshippers of Christ.8 Only rarely does he use the term in a broader sense to designate Christ-worshippers as a whole.9 But none of the cases in either category has racial overtones. The point is underscored later in 1 Corinthians when Paul affirms once again that all, whether Jew or Greek, slave or free, are baptized into one body through the drinking of one spirit.10 For ethnic distinctions we must move beyond Paul. The language of ‘race’ does appear in 1 Peter. And it does so in revealing fashion. The author, speaking to Christian converts in the diaspora communities of Asia Minor, describes them as a ‘chosen genos, a royal priesthood, a holy ethnos, a laos as possession of God’. And he adds that, though ‘you were once no people (laos), you are now the laos of God’.11 The figurative language of ethnicity, juxtaposed as it is with the expression ‘a royal priesthood’, must be taken as metaphorical. The emphasis in 1 Peter generally is on religious commitment and moral practices, with which this passage also coheres. And its obvious echoes of the Hebrew Bible’s description of Israelites as the chosen people make plain that the author saw a direct link between believers in Jesus Christ and their biblical predecessors. He had no intention of viewing Christians as a ‘third race’. Nor does the language evoke any sense of ethnic connotation. Did the second century bring any change in this understanding, whether from the inside or from the outside? Certainly not, as far as we can see, from the pagan perception of Christianity. Tacitus’ celebrated account of 6 7 8 9 10 11

Col. 3.11. 1 Cor. 10.32. E.g. Gal. 1.2, 1.22; Rom. 16.4–5, 16.16; 1 Cor. 1.2, 10.32, 11.16, 11.18, 16.1, 16.19; 2 Cor. 1.1, 8.1, 11.8, 11.28; 1 Thess. 1.1, 2.14; Phil. 3.6. 1 Cor. 14.23, 15.9; Phil. 3.6; cf. Col. 1.18. 1 Cor. 12.13. 1 Peter 2.9–10: ὑμεῖς δὲ γένος ἐκλεκτόν, βασίλειον ἱεράτευμα, ἔθνος ἅγιον, λαὸς εἰς περιποίησιν . . . οἵ ποτε οὐ λαὸς νῦν δὲ λαὸς θεοῦ.

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the persecution of Christians in Rome under the emperor Nero, composed in the early second century, shows an impressive knowledge of the sect. He is aware that it arose in Judea, stemming from the execution of Christ in the reign of Tiberius and at the hands of the procurator Pontius Pilate. The group, he tells us, was called Christians by the mob, the vulgus, presumably the Roman mob. Tacitus observes further that this exitiabilis superstitio spread from its origin in Judea all the way to Rome itself, the site of all forms of horrific and shameful deeds.12 The designation of Christianity as a superstitio and the reference to execrable deeds makes it clear that Tacitus viewed it in terms of religious belief and observances, without any suggestion of ethnic characteristics. The same holds for Tacitus’ contemporary, Pliny the Younger. As is notorious, Pliny as Roman governor of Bithynia, wrote to the emperor Trajan for instructions on how to conduct interrogation of Christians brought before his tribunal and accused. The governor was quite uncertain as to whether the very name of ‘Christian’ sufficed for conviction or whether the crimes that attached themselves to that name were the grounds for punishment.13 This, of course, is not the place to parse Pliny’s phrases, already so much discussed and disputed. The only point to be made here is that Pliny too, like his fellow Roman intellectual Tacitus, regarded Christians as defined solely by their practices and observances, a religious sect, not an ethnic group. That is obvious enough from the tests he applied for the purpose of identifying them. Paying homage to an image of the emperor and cursing Christ would be adequate for a persuasive denial of Christianity. And practitioners of the sect needed only to give up the suspicious customs with which they had been associated, like gathering in enclaves before dawn, singing hymns to Christ as if he were a god, and swearing oaths to commit a variety of offenses.14 Pliny closely duplicates the language of Tacitus in branding Christianity as an excessive and depraved superstition.15 He understood it strictly as a cult or a sect, a matter of shared worship, however despicable, rather than shared ethnicity. Suetonius, writing in the reign of Hadrian only a decade or two after Tacitus and Pliny, does employ language that, for many, might evoke ethnic significance. He refers to Christians who were singled out for punishment in the time of Nero as a genus. But, before we draw any 12 13 14 15

Tacitus, Ann. 15.44: exitiabilis superstitio. Pliny, Ep. 10.96.2. Pliny, Ep. 10.96.5–7. Pliny, Ep.10.96.8: superstitionem pravam et immodicam.

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conclusions about pagan perceptions of Christianity as an ethnic group, the rest of Suetonius’ passage should suffice to disabuse anyone of that notion. Suetonius describes Christians as a genus of men with a novel and wicked superstition.16 His conception of Christianity employs similar language and exhibits a similar understanding as that of Tacitus and Pliny. Christians are defined by their perfidious religion. What this means, perhaps most significantly, is that a term like genus could be used quite readily to designate a group identified by their beliefs and practices, rather than by blood or kinship. In that noteworthy regard, Suetonius forms a striking parallel with the author of 1 Peter on this score. They employed what we might regard as the language of ethnicity. It evidently did not have that connotation for them. Do Christian texts of the second century offer more insight into the idea of a ‘third race’? On the surface at least, it might seem that they do. The curious Epistle to Diognetus offers an entrance into that world. Alas, we know neither author, provenance, nor date. A scholarly consensus, by no means a unanimous one, would put it some time in the second century.17 For our purposes, that suffices. The work takes the form of a letter, addressed by a Christian apologist to a hostile unbeliever.18 Although this conceit does not dominate the short text or operate consistently throughout, the opening presents an intriguing comment that prompts consideration. The author presents his addressee Diognetus as enthusiastically eager to get detailed and accurate information about Christians, the god they worship, their religious practices, their scorn of the earthly world, and their disdain for death. Diognetus, as the text portrays him, reckons Christians as rejecting the gods of the Greeks and spurning the superstition of the Jews.19 And he proceeds to pose the pregnant question: why does this new genos or practice enter into life now and not earlier?20 Use of the term genos and reference to Christianity as a ‘new genos’ – by contrast with Greeks and Jews – might suggest, as it has to some, an indirect reference to the notion of a ‘third race’. But that would seem to misconstrue the meaning. The author notably describes Christianity as γένος ἢ ἐπιτήδευμα: ‘race or practice’. The two are not presented as alternatives here; rather, the one appears to be 16 17 18 19 20

Suetonius, Nero, 16.2: afflicti suppliciis Christiani, genus hominum superstitionis novae et maleficae. Meecham 1949, 16–19. The text can be found in Meecham 1949; Thierry 1964; German translation and extensive commentary in Lona 2001. Ep. Diog. 1: οὔτε τοὺς νομιζομένους ὑπὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων θεοὺς λογίζονται οὔτε τὴν Ἰουδαίων δεισιδαιμονίαν φυλάσσουσι. Ep. Diog. 1: τί δή ποτε καινὸν τοῦτο γένος ἢ ἐπιτήδευμα εἰσῆλθεν εἰς τὸν βίον νῦν καὶ οὐ πρότερον.

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explanatory of the other, a fitting supplement or gloss.21 The context in which the statement comes is that of an ostensible inquiry into the nature of the Christian god, Christian worship, Christian values, and Christian behavior. And the text as a whole constitutes an argument for the superiority of Christian belief by contrast with those of pagans and Jews. Ethnicity is irrelevant. This appears to be yet another case in which employment of what we take to be ethnic language has a far more elastic meaning for the ancients. The author of the Epistle to Diognetus, however, does include a segment in his treatise, which seems to complicate the matter. He maintains that Christians are not to be distinguished from the rest of humankind by territory, land, or customs (ἔθεσι).22 Reference to customs plainly does not refer to religious practices here, since the text has firmly distinguished them, but to the ordinary mode of living in lands where Christians dwell. For the text goes on to assert that Christians possess no cities of their own nor use an unusual manner of speech nor exhibit a distinctive lifestyle, that is, in those communities where they find themselves. Rather, they dwell in both Greek and ‘barbarian’ communities and follow the customs of those indigenous to the communities.23 Obviously this too excludes religious observances. Christians are otherwise, according to the author, quite assimilated. He then adds a peculiar qualification, namely that Christians exhibit a remarkable and admittedly peculiar form of politeia.24 The meaning here is less than obvious. Although politeia, of course, often means ‘citizenship’, it has a range of other meanings, and the idea of political citizenship is hardly applicable in this instance.25 It ought to signify something like ‘civic community’, referring to Christians’ own organized gatherings. As the author puts it, Christians dwell in their own fatherlands but only as marginal inhabitants (paroikoi). They share in all things like politai but they endure everything like aliens. Here again politai denotes not ‘citizens’, but members of the larger community. Politeia and politai do not carry narrow political connotations here. That emerges unequivocally when we read that Christians pass their lives on earth, but politeuontai (have their politeia) in heaven.26 The metaphorical meaning is 21

22 23 24 25 26

Cf. Lona 2001, 78–79. Alternatively, one might wish to see the statement as reflecting uncertainty as to just how Christianity should be defined. But that does not suit the context or the thrust of the passage. See further North in this volume. Ep. Diog. 5.1. Ep. Diog. 5.2–4. Ep. Diog. 5.4: θαυμαστὴν καὶ ὁμολογουμένως παράδοξον ἐνδείκνυνται τὴν κατάστασιν τῆς ἑαυτῶν πολιτείας. Buell 2005, 30–32, surprisingly, takes it in that sense. Ep. Diog. 5.9: ἐπὶ γῆς διατρίβουσιν, ἀλλ’ ἐν οὐρανῷ πολιτεύονται.

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abundantly plain. The author sets this contrast of politai and aliens as the first of a long series of artificial, binary antitheses designed to show off his literary flair.27 They are not to be taken in any technical sense. He returns at the end of this sequence to his initial differentiation of Christians from Greeks and Jews. Christians are warred on by Jews as if they were allophyloi (of a different tribe) and hunted down by Greeks.28 Once again, the term ‘allophyloi’ has metaphorical rather than technical significance.29 The author does not refer to ethnic distinctions. Racial undertones occur in modern interpretations, rather than in ancient perceptions. The first actual appearance of the phrase ‘third race’ has to await Clement of Alexandria writing in the late second and early third century. But Clement cites an earlier work, now unfortunately lost and of quite uncertain date, though surely not earlier than the second century, the socalled Proclamation of Peter, the Petrou Kerygma.30 The author, as quoted by Clement, does draw a clear distinction between Christians, on the one hand, Greeks and Jews on the other, but he does so in most intriguing fashion. The distinction comes not in the divinity whom they worship but the manner in which they worship him. That, of course, is unsurprising with regard to the Jews, rather more so with regard to the Greeks. The author interestingly makes sure to note that he is speaking of ‘the esteemed Greeks’.31 In any event, he exhorts his readers, even though the deities be identical, not to worship in the manner of the Greeks or the Jews.32 Instead, Christians should pursue a new form of reverence for God through Christ as intermediary.33 The text then becomes a little more direct. The Christian author affirms that God has made a new covenant with Christians, not like the old ones with Greeks and with Jews: we Christians worship in novel fashion – a third genos.34 Here we have what seems the most explicit reference to a ‘third race’, contrasted expressly with Jews and Greeks. But, far from providing an authentic reflection of ethnic identification, the passage, in 27 28 29 30

31 32 33 34

Ep. Diog. 5.5–16. Ep. Diog. 5.17. Cf. Lona 2001, 176. See the valuable edition of the fragments of the Petrou Kerygma, with French translation and commentary, by Cambe 2003. See also the critical edition of Clement’s Stromata 6, with notes by Descourtieux 1999. Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.39.4; cf. 6.41.1. Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.41.1–2. Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.41.4. Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.41.6: νέαν ἡμῖν διέθετο; τὰ γὰρ Ἑλλήνων καὶ Ἰουδαίων παλαιά, ἡμεῖς δὲ οἱ καινῶς αὐτὸν τρίτῳ γένει σεβόμενοι Χριστιανοί.

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fact, underscores the non-ethnic conceptualization of this terminology. The text had hitherto made plain that it referred strictly to differences in the way God was worshipped by the three religious groups. And Clement reaffirms that principle in his own words immediately thereafter by asserting that the one and only god is understood by the Greeks in a pagan fashion (ἐθνικῶς), by the Jews in a Judaic fashion (Ἰουδαικῶς), but by Christians in a new and spiritual fashion (καινῶς καὶ πνευματικῶς).35 Genos here plainly corresponds to its usage in the other texts that we have considered. There is indeed a remarkable consistency. A term like genos that evokes ethnicity to our eyes and ears refers repeatedly in Christian writers to practice, customs, or modes of activity that distinguish different peoples and are quite irrelevant to innate or genetic characteristics. So, when the author of the Petrou Kerygma designates Christianity as a triton genos, he sets it squarely in the context of religious worship and observances.36 Clement elaborates on this by declaring that the people of the faith consist both of those schooled in Hellenic learning and those of the law, that is, Greeks and Jews respectively, and are brought into one genos, that of the saved people (laos), thus an advertisement for conversion. The three people (laoi) are distinguished not by their place in time, such that one might infer three separate natures, says Clement, but by being instructed through different covenants of the one lord.37 In short, the tripartite division of humanity holds, but the distinctiveness of each segment is determined simply by the mode in which each expresses its devotion. The concept of a triple divide occurs also in the so-called Apology of a certain Aristides. This text too contains problems and ambiguities, compounded by the fact that it survives in three versions, Greek, Syriac, and Armenian. The texts are parallel but not identical, and missing portions in each prevent a full reconstruction. Although the writer does belong among Christian apologists of the second century, we have conflicting evidence on the date and occasion of his Apology. Eusebius has Aristides deliver it as an address to the emperor Hadrian, as does the heading to the Armenian version, but the Syriac recension dates it to the time of 35 36

37

Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.41.7: σαφῶς γάρ, οἶμαι, ἐδήλωσεν τὸν ἕνα καὶ μόνον θεὸν ὑπὸ μὲν Ἑλλήνων ἐθνικῶς, ὑπὸ δὲ Ἰουδαίων Ἰουδαικῶς, καινῶς δὲ ὑφ’ ἡμῶν καὶ πνευματικῶς γινωσκόμενον. This was recognized long ago by Harnack 1904, 309–310. See also Cambe 2003, 265–269. Buell 2001, 460–461, rightly prefers ‘third way’ or ‘third form’ to ‘third race’ here. But she still sees this as linking Christian practices with ethnicity, and describes the phraseology as ‘ethnic reasoning’. Cf. Buell 2005, 139–140. See also Lieu 1996, 167. Clem. Alex. Strom. 6.42.2: οὐ χρόνῳ διαιρουμένων τῶν τριῶν λαῶν, ἵνα τις φύσεις ὑπολάβοι τριττάς, διαφόροις δὲ παιδευομένων διαθήκαις τοῦ ἑνὸς κυρίου. Cf. 6.106.4–107.1.

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Antoninus Pius. That matter need not be explored here.38 But Aristides’ work has direct relevance to our inquiry. In the Greek text, Aristides divides the world into three gene: those who worship beings called gods by you (i.e. pagans), Jews, and Christians.39 The division seems straightforward enough, and, on the face of it, would support the notion of Christianity as a ‘third race’. But matters are not quite so simple. The Greek version goes on to divide those who revere many gods into three further gene: Chaldeans, Greeks, and Egyptians, describing them as founders and teachers for the rest of the nations (ethne).40 The author seems fonder of tripartite divisions than of expounding any theory of Christianity as a third race. And, in discussing these three subdivisions of polytheists, he identifies them strictly in terms of mistaken beliefs and adherence to false gods unworthy of reverence.41 Racial differences do not come into play. The other recensions of Aristides complicate matters still further. The Syriac text divides the world into four different races: barbarians, Greeks, Jews, and Christians. The author, to be sure, does elaborate on the differences in terms of lineage. He reckons the ‘barbarians’ as tracing their origins to Kronos, Rhea, and other gods; the Greeks as descended from Helenus, with a number of intermediary figures like Danaos, Kadmos, and Dionysos; the Jews as stemming from Abraham; and the Christians as owing their origins to Jesus Christ.42 The Armenian fragment has much the same, designating Belus and Kronos as among the gods of the barbarians; Zeus as the head of Greek lineage, spawning other gods and founders like Kadmos, Dionysos, and Danaos; Jews as descendants of Abraham; and Christians as stemming from Jesus Christ.43 It is not easy, however, to take this jumbled genealogy as a serious expression of racial distinctions. The confusion of barbarian and Greek divinities, the mixture of Hellenic deities and mortals, and the juxtaposition of Abraham and Jesus as forefathers of their nations, while Jesus himself is described as from the tribe of the Hebrews, render these 38

39 40 41 42 43

See the valuable discussion of the manuscripts, authorship, and date by Harris 1893, 1–27. See also Lieu 1996, 164–165. Harris 1893, 35–64, supplies the Greek text and a translation, with notes, of the Syriac version. German translations of both the Syriac version and the Armenian fragments, as well as the Greek text, can be found in Hennecke 1893. Apol. Arist. 2.1: φανερὸν γάρ ἐστιν ἡμῖν, ὦ βασιλεῦ, ὅτι τρία γένη εἰσὶν ἀνθρώπων ἐν τᾦδε τῷ κόσμῳ. ὧν εἰσὶν οἱ τῶν παρ’ ὑμῖν λεγομένων θεῶν προσκυνηταὶ, καὶ Ἰουδαῖοι, καὶ Χριστιανοί. Apol. Arist. 2.2. Apol. Arist. 3–12. Apol. Arist. (Syriac) 2.3. Translation in Harris 1893, 36–37. Harris 1893, 27–29, supplies the Armenian fragment in a Latin rendition.

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entangled bloodlines meaningless as a window on Christian attitudes toward ethnic divisions. And the Syriac version proceeds to detail the differences among the groups in regard to the gods they hold dear, the manner of worship, and their beliefs about the nature of the universe. Christians are superior to the others in their understanding of divine power, in the character of their relationship with it, and in their search for the truth – not in their belonging to a disparate race.44 The Nag Hammadi codices include a long treatise without author or title, which has now come to be known as the Tripartite Tractate.45 The work is a prime document for Valentinian theology, not a matter of direct concern for us. But it does include some phrases that might be interpreted as implying the threefold division that set Christianity as a third element. It lumps Greeks and barbarians together as a bloc, distinguishing them from Hebrews, and sets Christians in a separate category. The first group is criticized for wallowing in illusion and deceptive ideas, their ‘wisdom’ being little more than imitation, they confuse truth with error, and they are engulfed in petty intellectual quarrels based on unsubstantiated opinions. The relevant passage on the Hebrews is somewhat mangled but the author seems to give them better marks for seeking a higher truth, although they are hampered by the variety of sects and diverse doctrines.46 A subsequent passage does employ the language of ethnicity, dividing humanity into three gene with regard to essence: spiritual, psychic, and material, although the text does not specify which people belong in which category.47 But here again, the language is elastic, and the description offered by the author has more to do with the openness (or lack thereof) of the groups to the message of the savior than to any differentiation by race.48 The Tripartite Tractate, in fact, adapts Paul’s schema that singles out the kingdom of Christ as the one place where there is no male or female, slave or free, circumcised or uncircumcised, but all are in Christ.49 That plainly does not have ethnic 44

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Apol. Arist. (Syriac) 3–17. As illustration of confused genealogy, the author who has ‘barbarians’ trace their lineage to Kronos and Rhea, by contrast with Greeks (2), elsewhere has the Greeks themselves introduce Kronos and Rhea into their mythology (9). The Syriac text does at one point refer to the Christians as a ‘new people’ with a divine admixture (16.4), but does not here make explicit comparison with other peoples. The texts receive brief discussion by Lieu 1995, 489–490; eadem 1996, 164–166; eadem 2004, 260–261; Buell 2002, 440–441; eadem 2005, 35–36, 46, 185–186, n. 3. See the editions of the text, with translation, by Attridge and Pagels 1985, and by Thomassen 2007. Trip. Tract. 109–112. See the translation of Thomassen 2007, 88–90. Trip. Tract. 118–119 = Thomassen 2007, 93–94. Buell 2005, 84, 118, sees a blend here between the religious and the genetic aspects. Trip. Tract. 132–133. Cf. Buell 2005, 127–128.

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connotations. The plasticity of ethnic terminology here gains further reaffirmation. One can illustrate that elasticity also by the use of genos in the Martyrdom of Polycarp, from the reign of Marcus Aurelius. It appears three times in the text, each time with regard to the character of the Christians, not their race. They are a ‘holy and pious genos’, the ‘genos of the just’.50 Justin Martyr, writing in the mid-second century, made no allusion to a triton genos. But his apologetic treatise, the Dialogue with Trypho the Jew, pitting himself against the Jewish interlocutor, Trypho, resorted regularly to ethnic language in its treatment of Jews and Christians.51 Justin did not include pagans in the reckoning, so the absence of a third party precluded a tripartite scheme. But the language of the Dialogue might suggest, at least on the face of it, that the confrontation of Jew and Christian had a racial dimension. Justin employs the terms ethnos, genos, and laos to refer to either Jews or Christians.52 More pertinently, he twice implies that the two peoples divided along ethnic lines. The author maintains that there were two seeds of Judah and two races (gene), like two houses of Jacob, the one born of blood and flesh and the other of faith and spirit.53 A few paragraphs later, he sharpens the contrast strikingly, describing Christ as the first-born of all creation and the origin again of another race (genos).54 The meaning of these peculiar formulations is not easy to ferret out. But it would be hasty and erroneous to infer that Justin draws an ethnic distinction between Jews and Christians. The first passage is preceded by the unequivocal statement that Christians are the genuine Israelite genos.55 Hence, the contrast between two gene, one of flesh and one of spirit, does not determine the concept. Justin may imply that the difference rests between contemporary Jewry represented by Trypho, dependent solely on descent, and the Christianity of Justin founded on faith. But Christianity, in Justin’s construct, is the truer incarnation of Israel, not a separate race. The second passage, identifying Christ as origin of 50 51 52

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Martyrdom of Polycarp, 3.2, 14.1, 17.1: τῷ γένει τῶν δικαίων. This plainly has no ethnic implications; pace Lieu 1995, 486; eadem 2002, 52–53. For the text, see Marcovich 1997. E.g. Justin, Dial. 119.2–4, 120.2, 121.3, 130.3. A fuller analysis of these and other passages in Justin, from a slightly different perspective, can be found in Skarsaune 1987, 338–353, and in Skarsaune’s chapter in this volume. Justin, Dial. 135.6: δύο σπέρματα Ἰούδα καὶ δύο γένη, ὡς δύο οἴκους Ἰακώβ, τὸ μὲν ἐξ αἵματος καὶ σαρκός, τὸ δὲ ἐκ πίστεως καὶ πνεύματος γεγεννημένον. Justin, Dial. 138.2: ὁ γὰρ Χριστός, πρωτότοκος πάσης κτίσεως ὤν, καὶ ἀρχὴ πάλιν ἄλλου γένους γέγονε. Justin, Dial. 135.3: ἡμεῖς ἐκ τῆς κοιλίας τοῦ Χριστοῦ λατομηθέντες Ἰσραηλιτικὸν τὸ ἀληθινόν ἐσμεν γένος.

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‘another race’, is set in a scriptural context alluding to Noah and to Moses and arguing that God’s favor extended not to Israelites per se but to the people who were faithful to the Lord – who are now embodied by Christians.56 The principal thrust here is not racial divergence but supersession. Christianity is the verus Israel. That theme recurs on a number of occasions in the text of Justin’s Dialogue with Trypho. The author has Christians as the ethnos promised by God to Abraham, father of many peoples – although he makes clear that this is the issue of Isaac, not of Ishmael. Christians received the heritage of Abraham for eternity, for they are the sons of Abraham through sharing the same faith.57 Justin further links Christ to God’s naming of his people Israel and to the heritage that runs from Jacob to David: Christians are the children of God because they observe the precepts of Christ.58 God had singled out the Israelites as his chosen people, but they proved to be useless, disobedient, and faithless; Christ is the true carrier of the name of Israel.59 The emphasis on faith and on adherence to precept makes Christians, in Justin’s view, the authentic flock of the Lord. The language of ethnicity in Justin’s treatise, as in the other texts already discussed, resolves itself into matters of belief and observance.60 The author does not see a divide between two races – let alone a ‘third race’. That Christians did count as a tertium genus in antiquity is, in fact, directly and explicitly attested. Not, however, as a proud boast by a Christian author. Rather, it occurs in a harshly negative context, described by Tertullian as a nasty criticism of Christianity against which he mobilized some of his own sharp wit. The testimony appears in Tertullian’s Ad Nationes and his Scorpiace, both composed at the end of the second century or beginning of the third.61 According to the African churchman, it was clear that Christians were called (by others) a tertium genus. Indeed they were subject to shouts by the mob at the circus who taunted them as the tertium genus.62 Tertullian rejects the 56 57 58 59 60 61

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Justin, Dial. 138.2–3. See the incisive analysis of these passages by Buell 2005, 101–103. Justin, Dial. 119.4–5; cf. 120.2. Justin, Dial. 123.6–9. Justin, Dial. 130.3, 134.6, 135.3. On the ambiguity and fluidity of Justin’s portrait, see the excellent discussion by Buell 2005, 95–115, although she reaches somewhat different conclusions. See also Lieu 1996, 136–140. See the text, French translation, and commentary on Book I of the Ad Nationes by Schneider 1968. For wise words on this topic, I am indebted to the kindness of Andrew McGowan and his unpublished paper, ‘A Third Race or Not: The Rhetoric of Ethnic Self-Definition in Tertullian’. Tert. Ad Nat. 1.8.1: plane, tertium genus dicimur; Scorp. 10.10: in circo, ubi facile conclamant, usque quo genus tertium?

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label with scorn and derision. The idea of a ‘third race’ obviously held the connotation of inferiority to the other two – whoever they might be. Tertullian does not specify, and indeed professes ignorance. He wonders only what critics have in mind by branding Christianity as a ‘third race’: are Christians to be reckoned as monstrous creatures like winged dogs or people with feet like umbrellas or the Antipodes who dwell beneath the earth?63 Those who wish to relegate Christians to that lowest order, he says, might at least have the courtesy of identifying the first two races, so that we could have some clarity on the third.64 That was just the beginning of his ironic thrusts. Tertullian tells the story drawn from Herodotus about the Egyptian king who sought to discover the oldest race on earth by awaiting the first words of two children who had not been allowed to hear any human voices before they spoke. It turned out that the first word they uttered was ‘bread’ in Phrygian, thus proving to the king’s satisfaction that Phrygia was the first of nations. Tertullian seizes on the story to ask spitefully and mischievously if Phrygians were first and Christians were third, who is second and how many nations come in between? The Church father, Tertullian, presses his advantage further. We must presume that the rank order is based on religion, hence the three groups must be Romans, Jews, and Christians. If so, what about the Greeks? And, if they are subsumed among the Romans who have adopted their gods, where does one place the Egyptians whose practices are most peculiar and curious? And, if those who occupy the third place are so monstrous, what must one think of those who hold the first and second places?65 He reserves his most sarcastic jab for a few chapters later. He points out that pagans have their own tertium genus. Theirs, however, has nothing to do with religion or cult, but only with sex, namely the eunuch or hermaphrodite who combines the male and the female into a third gender.66 The testimony of Tertullian has led some to believe that the idea of a ‘third race’ may actually be a pagan invention, fastened on Christians by hostile elements determined to blacken them.67 The proposition is 63 64 65 66 67

Tert. Ad Nat. 1.8.1: Cynopennae aliqui vel Sciapodes vel aliqui de subterraneo Antipodes? Tert. Ad Nat. 1.8.1: si qua istic apud vos saltem ratio est, edatis velim primum et secundum genus, ut ita de tertio constet. Tert. Ad Nat. 1.8.2–13. Tert. Ad Nat. 1.20.4; cf. Pliny. NH 2.263; SHA ‘Alexander Severus’ 23.7. See Mohrmann 1977, 195–196, who changed her mind on the subject. Cf. Stroumsa 1999, 58–60; Lieu 2002, 184.

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problematic. Would Christian writers like Aristides and the authors of the Proclamation of Peter and the Letter to Diognetus have embraced a pagan formula generated to embarrass Christians? There is no other testimony anywhere to suggest that any pagan writer, whether hostile, friendly, or neutral, ever employed the concept of a ‘third race’.68 And the very few other Christian intellectuals who used the expression did so without a hint of negative connotation. One ought perhaps not to rule out the possibility that the cynical Tertullian, in assembling his arsenal against pagan critics, mounted something of a straw man. Be that as it may, it is essential to emphasize that Tertullian’s use of the phrase actually coincides closely with that of the other writings in which it appears. That is, it refers to belief, worship, and practice; in short, religion, not ethnicity.69 The point is clearer in Tertullian than anywhere else. The African churchman makes it quite explicit in mocking the purported pagan cavil against Christians. He asserts that ‘we are considered a tertium genus because of our religion (superstitio), not our peoplehood (natio) – thus ranked third after Romans and Jews’.70 There could be no clearer statement that genus can be employed without ethnic or racial significance.71 The malleable character of the terminology requires emphasis. This chapter does not profess to have resolved the larger question of whether the ancients derived identity from a sense of ethnicity. But it has attempted to show that the concept of Christianity as a ‘third race’ cannot be used to support the proposition. That concept is fundamentally a red herring. It pops up in our texts only in rare and exceptional cases. On the infinitesimally few occasions when Christian authors actually allude to the notion, it bears no relation to matters of race. And pagan writers never make mention of it, except as indirectly ascribed to them in the tendentious construct of Tertullian – which itself 68

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The nearest we have to it is Suetonius’ labeling of Christians as a genus hominum superstitionis novae et maleficae; Nero, 16.2. But the phraseology there obviously points to religious belief, not race and, in any case, does not set Christians as a third category by comparison with other groups. Cf. the still valuable discussion of Harnack 1904, 343–347. Tert. Ad Nat. 1.8.11: sed de superstitione tertium genus deputamur, non de natione, ut sint Romani, Iudaei, dehinc Christiani. The phrase does appear on one other occasion, in the pseudo-Cyprianic work, De Pascho Computus, 17, written in the mid-third century, somewhat beyond our period. The author speaks obscurely of three boys protected from the fires of hell by the son of God ‘in our mystery, we who are the tertium genus of humankind’ (Pasch. Comp. 17). There is precious little to be extracted from that peculiar passage. It does imply embrace of the phrase by a later Christian writer, but gives no clue as to its significance. Cf. Harnack 1904, 313–314.

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explicitly removes the idea from the realm of ethnicity.72 Terms like ethnos, genos, or natio carry wider and more diverse meanings well outside that realm.73 They need not, and usually do not, signify what we take to be ethnicity. If Christians, or anyone else in antiquity, set their identity on an ethnic basis, we will not find that in the concocted notion of a tertium genus.

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The one explicit reference to a τρίτον γένος in a pagan author has nothing to do with Christianity. Strabo, in a polemic against Ephorus, insists that only two types of people exist, Greeks and barbarians, and, if there is any mixture, one element or the other is dominant. There is no ‘third race’. Similar conclusions are reached by Skarsaune in his chapter for this volume.

chapter 15

Ethnic Discourse in Early Christianity Oskar Skarsaune

Introduction Did the early Christians think of themselves as a people, a nation, a race, and did they present themselves as such in their preserved writings? Traditionally, this question has been answered in the negative. Based, for example, on passages like Ad Diognetum 5, it has been said that Christians took some pride in not being a people like other peoples, and in not exhibiting the usual markers of ethnic identity: ‘The distinction between Christians and other men, is neither in country nor language nor customs.’ They live in Greek and barbarian cities and follow the local customs, both in clothing and food and the rest of life. To Christians, every foreign country is their fatherland, and every fatherland a foreign country, because their citizenship is in heaven.1 Origen, in fact, emphasized that this was one of the significant differences between Christians and Jews: When you observe that the Jews hate the Christians and set traps for them, you must understand that this prophecy is fulfilled which says, ‘And I, for my part, will provoke them by those who are not a people [non gentem]’ [Deut. 32.21]. We are not a nation [gens], we are too few in this city who have believed [for that to be the case], and all of us come from different cities, and since the beginning of our faith no whole nation [gens integra] has adopted it. The Christian genus is not a gens, one and integer, in the same way as the Jews were, or the Egyptians. The Christians have been brought together from all the different nations, from here and from there. Therefore God says, ‘I will make them jealous towards a non-gens.’2

It would thus seem that the traditional communis opinio on this question is well founded. In the most recent monograph on the subject, however, Denise K. Buell’s Why This New Race, this way of thinking is challenged.

1 2

Ad Diognetum, 5.1–9, translation and paraphrase according to Lake 1913, 359/61. Homilies in Psalms 36–38; Hom. on Ps 36, I.1.85–101 (SC 411:56/58). My own translation.

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She claims that early Christians were deeply involved in what she calls ‘ethnoracial discourse’.3 Buell takes terms like genos, ethnos, laos, and others, as expressing the idea of peoplehood, so that their occurrence signifies the presence of ethnoracial discourse. Also, when the way that Christians worship their God is compared with the different ways of other peoples, she thinks that Christians are thereby, albeit indirectly, characterizing themselves as a people. Buell therefore also challenges the traditional deep divide between Jews and Christians in this respect. The Jewish notion of peoplehood was by no means as rigid and delimiting as often thought, and Christians were not foreign to claiming a peoplehood of their own. The difference between Jews and Christians cannot be described simply by saying that the Jews were a people, the Christians were not. While agreeing with this last point, I think that Buell has overstated her case, partly because she has made ‘ethnoracial’ discourse a much too uniform concept. In her study, ethnoracial discourse is more or less the same thing, wherever you meet it, whichever of the ‘ethnic’ terms is employed, and regardless of specific context. In the following discussion, I will therefore focus more closely on the questions of terminology, context, and audience, as far as ethnic discourse is concerned, hoping in this way to give this concept sharper contours.

‘People’ Terms in Early Christian Literature A survey of the use of the three terms genos, ethnos, and laos in the New Testament; the so-called Apostolic Fathers and in (Greek) Aristides, Justin, and Athenagoras brings to light certain interesting findings.4 Genos (like Latin genus) derives from the old Indo-European root genh-, which has to do with giving birth or bringing forth.5 A genos may therefore mean a descendant, family, clan, tribe, people, and race, all descending from one common ancestor. But then we also tend to group dead things in families, and we even classify more abstract concepts in the same way, like ‘different ways of worshipping God’. In these cases, genos may be translated as ‘kind’, ‘way’,

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Buell 2005, subtitle and passim. See also the shorter presentation in Buell 2001. For the Apostolic Fathers, see Kraft’s concordance, Kraft 1963; for Aristides, Justin, and Athenagoras, we have Goodspeed’s Index, Goodspeed 1912. See Frisk 1960, ad voc., and Beekes 2010, ad voc. I have consulted the same dictionaries for ethnos and laos.

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‘type’, or ‘form’, and has no ‘ethnic’ connotation.6 Genos meaning kind or type is quite frequent in the New Testament and in early Christian literature.7 But in some instances, the word is also used in the sense of ‘people’, most often referring to the Jewish people,8 in only nine cases to Christians as a people (1 Pet. 2.9; Mart. Pol. 3.2; 14.1; 17.1; Justin, Dial. 11.5; 119.4; 135.6; 138.2; Melito, Fragm. 1).9 In other words, the meaning people is just one – and not the most usual one – among many meanings this word can have. Ethnos, on the other hand, most often means ‘group, crowd, people’, or ‘nation’ when used about humans; and ‘crowd, swarm’ when used about animals. In the early Christian literature I have surveyed, only the meaning ‘people, nation’ is represented. This word has a different profile when compared with genos. Let me illustrate by one example. The whole of humanity is frequently called the human genos, because all human beings descend from one ancestor. But humanity is never (in the literature I have surveyed) called the one human ethnos, because ethnos is by nature a differentiating term. The one human genos is composed of many ethnē. The etymology of ethnos is uncertain, but it would seem that it was associated from an early period with ethos, custom, way of life. In Jewish and Christian literature by far the most frequent use is the plural of this word, ta ethnē, or panta ta ethnē, meaning the non-Jews, all the Gentiles, corresponding to Hebrew ha-gojim. In early Christian literature, ethnos in the singular is used most often about the Jewish people, on rare occasions about the Christians as a people (I counted five occurrences: 1 Pet. 2.9; 1 Clem. 29.3; Justin, Dial. 24.2; 63.2; 123.1). The word laos is a completely different story.10 The etymology is uncertain in this case also, but the basic meaning is people. Homer and 6

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10

This is of special relevance with regard to Christians being spoken of as the ‘third genos’, because the entities counted here are not three peoples, but three different types of worshippers: Gentiles, Jews, and Christians. See below, and for more extensive argument concerning the ‘third genos’ texts, Erich Gruen’s chapter in this volume. E.g. Matt. 13.47: fish of every kind; Mark 9.29: this kind of evil spirit; 1 Cor. 12.10: various kinds of tongues; Justin, 1 Apol 60.2: wild animals of every kind; Dial. 1.4: the universe with its kinds and species. Most frequent is the term to genos tōn anthrōpōn, humankind; in Justin’s apologies alone I counted twenty-two occurrences. Most frequently in Justin’s Dialogue, the Jewish (‘your’) genos, or Abraham’s genos: 23.3; 43.1,7; 47.3;48.2,4; 49.3; 51.1,3; 52.3; 55.3; 64.2,3; 66.4; 67.6; 69.6; 71.2; 73.2; 80.1; 82.1; 87.3; 97.4; 100.2; 102.5; 107.1; 108.1; 115.3; 117.2,4; 120.2,5; 130.2; 138.3; 141.1,4. I have not counted the triton genos in Kerygma Petrou, the tria genē in Greek Aristides, and the kainon genos in Ad Diognetum. On these, see note 6. The three occurrences of genos in Mart. Pol. illustrate the ambiguity of the term. Lake 1913 translates ‘people’ in 3.2; ‘family’ in 14.1 and 17.1, but ‘kind’ also works in all three cases. See Gruen’s chapter in this volume. For the following, see in particular Strathmann 1942.

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others in the classical period used the word frequently, very often in the meaning of a crowd of people being commanded by or obeying a leader, for example, a military leader, a high priest, or a king.11 What is striking here is that this word gradually fell out of use during the period after Homer, so when the Septuagint translators chose this word as their favourite term for Israel as a people (corresponding most often to ‘am in Hebrew), they chose an unusual word that had a slightly archaic and solemn flavour to it. In the Septuagint this word is used some two thousand times, and has become, more or less, a technical term for Israel as God’s elect people. The word laos had come to life again in the Septuagint, and in Jewish and Christian literature influenced by the Greek Bible.12 In early Christian literature, this favourite word for Israel, God’s elect people, is a word Christians claim for themselves from quite early on. In the works surveyed by me, I counted forty-eight occurrences of laos for Christians.13 The difference between the use of this word and the two others is not only one of frequency. In some of the laos texts, claiming this word for Christians is the whole point of the argument. To be the elect people of God was the exclusive prerogative of Israel. Accordingly, when we encounter laos in early Christian ‘ethnoracial’ discourse, we are not dealing with ethnic discourse in general – Christians claiming to be a people among other peoples. What we are dealing with here is peopleof-God discourse, and in such a discussion, only one people is in view: biblical ‘Israel’. In order to substantiate this, I shall examine some relevant texts.

Early Christian People-of-God Discourse Paul is the one who first hammered out the most profiled ideas about the community of believers in Jesus being the new people of God.14 I think one 11

12 13

14

We may have a vestige of this meaning when the Christian bishop is said to address and to be answered by ‘the laos’ (e.g. Justin, 1 Apol. 65.3, 5; 67.5). This probably echoes Old Testament and early Jewish language in a cultic setting: ‘All the people [LXX: laos] shall say, “Amen!”’ (Deut. 27.15–26; 1 Chron. 16.36; Neh. 8.6; Ps. 106.48). Strathmann 1942: 32. Acts 15.14; 18.10; Rom. 9.25–26; 2 Cor. 6.15–16; Tit. 2.14; Heb. 4.9; 8.10; 10.30; 1 Pet. 2.9–10; Rev. 18.4; 21.3; 1 Clem. 8.3; 29.2; 59.4; 64.1; 2 Clem. 2.3; Barn. 3.6; 5:7; 8.1; 10.2; 13.1, 2, 3, 5, 6; 14.4, 6; Hermas Sim. 5.5.2–3; 5.6.2, 3; 8.1.2; 8.3.2, 3; 9.18.4; Justin, Dial. 70.5; 80.1; 110.4; 113.3; 119.3; 123.5, 6; 124.1; 136.1; 138.3; 139.4. The classic monograph on the people-of-God concept in the Bible, early Judaism, and the New Testament, Paul in particular, is still Dahl 1941 [1962].

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may reasonably claim that the tripartite division of humanity – Gentiles, Jews, Believers in Jesus – is already present in Paul. First, of course, we have in Paul the ordinary Jewish bipartite division of humanity into Jews and Gentiles. In Paul this division is expressed in many ways, like ‘Jew and Greek’.15 In Gal. 2.7–9 the terms are ‘the circumcision’ [hē peritomē] for Jews, and ‘the foreskin’ [hē akrobystia] for Gentiles, also called ta ethnē in the same passage: ‘[God made] Peter an apostle to the circumcised . . . and me to the Gentiles’ (v. 8).16 If any proof were needed that in binary opposition to Jews, ‘Greeks’ stand for the entire Gentile world (pars pro toto), this is it.17 The interesting question now is: how does he relate the new group of believers in Jesus to these two traditional groupings? As far as I can see, his basic model is that believers in Jesus are a new and third group recruited from the first two, Jews and Gentiles. In 1 Cor. 12.13 he says ‘in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body – Jews or Greeks, slaves or free’. Similar is 1 Cor. 10.32: ‘Give no offence to Jews or Greeks or to the church of God’. One should notice that in neither of these texts does Paul indirectly characterize the believers in Jesus as a people like the Jews and the Greeks. The Greeks stand for the entire Gentile world, and the Gentiles were not an ethnos, nor were slaves and free. The only ethnic entity with which Paul here compares ‘the Church of God’ is the Jews, the people of God. And that, I think, is precisely the point. Paul never speaks about believers in Jesus as an ethnos. When it comes to the people-of-God concept, however, claiming this predicate for believers in Jesus, be they Jews or Gentiles, is vital. Paul therefore has no problem with calling believers in Jesus laos theou, quite the contrary. With most emphasis, this is done in Rom. 9.24–26: [God] has called us, not from the Jews only but also from the Gentiles; as indeed he says in Hosea, ‘Those who were not my laos I will call “my laos”, and she who was not beloved I will call “beloved” [Hos. 2.23]. And in the very place where it was said to them, “You are not my laos”, there they shall be called children of the living God [Hos. 1.10].18

Paul was not alone among early Christians to think this way. The most central biblical promises of salvation were addressed to Israel, the people of 15 16 17 18

Rom. 1.16; 2.9–10; 3.9; 10.12; 1 Cor. 1.22, 24; 10.32; 12.13; Gal 3.28; Col 3.11. All biblical quotations in this chapter are from the NRSV translation. On some occasions this binary division is not present, and then Paul can subdivide the Gentile world according to Greek custom: ‘Greeks and barbarians, wise and foolish’, Rom. 1.14. For other uses of laos to denote Christians in the Pauline corpus, see 2 Cor. 6.17; Tit. 2.14.

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God, the chosen people, and so on. For anyone who took the Jewish Bible seriously as divine revelation, being a member of the true people of God was a question of being saved or not. I emphasize, being ‘a member of the true people of God’. As far as I can see, the concept of peoplehood per se, peoplehood in general, was hardly of any interest to Paul or other early Christians. The only interesting people was the people of Israel, and the crucial question was: who are now Israel? Who are now Abraham’s descendants? The way I see it, the concept of Christians as a people originated and was formulated to make clear the position of Jewish and Gentile believers with regard to the biblical promises of salvation to Israel. The earliest ‘ethnoracial’ discourse of Christians cannot be separated from this very Jewish context. Time does not allow me to make a full survey of this use of laos theou also for Gentile believers in Jesus. In the New Testament, let me just quote two passages. First, Acts 15.14, where James says, at the Jerusalem meeting: ‘Simeon has related how God first looked favourably on the Gentiles [ethnē], to take from among them a laos for his name’. From belonging to ta ethnē, the Gentiles, Gentile believers in Jesus become laos theou. Next we have the classic passage in 1 Peter 2.9–10, clearly echoing Exodus 19.5–6/23.22 LXX as well as Paul in Rom. 9.25–26: [The Jews stumble and fall because they disobey,] but you are a chosen race [genos eklekton], a royal priesthood, a holy nation [ethnos hagion], God’s own people [laos eis peripoieesin] [Exod. 19.5–6/ 23.22 LXX], in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light. Once you were not a people [ou laos], but now you are God’s people [laos theou], once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy [Hos. 1.10/2.23].19

In Barnabas, as in Paul, there is a contentious appropriation of the peopleof-God concept for believers in Jesus. Unlike Paul, the author of Barnabas has no concern for the Israel kata sarka; he even denies that they ever were God’s people, because they rejected God’s offer of the covenant. Also unlike Paul, for Barnabas there is no continuity between the old and the new people; they are clearly two distinct peoples. Now let us see whether this people [houtos ho laos] or the former people is the heir, and whether the covenant is for us or for them. Hear then what the Scripture says concerning the people: ‘The Lord said to Rebecca, “Two nations [dyo ethnē] are in your womb, and two peoples [dyo laoi] in your 19

In this composite allusion to different Old Testament texts, the author of 1 Peter needed three different words for ‘people’ for stylistic reasons. No doubt laos is the dominating one.

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Barnabas never speaks about Christians21 as the third genos, but he can use the term new people: ‘[Christ suffered] in order to fulfil the promise made to the fathers, and himself prepare for himself the new people [ton laon ton kainon]’ (Barn. 5.7). Here again, we have to do with people-of-God discourse: Christians, not Jews, are the people of God. But there is also another type of appropriating the Jewish heritage. We meet it in 1 Clement22 and in The Shepherd of Hermas.23 Here Christians are seen to be the only inheritors of the Jewish legacy, and this seems so self-evident to these authors that they write as if there were no competitors: the Jews have disappeared out of sight. [O]ur gracious and merciful Father . . . has made us the portion of his choice for himself. For thus it is written, ‘. . . God established the bounds of the nations [horia ethnoon] according to the number of the angels of God. His people Jacob became the portion of the Lord, Israel was the lot of his inheritance’. . . . ‘Behold the Lord takes to himself a nation’ [ethnos] from the midst of nations [ek mesou ethnoon] . . . and the Holy of Holies shall come forth from that nation [ek tou ethnous ekeinou].24

Here the continuity from Israel to the church is so complete that the notion of two peoples, not to speak of three, is in practice excluded, as Horacio Lona rightly observes.25 It goes without saying that in cases like these, there is no polemic, no argument that Christians – not Jews – are the people of God. A self-understanding that was appropriated through intense debate and polemic has here become an undisputed and almost self-explanatory part of Christian self-understanding. The genre and audience of these two writings explain why: they are both very inner-Christian works, Christians talking to other Christians. 20 21

22 23 24

25

Barn. 13.1–2, translation according to Lake 1912, 387/89. Other passages of similar character: 3.6; 4.8; 13.3, 5, 6; 14.1, 4, 6. In 2 Clem. a similar saying: 2.3. I call believers in Jesus ‘Christians’ from the beginning of the second century onwards, as did Pliny the Younger in 112 ce and Ignatius at about the same time. On the term itself, see the brilliant essay by Bickerman 1949. Christians being laos theou: 1 Clem. 8.2; 29.2; 59.4; 64.1. Christians being the only laos of God or Christ: Sim. 5.5.2–3; 6.2–3; 8.1.2, 5; 3.2–3; 9.18.4. 1 Clem. 29.2, presented as two quotations from scripture, the first roughly corresponding to Deut. 32.8–9, and the second a very mixed text with elements from Deut. 4.34, Num. 18.27, 2 Chron. 31.14, Ezek. 48.12. For detailed analysis, see Lona 1998, 326–28. Lona 1998, 326. A much later example of the same attitude occurs in Theophilus of Antioch. The ancestors of Israel are self-evidently the ancestors of Christians, Theophilus mentions ‘Abraham, our patriarch’, and says that ‘these Hebrews were our forefathers, and from them we possess the sacred books’.

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To sum up: The writings I have surveyed so far contain no general ‘ethnoracial’ discourse, but quite exclusively ‘people-of-God’ discourse – either polemically in direct or indirect confrontation with Jewish opponents who claim this prerogative for themselves, or non-polemically as a given fact for a Christian community.

People-of-God Discourse in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue Turning to Justin Martyr, we find an interesting example illustrating the significance of context, when it comes to ‘ethnoracial’ discourse. His Dialogue with Trypho, the Jew is clearly an example of what early Christian authors had to say vis-à-vis the Jews, regardless of who the intended readers might be.26 In the Dialogue, Justin comes forward as an heir of Paul in many respects, not least when the people-of-God and the offspring-of-Abraham concepts are concerned.27 His main treatment of the theme comes in Dial. 119ff. No other theme in the entire Dialogue makes Trypho and his companions as agitated as this one. Obviously this theme was a burning issue for all involved in the conversation. Justin begins by quoting Deut. 32.16–23, where God says that he rejects the Israelites because they have provoked him to jealousy with that which is no god. Accordingly, God will provoke Israel with ‘that which is no people [ouk ethnei]’, obviously taken by Justin to refer to the believers among the Gentiles. After the death of Christ, Christians blossomed forth as another people [laos heteros] . . ., as the prophets exclaimed, ‘And many nations [ethnē polla] shall flee unto the Lord in that day and they shall be for him a people [laon]; and they shall dwell in the midst of the whole earth’ [Zech. 2.11]. But we Christians are not only a people [laos], but a holy people [laos hagios], as we have already shown: ‘And they shall call it a holy people [laon hagion], redeemed by the Lord’. [Isa. 62.12]28

Therefore, Christians are not ‘just any nation [ethnos] as the Carians or the Phrygians’ (Dial. 119.4), they are God’s elect people, taking this place instead of the Jews. Those who share Abraham’s faith are his true descendants. ‘[B]y our similar faith we have become children of Abraham [cf. Gal. 3.7]. For, just as he believed the voice of God, and was thereby justified 26 27 28

For the Greek text, I use Marcovich 1997, as translation, Slusser 2003. For Justin’s quite extensive dependence on Paul, see Skarsaune 1987 passim, especially 92–98 and 114–29. Dial. 119.3; translation Slusser 2003, 178–79.

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[cf. Gen. 15.6], so have we likewise believed the voice of God . . . and have renounced all worldly things even unto death’ (Dial. 119.5–6).29 In Dial. 120 Justin takes the argument a step further. The descent from Abraham is not only metaphorical, based on sharing Abraham’s faith. The legitimate seed of Abraham was not all his physical descendants, but only the single line through Isaac and Jacob. Then the same line of election was continued through one of Jacob’s sons, Judah. And in Jacob’s blessing of Judah, this narrow line was prolonged to the Davidic Messiah (Gen. 49.10). He, in person, is the legitimate seed of Abraham [cf. Gal. 3.16]. For Justin, this Messiah is Jesus, and Christians are born of him by a spiritual birth. ‘We who obey the precepts of Christ, are, through Christ who begot us to God [apo tou gennēsantos hēmas eis theon], both called and in reality are, Jacob and Israel and Judah and Joseph and David and true children of God’.30 ‘As Christ is called Israel and Jacob, so we, hewn out of the side of Christ, are the true Israelite race’ [Israelitikon genos].31 From Dial. 130 onwards, virtually to the end of the Dialogue, Justin keeps elaborating this argument, with ever new testimonies from scripture. Throughout the entire discourse, he can shift between slightly different models. In one, Christians are the one people who absorb the true believers from Jews and Gentiles. In another, scripture prophesies two peoples: Jews and Christians. ‘[T]here were two seeds of Judah, and two races, as there are two houses of Jacob: the one born of flesh and blood, the other of faith and hope’.32 Justin can even speak of the true Israel, that is Christians, as the third people, quoting Isa. 19.24–25: Through Isaiah he speaks thus of another Israel: ‘On that day shall Israel be third among the Assyrians and the Egyptians, blessed in the land which the Lord of Hosts blessed, saying: Blessed shall my people [ho laos mou] be who are in Egypt, and who are among the Assyrians, and my inheritance, Israel’.33

This is the closest Justin comes towards calling Christians the third people, but this is within a scriptural quote; he never does so in his own text. What he does is calling Christians another race; another, that is, than the Jewish race. ‘[Christ] founded another race [archē allou genous gegone], which is 29 30 31 32 33

Slusser 2003, 179. Dial. 123.9, Slusser 2003, 186. Dial. 135.3, Slusser 2003, 203, altered. Dial. 135.6, Slusser 2003, 204. Dial. 123.5, Slusser 2003, 185. For insightful comments on this passage, arguing that this prophecy was not the origin of the third people concept, see Cambe 2003, 269–72.

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regenerated by him through water and faith and wood, which held the mystery of the cross.’34 There is much more to be said about the people-of-God concept in Justin, but I think that what has been presented is sufficient to show that this concept plays a great role in Justin’s Dialogue.35 Here Justin finds himself in that setting in which the people-of-God discourse originated – the Jewish/Christian debate.

The Lack of Ethnic Discourse in Justin’s Apologies Justin’s Apologies were addressed to a completely different audience. In recent scholarship, a good argument has been made that the address of Justin’s so-called First Apology is not a literary fiction. He may have been naive, but there is good reason to think that he intended the writing to be treated as a formal petition to the emperor and the Senate of Rome, and that he expected it to be answered by the emperor in the usual way.36 In any case, the writing was no doubt also intended to be read by the Roman public in general. This is how Justin presents the Christians on behalf of whom he submits his petition: ‘I . . . have drawn up this address and petition on behalf of those, to whom I myself belong, drawn from every race [genos] of human beings, who are being unjustly hated and abused’.37 It is as if he goes out of his way not to describe them by any term used for any kind of people, group, sect, or whatever one could think of. The people-of-God terminology, so prominent in the Dialogue, is completely absent from the apologies. Not once does he call Christians a genos, and the same with ethnos and laos. In fact, he does not use any term for people, group, sect, church, or synagogue for Christians in either of the apologies.38 The one term he uses most often is, not surprisingly, Christianoi.39 Apart from that, he often uses different circumscriptions that basically are variants of ‘those who believe in Jesus Christ’. Why did Justin avoid all common terms for people and other types of collectives when speaking about Christians? The explanation is not that Justin in general avoided 34 35 36

37 38 39

Dial. 138.2, Slusser 2003, 207, altered. For a full treatment of this theme in Justin, see Skarsaune 1987, 326–53. See Minns and Parvis 2009, 24–25. They also argue that the so-called Second Apology is really a collection of cutouts from the original one and only Apology (= libellus, petition) of Justin, Minns and Parvis 2009, 21–31. For Greek text and English translation of the apologies, I use Minns and Parvis 2009. The terms I have checked are genos, ethnos, laos, dēmos, hairesis, ekklēsia, and synagōgē. Sixteen occurrences (singular and plural) in each of the two apologies.

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these terms in his apologies. Genos is used with the meaning people or race altogether twenty times with the two apologies, always in variants of ‘the human race’. Ethnos is used in the meaning ‘nation, people’ some seventeen times, in the form (panta) ta ethnē, meaning all nations, humanity as a whole.40 Interestingly, in his First Apology Justin avoids the theme of Christians being laos theou even when commenting on Old Testament prophecies that contain this term, texts which Justin applies to Christians. Why this avoidance of ethnic terms for Christians in Justin’s apologies? First of all, before a pagan audience unfamiliar with the Bible, Justin could hardly score many apologetic points by explaining that the Jews no longer were God’s people, while the Christians had taken over that role.41 Second, an important apologetic point that Justin does make is that Christians are treated as a uniform collective group in the Roman courts. As Christians, they are, without further inquiry, condemned as guilty of the crimes associated with Christians in general. What Justin asks for, very insistently, is that each Christian individual should be scrutinized as to what this individual had actually done or not done. No one should be convicted because of alleged crimes associated with Christians as a group (1 Apol. 2–7). In such a setting, calling Christians a race, a nation, or a people, could be counterproductive. Even speaking of Christians waiting for a basileia was risky in this context. In the Dialogue, Justin does so repeatedly,42 but in the Apologies only once, and then in the following way: ‘But you, when you heard that we were awaiting a kingdom, rashly supposed that we were talking about one that was human, though we were talking about the one that is with God.’43 I believe that this, at least in part, explains the absence of ‘ethnoracial’ discourse in Justin’s apologies. This also explains its absence in the only other Greek apology preserved intact, Athenagoras’ Supplication. Not once does Athenagoras call Christians a genos, an ethnos, or a dēmos.44 40 41

42 43 44

In such calculations, I have excluded the occurrences within scriptural quotations. He does, however, comment on the result of the Bar Kokhba war, namely that the Romans now had excluded the Jews from Jerusalem. In the Dialogue, this is a significant fact incorporated into his people-of-God debate. In First Apology, he studiously avoids this discourse. Dial. 32.1; 34.2; 39.7; 46.1; 51.2; 116.2; 117.3; 120.5; 121.3; 131.5; 140.2. 1 Apol. 11.1, translation Minns and Parvis 2009, 101. Buell thinks that Athenagoras indirectly characterizes Christians as an ethnos by comparing their worship with that of ethnē and cities (Legatio 1 and 14), Buell 2005, 50–51. This is not a valid inference. Different types of religious customs were observed by different peoples and cities, but comparing Christian customs with these in no way implied that the Christians were an ethnos or a city. Athenagoras himself points to poets and philosophers as the group most similar to the Christians (Legatio 5–7), and one would hardly call philosophers a nation. For text and translation of the passages referred to, see Schoedel 1972, 1–5, 10–17, 28–31.

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‘Third genos’, ‘Tria genē’, ‘New genos’ – Ethnic Discourse?45 I now turn to three texts that have much in common, in genre as well as in contents.46 (1) The Kerygma Petrou is not preserved entire, but some scattered fragments occur in Clement of Alexandria.47 Christians are said to worship God tritō genei (dative), ‘in a third way’, after Greeks (Gentiles) and Jews. (2) In the so-called Apology of Aristides, in its Greek version, humanity is said to consist of ‘three races’ or ‘three kinds’ – those who worship (several) gods, then Jews, then Christians.48 (3) In Ad Diognetum we have the same tripartite division of humanity, but here Christians are called ‘the new kind’ or ‘the new race’. All three writings are protreptic or missionary in character; they exhort their readers to embrace Christianity as the true faith.49 The one and only criterion for this tripartite division of the human genos is not ethnicity as such, but rather the three different ways in which Gentiles, Jews, and Christians worship the divine. Greeks/Gentiles are said to be idolaters who worship different parts of the created world as gods. Jews worship the one and true God, but in a wrong way. Christians worship the one and true God in the only right way, through Christ. The aim of the three writings is clearly to persuade pagan Gentiles to abandon their idolatry and turn to the one true God worshipped by Jews and Christians. But if and when they do so, they should join the Christians rather than the Jews. This approach makes sense in a situation in which Christians and Jews were still perceived as being closely related. One could 45

46 47 48 49

In the following, I omit two peculiar occurrences of the term third genos. The first is (Greek) Testament of Levi, 8.11–15; 12.1–4. Here Levi’s offspring is said to comprise three genē, all believers in the God of Israel, and the third being the best kind. Occurring in passages heavily modified by a Christian editor of the text, it seems that the third genos concept is here imported into a context utterly foreign to it. The second occurrence is Pseudo Cyprian, De pascha computus, c.e. 243, in which the three men in the oven of Daniel 3, reminds the author of the third genus, the Christians. Again, the concept is well known to the author, but he uses it to make an interpretatio Christiana of a biblical passage with which it had nothing to do originally. For pertinent comments on the two texts, see Kinzig 1994, 152–54, 161–62. For more extensive and in-depth comments on these three texts, see Erich Gruen’s chapter in this volume. The classic edition and study of these fragments is Dobschütz 1893. See also the new edition and commentary in Cambe 2003. The classic edition of the Syriac and Greek text is Harris 1893; Greek text pp. 100–12. Sara Parvis has argued convincingly that the so-called Apology of Aristides is not really an apology, but an exhortation to the reader to embrace Christian faith, as is, e.g., the writing Ad Diognetum. The writings called apologies by Eusebius all have in common a complaint about legal proceedings against Christians, and an appeal to Roman authorities to amend legal practice. They are styled as petitions. In Aristides there is none of this. Parvis suspects that the writing had, at a later stage, been secondarily dressed up as an apology by its address only (Eusebius probably only knew the address of this writing). This makes dating the writing very difficult. See Parvis 2007, especially 116–22.

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perhaps state it a little stronger: For the audience addressed by these writings, adherence to Judaism might have been the more obvious choice. This may be indicated, for example, when Ad Diognetum says to its addressee: ‘I think that you are especially anxious to hear why the Christians do not worship in the same way as the Jews’.50 This, I suggest, reflects a situation in which nascent Christianity was still perceived as an offspring of Judaism, but distinct enough from its Jewish origin to be perceived as a clear alternative. People-of-God discourse was not the primary concern here, because the great majority of Gentiles sympathetic to Judaism were content to remain Gentile sympathizers. Their aim was not to join the Jewish people as such. By becoming Christians instead, they became, in a sense, members of a people, viz. the true, spiritual Israel, but without the obligation of adopting a whole new set of customs peculiar to a certain nation. To sum up, the new or third genos discourse in Kerygma Petrou, Greek Aristides and Ad Diognetum is not, strictly speaking, an ethnic discourse, but a polemical discourse about who are the right kind (genos) of worshippers of the divine. This discourse is set in a missionary context, in which Christians clearly reject all kinds of pagan idolatry, but in which they also find it important to distance themselves from the Jews. In later centuries, this latter need had more or less faded, and Christians only engaged in antiJewish discourse when addressing Jews directly, or when warning Christians against ‘Judaizing’. But in the second century, this differentiation of Christians from Jews was still going on, and had to be addressed even within missionary literature meant for a Gentile audience. The distance between Christians and Jews is much greater here than it was, for example, in Paul, but still not so great as it became later, for example, in Origen in the third century. So, being a century of transition in this regard, as in many others, the second century is the historical Sitz im Leben of the new or third genos discourse. But there was also another reason to leave ‘the third genos’ behind at the turn to the third century – namely the hostile appropriation of the concept by pagan opponents of Christianity during the later part of the second century.

The Third genos Concept Adopted by Outsiders Having seen to what extent the third genos concept had its background in Jewish/Christian polemics, we may find it surprising that pagan opponents 50

Ad Diognetum, 3.1, translation according to Lake 1913, 355.

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of Christians adopted it. They did so, however, by turning it on its head as a term of contempt. One could even say that in a certain sense, first the Jews and then the Christians forced the Roman authorities themselves to adopt a bipartite or tripartite division of the populace of the empire. The Jews had made the Romans grudgingly grant them the privilege of not sacrificing to the Roman gods or the emperor’s genius. Since they were the only people to receive such a dispensation, one could say that the empire admitted that the Jews were a people apart. The Roman Empire comprised two kinds of worshippers: those who recognized the Roman gods and the emperor as divine and those who did not – the Jews. When Gentile Christians came about, they behaved in a way that excluded them from both of these recognized categories. They behaved Jewishly by not sacrificing, but clearly were not Jews. Thus, even to the imperial authorities, they represented a strange third kind, difficult to relate to. But not only the authorities had to deal with these neither-nor people. In an opponent of Christianity like Celsus, we see the same difficulty of categorization, as far as the Christians are concerned. One could say that Celsus more or less adopted the tria genē model, but turned it on its head.51 There is, he says, a basic common wisdom known by wise people among all nations, and because it is ancient and true, it should be followed and respected by all human beings, even though this wisdom existed in many, and in part strange, national varieties.52 The only people to break away from this common human consensus were the Jews. They overemphasized their peculiarities and isolated themselves from the rest of mankind. You could say they apostatized from the rest of humanity.53 And then came a second apostasy: the Christians in their turn apostatized from the Jews.54 In this way, Celsus recognizes the Jewish/Christian tripartite model of humanity, but turns it upside down as far as evaluation is concerned. And Celsus was not alone in this. Tertullian55 says that pagans in the arena reacted to Christian martyrdoms by shouting ‘How long shall we suffer the third genus?’ (Scorpiace 10.10). In Ad Nationes (1, Chapters 8 and 20) he treats the third genus concept rather extensively. Because the opponents of Christians have 51 52 53 54 55

He does not use the term as such. The classic study is Andresen 1955. Contra Celsum, 1.14; cf. also 1.16–17; and especially 5.25–26. Contra Celsum, 1.21–24; 3.5–6; cf. also 4.31. Contra Celsum, 2.1; 3.5; 3.8; 5.33. For more extensive treatment of Tertullian’s texts, see Erich Gruen’s chapter in this volume, and also Schneider 1968, 187–96.

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turned the term into a word of contempt, Tertullian abandons the term as a Christian self-designation. For him, outsiders’ use of the term has made it useless, if not to say harmful.

Postscript: The Reshaping of the Third or New genos Discourse in Clement of Alexandria Tertullian’s contemporary Clement of Alexandria took another approach to the third genos concept. Clement’s trademark in handling inherited ideas was his ability to reinterpret and remodel them, making them into something new. Also with regard to the third genos concept Clement of Alexandria remoulds it and turns it into his own idiosyncratic version. This occurs in two places. (1) Commenting upon the fragment of Kerygma Petrou in which it occurs, he reinterprets it to mean that two peoples in particular had been prepared for Christian truth: the Jews through Moses and the Greeks through Plato’s philosophy.56 All three peoples, Greeks, Jews, and Christians, are evaluated positively, as being graced with divine truth in different degrees. Accordingly, he calls all three with the biblical name for God’s elect people: they are the three laoi.57 (2) The second passage is a comment upon Matthew 18.20 (‘Where two or three are gathered . . . ’), in which Clement lists many triads of humans as exemplifying ‘three’ gathered in the name of Christ. Among these triads he also mentions that in the one church of Christ, believers from Jews and Gentiles, two laoi, are united in the third, the one new man.58 In this way, Clement redresses the ideas of the third genos, and in a sense brings it back to the more basic people-of-God discourse as we know it from Paul, Barnabas, and Justin, but in his own peculiar way. And with this afterlife in Clement, our story of the third genos comes to a natural close – and with it, our review of Christian ‘ethnic’ discourse in the second century as well.

56 57 58

Strom 6.41.7–43.2. Strom. 6.42.2. Strom. 3.70.1–2. Harnack also mentions Strom. 5.98.4, where Clement introduces the three genē concept as a possible interpretation of a saying of Plato (Harnack 1924, I, 266, note 2).

chapter 16

Pagan Attitudes John A. North

Introduction This chapter deals with a famous point of intersection between pagans and Christians in the second century CE – Lucian’s description of a Christian group in Palestine in his Death of Peregrinus.1 In my view, it is also a point at which there is hope of making progress towards understanding the nature of the contact between the two, on which so much of the later religious history of the Roman Empire turns. What I am going to argue will, I fear, start by sounding thoroughly negative. But have faith: I shall eventually be arguing that this evidence properly understood becomes more valuable to us than has usually been thought. Come through the Slough of Despond and I offer you at least some trumpets on the other side. It can hardly be denied at the outset that there are several serious obstacles in the way of making progress in understanding pagan attitudes towards second-century Christianity. Such source material as there is – and it is very limited – is almost entirely hostile: it is easy to see that pagans were facing a new, puzzling and apparently dangerous social phenomenon, with few precedents as to how it should be handled. But the causes of the hostility do not seem to me to be the most serious issue for the historian of religion in this period. By historian of religion, at least in this regard, I do not mean a historian of the religious experience of the Christians, or of that of the Jews or of the pagans, but of the mutual interaction of the three in the context of the Roman Empire. In this perspective, what is interesting and important about pagan attitudes is not why they were initially hostile, but how in the course of time they should have become less so. It is the interaction of pagans, in particular with Jews and Christians, and the pagans’ overcoming deeply ingrained prejudices that we need somehow to bring ourselves to imagine. 1

For the Greek text, see Macleod 1980; Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005, 16–47, with commentary, 48–93; Eng. translation in Macleod 1991.

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One can think of various ways of structuring such questions about the gradual change of attitudes over time; it could be for instance that it was Christianity that became more acceptable to pagans over time through the mere fact of its coexistence with pagan society – perhaps we need to invent the word ‘paganisation’ to express the development of Christianity – or that the practices of paganism changed as a result of learning to know more about Christian or Jewish ideas. Or both these developments might have been going on at once. We need some kind of trigger for the imagination to see how the process could have started, as presumably it must have done in this period. Can we detect the origins of a new sympathy?

1

General Background: Character of the Problem

Meanwhile, two diverging paths of research have clearly made the problem more, not less, difficult to think through: it has become increasingly obvious that the earliest story of Christianity cannot be told in a straight line from the Gospels, but was a story of much diversity and conflict, and creativity only very slowly and tortuously heading towards any kind of unity and certainly not happening within the time frame of this book;2 at the same time, those who work on various forms of pagan religiosity have been moving increasingly towards uncertainty as to how they should understand what it was, or rather how it would have been understood and classified by the Greeks and Romans themselves in this period.3 More widely still, there is a growing debate as to what was in fact the date at which the ‘idea of a religion’ can be said to have come into existence. Lieu, North and Rajak4 were already moving in the direction of arguing that the idea of a religion amongst other religions would have emerged only in the fourth century CE, as a result of contact and competition between identifiable groups, who must have thought of themselves as having different practices and ideas. How did pagan observers conceive of Christianity in this period? The main evidence comes from such sources as Pliny in his correspondence with Emperor Trajan and Trajan’s reply,5 from Celsus, as communicated to us in Origen’s attack on him,6 in Galen’s incidental references7 and so 2 3 4 5 6 7

See especially Lieu 1998, 2004; Buell 2001, 2005; see also, Boyarin 2004. For this line of thought see Asad 1993; Stroumsa 2010. Lieu et al. 1992; North 1992. Pliny, Ep. 10. 96 (Pliny to Trajan); 97 (Trajan to Pliny). For Celsus in Origen, see Chadwick 1953; Pichler 1980. For Galen, Walzer 1949: texts at pp. 10–17; for favourable comment on the Christians ref. 6 (p. 15); unfavourable refs. 3, 4 and 5. See also Flemming’s contribution in this volume.

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on. What inferences can we make from these? All more or less imply hostility or contempt in different ways: Galen’s references are off-hand and casual; Pliny and Trajan both react as potential persecutors, even though they recognise the need for some restraint and justice;8 Celsus was mounting a full-scale intellectual attack.9 We may find some elements of ambivalence about this general tradition of hostility, and perhaps even moments of sympathy in the tradition of persecution as reported by the persecuted. But broadly it is a tale of rejection, not of acknowledgement.10 The story is still further complicated by the uncertainty of the scale of Christian membership in this period. Were there enough Christians openly confessing their faith in the second century for it to be plausible that everybody in the empire would have been aware of them? Hopkins11 put the figure, on the basis of a rational guesstimate, in the region of 60,000, at least at the beginning of the second century CE. Jan Bremmer more recently12 wants to increase that figure by an unspecified amount, but with little specific evidence to support him. And such figures still imply only about 1 in 1,000 Christians in the population. That is not negligible and it represents quite rapid relative growth, but it may still have left the Christians unknown in large areas of the empire. There is an interesting exchange, from this point of view, between Celsus, who described the Christians as a secret society with secret doctrines; and Origen’s response on the basis that ‘everybody in the world knows what we think’: For who does not know that Jesus was born of a virgin, that he was crucified, that his resurrection is an article of belief among many, that there is foretold a general judging in which the wicked are to be punished, as they deserve, and the good duly rewarded.13

Origen implies that the difference is evidence of Celsus’ ignorance or bad faith; in fact it might simply reflect the effect of the passing of time and history between the 170s CE, when Celsus was writing, and the 240s CE, the time of Origen’s response.14 8

9 10 11 12 13 14

Pliny reports that he has found nothing but an excessive superstition (10.96.8). Trajan implies that Pliny has been unduly oppressive in accepting anonymous denunciations: ‘nam et pessimi exempli nec nostri saeculi est’ (for it is a bad precedent and also not of our time) (10.97.2). On Celsus’ attack, Chadwick 1953, xvi–xxii; Frede 1999. For a general survey, see Benko 1984. Hopkins 1998. Bremmer 2002. Origen, Contra Cels.1.7; as ever, we know of the exchange from the point of view of Origen, who provides the evidence for both sides. For the date of Celsus’ work and of Origen’s response: Chadwick 1953, xxiv–xxix.

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But even if Origen is right for his own day, there is no reason to believe that this was true seventy or so years earlier. Amidst all the suspicion and hostility, the one clear exception is Lucian’s Death of Peregrinus, perhaps written also in the 170s:15 Should that give us any hope of progress? It is generally agreed that he is not totally hostile to the Christians; he seems to know some facts about them, as is widely accepted in the scholarly literature; at times he seems even to be emphasising the Christians’ vulnerability, as well as their irrationality. This is, however, only one of the many contradictions and puzzles with which this text is alive.16

2

Lucian the Satirist

Lucian was born in about 120 CE, in Samosata at the extreme eastern limit of the Roman Empire (that is, on the Roman bank of the Euphrates);17 the facts of his life are thinly known to us. He does occasionally mention himself in his works and seems to be revealing something of his own experience, but we should not simply trust what he says about himself: in De dea Syria, for instance, he offers a complex of deliberately confusing identities, as was demonstrated so conclusively by Jas Elsner.18 Amongst his varied output, he wrote various biographic or quasibiographic works: they are very highly coloured, partisan and even violent in his attacks on his pet hates: and sometimes they are seemingly very close to fiction. Andreas Bendlin has argued powerfully that his Alexander of Abonouteichos is basically a fiction, despite its coincidence with certain limited attested historical data;19 and the same question has to be asked about other similar works, including the Death of Peregrinus, which is parallel to the Alexander in that both concentrate on the revelation of their main subject as a charlatan. The contention, therefore, is that Lucian takes a real person, uses one or two definite facts, but then invents in line with his own preoccupations. 15 16

17 18 19

For Lucian as a satirist, see Hall 1981; for the place of the Peregrinus in Lucian’s work, see Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005, 4–6. Full discussion in Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005; for what can be reconstructed of Lucian’s life, Jones 1986, 6–23; Pilhofer, Baumbach, Gerlach and Hansen 2005, 111–28; but any reconstruction is heavily dependent on what Lucian says about himself. For his birthplace, see Jones 1986, 6–7. Elsner 2001. See Bendlin 2006.

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Methodologically, it might be said that Lucian was writing in a genre of semi-fictitious biography. About Peregrinus, there are one or two facts that can be independently verified, as we shall see later,20 though, so far as modern readers are concerned, these facts are isolated in an unreliable context. As a result, recent ancient historians have tended to argue that, if there are any elements of attested fact in the mix, we should interpret the whole work as factually intended, if not actually factual; but the implication of this position is to reject extreme statements on a selective basis, while accepting the rest of the narrative as if there were no problem. So, for instance, the narrator’s claim that he murdered his father for being over sixty can be written off as an individual aberration, while episodes that do not fit the pattern of events can be called errors in the chronology.21 There is one question that seems well worth asking at this point in the argument: what do we know or what can we infer about Lucian’s own views on religion? Specifically, why is he so passionate against cheats and charlatans in particular, as he is in these works? His On Sacrifices might offer clues: Considering what the empty-headed ones get up to in their rituals and in their holy festivals and processions; the things they pray for; the vows they make; and what they think about the gods; I’m not sure whether anybody could be so miserably grief-stricken that he wouldn’t laugh at the stupidity of what goes on. But rather than laugh, a man might ask himself whether they should be called pious or rather the opposite – enemies of the gods and wretches: for how can they think the gods so abject and ignoble as to take pleasure in flattery and be angry when neglected.22

Fritz Graf has suggested,23 rightly in my view, that Lucian can be understood, in passages such as this, as arguing against traditional piety and ritualism on the grounds that they imply an abject view of the gods. In other words, he was not attacking religion as such, but rather the abuse of true religion; he is therefore hostile to charlatans on philosophic grounds, because they encourage the superstitions (deisidaimonia) of the credulous masses.24 Might this framework of interpretation help to make sense of the Peregrinus as well? 20 21

22 23 24

Section 3, 270. The acute and helpful discussion in Jones 1986 is wedded to the assumption that we can reconstruct a core of real events behind the rhetoric of Peregrinus: it is that assumption that should now be challenged. Lucian, On sacrifices 1. Graf 2011. See further Gerlach 2005, on the figure of the charlatan in Lucian’s treatment.

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3

Peregrinus the Satirised

We can be sure at least that the man Lucian successively calls Peregrinus, Proteus, the new Socrates and Phoenix was a real person. There is precious little information about him outside Lucian’s account, but he is mentioned as a living man and philosopher by the contemporary antiquarian Aulus Gellius, whose brief comments on him are extant and clearly quite independent of Lucian’s life of him: When we were in Athens we saw a philosopher called Peregrinus, for whom later on the cognomen ‘Proteus’ was coined, a man of weight and consistency, who was lodging in a cottage outside the city. We often went to visit him and I swear we heard him say many things profitable and becoming.25

Gellius then goes on to give examples of what he said on this occasion. We can be sure from this passage, and one other26 that Gellius met Peregrinus and sat at his feet; that he was in Athens at the time (perhaps in the 140s CE); that he knew Peregrinus’ curious second name, to whose implications we shall return later; and that he knew that Peregrinus was presenting himself at this time as a Cynic philosopher, living outside the city centre in a hut or cottage as a true Cynic should – that is, rejecting the values and conventions of normal Greek civic life. It is also to be noted here that it looks as though Gellius is aware of and reacting against the view of Peregrinus that was emphasised by Lucian and implicit in the name Proteus: that is, he was unstable and changeable throughout his life. Gellius knows the name (regarding it as an invention, though one that was not yet in use at the time he met him), but vigorously rejects precisely the implications of the name that Lucian emphasises so much. The second fact of Peregrinus’ life for which we do have credible other information is the manner of his death, the very central topic of Lucian’s essay. The work is not called the ‘Death of Peregrinus’ for no reason. Tertullian, for instance, mentions this in passing: The philosophers have done no less: Heraclitus, for example, who smeared himself with cowdung and burned himself; Empedocles, who jumped into the fires of Etna; and Peregrinus, who threw himself on to a funeral pile not so long ago. Even women have despised the flames. Dido did so, after the death of a beloved husband, in case she might be forced to remarry; and so 25

26

Philosphum nomine Peregrinum, cui postea cognomentum Proteus factum est, virum gravem et constantem, vidimus cum Athenis essemus deversantem in quodam tugurio extra urbem. Cumque ad eum frequenter ventitaremus, multa hercle dicere eum utiliter et honeste audivimus. Aulus Gellius, NA 12.11 For the second mention of a meeting, see Aulus Gellius, NA 8.3i. This could well be referring to the same occasion.

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did the wife of Hasdrubal, who rushed with her children into the fire in which her native city Carthage was being destroyed, for fear of seeing her husband as a suppliant at the feet of Scipio.27

It is the fact that this information, perhaps written twenty years after the event, is so casual that makes it such precious testimony. It does, however, leave wide open the possibility that it was only the death, so public, so publicised, that Tertullian knew about and that he knew very little else.

4 The Death of Peregrinus Serious study of the Death of Peregrinus must start from the work of the great nineteenth-century Jewish scholar Jacob Bernays who wrote about him at the end of his life.28 It was a key part of his argument that the passage dealing with the Christians was not central to the plot; it was only a brief phase of Peregrinus’ life, which was relevant to Lucian’s purposes only as an illustration of the inconsistency or charlatanry that was his real characteristic; rather, Lucian’s essay was claiming in quite violent terms that he had died coherently with his own Cynic philosophy by throwing himself into the fiery pit and that this was the supreme proof of his passion for fame or notoriety, so that he was even willing to give up his life to demonstrate his Cynic beliefs and to achieve the fame he wanted. He was also demonstrating a truly Cynic contempt for the fear of death. The implication of Bernays’ work was that this was a satire on Cynic philosophy, quite unfair on Peregrinus, and only incidentally mentioning Christianity. It is true that there is constant emphasis throughout the Peregrinus on the central character’s Cynic commitment and the support he gets from his Cynic supporters, who are clearly the main butt of the joke.29 One regular theme for derision is the theatrical methods they employed.30 But the issue here is not in fact quite so simple: it is, as we shall see, unsafe to assume that we can make simple chronological assumptions on the basis of how much space in the narrative a particular episode takes up. Dismissing the Christian episode as a casual detail is not adequate. 27

28 29 30

Nec minus fecerunt philosophi: Heraclitus, qui se bubulo stercore oblitum excussit; item Empedocles, qui in ignes Aetnaei montis desilivit; et Peregrinus, qui non olim se rogo immisit, cum feminae quoque contempserint ignes: Dido, ne post virum dilectissimum nubere cogeretur; item Asdrubalis uxor, quae iam ardente Carthagine, ne maritum suum supplicem Scipionis videret, cum filiis suis in incendium patriae devolavit. Tertullian Ad Mart. 4.5 (c. 197 CE). For other Christian references to him, see Edwards 1989, esp. 92–3. Bernays 1879; for analysis, see Momigliano 1969; Bollack 1996. See especially Peregrinus 1–6; 27–45; and passim. See especially Peregrinus 3; 15; 25.

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john a. north Table 16.1 Chapter Distribution by subject in Lucian's Peregrinus. Themes

Chapters

References

Youth Christian adherence Parian episodes Egypt and Rome Elis Debate on death Narrative of death Aftermath

2 5 1 2 2 10 5 8

9–10 11–14; 16 15; cf. 16 17–18 19–20 21–31 32–6 37–45

The biographic section of the Peregrinus, as opposed to the long discussion and debate over his violent death, only occupies, as Table 16.1 illustrates, about twelve chapters. They are a sketchy account of his life with many unsubstantiated and hostile comments, but very little real substance. The Christian section is by these standards quite substantial and serious. It takes up not much less than half of the whole section. What is true is that once Peregrinus has left the Christian group, there is no further open reference to this phase of his experience. The clear implication of Lucian’s story is that he stayed loyal so long as he did only because they provided him so generously with support and money. A narrative of the life of Peregrinus is built into the satire: large parts of it are extreme in their contempt and hostility towards the target and some stories are frankly unbelievable. But we do not have to rely on such subjective judgements as to what we should believe, and what we should reject: the Peregrinus itself is full of warnings to the reader not to believe what she/he is being told. Consider the structure of the plotting. The work presents itself as a letter written by Lucian to one Kronios, of whom we hear little more.31 The narrative voice in the opening chapter must therefore either be Lucian or perhaps an invented narrator also using the name Lucian. But this narrator does not even report Peregrinus’ life on his own authority, let alone on Lucian’s. That is surely in itself a distancing device intended to undermine the credibility of the whole story that follows. The story is in fact told by an orator to whom the narrator listens. Worse, the narrator does not even know his name: 31

He is mentioned again, and addressed, at Peregrinus 37.

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The speaker stepped down laughing, but ‘the noise did not escape Nestor’ or rather Theagenes, for hearing the noise he came straightaway, jumped up on to the rostrum and roared away telling scurrilous stories about the previous speaker – for I do not know the name of this egregious fellow (beltistos).32

One possible answer might be that the lack of a name, the narrator’s ignorance or forgetfulness, is intended as a touch of verisimilitude to which the reader is supposed to react by saying this must be true or the author would simply have invented a plausible name for the speaker. Another answer might be that the suppression of a name is a thin disguise for the reality that the orator in the case was Lucian himself; the narrator has been thought to be implying that he had attacked Peregrinus on some occasion earlier than the scene at the pyre: I imagine you’re having a good laugh at the old man’s stupidity, or rather, I hear you shouting out the right things for shouting out: ‘What idiocy, what lust for fame, what . . . ’ all the other things we usually say in the circumstances. Well you can go on like that at a safe distance, but I did it at the burning and already beforehand,33 with a huge crowd of listeners, to the extreme irritation of some admirers of the old man’s looniness, though there were others who laughed at him as I did. But I was almost torn to pieces by the Cynics, as Actaeon was by his dogs and his cousin Pentheus by the Maenads.34

Now it is true that Lucian the narrator expresses strong hostility to Peregrinus’ Cynic supporters, especially to their noisy spokesman Theagenes, and shows some slight approval for the anonymous orator.35 There is no doubt whose side he is on. But it can hardly be that he is claiming to have listened to himself; so presumably the basic idea behind the theory here is that Lucian the narrator has forgotten the name of Lucian the author – his own author. This would of course be an elegantly postmodern (or perhaps one should say Sternian) trope. Great fun, but what does it tell us? It seems to me that whichever of these theories you may adopt to explain this episode, its effect in the narrative – and its intended 32

33

34 35

For beltistos used ironically, see Peregrinus 12, where it is used – surely with savage irony – with reference to Peregrinus himself, at the point when the Christians call him ‘the New Socrates’: translate ‘egregious’. Macleod 1991, 149, translates as ‘on an earlier occasion’; and Jones 1986, 119, refers this earlier occasion back to the scene described in 2, which would imply that the narrator was the anonymous orator. But the words need mean no more than ‘both at the burning pyre and already beforehand’ and the implication of Macleod’s translation that the whole description of the scene down to ‘Maenads’ belongs to the earlier occasion, not to the scene at the pyre, seems highly unlikely. Peregrinus 2. For the word beltistos, see above n.32.

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effect – is to undermine the authority of the narrator: this must have had the effect then as now of putting the reader on his guard. Not only is the narrator not telling the story directly, putting his own authority behind it, he does not even know the name of the man who, so he claims, had told it.36 In terms of narratology, what we have is a fairly straightforward tale, deliberately mystified and concealed by the contrived origins of the different stands of the story, the various speakers, narrators and points of view. Lucian is an ingenious and devious author who plays games with his readers and conceals his intentions. But it does seem clear enough that at this point he wants to distance himself from the historicity of the story, while leaving the reader with a strong sense both of the motives of the main character, whom he vilifies, and of the character of the group with which he is interacting. It seems a reasonable conclusion that while we cannot trust him to be telling us facts, we can see how he is depicting the Christians in a way that his readers must have recognised.

5

The Christian Group

So what can we learn from Lucian’s description of a Palestinian Christian group? 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 36

They have a founder who was crucified in Judaea (§11). They share their property equally amongst themselves (§13). They are bookish and unworldly (§11). They are subject to persecution by the Roman authorities (§12). Their belief in an afterlife gives them their courage and willingness to despise the fear of death (§13). They have an international (or at least an inter-provincial) reach (§13). They are generous and protective towards their members in need (§§13; 16). They are instantly recognisable by their name alone (see §11 – where no explanation of what the word means seems to be required). They organise themselves in a structured group with named officers, shared resources and are, in Roman terms, a collegium (§11).

We have Lucian’s views on history-writing in the essay on How to write History, whose central and emphatic message is that the historian identifies himself by his utter devotion to the truth. For the history of Lucian’s essay, see Ligota 2007.

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10. They themselves are innocent and vulnerable to any conman, as a result of the teachings of their founder (§13). 11. The Christians are not to be seen as a threat, but a joke (implication of the whole narrative). Some of these characterisations could have been gathered, if there was a text available, by an attentive reader of the Acts of the Apostles; this applies especially to no. 2,37 but also to any of 1–6. Other points again could be derived from Paul’s letters.38 The later points, 8–11 in my ordering, must presuppose some acquaintance with the situation in Lucian’s own day. Of course, we cannot say that what Lucian is describing here is a portrayal of any actual Christian group, let alone a particular one in Palestine; although he did come from the east, his birthplace was far from Palestine. And many of the details beyond what I have sketched here are in fact very shaky; for instance, the actual titles of the group seem to be a mixture of Greek, Jewish and Christian terminology.39 There are also striking absences from this list: notably, any reference to monotheism or to the rejection of the pagan gods or to a refusal to sacrifice or to any clear associations with Judaism.40 All the same, there is a very striking fit between what Lucian actually describes, or rather assumes for his narrative purposes, and what a Christian Group in Palestine might have looked like or at least what a pagan might have expected it to look like. However, so far as this chapter on pagan attitudes is concerned, neither the accuracy of Lucian’s account nor the sources from which he drew it are of the first importance. In fact, the clearer it becomes that Lucian was not in this work trying to write reliable history at all, not describing an actual group, or claiming to, the more we can be clear that the satire he wrote is valid and reliable evidence of the attitudes he expected his readers to share with him. For these purposes, our best indication is to see what Lucian regarded as a picture that his readers would recognise and find witty and entertaining. He is surely exaggerating the innocence of the Christians, but their basic character as a group must represent what readers at least in the eastern provinces would have recognised. In this context, what is crucial is the relative generosity of the account, however it may be mixed with patronising contempt. If Peregrinus is the archetypical charlatan, Christians are archetypical victims, not villains. 37 38 39 40

Cf. Acts of the Apostles 4.33–7; 5.1–11. See Edwards 1989, 95 and n.20; see also Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005, 107–8. Peregrinus 2. See the discussion in 1989; Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005, 58–60. Though there may well be some confusion, see above 266.7.

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6

Other Directions

There are particular aspects of the Christian section of Lucian’s essay that may throw further light on his ideas and purposes. First, there is the play with names that is such a feature of the Peregrinus; second, there is the character of the narrative as Peregrinus joins and leaves. At different points in the text, Lucian uses four different names for his central character. It seems obvious that this very striking characteristic must carry some specific significance that readers at the time must have been able to see. They are worth some consideration. Of the names, Peregrinus looks like a Greek proper name, but is in fact a Roman word spelled in Greek letters. Nobody suggests to us that it is other than the philosopher’s real name, as opposed to Proteus, and yet the meaning of the word does not seem to be any kind of accident. It means ‘the foreigner’ and that is exactly what our Peregrinus is, for much of the time, wandering as a travelling philosopher far away from his home city of Parium, on the Propontis. Peregrinus does in fact occur as a name, but only, so far as I can make out, at Ephesus in the Roman period and seemingly as the cognomen of Roman citizens – Herennius Peregrinus, Numicius Peregrinus.41 Next Proteus, a name he adopted from Homer’s Old Man of the Sea,42 who changes his form, repeatedly, violently and suddenly in his efforts to get away and not give out his prophecies. As Table 16.2 shows, Proteus is constantly used by Lucian as his standard name for Peregrinus, clearly with the intention of emphasising his instability and tendency to convert himself into new forms. The obvious examples of this are becoming a Christian and becoming a Cynic. Sometimes this is expressed as playing at being one or the other, as when he dresses up in his Cynic kit while in his hometown to give his property away.43 The other two names are one-offs: but not less intriguing in relation to what Lucian is thinking about. First is Phoenix, the name of the Indian bird who jumps into the fire but is recreated from the ashes. He is invoked unsurprisingly only in the context of the death narrative, when Peregrinus renounces the name Proteus, thus declaring his absolute determination to jump on to the fatal pyre, as he eventually does. He is 41

42 43

For the evidence, Corsten et al. (eds.) 2010, 364. The third Ephesian Peregrinus recorded is in a fragmentary text (IEph 1063, 8), in which the others named have the tria nomina, as well may this Peregrinus as well. Homer, Odyssey 4.349ff. As reported at Peregrinus 16.

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Pagan Attitudes Table 16.2 Name

Frequency

No of Mentions

Meaning?

Peregrinus Proteus Phoenix

Only at the start? See §12 Much emphasised See §1 Mentioned once §27

4 18 1

New Socrates

Christians called him §12

1

Real identity? Conversion? Bodily resurrection? Cynic identity?

asserting not only his Cynic refusal to show any fear of death, but also his belief in the bodily survival of death. Next is ‘Socrates’, which is the name bestowed upon him by the Christians when he is a group member (or rather leader).44 This is clearly intended to evoke the connection between the Cynics and Socrates who is presented by them as one of their inspirers, the man whose methods inspired the whole movement.45 It seems to be a strong hint that Lucian’s Christians understood and appreciated the connection between their own way of life and that of the Cynics – both revolutionaries against the existing social order and advocates in this text of the community of property.46 What is most intriguing in all this is the way in which the connotations of these names seem to offer ways of thinking about new religious movements – Peregrinus, the outsider from normal society, Proteus, the person who experiences conversion, or rather, as pagans would have expressed it, metamorphosis;47 Phoenix, the being experiencing bodily resurrection after death;48 and Socrates, evoking the parallel between a Christian group and a philosophical hairesis.49 What this play of names seems to draw our attention to is the soft boundaries between different religiophilosophical identities, at least as Lucian perceived them. It is indeed surprising, considering the emphasis Lucian wants to place on Peregrinus’ mutability, how little emphasis he puts either on Peregrinus’ joining or on his leaving of the Christian group, surely critical 44 45 46 47 48 49

Described as the leader of the group (thiasarches) at Peregrinus 11; see Pilhofer et al. (eds.) 2005, 58–60. For the connection between Socrates and the Cynics, see Giannantoni 1993; Hansen 2005, 136–38. For the Cynics, see Goulet-Cazé 1992: Goulet-Cazé and Goulet 1993. For the view that conversion was a notion alien to pagan tradition, see Nock 1933. For attitudes to the body in the later empire, see Miller 2009. Socrates as the teacher of Antisthenes, Giannantoni 1993, esp. 20–2.

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moments at which Lucian might have been expected to have driven home his point. As he joins: It was at that time that he thoroughly learned the egregious wisdom of the Christians, through associating with their priests and scribes in Palestine.50

There is no other introduction or comment on his joining. His leaving is just as abrupt and unexplained: He exploited them like this for some time, but committed an offence against them as well: he was caught, as I believe, eating some forbidden food, and when they no longer accepted him, he was in trouble.51

The casual nature of this parting is underlined by the admission that the narrator does not actually know the reason for the break. There is no attempt here to reinforce the idea of Peregrinus’ mutability. He broke some rule, but there is no indication here or elsewhere that he abandoned his attachment to Christianity. All that concerns Lucian is that he has lost his main source of income and has to try unsuccessfully to reverse his previous generous gesture towards his Parian fellow-citizens.52 If what Lucian is hinting here is that there was no hard boundary between Cynicism and Christianity, he is not alone in having this idea. The Christian Fathers themselves were deeply divided in their judgements of the Cynics, ranging from complete condemnation to sympathetic accounts;53 and it is quite possible to argue that there was, in fact, mutual influence.54 Lucian himself gives quite a strong hint that he was thinking (or at least teasing readers) along these lines. In the heart of the Christian episode, Peregrinus makes a trip to his hometown: He went to the ekklesia of the Parians, his hair grown long, wearing a shabby, torn cloak, the pouch hanging down and the staff in his hand all got up like in the best tragic style. Well, he put in an appearance like that and told them that he renounced the whole of the estate left him by his blessed father to be used for the benefit of the people of Paros.55

This spectacular gesture makes a dramatic impact on the Parians, not surprisingly; but afterwards, Peregrinus returns to the Christians who continue to support him as though nothing had happened. We can of 50 51 52 53 54 55

Peregrinus 11. Peregrinus 16. See Peregrinus 16 for his attempt to reverse his gift. See Dorival 1993. See Downing 1993. Peregrinus 15.

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course invent suitable explanations: that the Christians did not hear about Peregrinus’ behaviour at the time; or that the incident has been misdated and really took place later – though there is in fact a clear implication that the grand gesture in Paros was only made relying on the Christians to continue their support for him.56 But such ideas are beside the point: Lucian does not offer any such explanation and the reader is left with the clear impression that Peregrinus was able to parade himself as a Cynic without offending his Christian friends or worrying that he might do so. We must judge the meaning of the text by what the author says, not what he might have said or we wish he might have said. We must not forget the mental parameters within which Lucian would himself have been thinking and expecting, or perhaps causing, his readers to think. The opening of the letter to Diognetus is a useful prompt as to what problems new developments in religious activity can create: Since I see, most excellent Diognetus, that you are particularly keen to learn about the theosebeia of the Christians and are clearly and carefully enquiring about them . . . and about why this genos or life-style (epitēdeuma) has come into existence as a new phenomenon today, not earlier.57

What this passage makes crystal clear to us is that it was not easy for the author to find the right category, let alone the right words, in which to explain the Christians to Diognetuss: were they a theosebeia – a religious practice? Or a genos – a race? Or just an epitēdeuma – a lifestyle? That their movement was new and different was not open to doubt, but how the difference was to be articulated was far from being determined.

7 Conclusions 1. I have argued that the Peregrinus is so designed as to warn the reader against mistaking it for a factual account; it follows that we should not be expecting or chasing after the facts behind the story. There may quite probably be some there, but we have no way of telling which they are; 2. It is perfectly reasonable to argue that the episode would not work as satire, as Lucian must have wanted it to, unless he gave what to himself and, more importantly, to his readers represented a convincing image of a Christian community in the middle of the second century CE. 56 57

This seems the clear implication of Peregrinus 16. Epistle to Diognetus 1: see for discussion, Lieu 1998.

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3. Since what we have seen also relates in a very general way to what we might expect to find in a Christian community, there is no obstacle to regarding what we have as a pagan’s plausible image of Christianity at this period. 4. The questions we should be asking, therefore, in analysing this evidence, concern pagans’ ideas about religious groups: would they have written off such a group as the one Lucian evokes, as hopelessly naive and vulnerable, deserving such a charlatan as Peregrinus to prey on them? Or would they have seen Christians and Cynics in much the same light, as extreme but well-intentioned critics of Roman society? To sum up the argument, once having shed the obligation to find historical facts and restricted the search to reconstructing the pagan attitudes that the author was assuming, it becomes possible to see ways of raising new questions about both Lucian and his audience and moving towards sympathising more with the pagans’ problems in understanding and expressing what this new phenomenon meant. Of course, Lucian’s description has its share of misunderstanding and mistakes and it certainly has a hostile edge, but the positive elements in the account are both more surprising and potentially more interesting.

chapter 17

‘Away with the Atheists!’ Christianity and Militant Atheism in the Early Empire Tim Whitmarsh

At some point in the middle of the second century CE, the Christian bishop Polycarp was arraigned before the governor in the amphitheatre of Smyrna.1 The charge was that he refused to sacrifice to the city’s gods, and in particular to the emperor. The governor, being a generous man, offered him the chance to save himself: ‘Repent!’, the governor urged, ‘Say “Away with the atheists!”’ Polycarp, however, was unmoved. Turning to the crowd, he waved his fist at them and cried at them ‘Away with the atheists!’2 This passage has taken pride of place in one particular modern narrative about early Christianity. That Christians were, from the second century onwards, standardly accused by Greco-Romans of atheism has become a truism, a scholarly meme that has percolated also into non-scholarly literature on ‘Christian origins’, and as a result continues even now to reinforce the (often self-serving, for those of a confessional bent) narrative of relentless cultural conflict between the Greco-Roman hierarchies and oppressed Christians.3 There is, of course, something pleasingly paradoxical, from a modern perspective (and perhaps from an ancient one too) about the idea that Christians were once viewed as atheists; but that attractiveness should not forestall critical scrutiny.4 In this chapter, 1

2 3

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The ‘event’ (see below for scepticism) is usually dated between 155 and 167 CE: see e.g. Hartog 2002, 22–32 and 2013, 191–200, and n.7. There was indeed an amphitheatre at Smyrna: it was located in the modern Kadifekale region by Austrian archaeologists in the early twentieth century, and is currently in the process of being excavated. Martyrdom of Polycarp 9. I have used the text and consulted the translation of Hartog 2013. The first formulation of this principle of which I know is Mommsen 1955, 575, n.2. The classic (albeit brief) discussion is Harnack 1905, 8–16; see also Fascher 1963, esp. 94–102, arguing that the accusation did not emerge till the third century; Beatrice 2004, like me, sees the accusation of atheism as originating with Christians. This trope has become so common that a few indicative examples will suffice: Hargis 1999, 13–4, 130; Remus 2003, 436; Hartog 2010, 60; Kaatz 2013, 210. On the scholarly and ideological problems with persecution narratives, see Grig 2004, 14 (‘the persecution of the Christian Church was very much a persecution complex. Persecution was constructed, amplified and multiplied through a vast body of material’) and more generally Moss 2013a. On general Greco-Roman perceptions of Christians, see Wilken 1984.

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I argue that it is highly unlikely that non-Christians spoke of Christians as atheists prior to the age of Constantine and that in fact it was Christians, building on Jewish foundations, who were engaged in a project of redefining atheism as the antithesis of true, Christian faith. The problems with claims about Christian atheism are not confined to the evidentiary value of the Martyrdom of Polycarp, but it is worth beginning here because of the exemplary role this text has played in scholarly discussion. In the narrative summary given earlier, I present the account of Polycarp’s martyrdom as historical fact. It is, however, highly unlikely that anything like the exchange cited above took place, for the simple reason that a non-Christian governor could not have uttered these words. ‘Repentance’ (metanoia) is a Judeo-Christian idea. Polytheistic Greeks, by contrast, never urge members of another religion to ‘repent’, and reject her or his theological beliefs; in fact, the very concept of ‘another religion’ is alien to Greco-Roman polytheism, which tends rather to see the pantheon as infinitely extensible rather than excluding other types of worship. The phrase ‘away with’ (aire), meanwhile, powerfully echoes the language used in the Gospels in the trial and condemnation of Jesus; it is clearly calculated to assimilate Polycarp to Christ.5 It seems, then, to say the least, unlikely that a Roman governor inimical to Christianity should have expressed himself in such terms. These Christian elements, hardly subtle as they are, should have given pause to anyone who wished to claim the Martyrdom of Polycarp as straightforward evidence that the accusation of atheism was levelled at Christians by non-Christians. There are, what is more, serious problems with taking this text as a historical document at all. Candida Moss has argued that there is good reason to think that Polycarp is a heavily romanticised narrative, borrowing from the executions of both Jesus and Socrates, and deriving from a period later than the event it purports to describe.6 Although the Martyrdom of Polycarp strives hard for verisimilitude by offering both chronological markers that seek to fix the event in real time7 and a posited chain of 5 6

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Luke 23.18; John 19.15 (cf. Acts 21.36). On the allusive range of this text, see Moss 2013b (emphasising that the text encourages parallels with Socrates as well as Jesus). Moss 2010. Moss supposes that it is likely to be ‘a third-century composition that may have been redacted in the fourth century’ (574). For an even-handed review of Moss’ and other arguments, see Hartog 2013, 171–82. Philippus of Tralles is named as High Priest (i.e. of Asia) and Statius Quadratus as Proconsul of Asia at Martyrdom of Polycarp 21; the dates are, however, incompatible. ‘No conceivable argument will put the proconsulate of Statius Quadratus before 153–4, while Philippus of Tralles was high priest of Asia no later than 149-150’ (Barnes 1967, 436; see also Dehandschutter 2007, 56–60). The dating is designed to generate the impression that the martyrology represents the official court proceedings

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transmission,8 neither Beglaubigungsapparat survives critical pressure: the text is far more likely to be an ideological artefact embellished with ‘reality effects’ than any kind of realistic document. What ideological work, then, is the accusation of atheism doing within the text? To address this question we need first to consider the narrative dynamics more broadly. Martyrology, as has been noted, is not a descriptive but a rhetorically protreptic mode, designed to solidify the convictions of its audience or readership.9 Using polar and polarising discourse, it seeks to draw sharp distinctions along identifiable axes, and thus to perform, and (crucially) to embed in readers and listeners a cultural differentiation between Christians and others. The important question to ask, then, is not how historically authentic any particular utterance is, but what rhetorical work it is doing. As usual with such theatrical displays of Christian piety, the setting for the climax of the Martyrdom of Polycarp is primarily a public one. The narrative effect is generated by the distinctive quadrangulation between the Roman official, the martyr, the bloodthirsty masses and the pious Christian onlookers. These four groups can be plotted in a square along two axes of semiotic differentiation: Christian versus non-Christian, and individual versus community.

The effect of the narrative is, of course, to redistribute authority along the Christian/non-Christian axis: although the governor wields mundane power, Polycarp can lay claim to superior virtue. The individual/

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(Grig 2004, 153, n.23). Further confusion is shown by the fact that Eusebius, relying on a document that seems to have been very similar (perhaps identical) to our Martyrdom, puts the event later, in the joint reign of Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius (161–9 CE) (HE 4.14.10–4.15.1). Martyrdom of Polycarp 22: the original document was in the possession of Polycarp’s follower Irenaeus; it was then copied in turn by Gaius, Socrates (the Moscow MS gives ‘Isocrates’) and Pionius. This assertion of this transmission sequence seems to be too insistent to be convincing: why name all of the copyists, if one is not striving to create a pseudo-documentary fiction? The technique is best paralleled in fictional works like the Diary of Dictys of Crete (see ní Mheallaigh 2008). E.g. Grig 2004, 5–6. Generally on the importance of rhetoric in the building of Christian communities, see Cameron 1991.

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community axis, however, renders the model more complex in terms of the arrogation of moral superiority. The governor is not, in fact, the wicked antitype against whom the virtuous Polycarp is defined. Like his literary model Pontius Pilate, he is presented as a weak pragmatist whose concern is primarily with the maintenance of social order. He offers Polycarp several opportunities to save himself. His officials, too, seem concerned about Polycarp’s imminent demise, and advise him to save himself the bother: ‘what’s the harm in acknowledging Caesar as your lord, performing some sacrifices and so forth, and saving yourself?’ (8.2). It is by contrast the people in the amphitheatre (Greeks and Jews: 12.2) who are presented as bloodthirsty and violent. At one point, the governor, seemingly desperate to acquit Polycarp, asks him to ‘persuade the people’. Polycarp replies ‘You I have deigned to speak with, for we have been taught to pay honour to the offices and authorities that God has allotted us (since this does no harm to us). But them I do not deem worthy of any defence speech’ (10.2). This ochlophobic perspective culminates in the crowd’s demand for bloody punishment: they demand first a lion (there are none available) and then a public burning; at this, the mob rush to collect firewood, helped by the Jews (‘as is their custom’).10 The effect of this shifting of responsibility onto the crowd is to deflect blame away from Roman power and onto Greco-Roman culture in a more general sense. At the ideological level, this has two functions: (i) to promote the idea that through Polycarp’s heroic suffering a Christian community (the bottom left-hand element on the table) is entrenched, a community defined semiotically against its polar opposite, the Smyrnaean community; and (ii) to demonstrate that being a Christian is not per se incompatible with allegiance to Roman rule. This is the context within which to read ‘away with the atheists’. The governor asks Polycarp to reject his own community to save himself, by using this phrase to define his own community as atheoi; Polycarp cites the governor’s words but redirects them towards the Smyrnaean okhlos. As an act of bravado, the recycling of the governor’s words for a different purpose works as a heroic display of courageous virtue that emphasises Polycarp’s singularity: it operates along the upper horizontal axis in the table above. The words themselves, however, serve to redefine the hierarchy of communities, i.e. along the lower horizontal axis. Roman 10

12.2–13.1. ‘As is their custom (ὡς ἔθος αὐτοῖς)’ (13.1) no doubt alludes to the enthusiasm, as presented in the New Testament, of the Jewish onlookers for Christ’s crucifixion; it is thus another marker of imitatio Christi.

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amphitheatres were designed to create culturally and politically normative bonds of social cohesion through the act of gazing, under the supervision of Roman officials, upon execrated ‘others’: gladiators, beasts, criminals. Even without Christians present, however, these structures of dominance could, however, be challenged, if the spectators empathised with gladiators or turned on the officials. In our case, Polycarp challenges conventional authority in a different way: he appropriates language designed (within the fictional economy of the martyr act, at any rate) to execrate the Christian community to create social cohesion among the Greco-Roman polytheist community of Smyrna, and redirects it so that it execrates the latter for the benefit of the fledgling community of Christian onlookers. If we interpret the scene in this way, the phrase ‘away with the atheists’ ceases to be any kind of evidence for how Greeks and Romans saw Christians, and becomes instead a performative token within an intraChristian rhetoric of community formation. The point of the phrase lies not in the governor’s isolated use of it, but in its citability and reversibility within the narrative. That is to say, to understand what semiotic work the phrase is doing, we need to analyse it first and foremost in terms of the punchline, where Polycarp reprocesses it: its primary purpose is to cement Christian self-definition against the non-Christian ‘other’, not the other way round. The Martyrdom of Polycarp, then, is not eyewitness testimony for the accusations levelled against Christians in the second century (indeed, there is no strong evidence to take it as a second-century text at all);11 it supplies evidence only that Christians defined themselves against atheoi. Indeed, this is a crucial point, which bears emphasising: almost all of the evidence that Christians were seen as atheists comes from Christians themselves. The one possible exception – not a real exception, as I shall show – will be discussed presently. Not only is the evidence Christian, but also the ‘reversibility’ trope is recurrent: time and again we see Christian sources (as in the Martyrdom of Polycarp) confecting an accusation of atheism against themselves, precisely in order to turn it back on their opponents. ‘They accuse us of being atheists’, writes Clement of Alexandria, ‘and falsely: for we have recognised the true god. It would be more appropriate to use such language of the philosophers’.12 Athanasius adapts the same trope: ‘the majority of those who accuse us of atheism have not even a dream-vision of God’s nature; 11 12

See n.6. Strom. 7.1.1–2; cf. 7.4.3.

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they are without knowledge or vision of the logos that concerns nature and theology; they measure their own piety by the mere observance of sacrificial rituals’.13 The quasi-forensic language of ‘accusation’ reminds us of the rhetorical nature of such claims. Second-century rhetorical theory had a word for such a counteraccusation, antegklēma.14 Unlike a real-life antegklēma, however (which involves the defendant admitting that the crime has been committed, but seeking to pin the real responsibility for it onto the accuser), the Christian rebuttal of the charge of atheism turns on linguistic redefinition: ‘atheism’ does not mean what you think it does, but something else altogether.15 We shall return to the issue of Christian redefinitions. A particularly sophisticated version of the trope comes in Justin’s first Apology, dated to around 150 and ostensibly addressed to Emperor Antoninus Pius and his sons Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius (if the preface is not a later addition). Justin argues that the ignorant polytheists have been misled by evil demons who have convinced them that they are true deities. Guided by reason (logos), Socrates saw through them; but he was put to death as an atheist.16 Similarly, Christians are guided by Christ, who is logos incarnate: Hence are we called atheists. And we confess that we are atheists, so far as gods of this sort are concerned, but not with respect to the most true god, the father of righteousness and temperance and the other virtues, who is free from all impurity. But both him, and the son (who came forth from him and taught us these things, and the host of the other good angels who follow and are made like to him), and the prophetic spirit, we worship and adore, knowing them in reason and truth, and declaring without grudging to every one who wishes to learn, as we have been taught.17

Like others, it takes the accusation of atheism and reworks it to Christianity’s advantage: but instead of countering it, Justin accepts it, indeed ‘confesses’ to being an atheist, in the same way that one would confess to being a Christian. He is indeed an atheist, to the extent that he rejects gods who 13 14 15

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Athenag. Leg. 13. Other Christian claims that they are accused of atheism: Min. Fel. Oct. 8; Arnob. 3.28, 5.30. Hermogenes, On Issues 2. Metastasis is sometimes used in a similar way (e.g. Anon. On figures 3.180 in Spengel 1853–6; Alexander, On figures 3.26–7 Spengel). antikakegoria (cf. e.g. Aesch. In Tim. 178) could in principle be used to describe this Christian mode of counteraccusation, but it does not seem to have been formalised as a technical term (no doubt because in real or realistic forensic practice, the opportunities for using this device were limited). I am grateful to William Guast for discussion in these matters. On such early imperial Christian appropriations (and condemnations) of Socrates, see Taylor 2007. Justin, Apology 1 6.1.

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are demonic apparitions engaging in sexual misdemeanours.18 This is to my knowledge the only instance in which a Christian actively concurs with the charge of atheism; but of course he immediately qualifies the definition of ‘atheism’ so that it applies only to ‘gods of this sort’, that is, the false, demonic beings. Like the Martyrdom of Polycarp, Justin’s first and second Apologies are usually read realistically, as direct responses to the precarious situation facing the author and his community in Rome at the time.19 There is, however, little external evidence for this peril. Although Justin is often surnamed ‘martyr’ in modern texts, the story that he was heroically executed for his beliefs seems to have been bolted onto his biography by later Christians: certainly his student Tatian, who one would expect to have made the most of any martyrdom on his teacher’s part, mentions only that he was threatened with death by his adversary, the philosopher Crescens (who, of course, had no judicial authority to implement it).20 This is not to deny the possibility (though it is no more than that) that Justin and his community suffered persecution at the time, or even that Justin was martyred; but we cannot take that for granted, and it is anyhow too simplistic to read Justin’s rhetoric as a direct reflex of a reallife situation.21 For example, the passage under consideration demonstrates that Justin was concerned to align himself with Socrates, whom he co-opts as his model as both (i) an ‘atheist’ denying the Greco-Roman false gods and (ii) a virtuous man wrongfully accused by the state. The apologetic stance of the text is thus designed in part at least to fashion and project a persona for the speaker. This is far from a rhetorically innocent strategy: Plutarch, for example, counsels that the most convincing form of self-promotion masquerades as apologia.22 As with Polycarp (another Socratically styled figure),23 however, the heroisation of an individual also has a community-building function: by presenting himself as reactivating the principles of Socrates, Justin can appeal simultaneously to fellow 18 19 20 21

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The position Justin adopts is pre-empted in, and perhaps inspired by, Greek philosophers’ own ‘atheistic’ critiques of religion: see e.g. Palmer 1983, 235. E.g. Thorsteinsson 2012, who considers the second Apology as an appendage to the first and argues that it is ‘truly and deeply embedded in the author’s own historical situation’ (113). Tat. Adv. Graec. 19.1. ‘The primary purpose of the writing was to defend himself against the charges of atheism and impiety, the punishment of [sic] which was death. Apparently he did not succeed’ (Thorsteinsson 2012, 114). ‘In the first place, self-praise goes unresented if you are engaged in apologia against slander or prosecution (ἀπολογούμενος . . . πρὸς διαβολὴν ἢ κατηγορίαν)’. (Plut. De Laud. Sui 540c). See n.4.

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Christians and to potential converts, who are invited to see Christian selfsacrifice and rejection of the Greco-Roman gods in terms of continuity with the prestigious past of classical philosophy. Christian manipulation of the accusation of atheism, then, could take a number of different forms, and could be treated with great sophistication; but it was always a rhetorical gambit designed to sharpen the contrast between Christian and non-Christian and to focus the attack on the falsity of non-Christian gods. This is not to assert categorically that Christians were never accused of atheism (for example, in now-lost texts), but the extant material does not support the conclusion that they were; and it is striking that such anti-Christian polemic as we have (such as the fragments of Celsus’ True Doctrine) does not make this charge,24 until the fourth century.25 There is, however, one possible instance of a non-Christian associating Christians with atheism, and this merits some detailed discussion. Lucian of Samosata, the Syrian-born satirist of the mid-second century, mentions Christianity in one of his major squibs on contemporary religion, Alexander or the False Prophet.26 This text is an unsympathetic account of the rise of the cult of Glycon, the oracular snake-god, which he presents as the fabrication of one Alexander of Abonoteichus, a conman who lusts after money and power. At one point he is said to reside in Pontus, where the locals gradually cotton on to his activities, and – Lucian says – ‘especially the Epicureans’ (25). The Epicureans have a particularly significant role in the story, since Epicureanism in this text represents enlightened, sceptical philosophy that sees through Alexander’s trickery; according to Lucian, this perceptiveness then earned them Alexander’s hatred. Intriguingly, this leads him to issue a declaration not directly against the Epicureans, but against ‘atheists and Christians’:

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Tracing anti-Christian polemic is, however, a complex task, since much of it has to be reconstructed from Christian sources themselves, and particularly from Eusebius. How historical, for example, is his report of the decision of the koinon of Asia to prosecute Christians as atheoi (HE 4.13)? How accurately does he cite Porphyry’s Against the Christians? (For the label atheoi applied to those who secede from ancestral religions see fr. 1 in Harnack 1916.) The alleged letter of Marcus Aurelius to the Senate describing Christians as atheoi (Haines 1963, 300–5) ‘ist natürlich von einem Christen geschrieben’ (Harnack 1905, 12–3, n.2). See Jul. Contr. Gal. 43b, 229d; Ep. 84, 89b Bidez. Julian has surely absorbed and is responding to Christian discourse about atheism; even he, however, uses the word atheos of Christian in the weak sense of ‘impious’, rather than ‘not believing in gods’. A much-discussed passage: for bibliography, see Karavas 2010, 117 (although I find his conclusion that Lucian is generally sympathetic to Christianity overstated). For extended discussion of Alexander, see Victor 1997.

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When many of the sensible types stood up against him (as if recovering from a heavy drunkenness), and particularly the followers of Epicurus, and when in the cities all of his trickery and theatrical preparation began to be exposed, he started publicly scaremongering against them, saying that Pontus was full of atheists and Christians, to had the temerity to badmouth him; he ordered anyone who wanted to propitiate the god [i.e. Glycon] to drive such people away with stones. (Alexander 25)

Later on in the text, Christians and Epicureans are once again associated. When he arrives in Rome, Alexander establishes a weird version of the Eleusinian mysteries, complete with a revision of the injunction to the profane to stay away: ‘if any atheist or Christian or Epicurean has come to spy upon the rites, let him be exiled!’ Before these mysteries were celebrated, there was a ceremonial “expulsion” (exelasis), which involved Alexander crying “out with the Christians!”; to which his acolytes responded “out with the Epicureans!”’ (38). What is going on here? Are Christians being presented as atheists? Certainly not literally: in each of the two passages, ‘atheist’ and ‘Christian’ are apparently treated as separate categories, with ‘Epicurean’ added as a third in chapter 38.27 On the other hand, there is undeniably an element of mutual tainting going on here: the Christians suffer from being associated with atheists and Epicureans, just as the Epicureans suffer from being associated with atheists and Christians.28 Even so, there is no reason to treat this passage as evidence that Christians ‘were’ atheists in GrecoRoman eyes, for four reasons. First, Alexander’s real target is, of course, the Epicureans, not the Christians (no actual Christians feature in the narrative); it is they who are the primary target of the association with atheism, as so often in Greek culture.29 In a later passage, we are told that anyone treating the oracles of Alexander with contempt would be driven out, and branded ‘impious, atheistic and Epicurean – which, indeed, was their greatest insult’ (46). Second, if we assume that Alexander discloses a firm 27

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As Victor 1997, 149 notes, Greek does have an ‘explicative’ use of καί; if this were invoked, then ‘atheists and Christians’ would mean ‘atheists in the shape of Christians’. Yet (as Victor also notes) this would seem to be self-defeating on Alexander’s part, since his real aim is to drive out Epicureans not Christians. Lucian’s phrasing and this interpretation of it raise the interesting side-question of whether there was an identifiable category of ‘atheist’ as distinct from ‘Epicurean’ in the second century (as indeed Plutarch’s On Superstition may also suggest). For a tentatively positive answer to this question, see Whitmarsh 2015, 215–30. Epicurean accusations of atheism: Obbink 1989; Victor 1997, 149, takes Ch. 25 to mean that the Pontus really was full of Christians, but I think this is not the point: Alexander’s words are casual and imprecise in their invective force. Christians do, however, appear, albeit fleetingly, in Peregrinus (11–13).

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link between Christianity and atheism, we must assume that the Christians are also being accused of being Epicureans – a patent nonsense.30 Third, as with Polycarp’s ‘away with the atheists!’, we must again account for the rhetorical and narrative functions of Alexander’s (alleged) use of the nexus of atheists, Christians and Epicureans. In every passage we have discussed from Alexander, this nexus is invoked in the context of a demagogic invocation to violent exclusion from the community. As we have seen, this violence was targeted at the Epicureans, the group who have had the gall to question Alexander’s credentials. The labels ‘atheist’ and ‘Christian’ are, then, designed primarily to reinforce the sense of an execrable outgroup who are to be expelled in order to consolidate ingroup values. Rather than precisely specifying defined groups of people, they serve to compound the invective thrown at the Epicureans. We should, finally, make allowance for the fact that the atheist-EpicureanChristian nexus is attributed to Alexander, the butt of the satire, at a time when (according to Lucian) he feels particularly imperilled; Lucian no doubt intends us to see this collocation as the result of a particularly adenoidal panic on the part of a particularly manipulative and deceptive individual. If this is right, then the humour is generated precisely by the incompatibility of the categories, which satirises Alexander’s conflation of distinct groups for the sake of short-term rhetorical gain.31 Enough has been said to demonstrate that the accusation of atheism develops primarily within a Christian discourse, rather than being levelled at Christians from the outside. One might reasonably wonder at this point why this matters. After all, it is undeniable that the more demonstrative Christians rejected the worship of Greek gods, and that non-Christians observed and criticised this (even if rather more rarely than is often assumed).32 Is this, then, simply a question of semantics, of Christians giving a name to a charge that already existed? My contention in the remainder of this chapter will be that there is more to it than this: that Christians – following Jewish precedent – developed a specific discourse of anti-atheism that represented a radical reorientation of religious priorities. The crucial point is that Christians changed the meaning of atheos. In pre-Christian discourse, this root had borne two meanings: originally 30

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Although some few doctrinal similarities can be identified between Christianity and Epicureanism, our passages from Lucian’s Alexander represent the only instances where the two are in any way linked by the ancients themselves (Erler 2009, 60–4). It is not hard to find parallels in the modern era; the difficulty lies in determining whether they are parodic or not. I note e.g. one website claiming that President Obama is a gay Muslim communist (www.commieblaster.com/obama/). Note esp. Luc. Peregr. 13: the Christians ‘deny the Greek gods (θεοὺς . . . τοὺς Ἑλληνικοὺς ἀπαρνήσωνται)’.

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it had implied the absence of a divinity, either in a neutral sense (as in the Odyssey’s ‘this did not happen without a god (atheei)’),33 or more usually in condemnation of a ‘godforsaken’ or ‘accursed’ individual;34 then in the fifth century it was increasingly used of those who held the philosophical position that there are no supernatural agents.35 Christians, however, adapted the term to mean those who did not believe in their god, that is ‘pagans’ – irrespective of whether they believed in any other kind of deity;36 or, alternatively, they used it of heretical Christians, who did believe in their god but believed in the wrong way.37 This usage first appears, in Christian discourse, in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians (a passage that later writers were fond of citing).38 It is for this reason that we find early Christians wielding such seemingly paradoxical expressions as ‘atheist polytheist’:39 the claim is not that polytheists lack religious conviction, but that their misdirection of this conviction is enough to disqualify them as proper theists. It is, surely, only according to this revised definition of atheism that one religious group could use the term to stigmatise another. Pre-Christian Greeks and Romans, by contrast, never use atheos in this way, that is, to denote those who believe but in the wrong way. The only pre-Christian usages in this sense are Jewish.40 Philo of Alexandria, who died in around 50 CE (not pre-Christian in a crudely chronological sense; but he is uninfluenced by Christianity, and no doubt testifies to older linguistic usages), is to my knowledge the earliest writer to use the word in this sense. For example: ‘Those who are dead in their soul are truly atheists, while those arrayed alongside the true god live an eternal life’; ‘atheism is the source of all crimes’; ‘the atheists are waging a war against the lovers of God, a war that admits of no treaty or diplomacy’.41 Perhaps this discourse of violent conflict between Jews and ‘atheists’ is justifiable, given that Philo 33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40

41

Hom. Od. 18.353. In general on the lexical range of atheos, see Whitmarsh 2015, 117–8. E.g. Aesch. Eum. 540; Bacch. 11.109; Pind. Pyth. 4.162. This meaning is first securely attested at Plato, Apol. 26c, but it is surely older: it may indeed have originated with Diagoras of Melos in the 420s (Whitmarsh forthcoming). Lampe 1961, 44, has a few instances of the ‘classical’ meaning, but the vast majority use the revised, Christian sense. Harnack 1905, 7–8, citing inter al. Ignatius, Ad Trall. 10; Justin Dial. 35; Orig. Cels. 2.3. Paul describes those who reject the Christian message with the colourful phrase ‘atheists in the cosmos’ (Ephesians 2.12). For quotations, see inter al. Clem. Protr. 2.23; Eus. Comm. in Is. 1.73, 2.50–1, Epiph. Panarion 42.11.8; 42.12.3. ‘Polytheist atheists’: see e.g. Sentences of Sextus 599 (‘a polytheist man is an atheist’); Eus. Praep. Ev. 7.19.8. Harnack 1905, 4, claims to have read a reference to ‘the house of atheism (atheia)’ in the LXX, at Hosea 4.15; all of the editions I have consulted, however, have ‘the house of On’, with a MS variant ‘house of injustice (adikia)’. Philo, De spec. leg. 1.345; Dec. 91; Quaest. Ex. 30 (the phrasing is taken from Dem. De Coron. 262).

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witnessed anti-Semitic attacks and pogroms in his hometown of Alexandria. But it also reflects a mode of community-definition by polarity that is rooted in the Bible’s vision of the Israelites as a people apart from others, and of the worship of Yahweh as categorically distinct from any other kind of religion. What is more, it insists that ongoing conflict between Jew and non-Jew is metaphysically guaranteed. This idea of a perpetual war between the Jews and others, let us stress, was far from unilateral. Greeks and Romans certainly saw Jews as unique and separate in their religious practices; and they could hurl vicious abuse at them, particularly (but not exclusively) in the aftermath of the Jewish War.42 Tacitus, notably, describes the Exodus as the result of the Jews being ‘a race hateful to the gods’; the customs introduced by Moses are ‘contrary to those of all other people’; all remaining Jewish customs are ‘base and abominable, and survive thanks only to their depravity’.43 (It has even been claimed that Jews were described as ‘atheists’ by their enemies, but the evidence is weak and disputable, until the third century CE.)44 The important point, however, is that Philo testifies to a mode of thought in which believers and ‘atheists’ are in a state of perpetual and necessary conflict. The accusation of atheism levelled against followers of different religions, then, is likely to have originated in that distinctive monotheistic mindset that discounts the worship of all deities other than one’s own. The redefinition of atheism (‘not believing in my god’ rather than ‘not believing in any god’) originated among Hellenised Jews, and then was taken up eagerly by Christians. What was distinctive about the Christian use was its adaptation for rhetorical-agonistic contexts: Christians staged narratives in which they themselves were prosecuted as atheoi, but then wittily and heroically turned the tables on their accusers. The aim of such dramatisations was protreptic: an audience or readership absorbed the idea of a perpetual incompatibility between Christian and non-Christian, built around reciprocal accusations of atheism. In late antiquity, Christian 42 43 44

On anti-Jewish sentiments, see Schäfer 1997. Tac. Hist. 5.3–5. According to Jos. Contr. Ap. 2.148, the first-century BCE orator Apollonius Molon (Cicero’s teacher) ‘insults us as atheists and misanthropes’. It is, however, not at all clear that Josephus is quoting verbatim; it would certainly be a surprise to find the ‘revised’ definition of atheism that early; it is likely that Schäfer 1997, 21–2, is too hasty in claiming atheism as one of the standard antiJewish tropes. The evidence for Jews as atheoi is collected by Harnack 1905, 3–4: the earliest uncontroversial usage is in the third-century historian Cassius Dio, who refers to a charge of ‘atheism’ levelled by Domitian against Roman aristocrats who had ‘drifted into Jewish customs’ (67.14.1–3).

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accusations of atheism took a decidedly violent turn: the fourth-century historian Eusebius in particular liked to invoke the idea that Christianity was at perpetual war with the ‘atheists’ – by which he meant, principally, heretics.45 In our own times, Christians often express anxiety about ‘militant atheism’: the atheists to which they refer are very different in kind from Eusebius’, but the rhetoric of warfare is the same. The assumption that the Christians and atheists are destined for violent collision is rooted in the discursive shift traced in this chapter.

45

E.g. De Laud. Const. 6.21, 7.6 (‘they raise a war without treaty and their atheist hands’ – notably Philonic language), 9.8; Vit. Const. 3.3.1; cf. e.g. ps.-Chrysostom, De Johann. Theolog. 614 (Migne).

chapter 18

Modelling the Second Century as the Age of the Laboratory Judith Lieu

The conscious use of models for the interpretation of early Christianity has been a feature of scholarship since the 1980s and coterminous with the growth of interest in social description and sociological analysis.1 Obvious examples are the application of the idea of ‘sect’ to the separation of early Christianity from its Jewish origins, or to its stance against ‘the world’ or that of a supposedly Mediterranean fixation on ‘honour and shame’ to the relations presupposed by and perhaps subverted by the parables of Jesus or by codes of behaviour in the early communities. Perhaps with more relevance to the second century was the adoption of Weberian ideas of forms of leadership, notably the ‘charismatic’, and of the processes of ‘institutionalisation’, which might be mapped onto the development of structures of authority, onto the rise of the sense of ‘faith’ as a fixed deposit secured by recognised rules of tradition or, more recently, onto the changing roles of women as the losers also in the shift of Christianity’s primary location from ‘the private’ to ‘the public’ sphere. Not all of this concern with social context was totally new in the latter decades of the twentieth century: in the light of what will follow it is significant that already at the beginning of the same century, some members of the so-called Chicago School were keen to challenge the tendency to treat doctrinal ideas as abstract and absolute, and instead sought to emphasise the social dynamics that shaped early Christianity.2 Among others, Shailer Mathews and Shirley Jackson Case were determined to understand the emergence and development of Christianity within the social and cultural conditions of its time. However, in practice their accounts worked within the thenprevailing models of ‘Judaism versus Hellenism’, of the focal role of Gnosticism, and, perhaps most significantly for present purposes, of 1 2

For example, Kee 1980; Meeks 1983; Esler 1994. See Case 1923; Funk 1976.

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a process of organic evolution in which ‘Christianity’ remained an active and monochrome subject.3 These scholars did indeed examine the various forms of ‘mixing’ between available cultural components, both intellectual and performative, but institutions for them remained factors within ‘Christianity’ and were not viewed as embodied forms of its intellectual activity. Although their emphasis on ‘evolving social experience’ has continued in the more recent trends, their interest in the explanation of behaviour was much more discursive than analytical. Not all models, however, have been consciously drawn from other disciplinary modes of enquiry. Within the same period since the 1980s it has become conventional to describe the changing relationship between what were to become ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ as ‘the Parting of the Ways’.4 Again, this picture recognised the importance of process or movement, thus avoiding any concentration on a particular date or event as determinative, and it allowed for a certain degree of ambiguity as to whether ‘Judaism’ and ‘Christianity’ were the active agents of the ‘parting’ or in some sense constituted the route or the destination that eventuated. Although readily seen as a useful shorthand, in fact this model achieved swift dominance, at least in Anglophone scholarship, because of the advantages it offered over the previous long-established image of victory and usurpation – the defeat of Judaism and the sequestering of its heritage of Scripture by a triumphant Christianity. It both accommodated, and was the consequence of, a re-evaluation of existing evidence as well as the discovery of new evidence, in this case regarding social and religious practices that might be set alongside the aspirations of surviving texts, and it also reflected a greater sensitivity to the various voices within and behind those texts. Among the advantages it offered was precisely the provocation to more detailed consideration of dates, places and impetus, to further nuancing and to the mapping of the different perspectives among the different parties involved, whether internal or external, or among contemporary heirs. The ‘Parting of the Ways’ model was germane to one significant stream within the broader process that leads from the first century to the fourth and to the establishment of ‘Christendom’, albeit a stream with multiple tributaries or distributaries. Apparently less partisan than what preceded, even if deceptively so, it belongs among the major shifts that have transformed the understanding of early Christianity of the first two centuries 3 4

See Case 1934; McNeill et al. 1939. Lieu 2002a. See Carleton Paget, Chapter 5, in this volume.

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during the last third of the twentieth century. Another, and related, shift can be traced in the reconstruction and deconstruction of the language of orthodoxy and heresy. First to be undermined was the assumption that orthodoxy always and by definition precedes heresy, which is therefore to be recognised as deviancy.5 This assumption was replaced not only by a reconception and re-writing of the historical sequence and of the numerical dominance of specific forms of Christian belief and practice, but also by a turn towards concentrating on particular geographical locations along with a close reading of the broad range of literary and other evidence relating to each. In turn, this shift has been followed by a more intense scrutiny of the rhetorical and political processes by which the very idea of ‘heresy’ becomes a strategy used by particular groups, producing boundaries either where none had previously existed or in new and more complex situations.6 However, as in other fields shaped by the ‘linguistic turn’, once the production of heresiology is recognised as a rhetorical strategy, the question arises as to whether it is possible to find other ways of describing the period that avoid simply reinstating or reifying it.7 The dominant response to this dilemma has been simply to appeal to ‘diversity’ as the primary characteristic of Christian thought and practice; to take this route, however, is to remain at the descriptive level and to eschew, at least overtly, any value judgements – although in practice any description still has to make judgements as to what to include within, or to exclude from, the diversity of what is still labelled ‘Christianity’. Others have taken refuge in ‘heterodoxy’ as a less pejorative term, although its etymology gives it a certain ambiguity, whereas others, echoing debates about the nature of ‘Judaism’ or ‘Jewishness’, prefer ‘heteropraxy’ as primary in this period.8 Nonetheless, a common characteristic of all such responses is that they nod in the direction of, at the same time as they evade, the question whether it is desirable to, or even possible to, trace any unbroken continuity from the origins of the Jesus movement to the later third century and to the era of creeds, councils and controversies. One solution to this dilemma has been to accommodate the classical accounts of continuity within a model of diversity and power struggle through the language of ‘proto-orthodoxy’: ‘The “proto-orthodox” Christians represent the forerunners of the group 5 6 7 8

This move is associated particularly with Bauer 1934, 1971 and has been much described. For Anglophone scholarship, an early classic introduction and refutation was Turner 1954. Le Boulluec 1985. Compare a similar dilemma in feminist accounts: Clark 1998a. Wisse 2006.

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that became the dominant form of Christianity in later centuries’ (Ehrman 2000, 6–7).9 Another solution, perhaps the logical conclusion to such an approach, is to reinstate ‘orthodoxy’ as the self-defining language and strategy of the ultimate winners, and as the mechanism that ensured that victory (Royalty 2013). Both solutions are vulnerable to the charge that these categories still mask considerable diversity, and even tolerance of diversity, while they enable little progress in the analysis of the mechanisms of change. One recent model which proffers the potential to address these weaknesses is that of ‘a laboratory’. This would appear to have been introduced by Winrich Löhr in 1993 in separate studies of two so-called gnostic figures, Epiphanes and Basilides, who are known only through the texts and teaching later ascribed to them by their opponents.10 For Löhr, ‘laboratory’ served as a metaphor to try to capture the second century, when they were active, as a period of the exploration of and experimentation of Christian ideas and their practical outcomes. In the 1996 published version of his earlier Habilitationsschrift on Basilides, Löhr presented the goal of his study as to locate what could be recovered of Basilidian theology ‘within the theological debates of the second century’, and hence as a preface to ‘a comprehensive account of the “Labors” of Christian theology, the second century’.11 Thus, while he has to acknowledge that Basilides and his son were labelled ‘heretics’ within a few years of their death (1996, 324–337), he deliberately avoids locating them within any conceptual framework that might anticipate or even permit discussion of the legitimacy of such a label. His goal is to attend rather to the intellectual questions being asked both by them and through the traditions associated with them, to the resources used to address such questions and to the outcomes achieved, without reference to external evaluative norms. His approach leaves the way open to seeing how these outcomes may have been taken up by others engaged in a similar process, even by those who later were claimed for orthodoxy. Löhr took up the metaphor of a laboratory again in a 2002 article reviewing recent developments in the study of the second century.12 Here it is specifically the Christian ‘Schools’ that can be so described; 9 10

11 12

Ehrman sets them alongside ‘Jewish-Christian adoptionists’, ‘Marcionite Christians’, and ‘Gnostic Christians’. Löhr 1993, 29, 1996, 4 (based on his 1993 Habilitationsschrift). I am grateful to Professor Löhr for the reference to the 1993 article and for confirmation that in his view he was providing a metaphor only. See Chapter 9, in this volume. Löhr 1996, 4. Löhr 2002a.

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functioning much like the philosophical schools which have attracted considerable attention in recent study,13 it was there that the ideas and the terminology were developed that became fundamental for later theological controversy. More importantly, the metaphor is intentionally adopted as a means of promoting the task of reconstructing a history of Christian thought and institutions broadly conceived as a history-ofreligions exercise, in contrast to the conventional ‘history of Christian theology’, which regularly has been presented in terms of a development leading to known, and privileged, later points. However, in the meantime the metaphor had been adopted by Christoph Markschies and developed in a number of contexts, including in a 1998 article on Cerinthus, a figure similarly designated a foundational heretic in patristic and conventional accounts of the early church.14 That three initial works adopting the model are about so-called gnostics is no accident: it is presented as a deliberate challenge to the interpretation of the development of second-century Christian thought and practice which was dominant through the twentieth century, and according to which the ‘gnostic crisis’, namely the ‘menace’ of an alternative interpretation of God and the world, created a threat, which in turn provoked the emergence of defences, namely the so-called catholic norms of theology, structure and practice.15 ‘Catholic’ in this latter context denotes ‘universal’, but it also carries incipiently the seeds of the idea of ‘orthodoxy’. In contrast to the universal, however internally differentiated,16 the focus for Markschies is on the singularity of the specific case study – the choice of an individual is deliberate – although there is an implied possibility of replication that will become a step towards a more comprehensive account of the second century. The process marks the period as ‘the laboratory of Christian theology’, namely the setting in which a range of similar materials were mixed together by various individuals with very different outcomes.17 According to Markschies these ‘raw’ materials include biblical theologumena, pagan mythology, and contemporary philosophy, each typically no longer being understood in terms of their original intention. For Markschies, it follows that the task for the scholar of what will only later 13 14 15 16

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Sedley 1989. Markschies 1998b. On Cerinthus, see also the more conventional account of Hill 2000. So still Chadwick 1967, 32–45; see Markschies 2003, 176. Turner 1954, 80, ‘It may appear in different forms at different periods without loss of continuity of life and unity of theme. For orthodoxy resembles not so much a stream as a sea, not a single melodic theme but a rich and varied harmony’. So also Markschies 1998a, 353, ‘Das 2.Jh. erscheint als eine kirchl. “Klärungsphase” bzw. als ein theol. “Laboratorium” weniger als eine Krise des Christentums’.

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be called ‘theology’ is to determine why some ‘mixtures’ conformed to ‘an emerging ecclesial consensus’, and others did not, either at the time or in the light of further development.18 Markschies has brought together these themes most comprehensively in a study of Christian theology ‘in the imperial period’, a title deliberately chosen to avoid the associations of the terminology conventional in continental-European histories of theology, namely ‘early Christianity’ or even ‘early catholicism’.19 A further challenge to such past accounts comes in the conscious adoption of the language of ‘pluralism’, ‘plurality’ and ‘identity’ – although this was by then well-established in Anglophone scholarship – and in the focus on the different institutional contexts in which such ‘theology in becoming’ took shape. These contexts are represented by the independent teacher, by the ‘private University’, by ‘Montanist’ ecstasy and by the Eucharistic celebration; the last two undermine any excessive concentration on ‘schools’ or on an intellectual elite with limited actual influence, while the appeal to Eucharistic celebration helps prepare the way for a concluding affirmation of a single yet pluralistic Christian identity, a pluralism con-centred around an identity-shaping core. The emphasis on institution together with the rejection both of the crisis model and of the free-floating ‘history of ideas’ as appropriate frameworks for considering second-century Christianity mean that here ‘laboratory’ is consciously functioning as a model and not merely as a metaphor.20 Already, in these two scholars the model of laboratory provokes two different ways of conceptualising the problem: for Löhr it is a metaphor of open creativity, which in part would be brought to a halt towards the end of the third century by the emerging power of the bishop with his claims to control teaching. For Markschies, however, although he rejects any teleological controls, what he has presented as a model becomes a prolegomena for theological reflexion that is prepared to see the dynamic of that ‘identityshaping core’ as that which ‘theological tradition has named “Holy Spirit”’.21 The model has been only casually taken up in interpretations of the second century,22 and it has not been without its critics. Most notably 18 19 20 21 22

Markschies 1998b, 49, where he also suggests the metaphor of ingredients for different dishes. Markschies 2007 (2015); for the difficulties of periodisation and labels, see Markschies 2007, 5. (All references are to the German original.) Markschies 2007, 380, draws the comparison with the experimental Natural Sciences, and explicitly describes this as a ‘model’, although also as a metaphor. Markschies 2007, 383. It is used of a text, the Passion of Perpetua, as a locus of different modes of reading by Bremmer and Formisano (2012, 8), and, in the same volume, with specific reference to Markschies, by Waldner (2012, 202–203) of Christian literature, including prophecy, as an ‘experimental field’.

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it has been charged with evoking the picture – perhaps inspired more by the university context of its proponents – of an ‘Idyll in which someone with carefree cheerfulness, and without any burdens, can carry out their own research and experiment, untroubled by the occasional explosion in the test-tube’.23 While there may be merit in considering the intellectual or confessional equivalents of the test-tube explosion, such a critique is oversimplistic. On the contrary, the model of a laboratory has sufficiently wide currency in the broader study of societal, intellectual and cultural change to warrant rather more probing as to its potential for analysis or description of an elusive yet formative period. Where the model has been applied elsewhere in the study of historical periods, it has been to specific geographical locations. Of most relevance here is Polymnia Athanassiadi’s study of the emergence of ‘orthodoxy’ within Platonism, also beginning in the second century. She starts her analysis with a vivid, if speculative, account of the geographical and cultural particularity of Apamea in Syria, the city of the philosopher Numenius. ‘Cultural’ in this case includes religion, language and ethos, a conjunction that Athanassiadi finds crucial to Apamea as ‘the laboratory where a regenerated Platonism prepares itself’.24 The importance of the creativity of cultural interaction, particularly characteristic of the eastern frontier, is underlined by Steven Ross’s description of Edessa in similar terms, and as a place where, because of its ‘own extraordinary situation, with feet firmly planted in both worlds’, ideas were not simply taken up from elsewhere but were developed and propagated.25 Although others have drawn attention to the extent to which early Christianity participated in moves also characteristic of the Platonism of the period,26 Athanassiadi’s emphasis is on the specifics of a particularly creative cultural and geographical location. More recently, areas affected by the much later expansion of Christianity have provoked similar analysis in terms of a laboratory, particularly where specific contexts are recognised as unusually conducive both to experimentation and to creative innovation. Thus Africa has been described as ‘a great theological laboratory’, because, in a setting where the traditional Christian heritage encounters the ‘experiences, traditions and agendas of Africa’, ordinary people are making decisions and choices, which will subsequently demand theological reflection and interpretation 23 24 25 26

Ritter 2012, 11; cf. Ritter 2006, 347–351. Athanassiadi 2005, 27. Ross 2001, 127. Eshleman 2012.

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by academic theologians.27 Similarly, the complex religious, social and political history of India are held to make it ‘a laboratory of interfaith dialogue’, while the distinctive historical responses to the ‘foreign’ in Japan means that it serves both as ‘a laboratory of religions and religiosities’ but also as a ‘laboratory of religious studies’.28 In each case, what is implied is that specific historical, social, cultural and conceptual factors are formative, and that it is their dynamic, yet often unstable, interaction that most demands further analysis. Indeed, the instability, the everpresent potential for new interactions and therefore the absence of a marked finishing or end point are essential elements within these uses of the model. Further, Africa can be so celebrated in part, it would seem, because what is emerging there serves as a challenge to the dominant consensus of the West – and indeed experimentation as challenge to consensus is a further fundamental element within the scientific model. Interfaith dialogue in India similarly contrasts with the largely mono-cultural framework and politically quietist engagement more familiar in the United Kingdom. In each case there are fertile socio-cultural conditions as well as internal political struggles for identity to be investigated if the creativity of the particular context is to be fully grasped. These examples of the appeal to the laboratory tend to emphasise the creative, yet not always anticipated, outcome of the collision between differing ideas, practices and world views that elsewhere could exist in safe isolation from each other. Such collision can be presented as selfgenerating, independent of any specific agents: thus Athanassiadi finds ‘osmosis’ to be a primary operation within the laboratory setting provided by Apamea. This contrasts with the ‘internal’ model proposed by Guy Stroumsa: again, from a history of religions perspective, Stroumsa includes ritual and practice within an attempt to map and to make sense of the religious transformations in the Roman Empire. For him, these radical transformations are best described in terms of ‘mutation’, although it is not a place but Judaism itself that is ‘the laboratory in which these structural changes occurred first’.29 However, the laboratory can also be a place for deliberate experimentation, with mechanisms and goals both being explicit from the start. Turning to a later period, it is in this framework that Wietse de Boer 27 28 29

So Walls 2002, 133. Selvanayagam 2008, 44; Waldenfels 2003, 108–111. Stroumsa 2009 [2005], xvi, 130.

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studies the archdiocese of Milan under Archbishop Carlo Borromeo (1564–84) and his immediate successors.30 Borromeo’s intention, according to de Boer, was to transform (or to sanctify) the social order, both public and private, particularly through the reconstruction and reintroduction of penitential discipline. The intentionality with which this was done, and which allows de Boer to speak of ‘the Borromean project’, leads him to describe Milan as ‘the foremost laboratory of the CounterReformation’, namely a place where there was a conscious attempt to conduct a comprehensive trial of a social experiment made possible by the particular local conditions – while not excluding any hope that it could be rolled out elsewhere. On the other hand, systematic intention, together with accounts of the ‘apparatus’ and ‘instruments’ used to further it, can only be part of the story; once again, they encounter with local conditions and conventions, here eventuating as much in accommodation, compromise and conflict. The recurring themes become ‘the interaction of norm and reality, the tensions between institutions and society, and the complex interplay of knowledge and power’ (de Boer 2001, 320). In a number of these examples of historical change the appeal to ‘the laboratory’ is made without further reflection, although this does not prevent it from serving as more than a metaphor. In part this lack of justification may be due to the respect that the ‘scientific laboratory’ still invites in contemporary society, but it is perhaps also due to the longer history of the model within sociological analysis, even though none of the authors already discussed acknowledge this heritage. Its roots lie within the Chicago School of sociology in the early part of the twentieth century, and in particular with the ground-breaking development by Robert E. Park of the idea of the city as laboratory.31 The background to the work of the Chicago School has to be seen as the fundamental challenges that were made in the nineteenth century to previously established assumptions that experimentation was specific to the natural sciences, and presupposes certain fixed laws or norms where the role of the experimenter is to manipulate and to interfere, whereas, by contrast, human culture implied originality, uniqueness and creativity and therefore necessarily resisted any similar analysis. In reaction against such assumptions social analysts of the period argued that the modern city in particular could be viewed as their laboratory. At a basic level, society, and, in particular, the city with its 30 31

de Boer 2001; in what follows the interest is not in the validity of de Boer’s account and analysis but in his use of the ‘laboratory’ model. On what follows, see Gross and Krohn 2005.

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creative complexity, provided the external observer with much to study about human and social activity within a ‘closed’ environment. More specifically, however, the city was an arena in which interference and experimentation were for ever possible, and indeed were practiced, as, for example, through various forms of social intervention the outcomes of which could be measured and evaluated. Yet, even more expansively, ‘[t]he development of modern society itself was understood as an experimental performance, with the sociological scientist partaking in the experiment as an observing participant’.32 Of particular importance is the idea, developed by Park, that such experimental activity always involves an interplay between culture, understood as encompassing both the technological and the non-material (i.e. beliefs and habits), and nature; it is within this interplay, from which nature is never absent, that human beings shape, and are shaped by, the processes of constructing their environment. In a much-cited epigrammatic statement, ‘If the city is the world which man created, it is the world in which he is henceforth condemned to live. Thus, indirectly, and without any clear sense of the nature of his task, in making the city man has remade himself’.33 More recently within the social sciences, some of those who explicitly appeal to the work of Robert Park have taken up the theme of ‘society as self-experimenting’, but along with an acknowledgement that the model of laboratory must now encompass the realities of the ‘knowledge society’ synonymous with (post-) modernity, namely as characterised both by the challenges to received knowledge and by the diversification of forms of the production and application of new knowledge. In this spirit, Matthias Gross has shown how new technologies are generated not through incremental progression, but more often through failure, perhaps the failure of expected outcomes, as well as through challenges directed towards received consensus.34 Viewing society as laboratory in a contemporary context may suggest a more democratic model of the production of knowledge, but also a less linear or intentional one, than in the past. At the same time, although the origins of the model of the laboratory in the natural sciences may have been held to give it a certain objectivity and respectability, recent analysis has questioned the self-evident character of these latter categories. In general terms there has been a lively debate around the scientific truism that the observer is never without effect on 32 33 34

Gross and Krohn 2005, 65. Park 1967 [1929], 3. Gross 2010, 37.

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that which she observes. More specifically, as an institution the laboratory itself can be subjected to sociological analysis, in particular in order to probe the nature of ‘scientific knowledge’ and the way in which it is achieved or created. The mechanics of the transition from experiment to accepted ‘facts’ and ‘knowledge’, and thereby from apparent chaos to order, the extension of this from the local ‘discovery’ to ‘universal’ recognition, the choices and motivations of individuals or teams and the networks between them, together with the interplay of prestige and strategy, are themselves social processes, all of which are susceptible to examination and exposure.35 At various points in the foregoing discussion it would be possible to identify resonances with the second Christian century, suggesting that the model of the laboratory has a richer heuristic potential than has hitherto been properly explored. What follows will suggest some ways in which such potential might be developed. The study of early Christianity is susceptible in a distinctive way to the more generic debates regarding ‘grand narratives’ or regarding the teleological impetus that have become a recurring feature of contemporary historiography. So long as some notion of the achievement of a broadly held consensus regarding the formulation of certain ‘theological truths’ lies on the horizon, it is difficult to avoid treating questions as to how far the second century is predictive of, and provides continuity for, these ‘truths’ as fundamental, and, indeed, difficult to avoid they themselves providing the measure of how that century is to be described. The historian might well try to avoid such pressures by focusing more narrowly on the local or the particular as her ‘laboratory’, generating its own intellectual agenda; however, only in a very limited number of cases is there sufficient evidence to do this for our period, and, even then the question of whose interests are being served in any specific choice can still not be disregarded.36 In any case, the historian’s identification of a ‘case study’ (or ‘laboratory study’) should not be confused with a description of the place or period itself as bearing to a particular degree the characteristics of ‘a laboratory’. Here, to the extent that those who have adopted the model have seen it as an enclosed, quasi-spatial, one, albeit restricted by temporal boundaries, some form of teleology has proved difficult to resist, particularly for those who approach their work with a theological interest. Indeed, 35 36

See Latour and Woolgar 1979; I am grateful to Professor Simon Goldhill for pointing me in this direction. However, Markschies 2007, 337–338, does recognise the constructivist nature of accounts of the identity of early Christian theology.

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there is a potential danger that what may appear to be a ‘more scientific’ model will legitimate subsequent developments even more, at least in a ‘scientific’ age, than does an appeal to the purposeful workings of the divine. More pertinent is the question as to what extent the model of a laboratory provides a heuristically helpful way of considering the particular creative dynamics of the second century. On one level it might seem to be particularly well suited to a focus on the dynamics involved in the development of ideas or in the production of (theological) ‘knowledge’, as, for example, in the focus on ‘schools’ as forums open to the creative and experimental interchange of ideas and free from the institutional control later exercised by the bishop.37 A turn from the developmental, ‘problemsolving’ approach to Christian doctrine to one that allows for the investigation of apparent disjunction or even ‘failure’ that nevertheless stimulated new and unexpected moves may after all allow for the outcomes to be studied for their contingency. Even here, however, consideration of the social processes involved within the functioning of the scientific laboratory should direct attention back to the processes also at work in the production of theological enquiry or religious practice. Within the study of the earliest Christian texts, especially of the New Testament, there has long been a tension between an emphasis on the creative individual, a Paul, a John or even a Jesus, and one on the social context or ‘community’ of which the text is seen as a product, ‘the Johannine community’ – with the latter particularly enhanced by the social lens with which this chapter started. Few now would treat these as entirely antithetical, as if the individual would have reached the same conclusions independent of time and place, even in lonely exile on Patmos (Rev. 1.9), or as if a community could somehow generate a coherent text or body of thought without some significant individual articulation. The same tension might properly be extended to the contemporary renewed interest in the recovery of individuals, Basilides, Cerinthus, Justin Martyr or Marcion: seeking the balance between individual creativity (as of a Nobel laureate) and collaborative enterprise, along with the extent to which these individuals themselves emerge from, and articulate the concerns of, existing discussion and even interaction, may suggest welcome alternatives to the heresiological model of their hubristic seduction of gullible disciples, even if it must remain largely a matter of imaginative reconstruction. 37

See above, pp. 297–8, and herein, Löhr, Chapter 9, in this volume.

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The appeal to the laboratory does not, moreover, obviate analysis of how this experimentation is elevated to ‘knowledge’ and to universally confessed truth. To attribute that transformation to the emergence of a different, less open, intellectual model or form of institutional control may over-romanticise, or may fail to examine critically, the exercise of power even within ‘schools’. It is no accident that it appears to have been Justin Martyr, the philosopher-teacher of whom we know most, who helped engineer the shift in meaning of hairesis from philosophical pattern of thought to excluded, and dangerous, intellectual sophistry.38 The identification of true and false ‘knowledge’ is indeed an emerging major preoccupation, but what were the processes by which claims to articulate this were made, to match the modern role of academic societies, conferences and journals? Our knowledge of the mechanics of the circulation of early Christian ideas and technical writings remains markedly sparse, and their survival even through quotation or chance papyrological discovery is frustratingly haphazard. Despite the episcopal dress in which Eusebius clothes it, the energetic letter writing conducted by Dionysius of Corinth (c. 170 CE), his exhortations, warnings against error and the charges from at least one recipient that his audience would prefer somewhat more advanced instruction perhaps provide the best glimpse of processes that were already forgotten by the fourth century.39 Yet, if even the scientific laboratory itself is not hermetically sealed from the social forces and cultural values of which it is a part, still less is any social expression of the model. Indeed, the model has been most consistently applied to situations and places which, while they are to some extent defined or particular, are also the meeting place of diverse, even alien, linguistic, cultural and intellectual discourses or practices. The outcome of such conjunctions is rarely predictable in advance, nor is it readily open to description in terms of mathematical or scientific formulae establishing the production of compounds, which can then be repeated by others. The laboratory model does not, then, sanction any attempt to identify only components that are already stored internally, free from contamination, particularly where these components take the form of text-based ideas, while the presence either of combative individuals or of casual neighbours is ignored. To call for the reinstatement of the unpredictable and yet fertile conjunction of apparently alien or incompatible 38 39

So especially Le Boulluec 1985. Eusebius, HE IV.23; there is a certain ambiguity in Eusebius’ commendation of Dionysius’ sharing of his ‘love of labour’ (philoponia: contrast, ‘love of wisdom’ philosophia).

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components is not to revert to past interpretations of various forms of Christianity (or ‘Gnosticism’) as the result of the amalgamation of the ‘oriental’, ‘hellenistic’, or ‘Jewish’, whether or not labelled ‘syncretistic’, or, alternatively, as the triumph of any one of these. If these elements still merit their labels, they should not be presented as abstractions or as systems, but need rather to be contextualised within particular social and geographical settings, where the material, or ‘cultural’ as more broadly understood, plays a necessary role. Yet the search for a language to express the process and outcomes is still overshadowed by a past heritage of those earlier valueladen judgements: as already noted, Athanassiadi finds no embarrassment in finding ‘osmosis’ (i.e. from without) in the laboratory from which the Platonism of the period emerges, but Markschies is far less comfortable with models of inculturation or acculturation taken from the mission field, which similarly look to ‘external’ forces.40 However, while further study of the local variations of Christian thought within their specific cultural as well as social and historical settings is desirable, so too is attention to the sometimes parallel developments happening in Judaism (with Stroumsa) and in Platonism (with Athanassiadi). Early Christian thought need not be studied in isolation as if it was sui generis or subject to special rules of study or evaluation, but surely needs to be located within and as part of, the ‘vast and complex cultural fabric’ of what is called the second sophistic.41 This will demand the reinstatement of Judaism, markedly absent from current applications of the model, as a continuing present element if not catalyst. And, like both Judaism and Platonism, the movements among those who called themselves Christians might themselves equally be examined as but a local case study in the self-experimenting society of the secondcentury city. From a different perspective, the early twentieth-century concentration on the city as particularly generative of self-experimentation – the city as laboratory – has striking resonances for the study of second-century Christianity. Early Christian writings find the notion of a city or of citizenship a fertile but contested one, from Philippians 3.20, to the Epistle to Diognetus, and to Augustine. Such trajectories have been explored most frequently in relation to a political theology, to ethics, or to Christian concepts of alienation, but they have remained very much at the level 40 41

Markschies 2007, 369–373. However, Barclay 1996, 92–102, had already developed a useful analysis of forms of cultural and linguistic as well as social integration in relation to Jewish communities. Bowersock 2002, 160.

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of conceptual modes of self-definition with limited social articulation – indeed, even deliberately so: ‘Christians do not inhabit their own cities or use any deviant language’ (Diog. 5.2), an assertion that was no doubt born out of and itself susceptible to strident challenge. It is striking that Markschies’ account of the period largely ignores the martyrological literature, which makes its appearance in the second century. However birthed in actual or perceived ‘crisis’ or individual suffering, this literature generates its own creative synthesis of motifs drawn from the Scriptures and Jewish reflection, as well as from philosophical traditions about the meaning of voluntary death; overarching this is a multi-layered engagement with, and mimicry of, the city and its combative activities, within which ‘men made themselves’.42 This was to influence profoundly subsequent conceptions and expressions of the Christian life, and these are in turn articulated in various forms of practice and representation. Here in particular, this complex of, and iteration between, textuality and performance should undermine any notion of an educated elite (even if not very elite) who do the thinking, versus the masses who do not, and should also defy the identification of any stable institutional generative base. Indeed, that this innovative and experimental exploration of ‘experience’ took different forms in Asia Minor, the audience of the ‘Letter martyrdoms’ at Vienne and Lyons, in Africa and the home of Perpetua and in Justin’s Rome once again directs attention back to the local.43 The value of models largely lies in the way that they aid the organisation of unruly information, or offer new ways of such ordering, or, again, provoke the asking of new questions or the investigation of unexpected connections. The introduction of the model of the laboratory has undoubtedly helped expose some of the weaknesses of conventional accounts of the second Christian century, and has suggested alternative ways of addressing the elusive dynamics of diversity and continuity. However, perhaps counter-intuitively, it may achieve most if it provokes its users to look beyond the ‘institutions’ to the interplay of culture and nature, of local and network, of intention and contingency and of knowledge and power.

42 43

For the topos in the second century, see Gleason 1995; the intersection of martyrdom and gender has been much studied: Castelli 2004. For the regional differences in the representation of martyrdom see Moss 2012.

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General Index

Abraham, 236, 243, 246, 255, 257–8 Achaemenid period, 65 Achamoth, 147 adoptionist, 118 aeon, 147–8 Aelius Aristides, 85 Aesop, 205, 210 afterlife, (see also resurrection), 144, 264, 274 Akiba (Rabbi), 83 Alethês Logos (see Celsus) Alexander of Abonoteichus, 288, see Lucian Alexander of Aphrodisias, 206, 218 Alexander the Great, 207 Ammianus Marcellinus, 30 allegory, allêgoria, 143–5, 201 allophyloi, 241 ‘ammei ha-aretz, 64–5 amphitheatre, 281, 284–5 Anatolia, 28, 34 anatomy, 173–4, 179–80, 186 anthologies of texts, 198 anthropomorphism, 33 antichrist, 141 anti-Christian, 78, 162, 288 anti-exceptionalism, 12–14, 26 Antioch, Christians in, 47, 53–5 Jews in, 43–9, 53–5 synagogue, 47–8 Antiochus IV, 47, 53 Antiochus of Ascalon, 141 Antoninus Pius, 78, 80, 243, 286 Apamea, 43–5, 53, 144, 162, 182, 300–1 Aphrodisias, 51, 206, 218 apocalyptic, 28, 41, 134, 136 apocryphal works, 52, 122, 126, 138, 146, 159, 163, 218 apologetic(s), 71–2, 77–82, 87, 120, 133, 159–61, 164, 191, 197–8, 239, 242, 245, 259–61, 286–7 Aphrodite, 210 Apollo, 211, 214

apologiae (see apologetic(s)) apostasy, 65, 138, 263 apostle, 93, 98, 106, 119, 141, 193–4, 254, 275 Apuleius, 20, 33–4, 36 Aquila, 51, 67 Aramaic, 28, 32, 43, 48, 50, 52, 59, 62, 66–8, 73 archaeology, 5, 15, 16, 41, 43, 101 archon, 44–5, 48 Aristeas, Letter of, 55 Aristides, Apology, 85, 242–4, 248, 251, 261–2 Aristobulus, 55 Aristotle, 152–3, 158, 174–5, 180–1, 206–7, 211 Arius, 141 asceticism / askesis, 177, 211 assembly / ekklesia, 20, 73–5, 79–81, 237, 278 assimilation, 16, 51 Assyrian(s), 25, 162, 258 astragaloi (see fate) astrology, 37, 224, 228, 231 atheism / atheist, 14, 71, 202, 204, 209, 281–93 Athenagoras, Embassy, 251, 260 Athens / Athenian(s), 34–5, 79, 142–4, 185, 270 augur, 212 Augustine, 141, 307 Aulus Gellius, 270 authoritative texts (see texts and authority) Babylonia / Babylonian captivity, 27–8, 37, 50, 66, 68 Bacchist/ Bacchanalian, 31, 35–6, 205 baptism, 69, 124, 128, 130–4, 200, 228, 237, 254 barbarian, 157, 161, 228–9, 237, 240, 243–4, 250 Bardaisan, Book of the Law of Countries, 219 Barnabas, Letter of, 98, 111, 255–6, 264 basilica, 220, 224, 226, 229, 231 Basilides/Basilidians, 97, 120, 130, 140–1, 150, 154–5, 158, 163, 197, 297, 305 Beit Midrash, 58–9, 67, 70 belief (see faith)

349

350

General Index

Bible, scripture, 50–1, 181, 260, 292 canon, 5, 14, 18, 51–2, 91–107, 110, 118, 125, 128, 158, 188–99, 226 Christian, 164, 192–6 commentaries, 15 of Diaspora Jews, 50 (see Greek) exegesis, interpretation, 50, 120, 126, 167, 192, 199 Greek, 17, 49–53, 73–5, 253–5 Hebrew, 63, 192, 237 Jewish, 192, 255 law / biblical commentary, (see also law; Bible) myth, 142 translation, 2, 14, 16–17, 48–56, 74 reception history, 51, 188–99 revision, 51–2, 67 bilingualism, 27, 48 bishop(s), 106, 155, 305 boundaries, religious and social, 15, 30, 44, 68–9, 110, 112, 116, 118–20, 127, 133, 187, 235, 277–8, 296, 304 Cassius Dio, 80–1 catholicism, early, 94–5, 299 Celsus, 71, 76–7, 81, 83, 86, 120, 162–3, 166, 263, 266–7, 288 Chaldean(s), 243 charisma / charismatic, 28, 94–6, 139, 294 Chicago School, 294, 302–3 Christian, belief, ideas, 12, 18, 106, 113, 118, 135, 226, 240, 296, 298, 307, (see faith) Christendom, 295 Christianus / Christianoi, 139, 259 crimes of, 78, 238, 260 diversity, 7, 122–36 ethnicity (see ethnicity) martyrdom (see martyrdom) persecution of, 13, 15–16, 35, 71–87, 129, 135, 237–8, 267, 274, 287 punishment of, 78–9, 238, 284 schools of philosophy (see philosophy) self-definition as a people, 17, 75, 151–68, 256 theology in the second century, 11, 123, 130, 151–168, 220, 229, 297–304 Christology, 129, 134, 167 Chrysippus, 158, 175 Chrysostom, John, 47, 130–1 church, 4–5, 18, 43, 55, 69–87, 95–98, 102–3, 109, 130, 132, 139–41, 149–50, 152, 188, 193–6, 246–8, 254–9, 264, 298 Cicero, 209–13, 218, 220 circumcision, 68, 81, 84–5, 237, 244, 254 city, social environment of the ancient city, 34–6

citizenship, 44, 240, 250, 306 civic authority, 35 1 Clement, 111, 196, 253, 256 2 Clement, 111 Clement of Alexandria, 55, 130–1, 140, 156–7, 161–2, 176, 241, 261, 264, 285 collegia, 33, 35–6 community(ies), religious, 10, 13–18, 86, 96, 102–3, 111–2, 116, 126–9, 131, 134–5, 139, 196, 200, 237, 240, 275–6, 305 congregation (‘edah, qahal), 73–4 (see also assembly) Constantine, 216, 282 conversion (see proselyte / proselytizing) cosmos / cosmology/ kosmos, 27–8, 38, 110, 113, 120, 122, 143, 146–7, 152–3, 190, 205, 214, 218–9, 225, 228, 230–1 covenant, 69, 241–2, 255 Crescens, 287 cult, 13, 26–37, 43, 49, 53, 124, 141, 200–2, 205, 209–12, 216–8, 238, 247, 288 creed / credal statement (see rule of faith) Cynic / Cynicism, 14, 248, 270–1, 273, 276–80 daimon, 216, 222–4, 228, 230 deity(ies), god(s), 76, 129, 180–1, 190, 200–31, 238–40, 243–4, 257, 261, 269, 281, 285–92 Egyptian, 29, 32–3, 35, 144, 201 Etruscan, 27 Gnostic discussions on, 140 Phoenician, 26–7 Roman, 29, 33, 40, 82, 200–1, 212, 247, 263, 287–8 Delphi, 201, 203–4, 211, 214 Demeter, 207, 222–3 Demiurge / demiurge, 146–8, 180–1 demon, 130–1, 133, 286–7 destruction of Jerusalem (see Jerusalem) diasporic communities, 13, 25–38 Diaspora, Jewish, 16–18, 39–56, 65–70, 237 dice oracles (see fate) Didache, 101, 197 Diognetus, Letter to (Ad Diognetum), 14, 20, 239–41, 248, 250, 261–2, 279, 307–8 Dionysius of Corinth, 196, 306 diversity, Jewish and Christian, 2, 5–8, 10, 18, 37, 69–70, 96–7, 103–4, 107, 109–10, 112–14, 125–9, 131–2, 150, 155, 167, 194, 220, 266, 296–7, 308 other religious, 27, 30 divination and sortition (see fate) doctrine, 215 early Catholic, 132 of grace, 94

General Index philosophical-theological, 231 Domitian, 45, 77 doxography, 156 heresiological doxography, 167 Dura Europos, 33, 40, 43 education educational theory in antiquity, 59 related to Jewish priests, 63 philosophical, 203–6 Egerton Papyrus, 101, 110 Egyptians, 28–9, 32–3, 35, 144, 161–2, 201–2, 210, 243, 247, 250, 258 ekklesia (see assembly) empire / Empire, concept of, and religion, 25–38 Epictetus, 220, 225–30 Epicureans, Epicurus, 20, 34, 61, 141, 158, 165, 180, 182, 185, 190, 209, 211, 288–90 epigraphy, 16, 36, 43, 46–7, 51, 58, 63, 81, 86, 211, 214–5, 220–3, 231 Epiphanius, Panarion, 18, 138–9, 167 eschatology, 109 (see also afterlife and resurrection) ethics, 30, 123, 131–2, 153–4, 177, 200, 219, 307 ethnicity / ethnos, 6–7, 20, 30–1, 33, 41, 73–7, 235– 64 (see also people, Christians as) eucharist, 114–5, 133–4, 200, 299 Eusebius, 2, 79, 86, 96, 141, 157, 178, 196, 242, 293, 306 faith, belief, pistis, 1–2, 12–14, 18, 27–8, 30, 36, 69, 106–50, 156, 185, 195, 200–31, 236, 242, 245–6, 250, 257–9, 261, 265, 267, 282, 294, 301 family, 10, 13, 19–20, 29–30, 33, 37, 46–7, 63, 69, 112–4, 119, 121, 187, 25 fate / Fate, 5, 14, 122, 214–32 festivals, 34, 68–9, 202, 269 fides (see faith) Fortune / Fortuna / Tychē, 209–10, 214, 216–9, 222–4, 227, 230–1 Galen, 14, 71, 80, 83, 86, 165, 171–87, 206, 266–7 on Moses and Christ, 83, 173–4, 177, 180–5 Galilee, 39, 46–7, 60, 63, 86 gender, 6, 129, 147, 235–6, 244, 247 genos, 7, 20, 153, 235–64 (see also people, Christians as) gentile, 44, 85–6, 94, 97, 149, 236, 252, 254–5, 257–8, 261–4 Gnostic/gnosticism, 2, 9–10, 17–18, 70, 103, 111–2, 122–150, 154–5, 158, 161, 163–6, 196, 294, 297–8, 307 gladiator, 175–6, 285

351

god / goddess (see deity) gospel / Gospel(s), 5, 8–9, 50, 93, 97, 99–102, 108– 10, 112, 122, 124, 126, 130–1, 133–4, 136, 142, 146–7, 158, 193–6, 198, 218, 266, 282 Gospel of John, 98, 101, 108–9, 122, 124, 148–50, 195, 305 Gospel of Judas, 133–4, 196, 218 Gospel of Peter, 101, 110, 195 Gospel of Philip, see under Nag Hammadi Gospel of Thomas, see under Nag Hammadi Hadrian, 71–2, 75, 78–80, 82–85, 224, 238, 242 hairesis / haireseis / hairêtikoi, 139, 156, 166, 172, 178–80, 184, 187, 277, 306 (see also ‘heresy / heretic’) heaven, 86, 122, 147, 165, 220, 240, 250, 252–3 Hebrew, language, 48–9, 52, 59, 62–3, 67, 73 Hebrews (as a people), 53, 162, 243–4 Hegesippus, 196 Hellenism / hellenistic, 12–13, 15, 17, 28, 35–6, 49– 50, 52, 55, 116–8, 120, 160–1, 168, 175, 178, 185–6, 189, 192, 201, 235, 292, 294, 307 heresy / heretic(s), 1–2, 5, 7–13, 15, 18, 30, 65, 96– 7, 101, 103, 106, 114, 123, 126, 128, 130–1, 137–40, 148, 155–7, 163–7, 172, 193, 197, 291, 293, 296–9, 305 (see also min) Hermas, the Shepherd of, 197, 256 Herodotus, 27, 236, 247 Hesiod, 140, 145, 147–8, 152, 190 Hippocrates, 173–4, 178–80, 185 Hippolytus 72, 81, 85, 138–40, 147, 155–7, 165–6 Historia Augusta, 84–5 Homer18, 49, 143–4, 148, 152, 190, 252–3, 276 identity formation and evolution, 2, 6–8, 19, 104, 128– 9, 172, 189, 235, 299 modelling of, 7 self-identification, 17 diasporic, 26–9, 50, 69 religious, 20–1, 30, 68, 231 civic, 30–1 ethnic, 20, 30–1, 235–64 Christian vis-à-vis non-Christians, 56, 70, 158– 60, 171–87, 216, 227–8, 268, 277–8 idolatry, 133, 148–9, 261–2 Ignatius, 53, 93, 111, 148, 196 incarnation, 115, 129, 131, 160, 286 India, 25, 27, 161–2, 276, 300–1 inscriptions (see epigraphy) Ioudaios, 69, 140 (see also Judaism / Jews) Ioudaismos, 81 (see also Judaism / Jews) Irenaeus, 2, 18, 114, 117–9, 126, 131, 138–40, 147, 149, 155, 157, 160, 164–6, 193–8

352

General Index

Isis, 28–30, 33–7, 45, 144, 162, 201, 204, 207–8, 210, 212, 222–3 (see also Osiris) Israel, 39–41, 43, 58, 60–5, 69–70, 72–7, 83–4, 86, 108, 115, 237, 245–6, 253–58, 262, 292 Jerusalem, 41, 43, 46–7, 51, 67, 86, 185, 255 destruction of / fall of, revolt, 28, 30, 39, 40, 42, 45, 47–8, 58, 62, 66, 69, 75–6, 133 temple, 28–30, 40, 42, 47–8, 58, 62–3, 65–6, 69, 75, 82, 133 Jesus, 14–15, 18, 65, 101, 106–9, 115, 122, 126, 129– 31, 134–5, 163, 165, 196, 235–7, 243–4, 253– 9, 267, 282, 294, 296, 305 John the Baptist, 124 Josephus, 40, 42–8, 55, 71, 77–8, 87 Judah ha-Nasi, 58 Judaism / Jews / Jewish, ethnos (see ethnicity/ ethnos) in the Diaspora (see Diaspora) in Palestine, 16, 28–9, 39, 46, 48, 52, 57–70, 85–7 martyrdom, (see martyrdom) orthodoxy (see orthodoxy) persecution of, 16, 45, 53, 71–87 Rabbinic, 57–70 revolts, 40, 69–70, 82 Bar Kochba 67 first 41–8, 66–71, 69, 77, 84 Trajanic 66 Judaea, 29, 39, 45–7, 66, 71–2, 81–2, 84, 86, 274 Justice, 13, 61, 135, 210, 214–31, 267 Justin Martyr, 2, 15, 78–81, 87, 120, 140, 154–166, 178, 193–4, 197, 225–6, 231, 245–6, 251–2, 257–60, 264, 282–8, 305–6 kleromancy (see fate) knucklebones (see astragaloi) koinon, 77, 78–9 Kremna, stele at, 214–7, 220–6, 229 Kronos, 145–7, 223, 243 Kutim / Samaritans, 28, 63, 65, 81, 86 laboratory, concept of, (see modelling of second century) 9, 11, 151, 164, 294–308 laos / laoi, 20–1, 73–5, 237, 242, 245, 250–60, 264 (see also people, Christians as) law, 61–5, 72, 76–7, 81, 94–5, 147–9, 180, 184, 202, 204, 212–4, 219, 228–30, 236, 242 (see also Judaism) Roman, 69, 76, 78 leadership, religious/Jewish, 57–70 Weberian idea of, 294 linguistic turn, 296 liturgy, 103, 198

logos/ Logos, 143, 145–6, 148, 155, 160–5, 285–6 Lord’s supper (see Eucharist) lot oracles (see fate) Lucian, 7, 14, 18, 20, 29, 36, 219, 268–9, 288 Alexander, 20, 34, 209, 268, 288–90 Death of Peregrinus, 34, 85, 265–80 on the Christians, 274–9 Lucretius, 140–1 Lyons and Vienne, Letter of Churches/ Martyrs of, 15, 79, 308 Maccabaean literature, 1 Maccabees, 47, 55 2 Maccabees, 45, 49, 51, 53–5 4 Maccabees, 51, 53–56 Maccabaean martyrs (see martyrdom) Malalas, John, Chronicle, 47 Mandaeans, 122–5 Manichaeans / Manichaeism, 26, 34–5, 122 Marcion / Marcionite, 5, 97–8, 102–4, 115, 130, 137–42, 163–5, 193–4, 197, 305 Marcus Aurelius, 71, 79–80, 85, 216, 245, 286 marriage, 130–2 martyrdom, 42–3, 48–9, 51, 53, 54, 71–2, 75–7, 80, 82–7, 129, 133, 135–6, 157, 263, 282–3, 285, 287, 308 Martyrdom of Isaiah, 52 Martyrdom of Polycarp, 15, 245, 249, 252, 281–7 medicine / medical culture, 14, 171–87 Melito of Sardis, 79, 81, 157, 161, 252 meshummadim (see apostasy) Mesopotamia, 27, 42, 66 Messiah / messianism, 28, 86, 258 Midrash, 58, 67, 70 min / minut, 65 (see also heresy) mishmar, 62–3 Mishnah, 40, 58–60, 63–4, 68 mission / missionizing (see proselyte / proselytizing) Mithras / Mithraism, 34–7 modelling of second century, 7–9, 11, 14–18, 36–7, 96–9, 113, 120–1 as laboratory, 9, 11, 151, 164, 294–308 as philosophia, 151–68 monotheism, 275, 292 Montanus / Montanism, 103–4, 197, 299 morality / moral practices, 30, 59, 205, 225, 237, 284 Moses, 53, 58–9, 81, 161–3, 171–85, 245–6, 264, 292 Muratorian Fragment, 104, 197–8 myth / mythology, 12, 29, 31, 33–4, 49, 67, 119–20, 148, 153, 162, 190, 298 Egyptian, 162, 204 Gnostic, 110–2, 122–150

General Index Naassenes, 138, 141 Nag Hammadi texts, 106 1st Apocalypse of James, 134, Ķ Apocryphon of John, 124–5, 130, 138, 146, 218–9 Gospel of Mary, 136 Gospel of Philip, 130–31, 134 Gospel of Thomas, 97, 101, 110 Melchizedek, 133–4 Trimorphic Protennoia, 124–5 Tripartite Tractate, 146, 244–5 Nero, 237–8 networks, 1–2, 10, 35, 40, 60, 66, 76, 111–3, 304, 308 New Testament (see Bible, scripture) Notzerim (see min) Numenius, 53, 144–47, 162, 300 Odes of Solomon, 122 Old Testament (see Bible, scripture) oracle, 5, 13–14, 34, 41–2, 49, 201, 207, 211, 214–31, 289 (see also fate) Origen, 81, 116, 158, 161, 166–7, 250, 262 Against Celsus, 76, 120, 141–2, 144, 157–8, 162, 266–8, 351 Orpheus, 152, 162 orthodox(y), 1, 2, 7–13, 18, 57, 60–1, 65, 70, 96–97, 100–1, 106–7, 114–20, 123, 128–34, 137–8, 140, 156, 160, 163–8, 172, 187, 296–8, 300 Osiris, 144, 162, 201, 204, 207–8, 210, 212 (see also Isis) pagan / paganism, 1, 4–5, 12–15, 20, 33, 45, 49, 56, 72, 75, 83, 86, 154, 157, 159, 166, 216, 229, 237–40, 242–3, 245, 247–9, 260–3, 265– 80, 291, 298–9 (see also philosophy) Palestine, 16, 27–9, 46–8, 52, 59–70, 84–7, 265, 274–5, 278 Parting of the Ways, 9, 14–17, 43, 55–6, 295–6 Passover, 69, 115 Paul, 14, 35, 74, 97–8, 100, 126–7, 133, 244, 253–4, 262, 264, 305 writings, 74, 93–5, 97, 99, 101–2, 108, 111, 114–5, 124, 130, 134, 140, 148–150, 193–5, 235–7, 254–5, 257–8, 275, 291, 307 people, Christians as, 6–7, 9, 20–1, 72–7, 86, 177, 235–64 (see also laos) people, Jews as, 9, 20–1, 53, 64–5, 69–70, 72–3, 86, 242, 245–6, 251–64, 292 (see also laos) Peripatetics, 165, 175–6 1 Peter, 97, 237, 239, 252, 255 Peter, Gospel of, see Gospel of Peter Peter, Preaching of, 241–2, 261–2 Philo of Alexandria, 50, 160–1, 168, 206–7, 211, 291–2

353

philosophy / philosophia, 5, 11–13, 17–18, 20, 33, 49–50, 53–5, 61, 80, 116–8, 120, 141, 143, 151–87, 190–1, 200–31, 264, 269–71, 276– 7, 285–8, 290–1, 297–300, 306, 308 Phoenicians, 26–7 Phrygia/Phrygians, 214, 222–3, 247, 257–8 physicians (see medicine) piety, 13, 41, 64–65, 103, 133, 198, 209–10, 269, 283, 285–6 pistis (see faith) Plato / Platonism, 13, 18, 50, 53, 80, 129, 139, 141, 143–8, 152, 158–9, 161–2, 165–6, 174–82, 185, 190, 203, 205–6, 211–2, 264, 300, 307 Pliny the Younger, 35, 45, 71, 78, 80, 238–9, 266–7 plêrôma, 147–8 Plotinus, 139–40, 144–7, 149, 159, 162–3 Plutarch, 144, 218, 287 De Iside et Osiride, 13–14, 162, 200–13 Pneuma / pneumatikoi, 139, 182–3, 186 poetry / poet, 140, 144, 147, 152–3, 157, 204–6 polemics/ polemical discourse, 15, 106, 115, 119, 125–6, 132–4, 138, 146–7, 153, 155–6, 164, 178–9, 256–7, 262, 288 Polycarp, Philippians, 111, 196 (see also Martyrdom of ) polytheism, 243, 282, 285–6, 291 Porphyry, Life of Plotinus, 139–40, 144–5, 159–62 Proclus, 145, 162 priests, 28–9, 35, 37, 51, 62–5, 69, 75, 108–110, 134, 157, 203–4, 212–3, 224, 237, 252–3, 255, 277–8 pronoia, 124–5, 218–220 (see also fate) prophet / prophecy, 115, 162–3, 165, 250, 257–60, 276, 286, 288 proselyte / proselytizing, 12, 35, 51, 69–70, 87, 111, 141, 242, 261–2, 277, 307 Ps. Clementine writings, 49, 219 Ptolemaeus, 139–42 To Flora, 98, 146 purity, 63–4, 203, 211, 286–7 Rabbi / Rabbinic movement, 16, 40, 47, 50–51, 57–70, 82–3, 156 race, 6–7, 21, 44, 250–61, 279, 292 (see also third race; genos) religion as a category, 19–21 emergence of, 26–32 religious pluralism, 27, 33–4, 97, 113, 299 resurrection, (see afterlife) 93, 114–5, 129, 131, 135, 267, 277 revelation, 122, 124–5, 130, 157–60, 163–4, 255, 269 rhetoric, 6–8, 14, 53–4, 106, 112, 119–20, 131, 133, 143, 155, 171, 182–5, 205–10, 283–93, 296 rights (political), 44, 46, 48, 77–8, 84–5

354

General Index

ritual, 20, 27–33, 35–6, 68–9, 123–4, 128, 131, 135, 162, 200–4, 208–16, 228, 269, 285–6, 301 Rome, 16, 25, 27, 33–40, 44–5, 47–8, 54, 66, 69–81, 96, 117, 171–2, 175–9, 182, 201, 238, 259, 263, 265, 268, 272, 287, 289, 301, 308 rule of faith, 106, 114, 120, 130, 139, 156, 296 Sabbath, 45, 64, 68–9, 78, 81, 148 sacred texts, 37, 141, 158–9 sacrifice, 29, 31–2, 63–4, 115, 129, 132–4, 204, 208–10, 217, 219, 227, 236, 263, 269, 275, 281, 284–8 sages, 58, 60, 160, 162–3 salvation, 122, 131, 136, 149, 217, 222, 254–5 Samaritans (see Kutim) Sceptics, 203, 288 schism, 30, 69, 144 school, 18, 33, 36, 51, 58–60, 63, 70, 97, 117, 127, 139, 141–2, 144, 146, 154–8, 163, 165–6, 171, 178, 182, 184–7, 190, 203, 206, 242, 297–9, 305–6 Second Sophistic, 13–14, 53–4, 172, 178, 190, 307 sect(s), 14, 64–5, 95, 97–8, 127, 139, 150, 172, 178–80, 183–7, 238, 244, 259, 294 secularism, 19, 36, 59, 95–6 Seneca, 220, 226–30 Septimius Severus, 84–7, 92 Septuagint (see Bible, Greek) Serapis, 29, 33, 35–6, 222–3 Sethian, 119–20, 124–8, 130, 133–4, 138–9, 146 sexuality, 130–2, 135–6, 247, 286–7 shrines, 34, 40, 47, 66, 204, 209, 236 Sibylline Oracles, 42, 49 sigê, 147–8 slavery, 26–7, 135, 180, 210, 226, 228, 230, 235–7, 244–5, 254 Smyrna, 81, 175, 177, 281, 284–5 Socrates, 27, 35, 54, 143, 220, 270, 277, 282, 286–8 sons of Abraham (see Abraham) Sophia (see Wisdom) sortition (see fate) Sortes (see fate) soteriology, 149 soul, 122, 136, 143–9, 154, 205, 211, 228, 291 spirit / spirituality, 19, 95, 114–5, 118, 131, 135–6, 147–9, 158–9, 237, 242, 244–5, 254, 258, 262, 286, 299 (see also pneuma) stars (see cosmos / cosmology/ kosmos) Stoic(s) / Stoicism, 53–4, 61, 143–4, 165, 175–7, 182–3, 205, 211, 220, 225–7

Suetonius, 238–9 Sulpicius Severus, Chronicle, 82–3, 87 superstition / superstitio, 41, 71, 85, 202, 204, 208, 212, 224, 231, 238–9, 248, 269 synagogue, 18, 39–44, 47–53, 61–3, 67–87, 259 synthekai, 76 Syria / Assyria, 16, 25, 27–9, 33, 36, 40, 42–8, 53, 66, 81, 162, 173, 194, 227–8, 258, 268, 288, 300 Syriac, 52, 242–4 Tacitus, 15, 71–2, 82, 86–7, 237–9, 292 Talmud, 57–8 Tatian, 154, 157, 161, 194, 226–30, 287 teleology, 2, 7, 9, 11, 31, 98, 164, 182, 299, 304 temple, 27–8, 30, 34, 37–8, 40, 49, 203, 209, 211 (see also Jerusalem, temple) Tertullian, 71, 80–1, 86, 115–9, 134, 139, 141, 155–7, 160, 163–6, 193, 197, 246–9, 263–4, 270–1 Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 52 texts and authority, 14, 17–18, 91, 171–99 textual criticism, 120, 158 Theodoret, 138 theologia (see philosophy, espec. 151–68) theosebeia, 20, 279 ‘third race’, 7, 17, 21, 235–49 (see also people, Christians as; genos; laos; ethnos) Tiberius, 238 Titus, 45–7, 82–3 Torah (see law; Judaism) Tosefta, 40, 58 Trajan, 35, 40, 42, 71, 75, 77–8, 80, 82–4, 182, 224, 238, 266–7 trajectory, 96–99 Tyche (see Fortune) Utopian(ism), 28–9, 32 Valentinus / Valentinians, 97–8, 119–120, 124, 126–7, 130–2, 134, 137–42, 146–9, 154–5, 163–4, 197, 244 Vespasian, 45–6, 75–6, 83–4 Wisdom / wisdom / Sophia, 122, 124, 146–9, 154, 159, 161–3, 187, 244, 263, 278 women, 5–6, 95–6, 130, 135–6, 270–1, 294 worship, 26, 28, 30, 32–6, 45, 69, 76, 108, 133, 148– 9, 200–1, 204, 207–8, 211–13, 228, 237–44, 248, 251–2, 261–3, 282, 286, 290–2