Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity 1472422767, 9781472422767

Table of contents :
List of Plates ix
Notes on Contributors xi
Acknowledgments xv
List of Abbreviations xvii
Introduction: “What Shall We Wear?” 1
Alicia J. Batten, Carly Daniel-Hughes, and Kristi Upson-Saia
Part 1 Dress and the Social Body
1 What to Wear: Women’s Adornment and Judean Identity in the
Third Century Mishnah 21
Naftali S. Cohn
2 Coming Apart at the Seams: Cross-dressing, Masculinity, and
the Social Body in Late Antiquity 37
Maria E. Doerfler
Part 2 Dress and Relationality
3 “The Holy Habit and the Teachings of the Elders”:
Clothing and Social Memory in Late Antique Monasticism 55
Rebecca Krawiec
4 Unraveling the Pallium Dispute between Gregory the Great and
John of Ravenna 75
Adam Serfass
Part 3 Dress and Character Types
5 The Unibrow That Never Was: Paul’s Appearance in the
Acts of Paul and Thecla 99
Callie Callon
6 A dorning the Protagonist: The Use of Dress in the
Book of Judith 117
Erin K. Vearncombe
Part 4 Dress and Status Change
7 A Robe like Lightning: Clothing Changes and Identification in
Joseph and Aseneth 137
Meredith Warren
8 H airiness and Holiness in the Early Christian Desert 155
Kristi Upson-Saia
Part 5 Dress, Image, and Disc ourse
9 Sizing up the Philosopher’s Cloak: Christian Verbal and Visual
Representations of the Tribōn 175
Arthur P. Urbano
10 Imagining Judean Priestly Dress: The Berne Josephus and
Judaea Capta Coinage 195
Joan E. Taylor
Part 6 Dress and Material Realities
11 Putting on the Perfect Man: Clothing and Soteriology in the
Gospel of Philip 215
Carly Daniel-Hughes
12 The Paradoxical Pearl: Signifying the Pearl East and West 233
Alicia J. Batten
Bibliography of Secondary Sources 251
Index

Citation preview

Dressing Judeans and Christians in AntiQuity

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Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity

Edited by

Kristi Upson-Saia Occidental College, USA

Carly Daniel-Hughes Concordia University, Canada

Alicia J. Batten

Conrad Grebel University College at the University of Waterloo, Canada

© Kristi Upson-Saia, Carly Daniel-Hughes and Alicia J. Batten 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Kristi Upson-Saia, Carly Daniel-Hughes and Alicia J. Batten have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the editors of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East 110 Cherry Street Union Road Suite 3-1 Farnham Burlington, VT 05401-3818 Surrey, GU9 7PT USA England www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Dressing Judeans and Christians in antiquity / edited by Kristi Upson-Saia, Carly DanielHughes, and Alicia J. Batten. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4724-2276-7 (hardcover) -- ISBN 978-1-4724-2277-4 (ebook) -- ISBN 9781-4724-2334-4 (epub) 1. Clothing and dress--Religious aspects--Judaism. 2. Rabbinical literature--History and criticism. 3. Clothing and dress--Religious aspects--Christianity. I. Upson-Saia, Kristi, 1974- II. Daniel-Hughes, Carly, 1974- III. Batten, Alicia J. BM720.C6D74 2014 248.4'6--dc23 2014000554 ISBN 9781472422767 (hbk) ISBN 9781472422774 (ebk – PDF) ISBN 9781472423344 (ebk – ePUB)

IV

Printed in the United Kingdom by Henry Ling Limited, at the Dorset Press, Dorchester, DT1 1HD

Contents

List of Plates   Notes on Contributors   Acknowledgments   List of Abbreviations   Introduction: “What Shall We Wear?”   Alicia J. Batten, Carly Daniel-Hughes, and Kristi Upson-Saia Part 1 1 2

4

1

Dress and the Social Body

What to Wear: Women’s Adornment and Judean Identity in the Third Century Mishnah   Naftali S. Cohn

21

Coming Apart at the Seams: Cross-dressing, Masculinity, and the Social Body in Late Antiquity   Maria E. Doerfler

37

Part 2 3

ix xi xv xvii

Dress and Relationality

“The Holy Habit and the Teachings of the Elders”: Clothing and Social Memory in Late Antique Monasticism   Rebecca Krawiec

55

Unraveling the Pallium Dispute between Gregory the Great and John of Ravenna   Adam Serfass

75

Dressing Judeans and Christians in Antiquity

vi

Part 3 5

Dress and Character Types

The Unibrow That Never Was: Paul’s Appearance in the Acts of Paul and Thecla   Callie Callon

6 Adorning the Protagonist: The Use of Dress in the Book of Judith   Erin K. Vearncombe Part 4

8 Hairiness and Holiness in the Early Christian Desert   Kristi Upson-Saia

9 10

137 155

Dress, Image, and Discourse

Sizing up the Philosopher’s Cloak: Christian Verbal and Visual Representations of the Tribōn   Arthur P. Urbano

175

Imagining Judean Priestly Dress: The Berne Josephus and Judaea Capta Coinage   Joan E. Taylor

195

Part 6

Dress and Material Realities



Putting on the Perfect Man: Clothing and Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip   Carly Daniel-Hughes

12

The Paradoxical Pearl: Signifying the Pearl East and West   Alicia J. Batten

11

117

Dress and Status Change

7 A Robe like Lightning: Clothing Changes and Identification in Joseph and Aseneth   Meredith Warren

Part 5

99

215 233

Contents

Bibliography of Secondary Sources   Index  

vii

251 285

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List of Plates

4.1 4.2

Emperor Justinian and Archbishop of Ravenna Maximian. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna, Italy   Bishop Ecclesius with pallium. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna, Italy  

5.1 5.2

Fourth-century image of Paul. Catacomb of St Thecla, Rome   Socrates. Roman copy from the Third century BCE  

8.1

Eleventh-century fresco of St Onnophrius of Egypt. Church of Sant’Andriano at San Demetrio Corone (Cosenza), Italy   Sixteenth-century fresco of St Marcus of Thracia (known as Mark of Athens). Church of the Monastery in Voronet, Romania  

8.2 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4

Portrait statue of Socrates wearing the tribōn, ca. 200 BCE–100 CE. British Museum, London   Christian sarcophagus with seated figure at center dressed in tribōn and reading from a scroll, ca. 260–70 CE. Santa Maria Antiqua, Rome   So-called “Dogmatic” sarcophagus, Fourth century. Museo Pio Cristiano, Rome   Detail of an unidentified figure in mosaic, dressed in pallium and tunic, possibly a prophet or church father, late Fourth or early Fifth century. Neonian Baptistery, Ravenna  

10.1 Drawing of Josephus in manuscript Burgerbibliothek Bern Cod.50, f.2r, dated to the Ninth century   10.2 Coin of Vespasian. Bronze sestertius (35mm). Rome mint, struck 72–3 CE. Reads: IMP CAES VESPAS AVG P M TR P P P COS IIII and IVDAEA CAPTA: RIC II 375; Hendin 1516  

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10.3 Coin of Titus. Silver denarius (19mm). Struck 23 June – 1 July 79 CE. Reads: IMP T CAESAR VESPASIANUS AVG: RIC II 1; BMCRE 1; RSC 334a   10.4 Coin of Augustus. Silver denarius (18mm). Rome mint. M. Durmius, moneyer, struck 19–18 BCE: RSC 428   10.5 Samaritan High Priest Amram Ben Yitzhak (center) and members of the community walk to the sacrificial site for the celebration of the Samaritan Passover on Mount Gerizim   12.1 Mummy portrait of a young woman with double pearl necklace, ca. 150 CE. From Fayum, Egypt. Encaustic on wood. Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany  

Notes on Contributors

Alicia J. Batten is Associate Professor of Religious Studies and Theology at Conrad Grebel University College at the University of Waterloo. Her work focuses upon the social history of early Christianity, the Letter of James, and the history of biblical interpretation. Notable publications include Friendship and Benefaction in James (Emory Studies in Early Christianity 15; Deo, 2010) and various articles on dress in the New Testament and Early Christianity in journals such as the Journal of Early Christian History and New Testament Studies. Callie Callon is a Ph.D. Candidate in the Department of Religion at the University of Toronto. She is currently researching the use of physiognomy as a means of persuasion in early Christian rhetoric. She has published articles in the Journal of Early Christian Studies, the Journal of Biblical Literature, and Catholic Biblical Quarterly. Naftali S. Cohn is Associate Professor of Religion at Concordia University in Montreal. His research centers on the third century rabbinic text, the Mishnah, in its larger rabbinic, Jewish, and Roman cultural contexts. Currently, he focuses especially on the Mishnah’s construction of ritual, law, gender, and everyday life, building on his recently published book, The Memory of the Temple and the Making of the Rabbis (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). Carly Daniel-Hughes is Associate Professor of Religion at Concordia University and member of the Groupe de recherche sur le christianisme et l’Antiquité tardive with Université Laval. Her research in ancient Christianity focuses on gender and sexuality, embodied practices (notably meals and dress), as well as women’s religiosity. Her publications include a monograph entitled The Salvation of Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (Palgrave/Macmillan, 2011), which explores how dress intersected with debates over the nature of the resurrected body in the second and third centuries.

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Maria E. Doerfler is Assistant Professor of the History of Christianity in Late Antiquity at Duke University. Her work has appeared in the Journal of Early Christian Studies, Church History, The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, and other venues. Her current research interests include issues of gender and sexuality in late antiquity, infant mortality and responses thereto across the Roman and Sassanid Empires, and the development of judicial ideals and practices in early monastic settings. Rebecca Krawiec is Associate Professor of Religious Studies and Theology at Canisius College. She is the author of Shenoute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity (Oxford University Press, 2002), the first monograph in English on Shenoute. Her other publications focus on the construction of monasticism through the family, clothing, and education. Adam Serfass is an Associate Professor in the Department of Classics at Kenyon College. His research, which has drawn on both literary sources and documentary papyri, focuses on the social history of Christianity in late antiquity. He is interested in dress, particularly clerical and monastic clothing; wealth and poverty, particularly churches’ charitable outreach; and slavery, in theory and practice. In 2006, his essay “Slavery and Pope Gregory the Great” appeared in the Journal of Early Christian Studies; in his contribution to this volume, he returns to the Pope’s correspondence. Joan E. Taylor is Professor of Christian Origins and Second Temple Judaism at King’s College London. She publishes in the fields of biblical studies, Second Temple Judaism and early Christianity, with a special focus on women and gender, archaeology and historical context. In 1995 she won an Irene LeviSala Award in Israel’s archaeology, for the book, Christians and the Holy Places (Clarendon, 1993, rev. 2003). Her most recent book is The Essenes, the Scrolls and the Dead Sea (Oxford University Press, 2012) and she is the editor of The Body in Biblical, Christian and Jewish Texts (T&T Clark Bloomsbury, 2014). Kristi Upson-Saia is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Occidental College in Los Angeles. Her first book, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (Routledge, 2011), examined the social significance of dress in early Christian communities, especially among Christian ascetics. More recently, she is researching late ancient representations of bodily deformities (specifically,

Notes on Contributors

xiii

wounds and scars); interpretations of and treatments for anger in the ancient world; and the ways in which ideas from early Christian apocryphal literature persist in the doctrinal, artistic, and liturgical traditions of the Catholic Church. Arthur P. Urbano is Associate Professor of Theology at Providence College. His research focuses on the reception of classical thought and culture in late antique Christianity, particularly in philosophy and art. His monograph, The Philosophical Life: Biography and the Crafting of Intellectual Identity in Late Antiquity (The Catholic University of America Press, 2013), examines the dynamic role of biographical literature as an arena of cultural competition. His work has also appeared in the Journal of Early Christian Studies, and Church History. He is also interested in contemporary issues related to ecumenical and interreligious dialogue. Erin K. Vearncombe is a Ph.D. Candidate at the Centre for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto. Erin is researching the use of clothing in the construction of social identity in the synoptic gospels (the topic of her dissertation) and has published some of this research in Catholic Biblical Quarterly. Her broader research interests include the social realia of the ancient Mediterranean; she has also written on travel, kinship structures, and the economics of redistribution and reciprocity. Meredith Warren is an FQRSC Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University of Ottawa. Her post-doctoral project, “Food of Angels: Hierophagy as Transformational Eating in Ancient Literature,” explores how performative consumption effects transformation in ancient Mediterranean narratives, including Joseph and Aseneth. Warren’s other work evaluates how John 6: 51c–58 contributes to the gospel’s presentation of Jesus as divine in light of Hellenistic attitudes about sacrifice, divinity, and the consumption of human flesh.

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Acknowledgments

This volume is a testament to scholarly collaboration. It emerged from the partnership of three scholars who hold the view that the study of dress offers great potential for understanding the dynamics of ancient religious life, and from a desire to find other scholars working on this subject. In 2012 we held three invited panels, two at the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies (CSBS) and one at the American Academy of Religion (AAR), as well as solicited essays for this volume. We thank our panelists, Alicia Batten, Ariane Bodin, Naftali Cohn, Carly Daniel-Hughes, Maria Doerfler, André Gagné, Rebecca Krawiec, Dietmar Neufeld, Erin Vearncombe, Kristi Upson-Saia, and Kate Wilkinson, for presenting their research and stimulating lively discussion. Some of these scholars, in addition to Callie Callon, Adam Serfass, Joan Taylor, Arthur Urbano, and Meredith Warren, continued to work with us to prepare their papers for this volume. We are grateful for their insightful essays, punctuality, and patience through several rounds of revision. Together all of these scholars enriched our thinking about dress in the ancient world, and their work points to the vibrancy of this topic for future study. We would like to pay special recognition to Kelly Olson (University of Western Ontario) who graciously responded to all the papers delivered at the CSBS panels, and provided insights that shaped this collection. Kelly’s pioneering work, notably her monograph Dress and the Roman Woman (Routledge, 2010), has shaped all of us who work on dress in antiquity. Yet Kelly is not only an established authority on this topic, she is also generous with her time and resources, and for this we are exceedingly grateful. Thank you also to the staff at the Hilton Montréal Bonaventure where we stayed in May 2013 for three intense days of work on this volume. Their staff supplied us with coffee and cookies, and a daily happy hour while we occupied the executive lounge, talking and clicking away furiously on our laptops. This project was supported by the Arnold L. and Lois S. Graves Award in the Humanities (awarded to Kristi Upson-Saia in 2012), the research fund of Conrad Grebel University College at the University of Waterloo (awarded to

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Alicia Batten in 2013), and Fonds de recherche societé et culture, nouveaux professeurs-chercheurs grant (awarded to Carly Daniel-Hughes 2010–13). Finally, we would like to express our gratitude to Ashgate Press, especially Michael Greenwood and Kayleigh Huelin, for patiently answering all of our questions and making our first experience as editors such a positive one.

List of Abbreviations

AAAp ACW ANF BIS CCSL CIL CSCO CSEL GCS LCL LSJ MGH NHS NPNF PG PL SC SEG WUNT

Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha Ancient Christian Writers Ante-Nicene Fathers Biblical Interpretation Series Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Corpus Scriptorium Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Die greichischen christlichen Schrifsteller der ersten [drei] Jahrhunderte Loeb Classical Library Liddell, H.G., R. Scott, H.S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon Monumenta Germaniae Historica Nag Hammadi Studies The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church Patrologia Graeca Patrologia Latina Sources Chrétiennes Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament

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Plate 4.1

Emperor Justinian and Archbishop of Ravenna Maximian. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna, Italy

Source: Permission: Diocese of Ravenna. Photograph: Arthur P. Urbano.

Plate 4.2

Bishop Ecclesius with pallium. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna, Italy

Source: Permission: Diocese of Ravenna. Photograph: Arthur P. Urbano.

Plate 5.1

Fourth-century image of Paul. Catacomb of St Thecla, Rome

Source: Permission and photograph: Getty Images.

Plate 5.2

Socrates. Roman copy from the Third century BCE

Source: Permission from Ny Carlsberg Glyptothek, Copenhagen, Denmark. Inv. 1417. Photograph: John Kloppenborg.

Plate 8.1

Eleventh-century fresco of St Onnophrius of Egypt. Church of Sant’Andriano at San

Demetrio Corone (Cosenza), Italy

Source: Permission and photograph: Svetlana Tomeković database.

Plate 8.2

Sixteenth-century fresco of St Marcus of Thracia (known as Mark of Athens). Church of the Monastery in Voronet, Romania

Source: Permission and photograph: Father Dries van den Aker. Further information at www. heiligen.net.

Plate 9.1

Portrait statue of Socrates wearing the tribōn, ca. 200 BCE–100 CE. British Museum, London

Source: Permission and photograph: Erick Lessing/Art Resource, NY.

Plate 9.2

Christian sarcophagus with seated figure at center dressed in tribōn and reading from a scroll, ca. 260–70 CE. Santa Maria Antiqua, Rome

Source: Permission and photograph: Robin Margaret Jensen.

Plate 9.3

So-called “Dogmatic” sarcophagus, Fourth century. Museo Pio Cristiano, Rome

Source: Permission from the Vatican Museum. Photograph by Arthur P. Urbano.

Plate 9.4

Detail of an unidentified figure in mosaic, dressed in pallium and tunic, possibly a prophet or church father, late Fourth or early Fifth century. Neonian Baptistery, Ravenna

Source: Permission from the Diocese of Ravenna. Photograph: Arthur P. Urbano.

Plate 10.1 Drawing of Josephus in manuscript Burgerbibliothek Bern Cod.50, f.2r, dated to the Ninth century Source: Permission and photograph: Bern Burgerbibliothek.

Plate 10.2

Coin of Vespasian. Bronze sestertius (35mm). Rome mint, struck 72–3 CE. Reads: IMP CAES VESPAS AVG P M TR P P P COS IIII and IVDAEA CAPTA: RIC II 375; Hendin 1516

Source: Permission and photograph: Classical Numismatic Group Inc. http://www.cngcoins.com.

Plate 10.3

Coin of Titus. Silver denarius (19mm). Struck 23 June – 1 July 79 CE. Reads: IMP T CAESAR VESPASIANUS AVG: RIC II 1; BMCRE 1; RSC 334a

Source: Permission and photograph: Classical Numismatic Group Inc. http://www.cngcoins.com.

Plate 10.4 Coin of Augustus. Silver denarius (18mm). Rome mint. M. Durmius, moneyer, struck 19–18 BCE: RSC 428 Source: Permission and photograph: Classical Numismatic Group Inc. http://www.cngcoins.com.

Plate 10.5

Samaritan High Priest Amram Ben Yitzhak (center) and members of the community walk to the sacrificial site for the celebration of the Samaritan Passover on Mount Gerizim

Source: Image: Wikimedia. Photograph: Moshe Milner. Israel Government Press Office, 29 April 1969.

Plate 12.1

Mummy portrait of a young woman with double pearl necklace, ca. 150 CE. From Fayum, Egypt. Encaustic on wood. Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany

Source: Permission: Art Resource, NY. Photograph: Ingrid Geske-Heiden.

Introduction

“What Shall We Wear?” Alicia J. Batten, Carly Daniel-Hughes, and Kristi Upson-Saia

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus exhorts his audience not to worry about clothing or what to wear (Matt 6: 28–31), yet as the reader of this volume will soon discover, many ancient Judeans and Christians were otherwise inclined. Dress was a significant preoccupation for Judeans and Christians in antiquity. Dress, whether material or metaphoric, figured significantly in daily life, in texts, and in ritual practices. It functioned in a range of ways: as a way to construct and communicate identity, as a means to conform or distinguish, as a locus of dispute and resistance, or as a path to or expression of holiness. Clothing, adornments, and modes of dressing, therefore, can be productive windows through which to study religiosity in the ancient world. Prior Research The earliest modern research on the historical dress of Greece and Rome was conducted by eighteenth-century French politicians who used ancient dress as a symbol of the civic ideals they promoted1 and by nineteenth-century British   The political reform of late eighteenth-century France, which took a renewed interest in ancient political philosophy, prompted a corollary turn to the dress of antiquity. Images and clothing from Classical Greece and early Republican Rome became political and cultural symbols of liberté, égalité, et fraternité (Aileen Ribeiro, Fashion in the French Revolution [New York: Holmes & Meier, 1988]; Aileen Ribeiro, The Art of Dress: Fashion in England and France 1750 to 1820 [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995]). It is to this period that two famous publications on ancient dress belong: Michel-François Dandré’s 1772, Costume des anciens peuples and André Lens’ 1776, Costume des peuples de l’antiquité. Ancient costume found representation in popular artwork of the period, artwork that then informed the fashions of eighteenth-century France. For an illustration of dress inspired by the Classical period found in The Ladies’ Magazine, see James Laver, Taste and Fashion from the French Revolution until Today (New York: Dodd Mead & Company, 1938), 18. On the use of dress as a political symbol in Cuba, Israel, Great Britain, and the United States, see Mary Ellen Roach and Joanne Bubolz Eicher, “The Language of Personal Adornment,” in The Fabrics of 1

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costume designers who attempted to fabricate historically accurate costumes for their theater productions.2 It was not until the beginning of the twentieth century that Classicists and Historians began to study dress in antiquity.3 Using archaeological remains, artistic and monumental depictions, and literary descriptions of dress and ornaments, these scholars compiled pictorial catalogues of ancient dress. Their intention was mainly to illustrate and describe the material aspects of dress, such as available textiles, construction patterns, and draping methods.4 These publications were comprised mostly of illustrations with short captions, and as such, they provided little accompanying analysis of the complex social significance of dress. That said, by organizing their illustrations into types (for example, recognizing variations in dress according to ethnic groups, socioeconomic status, region, or gender), they implicitly recognized that clothing constructed inter- and intra-group identities and boundaries.5 Culture: The Anthropology of Clothing and Adornment, eds Justine M. Cordwell and Ronald Schwarz (The Hague: Mouton Publishers, 1979), 15–17. 2   Englishman Thomas Hope’s classic 1809 publication, Costumes of the Ancients (later released under a new title, Costumes of the Greeks and Romans), was one of the first collections of illustrations “planned as a designer’s dictionary, for the theatrical performer, the ornamental architect, and every other artist to whom the knowledge of classical costume is necessary” (Costumes of the Greeks and Romans [New York: Dover Publications, 1962], 14). This British theatrical interest in the costume of antiquity in turn influenced the popular tradition of masquerades. On this development, see Aileen Ribeiro, The Dress Worn at Masquerades in England, 1730 to 1790, and Its Relation to Fancy Dress in Portraiture (New York: Garland Publishing, 1984). 3   This turn was, in no small part, fueled by the emergent study of dress in other disciplines, including Psychology and Economics (discussed in greater detail below). 4   While many of these publications were interested in understanding how the development of civilizations mapped onto clothing, others continued to catalogue historical dress for the purpose of reproducing historically accurate costumes for use in the theater. For instance, see Mary Houston’s introduction, in which she writes: “the author has endeavored to give the fullest information on the construction of costume, as without this knowledge, it cannot even be correctly drawn much less reproduced upon the stage” (Mary G. Houston, Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume and Decoration [London: Adam & Charles Black, 1947], introduction). 5   See, for example, Léon Alexandre Heuzey, Histoire du costume antique d’après des études sur le modèle vivant (Paris: É. Champion, 1922); Karl Köhler and Emma von Sichart, Praktische Kostümkunde (London: G.G. Harrap, 1928); Mary Evans, Costume Throughout the Ages (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1930); Margarete Bieber, Griechische Kleidung (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1928; 1977); Margarete Bieber, “Stola,” in Paulys Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft (Stuttgart: J.B. Metzlersche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1931), 56–62; Lillian May Wilson, The Clothing of the Ancient Romans (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1938); Houston, Ancient Greek, Roman and Byzantine Costume; John

“What Shall We Wear?”

3

While these early collections were preoccupied with documenting real group boundaries, later generations of Classicists aimed to investigate how visual depictions and textual descriptions of dress were implicated in the very formation of groups.6 A 1988 scholarly meeting in Rome, “The Religious, Social, and Political Significance of Roman Dress,” marks a momentous shift in academic treatments of ancient dress.7 Several scholars at this symposium argued that variations in dress were consciously constructed, stylized, and mobilized in order to assert group identity and difference. Furthermore, they pointed out other ways in which earlier catalogues overlooked critical facets in the study of ancient clothing. Those prior studies, for instance, did not consider how visual and textual representations created strategic associations between particular aspects of dress with particular identities; how readers and viewers mimicked the codes of group identity communicated in visual and textual representations; and how visual and textual representations of clothing were deployed to make claims about or justify the superiority of one group over another.8 Although the Balsdon, “Women’s Daily Life: Dress, Coiffure, Make-up and Jewels,” in Roman Women: Their History and Habits (London: Bodley Head, 1962), 252–65; James Laver, Costume in Antiquity; 480 Illustrations (London: Thames and Hudson, 1964). When they do include more than simply a caption, their commentaries give us a glimpse less into ancient significations of clothing than into early twentieth-century stereotypes and prejudice. For instance, when discussing gendered dress in antiquity, Frederick Henry Marshall unabashedly concludes that Roman ladies were characterized by their “passionate fondness for jewellery,” eliding the depictions of richly adorned men in Roman art and literature (for example, the Prima Porta statue of Augustus adorned in an ornate breastplate, the Ravenna mosaics of Justinian and his entourage, and the well-attested decorative costumes of Persian men). See Frederick Henry Marshall, “Private Antiquities,” in A Companion to Latin Studies, ed. John Edwin Sandys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1913), 199. 6   Karl Köhler admits that artistic renderings are often based on dress types rather than reflecting “real” dress. With respect to the use of historical, idealized dress, he writes: “The artist frequently uses a motif of dress which belongs to an earlier style … The period to which a work of art belongs has therefore sometimes very little connexion with the costume that work portrays. For this reason works of art are not always reliable sources of information” (Köhler and Sichart, Praktische Kostümkunde, 49). Köhler’s statement, however, reveals his principal concern: to gather historically reliable illustrations. He is right that late ancient illustrations are “not always reliable” in historical terms, but neglects to consider what other sort of information or meaning such representations might reliably convey or make. 7   Many of the papers from this conference were published in Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante, The World of Roman Costume (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994). 8   The value of this layer of analysis becomes immediately evident when the funerary portraiture of imperial families, the monumental depictions of “Barbarian” captives of war, and the vase representations of sex workers are lined up side by side. Each of these

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work of the 1988 conference was largely limited to men’s dress, and restricted the focus to how dress constructs national and ethnic identities, it advanced the study of historical dress considerably by examining dress as a strategic tool used to establish and maintain identities. More recent studies of ancient dress have extended the discussions from this symposium and established the extent to which Greeks and Romans were vestimentary cultures. Scholars have documented the critical role dress played in communicating individuals’ identities, whether in terms of social status, wealth, or gender, as well as how changes in status were regularly marked by a change in dress and appearance.9 Scholars have described how variations in dress and adornment were used not only to distinguish insiders from outsiders and solidify community, but also to create intra-group divisions and hierarchies.10 representations draws upon repeated and stylized images of types in order to persuade viewers of particular social categories and of particular social orders. 9   On gendered dress, see, for example, Maria Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror: The Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World,” in Women in Ancient Societies: An Illusion of the Night, eds Léonie J. Archer, Susan Fischler and Maria Wyke (New York: Routledge, 1994), 134–51; Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones and Sue Blundell, eds, Women’s Dress in the Ancient Greek World (London: Duckworth, 2002); Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Aphrodite’s Tortoise: The Veiled Woman of Ancient Greece (Swansea, Wales: Classical Press of Wales, 2003); Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World East and West, 300–900, eds Leslie Brubaker and Julia M.H. Smith (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 44–69; Mireille Lee, “Constru(ct)ing gender in the feminine Greek peplos,” in The Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds Liza Cleland, Mary Harlow, and Lloyd Lewellyn-Jones (Oxford: Oxbow, 2005), 55–64; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-Presentation and Society (New York: Routledge, 2008); Leslie Shumka, “Designing Women: The Representations of Women’s Toiletries on Funerary Monuments in Roman Italy,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 172–91. On dress and status, see for example, Ann Stout, “Jewelry as a Symbol of Status in the Roman Empire,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 77–100; Ria Berg, “Wearing Wealth: Mundus Muliebris and Ornatus as Status Markers for Women in Imperial Rome,” in Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, eds Päivi Setälä, Ria Berg, Riika Hälikkä, Minerva Keltanen, Janne Pölölnen and Ville Vuolanto (Rome: Institutum Romanum Finlandiae, 2002), 15–73; and Eleanor Guralnick, “Fabric Patterns as Symbols of Status in the Near East and Early Greece,” in Reading a Dynamic Canvas. Adornment in Ancient Mediterranean World, eds Cynthia S. Colburn and Maura K. Heyn (Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008), 84–114. 10   Archaeologist Ellen Swift, for example, explores how household items, including clothing and jewelry, assisted in constructing and shaping distinctive identities in the Roman

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They have explained how an interpretation of one’s own dress was leveraged to claim authority and power, as well as how an interpretation of an opponent’s clothing was leveraged to undermine another’s authority and power.11 Dress, these studies argue, was a tool that helped ancient people understand, order, and navigate their world. This recent work indicates a growing interest in understanding the social function of historical dress, but there remain some looming gaps. On the one hand, Classicists have paid relatively little attention to religiosity: namely, to the religious meanings of dress and to the dress of particular religious communities.12 On the other hand, scholars of ancient religion, who are just beginning to study dress, have largely confined their analyses of dress to a limited set of canonical sources. Increasingly, they are examining how religious significations of dress referenced, intermingled with, or informed cultural, political, and economic significations.13 Our volume conjoins what are now world (Style and Function in Roman Decoration: Living with Objects and Interiors [London: Ashgate, 2009]). Likewise Rachel Dann employs dress theory to examine how clothing could contribute to the creation of meaning and identity in ancient Egypt (“Clothing and the Construction of Identity: Examples from the Old and New Kingdoms,” Current Research in Egyptology, eds Angela McDonald and Christina Riggs [BAR International Series 909; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000], 41–9). 11   See, for example, Michele George, “The ‘Dark Side’ of the Toga,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan C. Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 94–112. 12   There are certainly exceptions. See, for instance, Laura Gawlinski’s essay, “‘Fashioning’ Initiates: Dress at the Mysteries” and Maura K. Heyn’s essay, “Sacerdotal Activities and Parthian Dress in Roman Palmyra,” both in Reading a Dynamic Canvas, 146–69; 170–93. See also Elaine Fantham, “Covering the Head at Rome: Ritual and Gender,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, 158–71. 13   For surveys of dress in biblical and related literature, see Douglas R. Edwards, “Dress and Ornamentation,” Anchor Bible Dictionary Vol. 2; ed. David Noel Freedman (New York: Doubleday, 1992), 232–38; Harry O. Maier, “Kleidung II (Bedeutung),” Reallexicon für Antike und Christentum 21 (2004): 1–59; Alicia J. Batten, “Clothing and Adornment,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 40 (2010): 148–59; Alban Cras, La symbolique du Vêtement Selon la Bible (Lire la Bible; Paris: Cerf, 2011); Alicia J. Batten “Clothing,” in Oxford Bibliographies in Biblical Studies, ed. Christopher Matthews (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013). In recent years, some scholars in the areas of Biblical Studies, second-Temple Judaism, and Early Christianity have published more integrated socio-religio-economic analyses. For example, see Gildas Hamel, “Poverty in Clothing” in his Poverty and Charity in Roman Palestine, First Three Centuries C.E. (University of California Publications Near Eastern Studies 23; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 57–93; Victor H. Matthews, “The Anthropology of Clothing in the Joseph Narrative,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 65 (1995): 25–36; Ora Horn Prouser,

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two separate scholarly conversations. Specifically, it provides a space in which to think in a more focused way about the religious aspects and uses of dress. Yet we wish not to confine our analyses strictly to religiosity, but rather to networks of social logics—interweaving logics of religiosity, status, wealth, gender—that undergird interpretations of dress and of dressing in antiquity. By assembling in one volume chapters that dissect a range of interconnected and overlapping social logics, we highlight the many layers of meaning attached to ancient dress, as well as ancients’ flexibility in manipulating those layers to serve their agendas. Furthermore, many contributors to this volume have built their analyses from dress theory developed in the fields of anthropology, economics, sociology, and performance studies, making the essays in the volume more interdisciplinary than prior studies on dress in antiquity. By assembling in one volume chapters that employ a range of methodological and theoretical frames, we illustrate the different modes by which meaning was constructed and communicated through dress performances, through interpretations of dress, and through literary and visual representations of ancient dress imagery. This volume, then, does not simply gather disparate studies around a common topic. Rather, we deploy “Suited to the Throne: The Symbolic Use of Clothing in the David and Saul Narratives,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 21 (1996): 27–37; J. Albert Harrill, “Coming of Age and Putting on Christ: The Toga Virilis Ceremony, Its Paraenesis, and Paul’s Interpretation of Baptism in Galatians,” Novum Testamentum 44 (2002): 252–77; Dietmar Neufeld, “Sumptuous Clothing and Ornamentation in the Apocalypse,” Hervormde Teologiese Studies 58 (2002): 664–89; Michael Knowles, “What was the Victim Wearing? Literary, Economic, Social Contexts for the Parable of the Good Samaritan,” Biblical Interpretation 12 (2004): 145–74; Dietmar Neufeld, “The Rhetoric of Body, Clothing and Identity in the Vita and Genesis,” Scriptura 90 (2005): 679–84; Dietmar Neufeld, “Under the Cover of Clothing: Scripted Clothing Performances in the Apocalypse of John,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 35 (2005): 67–76; Chris Frilingos, “Wearing It Well: Gender at Work in the Shadow of Empire,” in Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourses, eds Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 333–49; Susan Niditch, “My Brother Esau is a Hairy Man”: Hair and Identity in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008); Alicia J. Batten, “Neither Gold nor Braided Hair (1 Timothy 2.9; 1 Peter 3.3): Adornment, Gender and Honour in Antiquity,” New Testament Studies 55 (2009): 484–501; Rebecca Krawiec, “‘Garments of Salvation’: Representations of Monastic Clothing in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 17 (2009): 125–50; Carly Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Katherine Low, “Implications Surrounding Girding of the Loins in Light of Gender, Body and Power,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 36 (2011): 3–30; Kristi UpsonSaia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011); and Rosemary Canavan, Clothing the Body at Colossae. A Visual Construction of Identity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012).

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an interdisciplinary approach in order to impress upon readers the reach and significance of dress on many domains of ancient Mediterranean life, as well as the extent to which we can learn about ancient society through the study of dress. Theorizing Dress As suggested above, we are not interested in studying ancient dress as an end in itself. Instead, the study of dress enables us to understand the values, worldviews, and priorities of ancient people, as well as the social dynamics and structures of their communities, which were expressed in and negotiated through styles and modes of dressing. Our orientation is informed by insights that have emerged from dress studies, dress history, and dress theory.14 To highlight the theoretical underpinnings of this collection, it will be helpful to discuss the leading analytical frames employed in dress studies and to situate the chapters of this volume into those frames. Given the polysemy of dress and given the range of analyses one might employ to study dress, readers will quickly discover that the chapters in this volume could fall under multiple categories and that our groupings are somewhat artificial. As you read, we hope you will see the rich cross-pollination of theories and approaches throughout the volume. Dress theorists have demonstrated how particular styles of dressing stand in as representative of communal identity or values. Informed by Anthropologist Mary Douglas, who argued that the body is symbolic of the social whole,15 dress theorists likewise argue that dress or the dressed body serves a similar purpose. For instance, in a series of ethnographic studies of women in contemporary North American religious communities, scholars such as Linda Arthur reveal how dressing in conformity with the group indicates individuals’ fidelity to group values (for example, religious commitments, gender norms, and so on), to 14   See, for example, Lou Taylor, The Study of Dress History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002); Michael Carter, Fashion Classics from Carlyle to Barthes (Oxford: Berg, 2003); Kim K.P. Johnson, Susan J. Torntore and Joanne B. Eicher, eds, Fashion Foundations. Early Writings on Fashion and Dress (Oxford and New York: Berge, 2003); Lou Taylor, Establishing Dress History (Manchester University Press, 2004); Peter McNeil, ed., Fashion: Critical and Primary Sources, 4 vols (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2009); and Valerie Steele, ed., The Berg Companion to Fashion (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2010). Moreover, the website for the Berg Fashion Library, http://www.bergfashionlibrary.com/, is a good resource for scholars working in this area. 15   See Mary Douglas, Body Symbols (Blackstone: Oxford, 1970).

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promote group solidarity, and to distinguish levels of commitment within the community. Yet, theorists point out that the act of dressing in conformity with one’s community not only expresses already agreed-upon communal values, but also instills those very values through an embodied performance. In this way, dress is a component of social control and functions as a tool that maintains group values and boundaries.16 In the first section of this volume, Naftali Cohn and Maria Doerfler similarly consider how ancient writers and material artifacts utilized dress to define viable social identities and group boundaries. Further, they explicate how Judeans and Christians summoned the emblematic dress of their group to legitimize themselves or to position their community over against outsiders. Cohn, specifically, examines treatments of women’s adornment in the Mishnah. The rabbis, he informs us, considered women’s adornment both as a marker of seduction and a mode of womanly self-expression. Yet, Cohn argues, these discussions about women’s adornments were not merely a way to stylize gendered dress and to classify women. Rather, the rabbis used descriptions of and prescriptions for women’s appearance to articulate a particular version of Judeanness, as well as to establish the rabbis’ authority within the Jewish community: namely, positioning them as overseers of ritual life and confirming their legal authority and their ritual jurisdiction. Here, then, we find an attempt to connect women’s mundane bodily practices to the metaphorical social body, the Judean people. In Maria Doerfler’s chapter, it is the bodies and garb of Christian men who are emblematic of an idealized social identity (that is, Romanness). Doerfler studies how Ambrose of Milan deems “pagan” men’s dress to be deeply luxurious and foreign, likening it to cross-dressing, which was strictly prohibited by both Roman gender ideals and scripture. Conversely, Ambrose equates Christian men’s dress with an authentic display of Roman masculinity. This characterization takes for granted the ability to draw conclusions about the civic body from the dressed bodies of individual “pagan” and Christian men. Moreover, this juxtaposition rescripts Christians as true Romans and positions them at the center of Imperial order.   See Judith Butler, Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). Both Daniel-Hughes (The Salvation of the Flesh) and Upson-Saia (Early Christian Dress) apply Butler’s concept of performativity to early Christian dress. See also, Terence Turner, “The Social Skin,” in Reading the Social Body, eds Catherine Borroughs and Jeffrey D. Ehrenreich (Des Moines: University of Iowa Press, 1993), 15–39; and chapters 1–3 and 6–8 in Linda Arthur, ed., Religion, Dress, and the Body (Oxford: Berg, 1999). 16

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In addition to serving as an emblem or symbol of group identity, dress can also identify individuals’ roles or status, demarcating sub-groups or types within society. Psychologists such as Georg Simmel and John Carl Flügel have argued that individuals dress themselves in ways that expressed their character, personality, motivations, and mood. For this reason, they studied dress—an outward, artificial veneer—as a way to access inward, (presumably) natural traits, desires, impulses, and motivations.17 These ideas made it possible to argue that groupings of society (such as, male and female, the upstanding and the upstarts) were naturally divisible and that those divisions were readily apparent by one’s appearance.18 Economist Thorstein Veblen was also interested in how dress expressed classes within society, though his focus was trained on groupings by status and wealth. He argued that the upper class advertised their financial strength by continuously recycling their wardrobe before it was worn out, by wearing elaborately ornamented clothing made from costly materials, and by wearing styles that inhibited the capacity to engage in productive labor. This manner of dressing made public their affluence by indicating their ability to “waste” their resources and “waste” their time. Although the lower classes, Veblen notes, attempt to keep up by imitating the fashions of the elite, they do not possess the wealth to do so. Thus clothing functions to distinguish between these groups. For that reason, Veblen concluded that we could study the role of dress in social mimicry and competition and study variations of dress as markers of class categories.19 While dress theorists described above explain how dress functions to distinguish sub-groups within a community, two of our contributors demonstrate how dress mediates relations between individuals within a community. Rebecca Krawiec’s and Adam Serfass’ chapters in section two explicate how the gifting, revoking, donning, doffing, and manufacturing of particular items of clothing served to create, maintain, and sever relationships within a community. They reveal how clothing constitutes, facilitates, or disrupts relations between individuals in ways that affects the coherence and viability of the community at large.   Georg Simmel, “Fashion,” The International Quarterly 10 (1904): 130–55; John Carl Flügel, The Psychology of Clothes (London: Hogarth Press, 1930). 18   For work on how dress distinguishes different groups in society, see Anne Hollander, Sex and Suits (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1994). 19   Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study in the Evolution of Institutions (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1912), 167–87. See also Roach and Eicher, “Language of Personal Adornment,” 9–10, 12–15. 17

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In her contribution, Krawiec examines how different monastic writers trained monks to understand their garb. She demonstrates how the actions around clothes (for example, wearing, producing, exchanging) became habituated and embodied sites of social identity and memory. Throughout, she explains how monastic clothing was used to mediate relationships between individual monks, the demons they battled, their superiors, and their monastic community past and present. Likewise, Serfass explains why the conflict between Pope Gregory and John of Ravenna over John’s proper wearing of the pallium was so contentious. He examines the range of significations that Gregory and his predecessors assigned to the garment and the modes in which those significations were broadcast in letters and in a consecration ritual. Here we see how ecclesiastical authority and legitimacy was secured by the granting or exchange of the garment from the Pope to a metropolitan archbishop. Moreover, we understand the limitations imposed on bishops as they leveraged that authority by wearing the garment in particular ecclesial spaces and while performing particular ecclesial functions. In addition to signaling social identity and relations, dress can function to identify “types” of individuals within society such as, for example, the businessman, the waitress, the nun, the policeman.20 Certain types of dress can contain a semiotically rich set of meanings, combining notions of occupation, status, gender, and values.21 We make sense of the people we encounter with reference to these consistent and repetitive codes. Dress, in short, communicates by playing on expectations. Thus a modification to conventional dress codes can signal a slight or complete rejection of community values and identities

  For a recent and fascinating study of reactions to the “nun type” see Marta Trzebiatowska, “Habit Does Not a Nun Make? Religious Dress in the Everyday Lives of Polish Catholic Nuns,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 25 (2010): 51–65. On the gladiator type in antiquity, see Michael Carter, “(Un)dressed to Kill: Viewing the Retiarius,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, 113–35. On typical grave clothes in antiquity, see Alexis Q. Castor, “Grave Garb: Archaic and Classical Macedonian Funerary Costume,” in Reading a Dynamic Canvas: Adornment in the Ancient Mediterranean World, eds Cynthia S. Colburn and Maura K. Heyn (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2008), 115–45. On dress associated with brides, see Laetitia La Follette, “The Costume of the Roman Bride,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 54–64. Finally, on the look of the virgin in antiquity, see Kelly Olson, “The Appearance of the Young Roman Girl,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, 139–57. 21   These types of dress can also contain the tensions that arise when these notions are combined. 20

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and it regularly solicits comment from observers.22 Two chapters in this volume explore the use of character types—identifiable through their clothing—within ancient society. Callie Callon and Erin Vearncombe illustrate how aspects of appearance construct a stereotype, or social role within a narrative. For both Callon and Vearncombe this formulaic dress is key to understanding the characterization of protagonists and the movement and development of plot.23 Callon’s chapter concentrates upon the physical description of the Apostle Paul in the Acts of Paul and Thecla. She challenges previous scholarship that used physiognomy to conclude that Paul was being framed as a military officer or a Greek hero. Instead, she suggests that Paul’s facial features and baldness locate him within the philosopher typos. Callon concludes that this imagistic rendering of the philosopher Paul coheres with his characterization and role within the narrative and with literary and artistic representations of Paul more broadly and was likely an intentional move on the part of the author to impart greater legitimacy and authority to his teachings in the text. In her study of the book of Judith, Vearncombe concentrates on the character type of the adorned woman, often a locus of scorn and disparagement in antiquity for its hyper-feminized and hyper-sexualized connotations. Vearncombe shows how the character Judith manipulates the cultural ambiguity between an adorned woman and a prostitute to gain access to the antagonist, Holofernes, ultimately providing her the opportunity to kill him. Unlike contemporaneous evaluations of women’s adornment which link these items to treacherous seduction and deception, here we find the protagonist employing the seductive and deceptive art of adornment for the good of the community, and she is remembered positively for it. Finally, Vearncombe shows how Judith’s costume changes facilitate the plot points and movement of the plot.   On the dress of youth, punk, and reformist subcultures, see Joanne Entwistle, The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress, and Modern Social Theory (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000), 135–8, 163–6. On how transvestism breaks and resists the gendered codes of dressing, see Marjorie Garber, Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety (New York: Harper, 1993), 128–61. Grant McCracken has done experiments on how people react to certain kinds of dress and found that when an outfit does not conform to a given type or expectation, the observers either ignore the part that does not quite fit or seek to explain it away by inventing a story (Culture and Consumption. New Approaches to the Symbolic Character of Consumer Goods and Activities [Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1988]). 23   Mary Harlow follows a similar tack in her essay “Dress in the Historia Augusta: the role of dress in historical narrative,” in Clothed Body in the Ancient World, eds Liza Cleland, Mary Harlow and Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2005), 143–53. 22

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Just as dress could communicate individual identity and group affiliation, it could also signal shifts in status, identity, and affiliation. For instance, scholars have regularly remarked on the changes in appearance that regularly corresponds with rites of passage.24 The authors of section four, however, wish to point to other, less-studied moments in which dress, identity, and status are transformed. Meredith Warren and Kristi Upson-Saia explain how dress can function to communicate shifting religious identities and, specifically, an elevation of religious status. Like Vearncombe, Warren identifies how changes in clothing signal plot shifts in the story of Joseph and Aseneth. Yet, she wishes to emphasize the culmination of those shifts: namely, the moment in which the protagonist Aseneth’s transformation is marked by a bright, shining appearance. She unpacks the significance of this luminosity by culling a similar depiction of the protagonist in the Hellenistic novel, Chaereas and Callirhoe. In both, the radical new appearance of Aseneth and Callirhoe marks a clear status transformation to which each narrative builds. In her chapter, Upson-Saia surveys descriptions of excessively hairy monks who reside at the outskirts of the Egyptian desert. Referencing medical writings and contemporaneous debates about the resurrected body, she makes the case that the excessive hairiness of these hermits would have sparked associations with the dead, as well as with heavenly bodies. As such, she argues that depictions of the hermits’ hairiness suggested their liminality between the earthly and heavenly realms, in turn elevating their religious status. By now it is clear that one’s dress is a “jumbled code” that can relate different aspects of identity and group affiliation at once. That is, one’s physical appearance can convey all at once aspects of her nationality, wealth, status, virtue, and gender.25 Theorists have studied how we navigate these potential significations in order to mobilize some dress codes and signs over others. Further, some 24   The work on rites of passage by scholars such as Arnold van Gennep is now supplemented by scholars who study how changes of dress are implicated in rites of passage and changes in status. See, for example, Harrill, “Coming of Age,” 252–77; Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 21–4; Fanny Dolansky, “Togam virile sumere: Coming of Age in the Roman World,” Roman Dress and Fabrics of Culture, 47–70; and Matthews, “The Anthropology of Clothing,” 25–36. 25   “In the case of an individual whom we have not previously met, the clothes he is wearing tell us at once something of his sex, occupation, nationality, and social standing, and thus enable us to make a preliminary adjustment of our behaviour towards him, long before the more delicate analysis of feature and of speech can be attempted” (Flügel, Psychology of Clothes, 15).

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theorists are interested in how discourse—descriptions or interpretations of our own dress or the dress of another—focuses and limits the range of potential significations in dress performances that are replete with meanings. Specifically, as Roland Barthes argues, the translation of a dress performance into discourse—such as a narrative description or a caption attached to an image—restricts the range of potential meanings that can be perceived from dress alone.26 The chapters in section five attend to the interactions between discourse and visual representations. As Arthur Urbano and Joan Taylor note, items of clothing do not have inherent, universal meanings, but require discourse (namely, interpretations or explanations) to invest in them some meanings over against others. In his contribution, Urbano investigates late antique Christian representations of the customary garb of the philosopher: the tribōn. Urbano shows how some Christian authors and artists seized upon the association between the garment and Greek education (paideia) in order to present themselves as the legitimate participants in the cultural field of ancient philosophy. At the same time, others criticized fellow Christians who wore the tribōn because it too readily conflated Christianity with philosophy and with Hellenism. Yet in the fourth century, by which time there was more agreement that Christians ought to avoid wearing the garment, images of Christian figures wearing the tribōn were becoming ubiquitous in the iconography of Christian art. Ultimately, Urbano reveals how embodied, discursive, and imagistic uses of the tribōn followed distinct—though interconnected—trajectories. Similarly, Taylor toggles between biblical descriptions of priestly garb and illustrations of such garb in a ninth-century manuscript and in Judean coins. She demonstrates how the manuscript’s scribe imagined priestly dress, the product of an interesting series of translations of key passages in the Bible and Josephus’ Antiquities. Further, she describes how Romans imagined Judean priests in coinage during the Judean war, following a common trope for subjugated foreigners. In both instances the scribe and the coin producers leveraged the image of Judean priests to suit their own contexts rather than to depict   Barthes writes: “Language eliminates this freedom, but also this uncertainty; it conveys a choice and imposes it, it requires the perception of this dress to stop here (i.e., neither before nor beyond), it arrests the level of reading at its fabric, at its belt, at the accessory which adorns it. Thus, every written word has a function of authority insofar as it chooses—by proxy, so to speak—instead of the eye. The image freezes an endless number of possibilities; words determine a single certainty” (Roland Barthes, The Fashion System, trans. Matthew Ward and Richard Howard [New York: Hill and Wang, 1983], 13, emphasis added). 26

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historically authentic priestly garb. Here we see the interplay between text and image in interpretations of the Judean priesthood. In this terrain of contested significations, some interpretations of dress can be more compelling and intelligible because they are based on material realities: specifically objects, economies, exchanges, and rituals that are especially prized by the community. Here, sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of habitus—that is, the material practices and values of a given group acquired through everyday living—is useful in explicating how dress and the use of dress imagery can depend on the materiality of local practices.27 In section six, Carly DanielHughes and Alicia Batten analyze the significance of a specific dress object in relation to the way it was situated within local market economies or rituals. As such, both authors demonstrate why studies of historical dress require close contextualization. Daniel-Hughes argues that the Gospel of Philip employs clothing imagery not only to conceptualize Christian readers’ sacramental rituals, but also to shape their experience of their ritual practice. Moreover, the embodied ritual performance—the dressing and undressing of the ritual itself—also informs the reception of theological and liturgical uses of clothing symbolism within this gospel. In her analysis, then, Daniel-Hughes indicates how bodily practice and metaphor are mutually constructed and reinforcing. For her part, Batten studies how significations and evaluations of pearls are linked to pearl fishing, market, and trade. She establishes that where fisheries and/or trade were important to the livelihood of communities in the East, pearls were invested with positive symbolic meanings. Conversely, they appear very rarely in western Christian texts except as objects that are either approved by a limited class or regarded as gems to be avoided because of their association with luxury and foreignness. Here we discover how assessments of particular items of dress cannot be extricated from the sites in which they were harvested, valued and traded. Read together, the chapters in this volume demonstrate the vast historical and theoretical purchase of studying dress in the context of ancient religion, particularly second-Temple Judaism and Early Christianity. These historical studies enable us to better appreciate how dress is implicated in the ways ancient people understood and displayed their individual and group identity and status as well as shifts in that identity and status; how ancient people distinguished themselves from others or navigated relationships with others; how ancient 27   See Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990), 52–65.

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people used symbolism, tropes, and types to promote social and theological values; and how those values were rooted in material realities. Terminology,28 Limitations, and Caveats In this volume, we follow the terminological conventions of dress studies. We use “clothing” as a term that refers to items such as skins or woven garments, the main purpose of which is to cover the body. Such covering might be motivated by physical needs or environmental factors (for example, protection from the cold or heat) or from psychological drives (for example, from a sense of shame about one’s nakedness).29 While clothing is more specific and limited, the term “dress” refers to a wider range of items and functions. “Dress” can refer to an entire ensemble. It can refer to adornments that are worn (such as jewelry, cosmetics, or perfume) or adornments that are inscribed into the body (such as tattoos or scarification). It can refer to the arrangement or modification of body parts, such as hair, teeth, or even the muscular or skeletal system.30 Further, individuals “dress” themselves to do more than only cover their bodies: their dressing can also serve to communicate identity or display wealth or status.31 One could conceivably be unclothed yet still “dressed.” “Costume” and “fashion” are terms that, to early dress historians, have technical meanings but, over time, have come to be used more generally. For instance, museum curators seeking to identify, conserve, and classify a given

  For a good reference guide to terms for Greek and Roman dress, see Liza Cleland, Glenys Davies and Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, Greek and Roman Dress. From A to Z (London and New York: Routledge, 2007). 29   Ian Gilligan, “The Prehistoric Development of Clothing: Archaeological Implications of a Thermal Model,” Journal of Archaeological Method Theory 17 (2010): 27. Although no evidence for prehistoric clothing exists, Gilligan argues that climate shifts during the late Pleistocene era contributed to the development of more complex types of portable garments. Indeed, he thinks that advances in clothing and adornment may have furthered the evolution of more sophisticated toolmaking. 30   See Joanne B. Eicher, Sandra L. Evenson and Hazel A. Lutz, The Visible Self: Global Perspectives on Dress, Culture and Society (New York: Fairchild, 2000), 4–5. See also, Lois W. Banner, “Dress,” in Encyclopedia of Social History, ed. Peter N. Stearns. Garland Reference Library of Social Science, Vol. 780 (London and New York: Routledge, 1994), 210. 31   See Joanne Bubolz Eicher, “Clothing, Costume and Dress,” in The Berg Companion to Fashion, 151–2. 28

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collection of artifacts called their work “costume history.”32 In contemporary parlance, however, “costume” has come to connote a theatrical or, more generally, artificial style. The concept of “fashion” gained prominence during the industrial revolution when clothing began to be mass-produced and consumed. Technological advances meant new styles of clothing were manufactured more regularly, leading the elite to change their dress each season, discarding clothing that had not yet been worn out. Given that only the wealthy could afford this manner of dressing, the wealthy distinguished themselves by their ability to adopt new dress trends. Lower classes developed some strategies of conforming by imitating new style, but always with cheaper materials and less ornate adornments. “Fashion,” therefore, has been defined as the latest trends in dress, as well as the force that causes people to shift what they wear in imitation of the latest trends. “Fashion” is underwritten by a clothing market, as well as the social competition produced therefrom.33 Dress historians debate whether or not the terms “costume” and “fashion” can be appropriately used in reference to the ancient world. While we think that scholars of antiquity should use the terms with care, there is evidence that ancient people donned their garb self-consciously. Moreover, ancient people regularly put themselves on display in what were highly ocular cultures, where every item of dress, and every movement and word, was subjected to public scrutiny. With respect to “fashion,” there is also evidence of changing styles 32   For example, see Laver, Costume in Antiquity; Anne Hollander, Seeing Through Clothes (New York: Viking Press, 1878), 237–310. 33   In publicity for the journal, Fashion Theory, fashion is defined as “the cultural construction of the embodied identity.” Yet many would argue that such a definition must be elaborated to include reference to a system of production and consumption on a significant scale. Historians have proffered different dates for the origins of fashion. For example, French historian Paul Post argues for mid fourteenth-century Burgundy as a system of production and distribution had emerged such that many people could adopt new dress styles based upon what was desirable to wear and not simply their place or role in society (“La naissance du costume masculin moderne au XIVe siècle,” in Actes du Ier Congrès International d’histoire du costume, Venise, 31 août–7 septembre, 1952 [Venice, 1952], 28–41). We are not in a position to put forward a definitive date for the origins of fashion, but we do note that fashion shapes dress, in a sense, for it is the force that determines what forms of dress should be adopted. As such, a definition of fashion must also incorporate the notion of change or shifts in dress over time. As Sarah-Grace Heller has observed, when thinking about the origins of fashion, it is better “to ask when the cultural value placed on novelty becomes prominent, and when the desire for innovation and the capacity for the production of innovation reach a critical point of becoming a constant and organizing presence” (“The Birth of Fashion,” in The Fashion History Reader. Global Perspectives, eds Giorgio Riello and Peter McNeil [London and New York: Routledge, 2010], 25).

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among the elites (in terms of clothing, hairstyles, and jewels) and of imitation of those styles among the less affluent (who wore glass beads and cheaper fabrics as impersonations of gemstones and silks).34 Both phenomena, while not identical to the contemporary practice of theatrical dress or manufacturing context that gave rise to mass fashion trends, testify to similar uses of clothing across historical periods. The contributors of this volume, therefore, hold that the terms “costume” and “fashion” can continue to be usefully employed as long as they are carefully contextualized within the period in which dress is studied.35 “Adornment,” while not often used today, was employed regularly in antiquity. It referred to going beyond one’s mundane dressing (for example, cosmetics, jewelry, hairpieces). Further, it was considered temporary insofar as it only lasted for an event or occasion.36 We must be keenly aware that, in antiquity, the term was not merely descriptive, but had embedded within it moralizing significations and could be used positively or negatively to denote status or character.37 Adornment, in other words, was a contested term whose connotation could shift depending upon author and context. In addition to addressing terminology, we must also attend to the limitations of our sources. We are working with a range of material, artistic, and literary   While the “staple” garments such as the chiton, himation, and peplos did not change very dramatically, practices could shift at the level of hairstyles, jewelry, shoes, and other accessories. See Karen E. Stears, “Dress and Textiles,” in The Edinburgh Companion to Ancient Greece and Rome, eds Edward Bispham, Thomas Harrison, and Brian A. Sparkes (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), 229; Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 46–7. Such attempts at copying elite and urban practices occurred in the provinces of the Roman Empire, for example, just as they did in the city centers. Adopting certain kinds of accessories, for example, could assist people to “make a claim for a particular status which they do not actually hold” (Ellen Swift, “Dress Accessories, Culture and Identity in the Late Roman Period,” Antiquité Tardive 12 [2004]: 218). 35   On the use of “costume” and “fashion” for antiquity, see Mary Harlow, “Dress and Identity: An Introduction,” in Dress and Identity, ed. Mary Harlow (University of Birmingham IAA Interdisciplinary Series: Studies in Archaeology, History, Literature and Art 2; Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 2. 36   See Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 80–95; Michael Carter, “Fashion and Adornment,” in The Fashion History Reader. Global Perspectives, eds Giorgio Riello and Peter McNeil (London and New York: Routledge, 2010), 529; Ellen Swift, Roman Dress Accessories (Buckinghamshire: Shire Publications, 2003). 37   On this point, see Amy Richlin, “Making up a Woman: The Face of Roman Gender,” in Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture, eds Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 185–213; Shumka, “Designing Women,” 172–91; Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror,” 134–51. 34

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sources (for example, church decoration, advice on how to dress from letters or sermons, literary descriptions of characters’ appearance, and so on). Our sources have a range of different purposes: they can broadcast ideals and values of a community, inform one’s sense of self, secure one’s group affiliation, or negotiate internal tensions and debates. Our sources have varying relationships with the “real”: some representations are archaizing or idealized, some are imagined, some claim to describe real dress while others attempt to encourage real people to dress a certain way. Our sources exhibit shifting attitudes toward certain items of clothing or appearance in general as the community felt new social pressures, experienced new conditions, or encountered new debates resulting in unstable significations or connotations in our sources. Because our sources utilize dress rhetorically, we regularly find conflicting evidence—about dress practices or the meanings associated with them—often derived from differing perspectives within the community or derived from differing rhetorical aims. Finally, data on dress from the ancient world generally emerges from a very narrow sector of the population (i.e., male, elite) which is much more limited than if we were to examine contemporary or even medieval sources. For the above reasons, our interpretations must remain deeply contextualized in local, social logics and our conclusions must be measured. We have attempted to understand the values, priorities, interests, and circumstances that are driving the way ancient people dressed, are depicting dress, or are constraining dress practices. We have been attentive to the differences between real dress and interpretations or representations of dress. Finally, we have avoided generalized or universalized conclusions about items of clothing or about dress in any one community at any given time to the ancient Mediterranean more broadly.

Part 1 Dress and the Social Body

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Chapter 1

What to Wear: Women’s Adornment and Judean Identity in the Third Century Mishnah1 Naftali S. Cohn

Introduction For the early third-century rabbis who created the legal text known as the Mishnah, there was more than one way to understand the function and import of women’s adornment. Most often the mishnaic rabbis considered makeup, jewelry, and other adornments as simply a part of what a woman donned in her everyday life. At times, though, they saw adornment as having a certain power: it could be used by a woman to attract the sexual attention of a man, or, even outside of her sexuality, she could employ it to express and negotiate her place within the social world. Adornment, in the rabbinic view, had larger connotations as well. Wearing various types of ornaments was not only a practical way of acting and of interacting with others, but a means of expressing Judean identity.2 The   Earlier drafts of this piece were presented at the annual conferences of the Canadian Society for Biblical Studies and the Society for Biblical Literature, and I am grateful to those who asked questions and provided comments on the earlier presentations. I am also grateful to the readers and editors of the volume for their feedback and to Zehava Cohn for her always astute editorial advice. 2   There is a larger debate about the most appropriate term for “Jews” in antiquity. Using “Judeans” rather than “Jews” highlights the ethnic component of this designation that is rooted in the connection to the wider territory of Judea (and not the smaller region of Judea, which contrasts with the Galilee and other sub-regions). This term is mainly derived from its Greek usage, though appears with this meaning in Mishnah Ketubbot 7: 6. The Mishnah’s primary terminology is “Israelite,” a man or woman of the people of Israel. For a more detailed exposition of this methodological choice, with further references, see Naftali S. Cohn, The Memory of the Temple and the Making of the Rabbis (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 131–2 n.1. 1

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Mishnah’s laws and narratives make female adornment subject to a nuanced set of rules regarding how and when a woman may or may not adorn herself. This was a key part of the mishnaic project as a whole—to determine in minute detail how Judeans ought to act, under a wide variety of circumstances, in accordance with the traditional, biblically based way of life. Whatever the specific practical function ornamentation played in a woman’s life, her acts of self-adornment and her interactions influenced by her ornamentation were to be framed by the schema of traditional law that the rabbis developed in the Mishnah. Thus when a woman adorned or refrained from adorning herself in conformity with the Mishnah’s laws, she signaled her adherence to the traditional way of life and expressed that she was a Judean.3 This connection between the acts of the individual woman and her Judean culture and society is particularly strong because, as Mary Douglas showed nearly five decades ago, there is a cross-cultural phenomenon in which the individual body and its boundaries are associated on a metaphoric level with the body and boundaries of the social group. According to Douglas, it is necessary to “see in the body a symbol of society.”4 In the Mishnah, the regulated adornment and display of the female body was as much about the larger Judean social body as it was about individual Judean women. Adorning in a uniquely Judean way linked individual women to the larger group, to the people as a whole.5   This can be called “performing” Judeanness following the use of the verb typically traced to Judith Butler, in, for instance, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). 4   Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concept of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge, 2002; originally published 1966), 142, and also Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology (London: Routledge, 2003; originally published 1970), 78 and 772–91. See Catherine Bell’s helpful discussion of more recent theorists in Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 94–8. For an argument that the mishnaic rabbis took up this metaphor, see Cynthia M. Baker, Rebuilding the House of Israel: Architectures of Gender in Jewish Antiquity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 142–3 (read together with 60–64). For an important application of Douglas’s insight to the Mishnah, see also Mira Balberg, “Rabbinic Authority, Medical Rhetoric, and Body Hermeneutics in Mishnah Nega‘im,” AJS Review 35: 2 (2011): 323–46, esp. 342. 5   The rabbis of the Mishnah also spoke about men’s adornment and men’s bodies, creating a parallel with women’s adornment. I focus on the adornment of women’s bodies because the metaphoric connection seems most apparent in this case. On men’s adornment, see esp. Mishnah Shabbat 6: 2, 4, and 8–10, parallel to 6: 1, 3, 5–8, treated below, and Kelim 11: 8. Here, there is a special focus on a soldier’s garments and arms (called “adornment”). On these texts, see Dror Yinon and Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “Women’s Adornments and Men’s Adornments: A New Perspective on the Religious Status of 3

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Regulating the adornment of the female body, for the rabbis, also had a wider significance in that it hinted at their more encompassing goal of determining how the entire social body of Judeans (the whole people of Israel) should act in accordance with the biblically based Judean way of life. According to the Mishnah itself, rabbis were a relatively small group within the complex social landscape of Roman Palestine and the majority of Judeans did not follow rabbinic teachings. Other sub-groups, which likely intersected and overlapped in complicated ways, and which may have included the influential leaders of towns, followers of Jesus, Samaritans, Judeans who embraced Roman culture to a greater extent, and perhaps others, likely had their own unique visions of how to define Judeanness and how to practice the traditional Judean way of life. Even though the rabbis were not particularly powerful or influential, they still saw the relationship between themselves and the entire Judean people as one of instruction. They pictured themselves primarily as legal authorities to whom Judeans would turn for guidance on how to practice the traditional way of life.6 Thus when a woman followed the laws of adornment as the rabbis developed them, she displayed her Judean identity and also the centrality of the rabbinic vision in defining what made that identity unique.

Women in the Rabbinic Mishnah” [Hebrew], Reshit 2 (2010): 1–24. On male and female bodies, see esp. Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, “Regulating the Human Body: Rabbinic Legal Discourse and the Making of Jewish Gender,” in The Cambridge Companion to The Talmud and Rabbinic Literature, eds Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert and Martin S. Jaffee (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 270–94. On body discourse and rabbinic authority, see Balberg, “Rabbinic Authority.” 6   For greater detail on the nature of Judean society and the rabbis’ place therein, see Cohn, The Memory of The Temple, 17–37 (with further references). Here I espouse what is sometimes called the “revisionist” view of the rabbis (on which see Chapter 1 of The Memory of the Temple). On the relative powerlessness and the self-positioning of the rabbis, see also Naftali S. Cohn, “Rabbis as Jurists: On the Representation of Past and Present Legal Institutions in the Mishnah,” Journal of Jewish Studies 60: 2 (2009): 245–63. My position is based especially on the work of Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee, A.D. 132–212, 2nd ed. (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2000) and Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society: 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), as well as the work of Shaye J.D. Cohen, Moshe Simon-Shoshan, Catherine Hezser, and others. Note that this study is limited to the Mishnah, generally excluding the Tosefta and legal midrashim, which may be from the same time as the Mishnah (but many or most passages may be later). The focus is thus on what is most reliably the earliest stratum of rabbinic text. The present study also excludes the topic of women’s head/hair covering, which seems to be more a cultural practice of gender than an adornment, and which is treated excellently in Baker, Rebuilding the House of Israel, 113–44.

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Adornment and the Traditional Way of Life: Rabbinic Laws of Sabbath, Festivals, and Marriage The Mishnah’s laws frequently recognize that wearing various kinds of jewelry, accessories, and makeup was a normal part of a woman’s daily life.7 And as with many aspects of the everyday, the rabbinic authors of the Mishnah believed that women’s acts of ornamentation must be framed by traditional law. This can be seen in the Mishnah’s most extensive discussion of the topic, in the sixth chapter of tractate Shabbat, which deals with numerous types of adornments that a woman may have wished to wear when going out of her house on the Sabbath. The Sabbath is an important context for rules about wearing ornaments because one of the fundamental restrictions on the Sabbath is not to carry any kind of objects out of or into the home or within public space.8 Clothing was permitted to be worn, but adornments were ambiguous—were they clothing that could be worn or something extraneous that was being carried? Whether any particular adornment could be worn out of the home on the Sabbath, according to the Mishnah, depended on rabbinic law and legal opinion. In Mishnah Shabbat Chapter 6, the rabbis specify that various ornaments are either: (1) forbidden to be worn out on the Sabbath; (2) permitted to be worn outside; or (3) in a legal gray category, not strictly forbidden but not permitted either. These categories may be somewhat confusing in the abstract, but become clearer when considering the many cases in detail. Even before spelling out specific laws, the chapter begins with a rhetorical question that highlights the importance of the rules that will follow: “With what [i.e. wearing what] may a woman go out and with what may she not go out [on the Sabbath]?” The question implies that certain objects that are worn are allowed and others are not allowed. There are nuances to observing the Sabbath law and a woman must know these nuances in order to go out of her home on the Sabbath wearing jewelry. With this brief introduction, the Mishnah begins to set out the various cases that fall into the ambiguous category: A woman should not go out [of the home] with wool threads [or: bands], linen threads [or: bands], or with the strap/ribbon/band that is on her head [in her

7   For discussions of women’s dress or certain types of dressing and effeminacy, see also the essays by Maria Doerfler, Erin Vearncombe, and Alicia Batten in this volume. 8   The mishnaic rule can be found throughout tractates Shabbat and Eruvin; see their biblical precedents esp. in Exodus 16 and Numbers 15.

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hair].9 … And not with an ornament [totefet; perhaps worn on the forehead] nor with a headdress hanging to the cheeks [sanbutim]—when they are not sewn. And not with a hairnet [qabul] into the public domain. And not with a city of gold. And not with a necklace and rings [nose rings], and a ring that does not have a seal on it. And not with a needle that has no hole. But if she went out [of the home wearing these items], she is not obligated to bring a sin offering [for having transgressed Sabbath law]. (Mishnah Shabbat 6: 1)10

As noted, this category is betwixt and between the more obvious categories of forbidden and permitted. It classifies items that should not be worn, but do not merit the biblically mandated punishment if they are indeed worn.11 The list is not extensive, but the cases are quite specific: particular types of hair accessories and jewelry that ought not be worn out of the house, but do not incur a punishment if they are worn. The chapter continues and lays out the next category of things that must not be worn and do merit the biblical punishment (and thus should be treated much more seriously). Again these examples are very specific: A woman may not go out [of the home] with a needle with a hole in it, a ring which has a seal, a cochlear [spoon-shaped pin for removing snails from their shells; or, snail or spiral shaped ornament], or a bottle or bowl of foliatum [spikenard oil]. And if she went out [of the home wearing these items], she is obligated to bring a sin offering [this is a theoretical punishment, as the Temple had been long destroyed]. These are the words of Rabbi Meir. But the sages exempt her [from the sin offering] in the case of the bottle or bowl of foliatum [treating it like necklaces or rings]. (Mishnah Shabbat 6: 3)

9   The third item “strap/ribbon/band” is a different word than the previous two, yet it appears redundant. Thus the first two may be bands or string that are not in her hair, but somewhere else, and the third item may add the case in which a band or ribbon is specifically in her head (which would nevertheless be redundant). The Hebrew abounds in ambiguity. 10   Note that some of these terms are biblical terms and others Greek or Latin; some are simply ambiguous. Here and below I follow the Jastrow dictionary, acknowledging that it is somewhat dated. All translations of the Mishnah are my own, based on the texts of MS Kaufmann and MS Parma, but following the standard enumeration. 11   This is typically interpreted to mean that these are forbidden by the rabbis as a supplement to biblical law, under which carrying these items would be permitted. This also means that ideally one must not carry/wear them, but under certain circumstances, it may be permitted to carry/wear them.

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The Mishnah itself provides no rationale for why some items are simply not recommended (or, forbidden but not punishable) and others forbidden outright (and punishable). Whatever the reason, the particular types of adornments listed in this second paragraph are considered most problematic and forbidden. The third category, those types of adornment permitted outright, once again includes a number of very specific examples, many of which are minor variants on the cases in the first category: A woman may go out [of the home] with strings/bands made of [human] hair, whether her own or that of her friend, or from an animal. And with an ornament [on the forehead] and a headdress hanging to the cheeks, when they are sewn [as opposed to when they are not sewn, see 6: 1 above]. And with a hairnet and with a wig into the courtyard [as opposed to the public domain above]. And with a spongy substance for the ears, the sandals, or that she prepared for her menstruation. And with pepper and a piece of salt or anything she might place in her mouth, so long as she does not place it there intentionally on the Sabbath. And if it falls out, she should not put it back in. And in the case of an inserted human tooth or gold tooth—Rabbi [ Judah the nasi] permits. The sages forbid. […] Girls may go out [of the home] with threads [or: bands] and even small sticks in their ears. Arab women [namely, Judean women of Arabia] may go out veiled [in an Arabian fashion]. Median women may go out with their cloaks thrown over their shoulders. And these apply to all people, but the sages used actual examples. (Mishnah Shabbat 6: 5–6)

The similarity between several of the cases permitted outright and those at the beginning of the chapter forbidden but not punished begs the question never addressed in the Mishnah of what distinguishes the analogous cases. What, for instance, is the difference between wool or linen hair bands, forbidden in 6: 1, and human hair bands, permitted in 6: 5? What difference does sewing make for head ornaments (6: 1 vs. 6: 5)? Why are these ornaments and not necklaces or rings? Why is a young girl different than a grown woman? The absence of a rationale keeps the emphasis of the chapter on what is given: an array of three distinct categories and a larger picture of many specific types of ornaments classified within the three-part schema.12 Similarly, the lack of an 12   Passages in the Tosefta provide a slightly different perspective (and some different adornments) than these mishnaic passages. See Tosefta Shabbat 4: 6–7, 4: 11–13, 8: 33, and 9: 13. On types of women’s adornments, see also Mishnah Kelim 11: 8–9, where the issue is susceptibility to impurity.

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explanation as to why a woman is allowed to wear one type of adornment and not another highlights the fundamental obligation itself not to transport objects on the Sabbath. Fulfilling this obligation is what is crucial, and to do so one must have knowledge of the nuanced rules of whether a given ornament falls into one category or another. When a woman wears certain adornments and refrains from wearing others on the Sabbath, her bodily comportment demonstrates her adherence to the obligations of the traditional way of life and it advertises visibly her Judeanness. For the Mishnah, what is demanded is not merely a generic type of Judeanness that would have been shared by other Judeans more widely, but a rabbinic one. This is highlighted by the uniquely rabbinic nature of the schema developed in the Mishnah that frames a woman’s adornment on the Sabbath. Compared with available earlier Judean texts, including the sections of rules in Jubilees and the Damascus Document, as well as other texts that do not present systematic rules of Sabbath observance, such as the works of Philo, the works of Josephus, and the Gospels, only the Mishnah goes into such detail and classifies specific examples to such an extent.13 Further, there are no other texts but rabbinic ones that even mention the ambiguous category central to the chapter, forbidden but not punished if violated. What the Mishnah sets out is very much the rabbinic version of the traditional way of life, highlighted yet further by the legal opinions attributed to named rabbis sprinkled throughout the chapter. To properly fulfill the obligations associated with the traditional way of life and exhibit one’s Judeanness, in the rabbinic view, one had to follow the rabbinic understanding of what defined that traditional way of life and that Judeanness.14 This, they believed, was what God demanded. A very similar paradigm of the rabbinic legal framework informing a woman’s everyday practice of adornment can be seen in the Mishnah’s prescriptions for the use of makeup on the Sabbath and festivals. Unlike its treatment of jewelry, hair ribbons, and other worn ornaments, the Mishnah is rather strict concerning makeup on the Sabbath. According to two different rulings, using various cosmetic products—painting the eyes with kohl (kohal; stibium) and painting the face white with a lime-based substance (sid) or red with rouge (phukos)—is   See, for instance, Chapter 50 of Jubilees (esp. 50: 8–13); The Damascus Document CD-A 10: 14–11: 21 (found in 4Q270 and 4Q271), and Qumran scroll fragment 4Q265 frag. 7; Philo, The Life of Moses 2: 22, 2: 211–12, 2: 219, and Special Laws 2: 65; Josephus, Judean War 2.147; Matthew 12: 1–14 and Luke 6: 1–10 and 13: 10–16 (and parallels), Luke 4: 16–21 (and verse 31; and parallels). See also description of not fighting on the Sabbath in 1 Maccabees 2: 32–41, 9: 43–4, and 2 Maccabees 8: 25–8. 14   This is true of all practices regulated in the Mishnah, not just adornment. 13

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forbidden (Mishnah Shabbat 8: 3–4 and 10: 6). On the festival, however, there is a different rule.15 Mishnah Mo’ed Qatan 1: 7 establishes that “a woman may apply her adornment [takhshitehah] on the festival.”16 Rabbi Judah disagrees with this first anonymous opinion, adding that “she should not apply limebased makeup,17 since it is a disgrace to her [nivul, the same word as the physical disgrace given the accused adulteress in Mishnah Sotah].” Rabbi Judah appears to be arguing for an exception to the general rule stated at the outset, implying that this general rule (“a woman may apply her adornment on the festival”) is specifically about face makeup.18 Between the two views, then, most types of makeup are permitted on the festival. While makeup is thus allowed in general on festivals (with Rabbi Judah’s single exclusion), there is a nevertheless a restriction on Passover, according to the view of Rabbi Eliezer in Mishnah Pesahim 3: 1. Rabbi Eliezer holds that any “women’s adornments [takhshitei nashim]” containing grain derivatives must not be worn on Passover—though a woman does not incur the biblical punishment of excision (karet) if she does wear them.19 In all likelihood this “adornment” is makeup composed in part by a grain ingredient that is considered able to become leavened and thus forbidden (to be eaten) on Passover. As in the case of jewelry and accessories on the Sabbath, there are occasions on which makeup   Eye makeup and white makeup in Mishnah Shabbat 8: 3–4, and eye makeup and rouge in Shabbat 10: 6. 10: 6 also discusses hairdressing and grooming of nails. Cf. Gail Labovitz’s interpretation of 8: 4 in “The Omitted Adornment: Women and Men Mourning the Destruction,” in Introduction to Seder Qodashim: A Feminist Commentary on the Babylonian Talmud, eds Tal Ilan, Monika Brockhaus, and Tanja Hidde (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 138–9. Note that the move to limit the application of face makeup on the Sabbath may stem from its similarity to writing or dyeing, among the 39 “categories of work forbidden on the Sabbath” (Mishnah Shabbat 7: 2). 16   “Festival” is understood here as the intermediate days of the pilgrimage festivals, not the first and last festival days on which work is prohibited as on the Sabbath. 17   This could, alternatively, mean lime-based depilatory. 18   The Talmud interprets Rabbi Judah as referring to a lime-based depilatory rather than face makeup, which may cause pain, and is thus forbidden. This interpretation leaves the two views as rather disconnected. An alternative explanation of Rabbi Judah’s view is that he feels that lime-based makeup is inappropriate for the festival because it smells bad. Another possibility is that he may partially buy into the Roman anti-cosmetic tradition (see Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Presentation and Society [New York: Routledge, 2008]), though it is unclear why he would only criticize lime-based makeup. 19   Both the Jerusalem Talmud and the Babylonian Talmud attest to this reading of the Mishnah, though the Babylonian Talmud emends it to “women’s paste,” which is interpreted to refer to a depilatory. The Jerusalem Talmud offers this as an alternate reading of the Mishnah’s text. 15

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is permitted on the festivals and occasions on which it is forbidden, depending on the festival, the type of makeup, and the particular rabbinic opinion. The passages about makeup scattered throughout the Mishnah thus create a similar legal regime under which the application and wearing of makeup or the refraining from its use on the Sabbath and festivals indicates one’s compliance with the traditional rules, as elaborated by the rabbis.20 Women’s Adornment and Sexuality If the Mishnah most frequently treats adornment as simply a part of a woman’s daily routine, as everyday acts framed by Judean/rabbinic law, at times these practices are also understood to have their own power. In these instances as well, the rabbis see women’s adornment as marking ethnic specificity and bolstering their own authority. One type of potency inherent in adornment was its capacity to help a woman attract the sexual attention of men. The rabbis seem to have shared the assumption widespread among Roman authors of roughly the same time that female ornamentation was tied to female sexuality.21 The most striking example of this way of thinking in the Mishnah occurs in tractate Sotah 1: 1–3: 4, a narrative description of how the biblical sotah ordeal (Numbers 5: 11–31), the drinking of bitter waters given to a woman accused of infidelity by her husband, was performed when the Temple still existed in Jerusalem. In their rewriting of the biblical ritual, the Mishnah’s rabbinic authors explicitly tied a

  In this case the rabbinic nature of the rules is highlighted not only by attributing a potential ruling to rabbis but also, in the case of the Sabbath, by the rabbinic innovation of minimum amounts necessary to transgress and incur the biblical punishment—one eye in the case of kohl and the full face of a very small girl in the case of white face makeup (Mishnah Shabbat 8: 3–4). Outside of the realm of the Sabbath and festivals, women’s adornments are made subject to the laws of purity in a similar but far less detailed way in Mishnah Kelim 11: 8–9. 21   This can be seen, for instance in book 3 of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria. Many more references can be found in Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman. See also Amy Richlin, “Making Up a Woman: The Face of Roman Gender,” in Off With Her Head: The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture, eds Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 185–213; Maria Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror: The Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World,” in Women in Ancient Societies: An Illusion of the Night, eds Léonie J. Archer, Susan Fischler, and Maria Wyke (New York: Routledge, 1994), 134–51; and Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 15–32. 20

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woman’s adornment to improper sexuality.22 Further, they made the removal of adornment, the reversal of what she had (purportedly) done, a key part of the ritual procedure. According to the Bible, before the woman is forced to drink the bitter waters that will determine her guilt or innocence, the priest “stands her up before God” and “unbinds her hair [or: uncovers her head]” (5: 18). In the mishnaic account, this act of public humiliation upon her body is expanded significantly and explained: A person is measured by others according to the measure with which the person measures [namely, a person’s punishment matches the crime]. She [the sotah, the accused adulteress] adorned [qishtah] herself for sin and God physically disgraced her. (Mishnah Sotah 1: 7)

Earlier in the mishnaic narrative, the physical disgrace is described as both stripping her partially naked so that her breasts are bared (1: 5) and removing her nice clothing and jewelry: If she was covered with white garments, they cover her with black. If there were gold items, necklaces [qatela’ot], rings [nose rings], and rings [or ringed garment fasteners], they remove them from her in order to physically disgrace her [lenavlah]. (1: 6)

In these passages, a woman who had supposedly used her adornments in order to commit sexual sin was stripped of these accoutrements to sin as punishment, in a manner that fit the crime.23 A related passage in the Tosefta develops in great and lurid detail the parallel narratives of a woman adorning herself to seduce her lover and the resulting “physical disgrace” of her punishment: She stood before [her lover] to appear beautiful before him; therefore the priest stands her before everyone, to show her disgrace … She spread out a sheet for [her lover]; therefore the priest removes the head-covering from her head and places it   For two different readings of the nature of the ordeal, see Judith Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis: A Woman’s Voice (Boulder: Westview Press, 1998), 15–18, and Ishay Rosen-Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual: Temple, Gender, and Midrash, trans. Orr Scharf (Leiden: Brill, 2012; originally published in Hebrew as The Rite that Was Not, 2008). 23   Unlike in the Mishnah, in the Bible the ritual is not necessarily done in public. For a detailed analysis of why the rabbis expand this public humiliation, particularly in light of rabbinic conceptions of female modesty, see Rosen-Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual. 22

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beneath her feet. She braided her hair [for her lover]; therefore the priest undoes [her hair]. She adorned her face for [her lover]; therefore her face turns green [when the grotesque punishment begins to take effect]. She painted her eyes with kohl for [her lover]; therefore her eyes bulge out [as part of the punishment]. She showed him her finger [perhaps some sort of sexual gesture]; therefore, her fingernails fall out. She revealed her flesh to [her lover]; therefore the priest rips her garment and reveals her shame to the crowd. She wore a belt [or: girded herself with strings or fringes]; therefore the priest brings an Egyptian rope and ties it above her breasts and anyone who wishes may gaze. She spread out her thighs, therefore her thigh decays [after Numbers 5: 21, 27]. She received him on her belly; therefore her belly distends [after Numbers 5: 21, 27]. (Tosefta Sotah 3: 2–5, MS Vienna)24

This version of the same explanation found in the Mishnah—that the punishment fits the crime—imagines an extended seduction scene in which a woman adorns herself in various ways as a precursor to intimacy with her lover.25 What the Mishnah calls generally “adorning” herself and the Tosefta specifies as wearing nice clothing, fashioning the hair, and painting the face and eyes are associated with a woman actively attracting a man in order to engage in sexual activity, in illicit sex with a man other than her husband. The mishnaic narrative renders the woman’s acts of ornamentation ethnically specific in two ways in this example. First, it puts traditional Judean male authorities in a position of punishing and taming the problematic female adornment and sexuality.26 Second, it locates the ritual de-adornment and   The text differs slightly in MS Erfurt. Note that the list continues with her serving a meal and wine to her lover. As Rosen-Zvi points out in The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual, 136, the stages of the seduction can be organized as follows: preparations, adornment, intercourse, and the meal. On the relationship in general between the Mishnah and Tosefta, see note 4 above. 25   On the disturbing nature of the punishment part of the narrative, see esp. Bonna Devora Haberman, “The Suspected Adulteress: A Study of Textual Embodiment,” Prooftexts 20 (2000): 24. 26   I draw this interpretation from Daniel Boyarin, “Women’s Bodies and the Rise of the Rabbis: The Case of Sotah,” in Jews and Gender: The Challenge to Hierarchy, ed. Jonathan Frankel (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 88–100; and Rosen-Zvi, The Mishnaic Sotah Ritual. My reading in this section is heavily dependent on that of Rosen-Zvi, and detailed analysis of these passages can be found there. My understanding of law in relation to women’s sexuality has also been shaped by Catherine A. MacKinnon, Feminism Unmodified: Discourses on Life and Law (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), and Catherine A. MacKinnon, Women’s Lives, Men’ Laws (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2005). Further, the approach taken here is also dependent on Charlotte E. Fonrobert, Menstrual 24

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disgrace of the accused specifically at the Temple (Sotah 1: 5), a place universally tied to Judean identity, and among the Judean people who witness the spectacle of her punishment.27 The sotah example considers adornment for sexual attraction in a negative light, but elsewhere in the Mishnah self-beautification is treated more positively, as creating appropriate attraction within marriage. In these instances, female adornment and sexuality are once again brought under male control, but not because they are sinful or wrong. As with ornamentation on the Sabbath and festivals, adornment leading to appropriate sexual attraction is made subject to the dictates of traditional law as developed by the rabbis. This can be seen in Mishnah Ketubbot 7: 3, which rules that “a man who takes a vow that his wife may not adorn herself [shelo titqashet] with any of the types [of adornment] must divorce her and pay her marriage settlement.” If a husband’s vow prevents a wife from making herself beautiful, the husband will not be attracted to the wife and the marriage will be undermined. Consequently, mishnaic law mandates a dissolution of the marriage by divorce. There is a similar concern in Mishnah Nazir 4: 4–5, in the case of a woman who takes a nazirite vow. If the portion of the ritual in which she shaves her head will make her unattractive (menuvelet) to her husband, the husband is allowed to nullify the vow so that she remains attractive to him. Here, too, attraction is crucial to marriage and mishnaic law intervenes to ensure that this attraction continues.28 The rulings in both of these marriage examples create an inversion of the case of the sotah (the accused adulteress). The accused adulteress adorned (mitkashetet) herself for inappropriate sexual attraction and so to punish her and discourage such behaviour her adornments are removed and she is made unattractive (menuvelet). Within the bounds of marriage, in contrast, the rabbinic legal system prevents de-adornment and lack of attractiveness and ensures that a woman is able to adorn herself within an appropriate context. Purity: Rabbinic and Christian Reconstructions of Biblical Gender (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). 27   There is extensive literature summarizing the importance of the Temple. Some key primary and secondary references can be found in Cohn, The Memory of the Temple, Chapter 5. 28   On the importance of an attractive appearance within marriage, see also Sifra to Lev 15: 33 (Zavim 9: 12). Note that the Mishnah also deals with a woman being attractive to a potential spouse. See Nedarim 9: 10 and see Ta’anit 4: 8, discussed below. A husband’s obligation to clothe his wife, elaborated in Ketubbot 5: 8, considers clothing as a basic need rather than adornment. Sexuality itself is unproblematic in the Mishnah, regulated in a manner similar to what is discussed here in passages such as Mishnah Eduyyot 1: 1 and Niddah 1: 1, 1: 7, 2: 1, and 10: 8.

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Adornment and the Negotiation of Social Relationships A second type of power inherent in women’s adornment lies beyond the limited and limiting bounds of sexuality. Women, according to two different mishnaic examples, may have adorned themselves not to attract the sexual attention of men, but in order to play an active role in and to negotiate social interactions. The rabbinic authors construe women as having a relatively high degree of agency, although this agency is ultimately circumscribed by Judean tradition and by male rabbinic authority. Thinking of women’s interactions in these ways, the rabbis further insinuated the importance of their understanding of the traditional way of life and the power of adornment to express this particular vision.29 This way of treating women’s adornment, as a means of social negotiation, is most explicit in a passage in Mishnah Ta’anit 4: 8 that describes a ritual purportedly performed in Temple times. The ceremony involved young women dancing together before a group of young men and wearing attractive clothing: Rabban Shimon son of Gamliel said: There were no greater festival days for Israel than the fifteenth of [the month of ] Av and the Day of Atonement, for on these [days] the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in borrowed white clothing—[borrowed] so as not to embarrass those who did not have. … And the daughters of Jerusalem would go out and dance in the vineyards. And what would they say? ‘Young man, lift up your eyes and see what you choose for yourself. Do not look at beauty but at family.’

The rabbinic narrator in this passage asserts that twice a year young women (“daughters”) would participate in a ritual dance in vineyards outside of Jerusalem. They would adorn themselves in white—the same white clothing of which the accused adulteress was stripped—presumably to attract the gaze of the eligible young men indicated as the audience to the dance. The young women in this passage downplay beauty as the key to choosing a mate, yet the adornment itself seems to be a key part of the attraction here. The young women, after all, instruct the young men to “lift their eyes and see.” Further, in a parallel

  For a more detailed analysis of the interrelationship between the Mishnah depicting women’s agency and this agency being circumscribed by rabbinic authority see Naftali S. Cohn, “When Women Confer with Rabbis: On Male Authority and Female Agency in the Mishnah,” Journal of Textual Reasoning 6: 2 (2011): online. http://jtr.lib.virginia.edu/ volume6/number2/TR06_02_Cohn.html. 29

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version of this narrative in the Babylonian Talmud, those young women who were pretty would tell the young men to choose based on beauty!30 The young women in this passage are treated, not surprisingly, as objects for the male gaze, and adornment serves to attract that very gaze. Yet these women are hardly passive objects. They are imagined taking an active role in attracting the young men of their choice, calling out to them and encouraging the young man they address to choose them. Further, the passage also seems interested in the women’s world, in the relationships among those who do and do not have white clothing for the ritual, and the active role some women play in taking care of others in this social group. As in the case of Roman women described by scholars of Roman culture, these young Judean women seem to engage in adornment—and in ritual—as active agents who can, to a degree, manipulate the cultural practice to their own advantage.31 The narrative of the accused adulteress in tractate Sotah, discussed earlier, provides intimations of a similar social function played by jewelry and adornment. On the day the accused woman is dragged from the local court to the Great Court in Jerusalem and finally to the Temple for the ordeal, the passage says that “if ” she was wearing white garments, gold necklaces, gold nose rings, and gold rings, then they were removed. She may or may not have been wearing such items; they were not a necessary part of the ritual. On her way to the Temple, this was merely what she may have been wearing. Within the ritual procedure that follows, the adornments become tied to her sexuality and her purported act of seduction, but up to that point they are, as in the rest of the Mishnah, part of her everyday routine. The mishnaic account hints further that these ornaments may have had a social function as well. It can be no coincidence that the narrator who imagines this woman bedecked in fine gold jewelry also imagines her owning male and female slaves (who are not allowed to gaze upon her; Sotah 1: 6). She is a woman of status, and by wearing fine jewelry and clothing, she was displaying her status and asserting her social authority and power, much as any wealthy Roman woman would.32 These two examples show that in the rabbinic understanding different kinds of women—women of high social standing making an appearance at the Temple and eligible young women attempting to woo potential husbands—could   Babylonian Talmud, Ta’anit 31a.   On adornment and Roman women’s agency, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman, 96–112. 32   Regarding this function among Roman women, see Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman. One might speculate that wearing jewelry and finery could even have served as a form of resistance against the ritual that worked to humiliate her. 30 31

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manage their own appearance and make use of adornment in order to assert themselves within particular social situations.33 Here, too, this pragmatic function of female adornment is placed squarely within the framework of Judean tradition and culture. The accused adulteress who is wealthy, as noted, wears her jewelry specifically to the Temple and her acts of adornment are subjected to male Judean authority and to the biblical ritual as interpreted by the rabbis. Similarly the dancing daughters make themselves attractive with white clothing in order to celebrate traditional sacred days, guided by the traditional rules laid out in the Mishnah. As in all the mishnaic examples of women’s adornment, the rabbis considered wearing jewelry and finery for the purpose of negotiating social interactions to be potentially infused with a sense of Judeanness.34 Adornment and the Body of Israel There is one additional way in which the narrative of the dancing daughters of Jerusalem makes the young women’s adornment into an ethnically specific act, and this manner of linking female dress to Judean identity points to the deeper meaning of regulating these practices for the rabbis. At the start of the account, Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel makes an observation about this ritual that connects the daughters’ ornamentation to the people as a whole: “Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said: there were no greater festival days for Israel than the fifteenth of Av and the Day of Atonement, for on these [days] the daughters of Jerusalem would go out in borrowed white clothing” (Ta’anit 4: 8, emphasis added). These two festival days, and the ceremonial adornment of women associated with them, were, in hyperbolic terms, the greatest for the whole people of Israel. What makes the days great for the entire people is, according to Shimon ben Gamliel, the ritual adornment and display of female bodies described. This 33   Note the jewelry and “objects of a cosmetic nature” found in the “Cave of the Letters,” the same cave in the Judean desert in which Babatha’s archive was found (Yigael Yadin, Bar-Kokhba: The Rediscovery of the Legendary Hero of the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome [New York: Random House, 1971], 115). Perhaps such ornamentation served as a mark of status for Babatha or other women hiding in the cave. On the potential relationship between the rabbinic construal of women’s everyday actions and social reality, see Cohn, “When Women Confer with Rabbis.” 34   Additional texts not discussed here make a similar connection: Tosefta Sotah 15: 14 and Bava Batra 2: 17, both tied to remembrance of “Jerusalem,” namely, the destroyed Temple. See also Mishnah Avodah Zarah 1: 8, where it is forbidden to make adornments for idolatry. This example also links adornment to ethnic identity because idolatry marks the antithesis of Judeanness.

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is the nearest the Mishnah comes to explicitly making the metaphoric link between the individual body and the social body that Mary Douglas points out.35 Shimon ben Gamliel’s statement suggests that more than simply imbuing acts of adornment with Judean significance and meaning for particular women, the rules and regulations deriving from the Bible and elaborated by the rabbis lend meaning and significance to the acts of the larger social body, to those of the people of Israel. When the dancing women all wore the same type of clothing, they formed a cohesive group, and this was part of what made the event so important for all of Israel. On the larger scale of the whole people, the same process of becoming united appears to be a key component of the larger rabbinic vision expressed in the detailed laws they legislate that are to inform Judeans’ everyday lives. By adorning herself in accordance with the traditional rules developed in the Mishnah, each Judean woman becomes unified with other women following the same regulations. Her everyday ornamentation and its various social functions take on larger significance as they help her express allegiance to her people and her God and to the rabbinic vision of what it is that God has instructed and that makes Judeans distinct. So, too, every Judean who followed the nuances of rabbinic law in the practice of everyday life took her or his place among the people through devotion to the traditional way of life, and thus assured a wider unity for all of Israel. Judean society at the time of the Mishnah was complex and variegated. There were different sub-groups of Judeans with a multiplicity of interpretations of the most appropriate way to lead the traditional way of life. The rabbinic vision, expressed on a small scale in what the rabbis say about women’s adornment, would bring together these disparate groups to form a single people of Israel.36 The potential the rabbis saw in their system for the strengthening of the people in their devotion and in their social cohesiveness thus resided in an act even as small as a woman choosing to wear or not to wear a particular ornament. 35   The repeated connection between the regulated display of women’s bodies and the observances and institutions central to and defining of the body politic of Israel—Temple rituals and Shabbat and festival ritual—may further hint at an awareness of this metaphoric association. 36   See Cohn, The Memory of the Temple. Outside the realm of adornment, the Mishnah also links the centrality of Temple and festival with the importance of the rabbinic views on the traditional way of life in the foundational myths associated with Rabban Yohanan in Mishnah Rosh HaShanah 4: 1–4, Sukkah 3: 12, and perhaps Menahot 10: 5. After the Temple’s destruction, this original rabbi is said to have changed, in general, for all of Israel, festival ritual practices associated with the Temple.

Chapter 2

Coming Apart at the Seams: Cross-dressing, Masculinity, and the Social Body in Late Antiquity Maria E. Doerfler

Late ancient Christian writings know of a number of famous cross-dressers. They range from the virgin Thecla, who dressed herself in a man’s habit in her pursuit of the apostle Paul,1 to Pelagia, the so-called “harlot,” who borrowed a bishop’s breeches to escape from a life of sin and temptation,2 and, not least of all, to the consecrated virgins declared anathema by the fourth-century Council of Gangra because they “due to presumed asceticism … change [their] clothing, and in place of the clothing customary for women adopt that of men.”3 Such   The narrator describes Thecla as “putting on a girdle, and dressing herself in the habit of a man” in her pursuit of the apostle Paul (Acts of Paul and Thecla 9.25). Scholarship on the crossdressing female saint in late antiquity has proliferated considerably in recent years. The latter has derived inspiration from scholarship on the woman martyr who in the process of her profession and death masculinizes herself, including, for example, L. Stephanie Cobb, Dying to Be Men: Gender and Language in Early Christian Martyr Texts (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), and Elizabeth A. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004). Particularly notable contributions discussing the phenomenon of women appropriating male attire in the course of their monastic discipline include, for example, Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011); David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Early Christianity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006); Stephen J. Davis, “Crossed Texts, Crossed Sex: Intertextuality and Gender in Early Christian Legends of Holy Women Disguised as Men,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 10.1 (Spring 2002): 1–36; John Anson, “The Female Transvestite in Early Monasticism: The Origin and Development of a Motif,” Viator 5 (1974): 1–32. 2   “Life of Saint Pelagia,” in Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, eds Sebastian P. Brock and Susan Ashbrook Harvey (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 41–62. 3   Canon 13. Similarly, Jerome both knows and disapproves of women who “change their garb and assume the mien of men, being ashamed of being what they were born to be—women” (Ep. 22.27). 1

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texts thrived at the intersection of two competing narratives: that of being true to one’s nature and place in the divine order; and that of Christianity’s transforming power moving all of humanity towards an inherently masculine or indeed angelic ideal of virtue. Whether idolized or anathematized, however, Early Christianity’s notorious transvestites shared one thing in common: all of them were women. By contrast, male transvestites are almost entirely absent from the writings of the first few Christian centuries. While women adopted male attire for spiritual growth and practical convenience, men, the silence seems to suggest, had nothing to gain by putting on female dress – and accordingly did not stray into transvestite practice.4 It is all the more surprising that in late ancient literature we get frequent glimpses at the anxiety the prospect of a man appropriating aspects of female attire or grooming generated among writers of both Christian and nonChristian stripe. This chapter will examine what is perhaps the most extensive

  As, for example, Valerie R. Hotchkiss notes in her monograph on medieval women transvestite saints, “[d]espite generally positive assessments of women in male dress, some form of male domination—cultural, ideological, or linguistic—lies at the root of most stories of gender inversion” (Clothes Make the Man: Female Cross Dressing in Medieval. Europe [New York: Garland Publishing, 1996], 125). Similar dynamics are evidently in play in the late ancient predecessors of these stories as well; women saints who are commemorated as cross-dressers thus by their attire signal their inner superiority to ordinary women, the male dress corresponding to their masculine virtue. Late ancient writers frequently criticized women ascetics for arrogating to themselves male privilege along with masculine attire. Yet as long as the female cross-dresser by her actions acknowledged and assented to her gender’s relative inferiority, her queer dress could nevertheless serve a godly cause. 4   Caroline Walker Bynum has suggested that female cross-dressing in medieval narratives was a means to an end—of safety, survival, or the removal of self from the sphere of sin and temptation—rather than an ontological re-orientation. By contrast, “[f ]or men … who did not cross-dress as a practical step and could have gained nothing socially by it except opprobrium, gender reversal was a highly charged, even frightening symbol” (Holy Feast, Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987], 189). Bynum’s argument, if correct, has important implications for the ways in which the lives of women cross-dressers are recollected or rhetorically crafted, inasmuch as such recollecting and crafting was virtually always the work of male authors. Yet it also elucidates the anxiety surrounding male cross-dressing, whether it occurred in the guise of wandering monks growing their hair to unseemly lengths or the excessive grooming and colorful clothes of wealthy youngsters across the Empire. A male transvestite was not, in short, merely an instance of a man’s body in woman’s attire. Rather, to appropriate “effeminate” dress signaled a rebellion against society as well as a violation of the natural order upon which said society was founded.

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disquisitions on this subject, namely a letter by Ambrose of Milan, Ep. 15 (69).5 Therein, Ambrose adopts and adapts the tropes central to late ancient discourses to address “why the [Deuteronomic] Law was so severe in pronouncing unclean those persons who wear garments of the other sex, whether men or women.” In the process, Ambrose re-scripts Roman manliness so as to place Christianity squarely at the center of both individual practice and imperial order. Ep. 15 (69) thus throws into sharp relief the discourses surrounding dress, Empire, and masculinity in the precarious decades preceding the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Un-Manly Men in Ambrose’s Milan Ep. 15 (69), ostensibly directed to a so-called Irenaeus, shows Ambrose in the process of elucidating for his audience Deuteronomy 22: 5, a verse that holds, in his own translation: “Let not men’s apparel cover a woman, neither shall a man be clothed with a woman’s garment, for he that does these things is abominable before God.”6 Ambrose’s decision to dedicate a letter to this verse is unusual in its own right: Prior to the sixth century, few Christian writers even mention the text. The literary corpora of Origen, Augustine, and the Cappadocians, for example, take no notice of it, and on those scant occasions where the verse does make an appearance, it stands at the very periphery of an author’s argument.7 5   I have followed Michaela Zelzer’s ordering of Ambrose’s epistles, as set forth in CSEL 82.1–4. In deference to the still considerable use enjoyed by the Benedictine edition of the letters followed by, inter alia, Migne and Mary Melchior Beyenka’s English translation in the Fathers of the Church 26, I have included the Benedictine numbering in parentheses. English translations of the Latin are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 6   For a discussion of the passage, including the relatively singular status of a prohibition against cross-dressing in Ancient Near Eastern sources and a survey of recent secondary literature on the subject, see Nili Sacher Fox, “Gender Transformation and Transgression: Contextualizing the Prohibition of Cross-Dressing in Deuteronomy 22: 5,” in Mishneh Todah: Studies in Deuteronomy and Its Cultural Environment in Honor of Jeffrey H. Tigay, eds Nili Sacher Fox, David A. Glatt-Gilad, Jeffrey H. Tigay, and Michael J. Williams (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 49–71. Interestingly Fox arrives at a conclusion not dissimilar from Ambrose’s own when she interprets the prohibition’s underlying motivation to consist in the fact that “in the patriarchal Israelite system, any transference of male gender roles to females could not be tolerated. Because cross-dressing … mocks gender distinctiveness as illusionary, it needed to be banned” (“Prohibition of Cross-Dressing,” 71). 7   Prior to the sixth century, Deuteronomy 22: 5 thus appears in the following texts: Tertullian, De Spectaculis 23.6 (to emphasize that God hates all hypocrisy) and De Idolatria 16 (to assure readers that to attend private festivals need not compromise their faith); Clement,

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Equally interesting is Ambrose’s exegetical focus: while Deuteronomy lays greater stress on preventing women from appropriating men’s attire,8 Ambrose’s concern rests primarily with male attempts at cross-dressing. Women donning male dress, while troubling as a rejection of the natural order, could nevertheless constitute an understandable and perhaps even commendable act. Ambrose acknowledges the existence of “[a] Greek custom [that] has indeed prevailed for women to wear men’s tunics as being shorter.”9 In these cases, Ambrose is willing to allow “that these women might imitate the nature of the worthier sex.”10 By contrast, men who adopted female attire and grooming habits are, however, altogether contemptible. “Why should men choose to assume the appearance of the inferior?” Ambrose asks. To do so was not only the worst form of deceit – “turpe in verbo, nedum in habito!” – it was shameful and shocking in its incomprehensibility, Ambrose suggests. This judgment notwithstanding, Ambrose goes on to identify three categories of men who appropriate female dress: those in the grip of luxuria; those who had succumbed to foreign peoples’ habits; and those who adhered to “paganism”.11 Stromateis 2.18 (to exhort Christians to the manly virtues of patience and endurance); and Chrysostom, Hom, 23 on 1 Corinthians (to emphasize the importance of women veiling their heads). 8   Cf. the discussion thereof in Fox, “Prohibition of Cross-Dressing,” passim. 9   All passages quoted in this paragraph are taken from Ep. 15(69): 4. 10   “Esto tamen ut illae imitari videantur melioris sexus naturam.” 11   The designation of late ancient adherents of neither Judaism nor Christianity as “pagans” has been the subject of concern and considerable scholarly attention now for some decades already (cf., for example, Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991], 191–2). On the one hand, the term has been shown to be unduly reductionistic, painting with the same broad brush a wide range of diverse cults active in the late ancient Roman and Sassanid world. Still more troublingly, in ancient Christian writings the label of “pagan(ism)” is deployed in fundamentally polemical fashion to characterize Christianity’s opponents—a rhetorical strategy that will become evident in Ambrose’s use of the term in the course of this chapter. Regrettably, few viable alternatives have been proposed, although, for example, Fergus Millar and Timothy Barnes have argued in favor of “polytheism” to replace “paganism” (cf. Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World [London: Bloomsbury Academic, 1992], 105; Barnes, From Eusebius to Augustine: Selected Papers 1982–1993 [London: Variorum Reprints, 1994], ix–xi). For purposes of this chapter, I have retained the older and more widely used term, both in recognition of the fact that no label is entirely free of ideological difficulties, and in deference to the language used by my primary interlocutor, Ambrose himself. While I have not placed quotation marks around each iteration of “pagan(ism)” throughout this chapter, I hope to have made clear that the designation and its polemical charge reflect a particular rhetorical construction imposed upon the late ancient context, rather than historical reality per se.

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None of Ambrose’s charges are entirely without precedent in late ancient literature. Ambrose nevertheless crafts them into a novel argument in support of his broader cultural project: the Christianization of the Roman Empire. Slaves to Luxuria Complaints about the softening effects of luxuria enjoyed a long pedigree among ancient writings against the cinaedus, the effeminate man. The latter revealed the depravity of his nature by the effeminacy of his appearance. Clement of Alexandria writes at great length against men “infected with the disease [of χλιδή/luxuria].” Such ones are “amphibious beasts,” who are “inclined to voluptuousness, [such that] they become effeminate (γυναικίζονται), cutting their hair in an unmanly and meretricious way, clothed in fine and transparent garments, chewing mastich, smelling of perfume.”12 Indeed, “unless you saw them naked, you would suppose them to be women” – and in the privacy of the bedchamber they might yet show themselves to be thus: “For he who in the light of day denies his manhood, will prove himself manifestly a woman by night.”13 Like Ambrose, Clement regards such voluntary self-emasculation as an offense against God. For “[w]hatever smoothness and softness was in [Adam], He abstracted from his side when He formed the woman Eve.” While women are therefore by divine design smooth and “physically receptive,” true men must retain a phenotypical roughness, most notably manifested in their facial and bodily hair.14 This brief excursus into Scripture aside, however, Clement’s charges against male “softies” (malakoi) wholly echo similar diatribes in the writings of his pagan predecessors. Seneca the Elder complains about an entire generation of young rhetors whose days are taken up with “revolting pursuits … braiding their hair and thinning their voices to a feminine lilt, competing with women in bodily softness, beautifying themselves with disgusting finery.”15 Similarly,   Pedagogue 3.3 (PG 8.579C).   Pedagogue 3.3 (PG 8.583A). On the relationship between certain forms of dressing and effeminacy, see the chapters by Naftali S. Cohn, Erin Vearncombe, and Alicia Batten in this volume. 14   For a discussion of early Christians’ evaluation of hair, see also Kristi Upson-Saia’s chapter in this volume. 15  Seneca, Controversiae 1, pr. 8–9. In such company, Seneca’s pressing question—“who is sufficiently a man [to become an orator]?”—must perforce go unanswered. For a discussion of the rhetor as model of Roman masculinity, an assumption that evidently underlies Seneca’s complaints here, see Maud W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 12 13

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Cicero charges his opponent Catiline’s faction with “coiffed hair, either without beards or with long ones, wearing ankle- and wrist-length tunics, and cloaked in sails, not togas.”16 All these faults can be traced directly to luxuria, as the younger Seneca pithily remarks: “Where good fortune has widely distributed luxury, men begin to attend to the care of their bodies with greater diligence.”17 These charges assume that a man by his appearance, manner of speech, and dress, reveals his nature and character to the world.18 Ambrose himself assents implicitly to this ideal and in other works portrays himself as a connoisseur of the physical “tells” that distinguish a true man from a degenerate one. In his instructions to the clergy of Milan, Ambrose justifies excluding from the priesthood men who appeared worthy, but whose gestures or walk indicated otherwise. Later experience, he boasts, bore out the judgment: “[F]or both of them went on to leave the church: they showed themselves every bit as faithless in spirit as their style of walking had suggested.”19 In Ambrose’s present letter, however, luxuria serves to underline a broader theme: the reversal of “natural” positions and its grave consequences for Roman society. “What shall we say,” Ambrose thus asks at the epistle’s conclusion “of those who consider it a sign of luxury to have in their service slaves wearing curls and ornaments, while they themselves have long beards and the slaves have streaming hair?”20 The connection between a man’s extravagant appearance  Cicero, Cat. 2.2.  Seneca, Ep. 114.9. 18   The translation of nature to habitus was not, however, a one-way street; as Gleason has recently argued, making oneself a man—bringing one’s appearance and nature into coherence with the “natural” ideal of masculinity—was a time- and effort-intensive process for Romans (Making Men, passim). 19   De officiis 1.72 in Ambrose, De officiis, ed. and trans. Ivor J. Davidson, Vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 161. 20   Interestingly, Ambrose here seems to read “grown-out beards” (promissa barba) as signs of effeminacy. Facial hair for men was evidently a polyvalent symbol in late antiquity. On the one hand, its absence distinguished men from eunuchs, who are consistently described as lacking the ability to grow a beard. This is perhaps part of the reason why Clement in his diatribe against effeminate men pays particular attention to those who pluck or remove with the aid of pitch the hair on their bodies and faces, arguing that the beard is truly the mark of a man (Pedagogue 3.3). By the same token, long beards like long hair could signal not the manly mane of the lion, as Clement suggests, but an undue investment in and attention to grooming—a decidedly feminine trait. It is here then that the reader recognizes with particular clarity the disjunction between the female and the effeminate: even one of the male secondary sexual characteristics—the beard—could reveal its possessor to be decidedly unmanly. 16 17

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and slavery, already evident in some of Ambrose’s predecessors,21 reveals here the truly deluded state of the effeminate male. While the latter might regard his grooming and attire as markers of his wealth and social potency, they rather reveal him to be no better than a slave. Indeed, the supposed master may be in an even worse position than his servant: the slave, after all, while beholden to obeying his master in body nevertheless retained freedom of spirit. By contrast, the citizen who had fallen prey to luxuria thereby chose for himself the most pernicious slavery of all: that of vice.22 Foreign Affairs Luxuria was, however, far from the only influence that could tempt Roman men into adopting female dress. Foreign customs, too, could present Romans with an ambiguous picture of appropriately gendered attire and ornamentation. Ambrose mentions three groups whose habits might lead Roman men astray: the Goths, Persians, and Armenians. Each of these peoples had engaged in border-negotiations with the Roman Empire in the decades prior to Ambrose’s episcopacy. The loss of Eastern territories to the Sassanid Empire under Julian a couple of decades prior was still fresh in the memory of particularly Christian authors. Similarly, Gothic tribes had been pressing upon the Empire’s Northern borders for centuries and had recently been recruited to buffet the flagging numbers of the Roman armed forces.23 As allies and enemies, such “barbarians” exercised the Roman imagination. Yet from a rhetorical standpoint, we find that these images of the “barbarians” were deployed to affirm Romans’ superior virtus, manliness, vis-à-vis such outsiders. Greek soldiers, for example, could be depicted as “soft” and idle, gleaming with olive oil and ripe for the slaughter by   See, for example, Clement’s remark on the subject: “I pity the boys possessed by the slave-dealers, that are decked for dishonour. But they are not treated with ignominy by themselves, but by command the wretches are adorned for base gain. But how disgusting are those who willingly practice the things to which, if compelled, they would, if they were men, die rather than do?” (Pedagogue 3.3). 22   The theme of true freedom being available to any Christian in spite of his social conditions is common in Ambrose’s writings. In Ep. 37, he thus remarks at length about true freedom inhering in wisdom rather than one’s social circumstances or status. Ambrose here echoes late ancient Stoic notions, including particularly those of Epictetus on Freedom in Dial. 4.1 (LCL Discourses Vol. 1, 265–73). 23  For a discussion of Gothic intervention in Roman civil wars, see A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire: 284–602, Vol. 1 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1964), 138–69. 21

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true Roman men,24 while the region of Asia Minor encouraged laxity to such an extent that Cato the Younger allegedly claimed that a war against their kings to have been fought “against nothing better than women.”25 Paradoxically, at times such outsiders also could be held up as models of masculinity. Clement thus contrasts with the frivolity and effeminacy of Roman men Celts and Scythians who wore their hair long, but did not adorn themselves, and who allegedly despised not only so-called luxury but even basic amenities like houses and wagons.26 Not all “barbarian” customs were worthy of emulation, of course: while Clement praises the resilience and simplicity of the Arabians, their consumption of camels’ blood in time of starvation violated Levitical prohibitions. For Christians, nevertheless, the simplicity and single-mindedness of these peoples could serve as an exemplar, for “[s]uch the Lord calls us to be—naked of finery, naked of vanity, wrenched from our sins, bearing only the wood of life, aiming only at salvation.”27 Such attempts to present outsiders to their Roman audiences as role models were, however, mere rhetorical shame tactics. Given Romans’ sense of inherent superiority vis-à-vis their barbaric neighbors, the suggestion that the latter might surpass them in any way—that they might, in fact, out-Roman Romans—was designed to signal the poor state of imperial mores and the urgency of reform.28 Indeed, Clement notes that true Romanitas has been all but lost, and Roman society has departed from “the ancient legislators … [who] detested effeminacy of conduct … and judged [doing so] worthy of the most extreme penalty.” It is thus only with the aim of recapturing this true core of Roman identity that Clement treats aspects of foreign conduct as exemplary. Both rhetorical tropes—that of Roman, and that of barbarian superiority—relied upon keeping a degree of distance between Roman audiences and the peoples in question. By the end of the fourth century, however, a city of Milan’s prominence and proximity to the Empire’s borders was a locus for the intermingling of peoples from a variety of patriae. The clash of customs required adjustment, and Ambrose was prepared to excuse the peculiarities of outsiders,   Silius Italicus, Punica 14.134–8.  Cicero, Pro Murena 31. Cicero begged to differ (Pro Murena 32): Cato would surely never have gone to war if he had been convinced that it would be merely fought against an easy enemy! 26   Pedagogue 3.3 (PG 8.589B). 27   Pedagogue 3.3 (PG 8.592A). 28   For a discussion of the true Roman man’s effortless dominion over not only women but also foreigners, see Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 135–7. 24 25

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even where they seemed to compromise the clear delineation of male and female by dress and task. Foreign customs, he conceded, were not necessarily contemptible: Those “who follow their national usages, though they may be barbaric” might be excused from the strictures of Roman customs of dress. After all, Ambrose argues, “[n]ature is greater than patria,” suggesting that within the habits of each of these peoples, nature had found a way to express appropriate gender differences in appearance and attire. Such accommodation nevertheless could not be permitted to re-define Roman-ness, and Ambrose accordingly does not hold up, for example, Milan’s Gothic inhabitants as exemplars of Roman masculinity. They are merely the “weaker brothers” mentioned in Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, Chapter 14, who had to be accommodated for nature’s sake; by contrast, when true Romans strayed into foreign-inspired attire they were without excuse. “Pagan” Practices The mixing of people of different patriae in Ambrose’s backyard also reflected the intermingling of religious identities in the city and indeed the Roman Empire. Milan has been characterized as the last stronghold of Homoian (“Arian”) identity in the West; while such claims no doubt overstate the case, the squabbles between pro-Nicenes and supporters of a subordinationist Christology in Northern Italy nevertheless suggest that Milan remained a “mixed body” (corpus permixtus) at least with regard to Trinitarian orthodoxy.29 The influx of Goths, the Christians among whom had retained their Homoian allegiances, and the presence of the imperial court of Valentinian II, who throughout his youth similarly rejected the Nicene formula, further added to intra-religious tensions. Nor was Christianity in all its different flavors the only or even the dominant religious option. The majority of the senatorial class apparently continued to adhere to the old gods, whose worship many regarded as essential for the wellbeing of the Empire. Symmachus, Ambrose’s most vociferous opponent in the struggle over whether and how to strip the Empire’s official institutions of pagan trappings, thus argued for the restoration of the Altar of Victory to the steps of the senate by having Rome plead on her own behalf:

29   For a discussion of the development of Homoian Christianity in the Latin West throughout the later parts of the fourth century with particular focus on Milan, see Daniel H. Williams, Ambrose of Milan and the End of the Arian-Nicene Conflicts (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995).

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Let me use the ancestral ceremonies, for I do not repent of them. Let me live after my own fashion, for I am free. This worship subdued the world to my laws, these sacred rites repelled Hannibal from the walls, and the Senones from the capitol. Have I been reserved for this, that in my old age I should be blamed? I will consider what it is thought should be set in order, but tardy and discreditable is the reformation of old age.30

Given the energetic contest between different factions over Roman religious identity, it is perhaps not surprising that Ambrose’s final and most pernicious association links male cross-dressing with pagan practice. In pagan temples, Ambrose claims, “it is considered holy for men to assume women’s clothing and female gestures.”31 Ambrose’s letter does not indicate whether the temples whose priests are marked by such transvestitism are those envisioned by the Deuteronomic writer or those of his own era. This slippage is, no doubt, intentional: like their Jewish contemporaries, late ancient pagans could be tarred with the muck and mire of their predecessors in the Hebrew Scriptures. Yet while Ambrose was likely unfamiliar with Ancient Near Eastern religious custom, accusations of sexual deviancy, including gender-bending, against pagan cults had long been the stock in trade of late ancient Christian polemicists. Ambrose’s younger contemporary Augustine thus mocks the priests of Cybele, whose processions he claims to have observed in person as a young man, by describing them as “neither changed into a woman nor allowed to remain a man.”32 While conceding that none of those involved in the cult would confess to such deviancy, Augustine nevertheless assures the reader that their worship is distinctly unnatural: “For men to be made to play the part of women (viros muliebria pati) is not in accordance with nature; it is contrary to nature.”33 Augustine’s argument that the confusion of male and female in the ritual performances of the Galli, the eunuch priests of the Great Goddess, reflects a confusion of nature that ought to be pleasing neither to human beings nor to any god or goddess is certainly one to which Ambrose would have assented. Indeed, charges against the cult of Cybele, an Eastern incursion upon Roman  Symmachus, Ep. 61.9 (PL 18.0391C).   Ep. 15[69].4. 32   De civ. D. 7.24. 33   De civ. D. 6.8. Augustine here echoes an expression that suggests male sexual submission: to be made to play the part of a woman (cf. Tacitus, Ann. 11.36.4). Cf. Holt Parker, “The Teratogenic Grid,” in Roman Sexualities, eds Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 47–65, see esp. 50. 30

31

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territory, were common among pagan writers as well.34 Yet Ambrose goes a step further: he neither singles out any one cult, nor does he suggest in which temples one might expect to find “holy” cross-dressing. Rather, all pagan worship is alike faulted for being as unnatural as a crowing hen, a roaring deer, or a man wearing women’s dress. The “falsification of nature” (mendacium naturae) that men’s appropriation of female attire in pagan contexts entailed signaled the “falsification of faith” (mendacium fidei) that occurred in these temples. This, more than either luxuria or the emulation of foreign practices, lay at the heart of biblical condemnation of cross-dressing; Ambrose argues: “It is for this reason that the Law says that every man who puts on a woman’s garment is an abomination unto the Lord.”35 Ambrose’s charge had implications for the individual cross-dresser, who by his dress associated himself with pagans and idolaters, and thus exposed himself to God’s rightful wrath. Still more significant, however, are the ramifications for Roman society. Re-dressing Roman Society In Ambrose’s writings, the charge of paganism endorsing effeminacy among its priests and practitioners intersects with his grander project of de-paganizing Roman society. The latter is Ambrose’s most abiding legacy; indeed, until quite recently secondary scholarship has portrayed Ambrose’s contribution to early Christian history primarily as that of a political power-broker, whose skirmishes against Roman Emperors from Gratian to Theodosius succeeded in ridding the Empire of some of the most prominent symbols of Rome’s rich history.36   For a concise survey of Roman perceptions of the cult, its Asian origins, and ambivalent integration into Roman religious practice, see Michèle Renee Salzman, “Magna Mater: Great Mother of the Roman Empire,” in The Book of the Goddess Past and Present: An Introduction to her Religion, ed. Carl Olson (New York: Crossroads, 1983), 60–67. 35   “Unde Lex dicit quia immundus est Domino omnis vir qui stolam muliebrem induerit” (Ep. 15[69].4). 36   Chief among these are Gratian’s relinquishment, well over half a century after Constantine’s alleged conversion, of the title and insignia of pontifex maximus, Rome’s chief priest; the renewed removal from the steps of the Roman senate of the altar of Victory; the disbanding of the Vestals; and the insistence that Christian Emperors were subject to ecclesial censure and penance for actions performed while in office, including, in the case of Theodosius, the so-called massacre of Thessalonica. All these are fulsomely documented in Ambrose’s own writings in Ambrose of Milan: Political Letters and Speeches, edited, translated, and with an introduction by J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz (Liverpool: Liverpool University 34

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In all these encounters, Ambrose quite openly sought to re-make Rome into a Christian Empire. To do so, Ambrose avers, would help rid Rome of unsavory foreign influences that had heretofore clung to her. “That I did not know God,” Ambrose has Rome, the personification of the Empire, claim “is the one thing I once had in common with the barbarians.”37 Yet Ambrose’s efforts to craft a Christian Empire express themselves not only in the political show-pieces of his oeuvre, but in treatises, homilies, and letters that seek to re-make Roman social practices—or, perhaps more pressingly still, to remake Roman thinking about long-established practices, including attire and dress. The true battle, Ambrose knew, would not be fought merely over pagan altars and the trappings of imperial office, but over the hearts, minds, and bodies of Roman citizens. The latter’s importance was further enhanced by virtue of the body’s privileged powers of signification in late ancient thought. A man’s body could thus stand as synecdoche for the civic community, its health or illness, conformity or deformity a sure index of the Empire’s own. The reciprocal reflection of civitas and body, first developed in Plato and Aristotle, and appropriated by Roman political discourse, thus assigned the same goods and ills, virtues and vices, salutary and destructive practices to both the individual citizen and the community to which he belonged.38 The late ancient male accordingly never acted in a wholly private fashion; his body, rather, functioned discursively as a stand-in for the social body, its appearance and comportment testifying not only to the ontological status of its bearer, but laden with potentially grave implications for the well-being of the larger whole. In times of threat to the state this correspondence could trigger a tightening of the social strictures designed to bring bodies into greater conformity with their “natural” ideal. Yet the opposite rationale applied as well. Individuals or groups that posed a threat to the state thus allegedly signified their internal deviance by their depraved appearance. Cicero’s depiction of Catiline’s party as thoroughly Press, 2005), and discussed in helpful historical context in Neil McLynn, Ambrose of Milan: Church and Court in a Christian Capital (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). 37  Ambrose, Ep. 73 (18), 7 in Ambrose of Milan, Political Letters and Speeches, trans. J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2005), 83. 38   Xenophon’s dialogue with Euthydemus concerning private and public freedom provides a case in point: “‘Tell me, Euthydemus, do you think that freedom is a noble and splendid possession both for individuals and for communities?’ ‘Yes, I think it is, in the highest degree.’ ‘Then do you think that the man is free who is ruled by bodily pleasures and is unable to do what is best because of them?’ ‘By no means’” (Mem. 4.5). For a more developed discussion of the evolution of the mirror of individual body and social body, see Barbara Hooper, “Performativities of Space: Bodies, Cities, Texts” (Ph.D. diss., University of California at Los Angeles, 2002), 176–236.

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emasculated, dripping with perfume, slaves to luxury—”[t]he entire drive of their life and sleepless labor … used up in pre-dawn feasting”—and embracing foreign attire in favor of the Roman toga mark them as dangerous not by virtue of their martial prowess, but as vectors of a most pernicious disease that threatens to infect the entire Republic.39 Ambrose, writing during a period of grave civic unrest and heightened anxieties throughout the Empire, similarly identifies a new disease on the body of the Roman Empire: paganism. Its symptoms make themselves known in the gender-confused attire of its bearers, their transgressive practices threatening to destroy the “natural” gender binary at the heart of true Romanitas, and in the process revealing the pernicious nature of the cult.40 In addition to identifying the disease that ailed the bodies of Rome and its citizens, Ambrose, fortunately, also introduces the cure: inasmuch as paganism threatened to unravel the seams of the Empire, Christianity promised to hold together its increasingly threadbare social fabric. By contrast to pagan deities, the Christian God and his earthly representatives were supremely qualified to function as guarantors of Roman manliness. Scripture, Ambrose argues, was wholly consonant with nature, and, when expounded by the right exegete, provided a blueprint for a proper ordering of both individual and civic bodies. Once Rome has rid itself of pagan practice, the pernicious influences of luxuria and foreign customs would fade as well, Ambrose suggests. In the process, Christianity would restore both Empire and its citizens to their Roman identity by way of a new ideal: the manliness of the Christian. Ambrose’s actual vision for re-dressing Rome’s sartorial ills, however, is strikingly limited. As Marcia Colish aptly notes, Ambrose’s Christian ethic was intentionally adapted to the “common man,” the well-educated urban householder, a paterfamilias upon whom depended family, slaves, and clients. Such a brand of Christianity was “practical, relevant, and attainable”—and nowhere more so than in Ambrose’s instructions on appropriate dress.41 The  Cicero, Cat. 2.2.   As Judith Butler has argued, “drag … effectively mocks both the expressive model of gender and the notion of true gender identity” (Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity [New York: Routledge, 1990], 137). Given gender as the stable binary upon which the foundation of cultural hegemony is built, to disrupt the clean lines of male vs. female thus threatens to undermine society as a whole, in particular inasmuch as it is society’s goal to reproduce aforementioned gender binary as “natural.” While neither Ambrose nor his predecessors likely contemplated pointedly parodic performances akin to contemporary drag revues, anxieties surrounding even minimally transgressive dress-acts hint at the profound instability of Western Roman society at the turn of the fifth century. 41   Marcia Colish, Ambrose’s Patriarchs: Ethics for the Common Man (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2005), 3. 39 40

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move from pagan to Christian in Ambrose’s Milan was thus not the drastic change in attire that Tertullian had envisioned,42 nor did it require men to engage in the rending of garments and appropriation of ascetics’ dress. Under Ambrose’s guidance, Milanese converts to Christianity would put on their white baptismal garment—the “chaste veil of innocence”—after they had passed through the renewing waters.43 Once the week of their baptism had passed, however, the new Christians could and indeed were expected to return to wearing their togas without these garments (or the status and responsibility they signaled) coming into conflict with their new Christian identities.44 For the Christians of Milan, Ambrose suggests, dressing the part was as simple as wearing the marks of Romanitas long commended to them by forebears and philosophers. In his zeal to de-paganize the Empire, Ambrose had baptized these garments along with their wearers—had indeed rooted their suitability in the Scriptures, rejecting as a hallmark of paganism and threat to the body politic only the sartorial excesses of perceived effeminacy, the “cross-dressing” condemned alike by Deuteronomy and Roman civic discourse. Conclusion: Ambrose’s Sartorial Afterlife Ambrose’s claim that paganism and its practices were the disease that ailed Rome is striking in its boldness, particularly in a context where pagan writers had already begun to blame neglect of the Roman gods, the direct result of Christianity’s ascendancy, for the internal unrest and military defeats the Empire was experiencing. “[L]et no one think that I am defending the cause of religion only,” Symmachus had written when on Ambrose’s behest the Vestals had been disbanded, “for from deeds of this kind have arisen all the misfortunes of the Roman race.”45 The sack of Rome by Alaric’s troops just over a decade after Ambrose’s death would fuel pagan fears, prompting Augustine to compose 42   In his short treatise De pallio, the latter thus apparently launched an odd campaign to make the Pallium, a short cloak, the distinctive dress of Christian men (cf. Carly DanielHughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection [New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011], 45–61). 43   De Mysteriis 7.34. 44   Ambrose is the first Western writer to attest to new Christians wearing their white garments throughout the week following their baptism, namely Easter week (cf. Exp. ev. Secundum Lucam 5.25; cf. Herve Petit, “Sur les catecheses postbaptismals de S. Ambroise,” Revue Bénédictine 68 [1958] 256–64, see esp. 262). 45  Symmachus, Ep. 61.14 (PL 18.0392B).

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his “defense against those who prefer their own Gods to the Founder of this [heavenly] City.”46 Ambrose, much like his North African protégé, sought to turn the tables on his Roman interlocutors: if Rome was imperiled, the fault lay not with Christian but with pagan practice. Yet the Roman man in new, Christian ideological guise—and Rome herself, now attired with Christian virtue—would weather the onslaught. Less than a century later, of course, the Western Empire succumbed to “barbarian” rule. As such, Ambrose’s hope for a new, manly Rome re-imagined under Christian auspices had proved elusive. Yet even here we do not see a wholesale break between antiquity and later centuries: particularly in the realm of social relations, ancient paradigms of masculinity proved adaptable amidst Christianization and sufficiently resilient to remain influential well beyond the demise of the civitas Ambrose himself would have recognized as Rome.47 By the advent of the medieval era, we thus see in the Latin West a partial realization of Ambrose’s project—the re-formulation of manliness around Christian types and ideals. Paradoxically, however, Ambrose’s conservative vision of Roman dress re-coded in Christian terms gave way to a more radical change of attire: medieval Christians would exchange the Roman toga, that long-standing symbol of Romanitas, for the bishop’s mantle or the monk’s habit as the new symbols of masculinity.48

  De civ. D. 1.1.   For a discussion of the continuity of discourses surrounding masculinity from the fifth century onward, see Kate Cooper and Conrad Leyser, “The Gender of Grace: Impotence, Servitude, and Manliness in the Fifth-Century West,” Gender & History 12.3 (November 2000), 536–51; cf. also Matthew Kuefler’s assessment that despite the apparently radical re-formulation of the late ancient masculine ideal, “[t]he new masculine ideal … did not change the social order to any meaningful extent” (The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001], 287). 48   On the bishop’s mantle and the monk’s habit, see essays by Adam Serfass and Rebecca Krawiec in this volume. 46 47

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Part 2 Dress and Relationality

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Chapter 3

“The Holy Habit and the Teachings of the Elders”: Clothing and Social Memory in Late Antique Monasticism1 Rebecca Krawiec

The establishment of monasticism, and of the monk as a social person, in the fourth and fifth centuries included the regulation of monastic dress in order for it to become an immediate marker of his or her identity. I have argued elsewhere that representations of the properly dressed monk (male or female) instituted a monastic outfit that defined and communicated the values and social status of that figure; here we see the invention of the habit as “uniform.”2 A similar process that determined dress affected monastic literary practices; writing is also a social product whose non-monastic, and indeed non-Christian, meaning had to be transformed in careful and deliberate ways.3 In this chapter, I examine how these two processes—dressing and writing—combine to create a locus for the social memory of monasticism. Using social memory theory, I argue that how monastic authors represented the wearing or production of clothing in their texts led the monks to participate in particular social memories when they engaged   I would like to thank Kristi Upson-Saia, Carly Daniel-Hughes, and Alicia Batten for their invitation to participate in the 2012 Conference for the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies where this paper was presented. I also thank them for their editorial work, which greatly improved my article. In addition, Andrew Jacobs read a draft and provided excellent advice that strengthened my argument. Some of the ideas in this paper were also presented in my paper, “‘Remember the Things We Read’: Texts, Reading Culture, and Cultural Memory in the White Monastery,” delivered at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in San Francisco, November, 2011. 2   Using Pierre Bourdieu’s definition of the term; see Rebecca Krawiec, “‘Garments of Salvation’: Representations of Monastic Clothing in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 17 (2009): 125–50. 3   For a recent study of monastic reading and writing practices, see Guy Stroumsa, “The Scriptural Movement of Late Antiquity and Christian Monasticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 16.1 (2008): 61–77. 1

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in the actions of dressing or making clothes. What the monk remembered when engaged in these actions, or when seeing correct monastic clothing as defined within that monastic system, allowed the monk to re-create and affirm his or her monastic identity. Both writing and dressing are practices that are implicated in social memory. Paul Connerton has argued for the role of writing as a “habit memory,” one for which the physical movements of writing transmit cultural values. As a repeated activity, writing continually re-inscribes these particular meanings.4 Connerton also notes that dress requires people in a society to remember various social conventions, so that the “language” of clothes requires a grammar like writing.5 All clothing is thus in some way symbolic, turning the act of dressing into “practice,” according to Catherine Bell’s definition, and so a ritualized activity.6 As a result, Stephen Davis has argued, “Christian” dress produces “Christian” bodies.7 Yet neither symbol nor ritual are stable categories, but have “fundamental ambiguity” and “afford a great diversity of interpretation,” as Bell states.8 The monastic habit is no exception. First, there is a difference between the initial ritualized “putting on” the habit, which indicates a change in status or identity, and wearing that habit as an everyday marker of that event. The act of dressing in the habit, once already a monk, engages the memory of becoming a monk and the values that identity entails. Second, those values are, in each case under consideration in this chapter, inscribed onto clothing through writing, that is, through textual representation of clothing and its meaning.9 These theoretical insights into symbol, text, and memory allow investigation into how these monks “wrote” clothing: to analyze how the various textual   Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 22–3 and 74–7. For an excellent summary of memory theory and its relationship to the study of early Christianity, see Elisabeth A. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 10–32. 5  Connerton, How Societies Remember, 11 and 34–5. 6   Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 81, for the four criteria of a practice and 88 for how ritual shares these criteria. 7   Stephen J. Davis, “Fashioning a Divine Body: Coptic Christology and Ritualized Dress,” Harvard Theological Review 98 (2005): 336. Davis also draws on Bell in making his arguments that particular images on clothing turns them into “ritualized dress” (359, using Bell, 74, as well as performance theory). 8  Bell, Ritual Theory, 182–6 (cf. 184 for the “fundamental ambiguity” of symbols and 186 for the diversity of rituals). 9   For an explication of the relationship between discourse and dress in general, see Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 7–10. 4

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descriptions infuse clothing with different meanings that the monks, in specific monastic systems, remember whenever they dress. Four monastic writers, each with a connection to Egyptian monasticism in the fourth and fifth century, provide textual representations of clothing as a means to determine the social memory that the clothing carries. In each case, while notions of clothing and textuality become connected, the material reality of clothes and the actual process of dressing provide a context for activating the social memory of monastic clothing. The first surviving case of a symbolic interpretation of monastic dress comes from Evagrius of Pontus, the great theoretician of asceticism who helped guide the monastic communities of Nitria and Kellia in northern Egypt in the later fourth century.10 His description is then appropriated and transformed by John Cassian, who studied monasticism in northern Egypt but wrote his Institutes, based on that experience, after moving to Gaul. The relationship between these two accounts helps explain the larger goal Cassian sought to achieve in transposing Egyptian monasticism to its new cultural setting. My two subsequent examples are from monks who resided in Upper Egypt and led a federation of communal monasteries of men and women: Shenoute, archimandrite of the White Monastery federation, and his successor, Besa. Exploring the divergent social memories associated with monastic outfits in these varying settings reveals the competition among monastic writers for the production of the identity of “monk.”11 Combat Dress: Evagrius of Pontus’ Monastic Habit Evagrius of Pontus moved to the northern Egyptian monastic communities of Nitria and then Kellia from Jerusalem, where he had sought refuge after a dangerous love affair in Constantinople derailed his ecclesiastical career. After several years practicing monasticism in Egypt, he wrote a trilogy of guides for monastic formation, one each for the novice, the gnostic, and the advanced monk.   Although Evagrius claims to have received it from a older tradition, he is often viewed as having established an account that passes to the West in John Cassian’s works and has a separate history in the East. See Robert E. Sinkewicz, trans., Evagrius of Pontus: The Greek Ascetic Corpus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 93; he argues further that “the symbolism of the habit proposed in the Prologue is not known earlier in monastic literature and may have been developed by Evagrius himself on analogy with the symbolic description of the garments of the High Priest proposed by Philo of Alexandria.” 11   For a discussion of another aspect of monks’ appearance—hair—see Kristi UpsonSaia’s chapter in this volume. 10

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The first of these, the Praktikos, consists of 100 chapters that introduce the monk to the eight thoughts—gluttony, fornication, avarice, anger, sadness, accedia, vainglory and pride—that demons use as sources of attack and the means by which these can be combated.12 He famously begins this practical guide to monks with a detailed description of the symbolism of the various parts of the monastic habit. The description itself he claims to have learned from the “holy fathers” and he concludes his account by equating the habit, both materially and allegorically, with the monastic teachings from these same fathers: “there are the things of which the habit is a symbol,” he says, “and these are the words which the fathers are ever saying.”13 Evagrius’ link between clothing and teachings thus connects two different bodily practices: the act of dressing and the act of writing (or reading) the instructions he has transmitted from (past) oral instruction to this text. In his prologue, Evagrius connects each piece of clothing to a monastic virtue, and further often to a biblical passage. Evagrius’ treatment of the monastic habit fits with his overall approach to issues of textuality and memory in that he draws on preceding monastic tradition as the basis for his authority.14 As a result, his explanation of the symbolism of monastic dress transforms each item of clothing into a monastic teaching. When the monk gets dressed, he remembers the rules for monastic living and the biblical passages that, along with the monastic teachings more generally, serve as his weapons in his combat with the demons. In other words, the social memory of the monastic habit equips the monk for what Evagrius saw as his daily existence: demon fighting. Evagrius’ self-described “explanation of the symbolism” of the monastic habit answers a request from a monk at the “Holy Mountain,” most likely a monastic residence in Jerusalem (Prak., Prol. 1).15 This monk, Anatolios, apparently asked because he had “considered that it was not by chance or superfluously that it is   Accedia generally meaning listlessness, tending towards despair. The others become, through the transmission of John Cassian, the seven deadly sins of Western Catholicism. See David Brakke, trans., Evagrius of Pontus: Talking Back, Antirrhêtikos: A Monastic Handbook for Combating Demons (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2009), 6 and William Harmless, SJ, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 218 for a discussion of this process. 13  Evagrius, Praktikos Prologue 8. Greek edition: Antoine and Claire Guillaumont, ed., Évagre le Pontique: Traité Pratique ou Le Moine, Tome II. SC 171 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1971), 490–92. I have used the translation in Sinkewicz, Evagrius, 96. 14   See Rebecca Krawiec, “Literacy and Memory in Evagrius’s Monasticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 21 (2013): 363–90. 15   This and the passages through this paragraph are from the Prologue; see SC 171: 482–95 (Sinkewicz, Evagrius, 95–6). For a discussion of this dedication, and the relationship between Evagrius and the communities in Jerusalem, see Columba Stewart, 12

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so different from the clothing of other people.” Evagrius here acknowledges that the items of monastic clothing were chosen for particular purposes; they have functions that link the body with various monastic ideals. Thus, for example, the koukoullion worn on the head symbolizes the “grace of God;” it “protects their ruling faculty” (Prak., Prol. 2). This protection in turn leads to a particular biblical passage, a Psalm about the need for the Lord’s protection in order for labors to be productive (Ps. 126: 1). This type of explanation continues for the rest of the items of clothing: the analabos, worn on the shoulders in the form of a cross, symbolizes “faith in Christ” (Prak., Prol. 4); the belt “wards off all impurity” (Prak., Prol. 5); the melote “muzzles the irrational passions,” “cuts off the evils of the soul,” and allows the monk to “love poverty” (Prak., Prol. 6); the staff is a “tree of life” (Prak., Prol. 7). Further lack of clothing is also explained; monks keep their hands bare to guard against vainglory because this “shows a way of life without dissimulation” (Prak., Prol. 3). Evagrius thus locates monastic practice in the body by mapping the purposes of monastic dress onto it. Both monastic dress, and the teachings that Evagrius equates with dress, protect the monk from the demons, as Robin Darling Young has pointed out.16 How Evagrius equates these two, however, reveals his own claims about textuality and his authority as a writer. Here, as elsewhere in his writings, Evagrius denies being the author, that is, the originator, of the teachings he collects into the text. He is instead a transmitter of a tradition.17 Despite this apparent reticence, Evagrius is able to assert his authority in being able to pass on, in writing, this tradition. Again as Paul Connerton has argued, the ability to wear, or read, clothes reflects a type of literacy that is akin not simply to being able to read, but to being able to understand the complexities of reading.18 By associating clothing with the “teachings of the elders,” Evagrius asserts his competence in the literacy of both. He is well-versed in the “grammar of dress” such that he is able to impart the meaning of the monastic habit; and he is sufficiently educated in the grammar “Evagrius Ponticus on Monastic Pedagogy,” in Abba: The Tradition of Orthodoxy in the West, ed. Andrew Louth, et al. (Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003), 241–71, at 252. 16   Robin Darling Young, “Evagrius the Iconographer: Monastic Pedagogy in the Gnostikos,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 9 (2001): 59. 17   For a discussion of the distinction between being a writer and a transmitter of tradition, see Catherine Chin, “Rufinus of Aquileia and Alexandrian Afterlives: Translation as Origenism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 18 (2010): 622 and 627 particularly; for a discussion of Evagrius, see 639–40. For a fuller discussion of Evagrius as writer vs. author, see Krawiec, “Literacy and Memory.” 18  Connerton, How Societies Remember, 11–12.

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of literature to be able to transform the oral teachings of monastic tradition into the particular structure of the 100 chapters of the Praktikos. These are not small claims, since the Praktikos and its teachings, which are set by Evagrius, are necessary for the monk to ascend into the intellectual realm that characterizes the next monastic stage, the gnostikos.19 Further, Evagrius has, despite his protestations to the contrary, embedded his own teachings into the text itself.20 Given the skills he exhibits in the area of the “grammar of literature,” readers can expect equal ability in the grammar of dress. Evagrius thus sets the meaning of the monastic habit through a deft combination of claims to tradition and display of his own literacy, in both teaching and dress.21 Evagrius’ link between clothing and teaching thereby combines two “acts of transfer” of social memory: incorporating and inscribing practices. Connerton argues that the former comes from oral cultures, while the latter reflects literate cultures.22 While Connerton’s distinction might seem incongruous with Evagrius’ connections, recent scholarship on ancient literacies has challenged such a hard and fast distinction between orality and literacy. Instead, especially in ancient pedagogical settings, orality is based in literacy, and vice versa.23 Likewise, the monastic community in Kellia centered on regular oral instruction, communal confession of demon fighting, and occasionally individual, private guidance.24 This oral communication, namely, the monastic teachings that   Stewart provides the seminal full analysis of the relationship among these texts, and the spiritual progression they promote, which has informed much later scholarship on Evagrius, including my own (Stewart, “Monastic Pedagogy,” esp. 254–8). A notation in the margin of the Praktikos, which scholars believe to come from Evagrius himself, asks future copyists “not to join one chapter to another, nor to place on the same line the end of the chapter just written and the beginning of the one about to be written, but to have each chapter begin with its own beginning according to the divisions which we have marked also by numbers. In this way the ordering of the chapters can be preserved and what is said will be clear” (Praktikos [SC 171: 496; Sinkewicz, Evagrius, 97]). 20   As several scholars have argued; see Krawiec “Literacy and Memory in Evagrius’s Monasticism,” n. 17 for scholarship on this issue. 21   On the role of clothing in disputes of authority and power, see also Adam Serfass’s chapter in this volume. 22  Connerton, How Societies Remember, 72–3 and 75; “acts of transfer” is his phrase, which I borrow (see 39). 23   Simon Goldhill, “The Anecdote: Exploring Boundaries between Oral and Literate Performance in the Second Sophistic,” in Ancient Literacies: The Culture of Reading in Greece and Rome, eds W. Johnson and H. Parker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 96–113. 24   David Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk: Spiritual Combat in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), 50–51; cf. Stewart, “Monastic Pedagogy,” 247–8. 19

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make possible the monk’s existence, is the original site for the transfer of social memory. Evagrius, in this text, moves this act of transfer into his writing but also onto the monk’s clothing. Evagrius’ authority comes from his ability to inscribe meaning into the clothing. A monk who has been formed through this teaching, either by being orally taught or having read this text, receives the social memory and remembers it each time he is dressed. The act of dressing, or even just being dressed, makes the monk remember the “rules of behavior” for monastic living. Further, when engaged in combat with the demons, the monk has his dress as a memory aid for the sorts of biblical passages that are necessary. Evagrius’ famous text, Talking Back, also provides a list of the different biblical passages that are most effective in combating the various ways the demons attack the monk.25 Just as ancient theorists argued that memory was most effective when it was mapped onto the brain through visual images,26 here the monk has access to a visual memory map by looking at his own clothing. Evagrius’ monk is dressed for combat because of the particular social memory that is transferred through Evagrius’ teachings about the monastic habit. Habit and Stylus: John Cassian’s Monastic Dress In the early fifth century, John Cassian wrote two texts that posit themselves as exporting to Gaul the monasticism he experienced in the same Egyptian communities where Evagrius was active. The first, the Institutes, serves as handbook to monastic life, divided into 12 books; the first four address the foundation of monastic living while the last eight each describe the same vices that had appeared as demons in Evagrius’ texts.27 The opening book, the shortest, gives an account of monastic dress that draws on, but transforms and expands, Evagrius’ account. Cassian sets the monastic habit, and its meaning, in a new context, that of his own monastic system which he legitimizes based on its foundation in Egypt. While he also describes the monk as a “soldier of Christ, ever ready for battle” once his “loins are girded” with the monastic habit,

  For a translation of this work, which has only survived in a Syriac translation, see Evagrius of Pontus: Talking Back, trans. David Brakke. 26   Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 33. 27   Cf. Brakke, Demons and the Making of the Monk, 245–6. 25

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Cassian’s monastic clothing transfers a different social memory than Evagrius.28 Whereas Evagrius’ monk’s dress serves as a memory aid that assists in his battle against demons, Cassian uses the authority of his memory of monastic dress to connect the monk, through that dress, to a respected monastic lineage. Cassian is making choices as a monastic writer that are similar to Evagrius’ but with different results. Like Evagrius, Cassian subsumes his own authorial voice to that of the abbas; this self-effacement again simultaneously makes claims to literacy, but here that literacy is the ability to translate Egyptian traditions in a form appropriate for his Gallic audience. Cassian’s rejection of his own role as author is clearer in the Conferences, where not only do most of the teachings come from the mouths of the abbas but Cassian, as a student, defers to his travelling companion Germanus to pose questions and challenge particular teachings. Yet even in the Institutes, Cassian serves more as reporter of what he has learned in Egypt; he says that he will not “weave a tale of God’s marvelous works and miracles,” but rather explain “just the institutes of these [monks] and the rules of their monasteries.”29 Part of these institutes and rules include clothing, which Cassian valorizes as a marker of monastic identity even more than Evagrius. His account is both much longer than Evagrius’ and upgraded from a prologue to a book of the Institutes in its own right. While Cassian includes the list of clothing, and their links to various biblical passages, from Evagrius, he situates that material within his own framework.30 First, he links this clothing with a sequence of models from the past—Elijah, Elisha, John, Peter, Paul “and other men of the same caliber”31—and he makes clear that the early monastic founders made decisions about clothing that need to be upheld, despite debate about proper clothing. His concern is specifically about the propriety of sackcloth. Both the “holy ones of old, who laid foundations of this profession” and “the fathers of our own time, who are maintaining in their turn their institutes to the very present” (Instit. 1.2.2) 28  Cassian, Institutes 1.1. For Latin text: Jean-Claude Guy, ed., Jean Cassien: institutions cénobitiques, SC 109 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1965), here 36; I have used the English translation from Boniface Ramsey, OP, trans., John Cassian: The Institutes, ACW 58 (New York: Paulist, 2000), here 21. 29  Cassian Instit. Prologue 7 (SC 171: 28; Ramsey, Institutes, 13). 30   For an excellent side-by-side comparison of the two presentations of the habit and its meanings, see Table 12.3 in Harmless, Desert Christians, 381–3. Cf. also my discussion of the passage from Cassian in terms of its link to divine authority (Krawiec, “Garments of Salvation,” 134–5). 31   The various quotations in this paragraph appear in Cassian, Instit. 1 (SC 171: 35–55; Ramsey, Institutes, 21–7), here Instit. 1.1.2.

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reject sackcloth as too showy (Instit. 1.2.3). Moreover, Cassian adds that the sackcloth does not necessarily indicate holiness, listing various biblical examples of figures who wore it yet were sacrilegious (Instit. 1.2.4). Finally, besides sackcloth, Cassian both insists that Egyptian clothing is most clearly linked with understanding Scripture and still allows for local variation: “But we ourselves should only keep those things that the situation of the place and the custom of the region permit.” Thus the harsh winters in Gaul do not allow Gallic monks to favor sandals over shoes, like their Egyptian models; further, and more intriguingly, two items of clothing, the hood and the melotis, are rejected because they will cause “derision” (Instit. 1.10). Clothing, says Cassian, should aim at “simplicity” but should not be so strange as to offend others. Thus, even though the melotis in particular is a marker of biblical foundations for the monastic life stemming from the Old Testament (Instit. 1.7), Cassian prioritizes the expectations of his audience and their social needs. Cassian’s approach in his explanation of clothing mirrors his general framework for authority and monastic formation. His various claims to authority include his ability to translate Greek monastic terminology into appropriate Latin; his experience in the Egyptian desert, which other writers, such as Jerome, lack (though they may have monastic experience elsewhere); and his skill at teaching the monasticism he writes because of a dual literacy, Latin and monastic.32 All of these authoritative elements combine in his descriptions of, and instructions about, monastic clothing: he defines the clothing terminology, based mostly in Greek but with some Latin cognates; he has seen (and by implication has worn) the authentic Egyptian wear and so can explain peculiar clothing items; and, as a result of this experience, he knows what will not work in Gaul. Most importantly, however, by placing this account within the list of biblical precedents for both proper and improper clothing, Cassian situates the correctly dressed monk in a tradition, thereby linking them to their authoritative models. This process parallels his ability to insert the reader-monk into his memories of the teachings he heard

  For translation issues, see Columba Stewart, “From λογός to verbum: John Cassian’s Use of Greek in the Development of a Late Monastic Vocabulary,” in The Joy of Learning and the Love of God: Studies in Honor of Jean LeClercq, Cistercian Studies Series 160, ed. E. Rozanne Elder (Kalamazoo: Cisterican Publications, 1995), 5–31; for competition with other writers, see Richard Goodrich, Contextualizing Cassian: Aristocrats, Asceticism, and Reformation in Fifth-century Gaul (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 66–75, esp. 68; for claims about literacy, see Rebecca Krawiec, “Monastic Literacy in John Cassian: Toward a New Sublimity,” Church History 81 (2012): 765–95. 32

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and experienced in Egypt.33 Moreover, Cassian creates a link between clothing and monastic formation through reading. Cassian connects his reader, the Gallic monk, to the authentic foundation of monasticism in Egypt located in Cassian’s text; the main symbol of that relationship, between the monk and his biblical and monastic forebears, is the monk’s clothing. When Cassian’s monk gets dressed, he remembers not just the allegorical meaning of the clothing. He locates himself in the lineage of these forebears as a result of the social memory produced from reading and dressing. This social memory also connects clothing and the emerging reading culture of Cassian’s monasticism. There are several points throughout both the Institutes and Conferences where Cassian describes monks in relation to the physical objects of reading and writing in ways that fit with the idea that monasticism is a “book culture”; that is, his description gives material items, books and writing instruments, religious value.34 When Cassian argues in the Institutes that it is not acceptable for a monk to refer to possessions as “his own,” his examples reveal that the main items monks had frequent access to fall into two categories: literary items and clothing.35 Similarly, when Cassian, in the later Conferences, teaches through the voice of Abba Moses about total renunciation of material possessions, included among the items that present the final obstacle, the most sense of ownership are books and specialized writing tools.36 These descriptions   Cf. Krawiec, “Monastic Literacy in John Cassian,” 776. There my argument is particularly indebted to Stephen Diver, Cassian and the Reading of Egyptian Monastic Culture (London: Routledge, 2003). 34   See Stroumsa’s point about monasticism as “being identified as a culture of the book” (“Scriptural Movement,” 69) and his conclusion that “the book was endowed, in late antiquity, with a new religious status and dignity” (“Scriptural Movement,” 76). My point here also stems from Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Antique Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 3, where she argues for “the ‘material turn’ in the fourth century, in which the religious significance of the material world was revalued.” Thus, we can regard material items (her interest is primarily on the body, mine on the material tools for reading and writing) as “things” and not just “objects,” following Bill Brown’s differentiation (Miller, 1). 35  Cassian, Instit. 4: 13 (SC 109: 136–8; Ramsey, 84) includes codex, tabula, grafium alongside tunica and gallica. This last item—gallica—is an odd inclusion because Cassian has seemingly just allowed monastic ownership of them when he described the poverty of some monks as owning nothing more than basic clothing (colobium, mafors, melotis, psiathium) and a mat. 36  Cassian, Conf. 1.6.1. Latin text: Dominic E. Pichery, ed., Jean Cassian: Conférences, SC 42 (Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1955), 83. I have used the English translation in Boniface Ramsey, OP, trans., John Cassian: The Conferences, ACW 57 (New York: Paulist Press, 1997), 45. 33

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contribute to an image of the monk that elaborates on the correctly dressed monk with which Cassian begins the Institutes. Cassian therefore used two tropes to define correct monastic identity. A monk was identifiable by his tunic, his belt, his cowl, his staff, but apparently also by having a book or a stylus. In neither case were these items the monk’s “own” but in both cases they create a figure that embodied the values that characterize Cassian’s monastic literacy. This figure is the one that sets the social memory of Cassian’s monk: the act of dressing and the actions of reading and writing work together to reinforce the values that Cassian is setting in his monastic system. Whereas Evagrius’ monk engages in social memory as an extension of preparing for demonic combat, Cassian’s monk remembers the authentic and authoritative Egyptian tradition that Cassian, as writer, establishes for him. Despite these divergent purposes, Cassian’s texts still produce a monk like Evagrius: skilled at both types of literacy, grammar, and dress. Sewing for Salvation: Clothing Production in the White Monastery The accounts of clothing in the writings of both Shenoute and Besa—the third and fourth heads, respectively, of the White Monastery in Upper Egypt in the late fourth to fifth centuries—require a shift from examining the meanings attached to monks’ dressing to determining the meaning attached to the process of producing clothing. Further, these sources come from a significantly different monastic context; first, it is unclear whether people moved from elsewhere in the Roman Empire to learn monasticism in the White Monastery, as we know Evagrius and Cassian, as well as many others, did in the northern communities. In addition, whereas the northern communities of Evagrius and Cassian were collections of cells housing two to three monks, with a loose centralized leadership, Shenoute and Besa wrote for a particular audience in order to set a defined community. Rather than engaging in competition with other monastic writers, as both Evagrius and more clearly Cassian do, Shenoute and Besa set the social memory for their institution. Shenoute connects clothing production with monastic membership and the salvation that results from it; part of this membership requires acceptance of his leadership and decisions. Besa forbids decorating clothing with embroidery but his goal is the same: to guard against competing social memories that endanger monastic identity. While determining the historical circumstances of Shenoute’s leadership of the White Monastery is notoriously difficult, most scholars believe he

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came to power about 385–88 and led the community until his death in 465. This chronology, however, suggests a hagiographic-like age of 118, a point of some debate.37 In the course of his leadership, he edited and codified a set of instructions for monasticism, known as the nine Canons of Shenoute.38 These Canons each combine various genres of monastic literature, including rules, letters, and sermons. Like Evagrius and Cassian, Shenoute often attributes authorship of the rules to previous monastic leaders or, ultimately, to God.39 His letters and sermons, however, reflect his own authorial stance as a prophet who has access to divine knowledge, specifically God’s expectations of the monks. In addition, having established these particular collections, Shenoute required that they be read to the monks of the White Monastery four times a year. He thus created regular ceremonies, or “literacy events,” in which his texts were central and which commemorated his leadership.40 Shenoute’s textuality situates a monastic memory both of Shenoute himself, as a leader, and of material expressions of asceticism, including (but not limited to) clothing.41 Clothing becomes part of the social memory of the White Monastery through its role particularly in two of Shenoute’s Canons, 6 and 8. Whatever   Stephen Emmel has repeatedly defended this advanced age; see, for example, Stephen Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus. 2 vols CSCO 600 (Louvain: Peeters, 2004), 11–12, and n. 42 below. Ariel López has recently challenged this dating, suggesting instead that Shenoute rose to prominence in 407 and died in 465, somewhere in his eighties. See Ariel G. López, Shenoute of Atripe and the Uses of Poverty: Rural Patronage, Religious Conflict, and Monasticism in Late Antique Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 18 and 131–3. 38   For the definitive discussion of the reconstruction of the Canons, see Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 553–605. 39   For a discussion about divine authorship of the rules, see Caroline T. Schroeder, Monastic Bodies: Discipline and Salvation in Shenoute of Atripe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 59–67. Bentley Layton has argued that Shenoute regarded the rule material he inherited from previous leaders of the White Monastery as “scripture” and so unchangeable (“Some Observations on Shenoute’s Sources: Who Are Our Fathers?,” Journal of Coptic Studies 11 [2009]: 51). Cf. my discussion of Shenoute’s view of the commandments that he gives to the women in the monastery (Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women of the White Monastery: Egyptian Monasticism in Late Antiquity [New York: Oxford University Press, 2002], 58). While I too argue that Shenoute sees the monastic rules as “Scripture,” I use the term in reference to their divine source, not to indicate immutability. 40   The phrase “literacy event” is Shirley Heath’s, as quoted in William Johnson, “Toward a Sociology of Reading in Classical Antiquity,” American Journal of Philology 121 (2000): 601. The idea that these events were “commemorative ceremonies” combines Connerton’s social memory theory with literacy theory (Connerton, How Societies Remember, Chapter 2). 41   Cf. Schroeder’s analysis of the church building as “a material testimony to the purity of the monks’ bodies and souls” (Monastic Bodies, 91–2ff.). 37

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the historical circumstances which led Shenoute to write these particular letters,42 their inclusion into the Canon as a “formative text” indicates that Shenoute’s teachings became transferred through ritual reading to monks living subsequently in the monastery.43 The women’s work in producing clothing was beneficial, in the sense of work leading towards salvation. In turn, Shenoute could threaten that salvation by chastising their work, or even withdrawing clothing production from them, as he seems to have done in an incident preserved in Canon 6. In the description in Canon 6, the women have produced ill-fitting garments for the male monks, with the opening at the shoulders being particularly problematic. Further, they seem to have resisted Shenoute’s attempts to oversee the clothing production; that is, they challenged his leadership. Since the women’s clothing production also formed the basis of the relationship between the male and female communities of the monastery, this warning further implied their being separated from the monastery and Shenoute’s prophetic leadership, which was also necessary for salvation. When Shenoute includes these references to clothing in the Canons that are ritually read to the monastic community, he shapes the memory of the male and female monks who hear them, including those who were not part of the original event. Like Cassian, he infuses monastic clothing with memory but here memory lies both in the production of clothing (female memory) and the habit itself (male memory). For the women, when they make the clothes, they remember that they need to be made properly (to male satisfaction) for their work to lead to salvation; and they remember that clothing production indicates their membership in this community, under Shenoute. These same memories are part of the other (male) monks’ clothing literacy: when they receive clothing from the women’s community and when they put on monastic garments, they share in the same memories shaped by hearing these texts. Whereas Cassian’s monk remembers the Egyptian tradition Cassian associates with proper 42   For the reconstruction of the historical events that I draw on here, see Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women, 46–9, 83–4, and 150–54. 43   I am here using “formative text” to indicate that Shenoute’s canons instruct the monks in correct behavior as part of the identity formation in the White Monastery. Jan Assmann prefers the term “cultural text” to link his definitions of a “formative text,” which sets identity, and “normative text,” which teaches correct action. For Shenoute, these are not separate texts; further, to a certain extent all texts are “cultural,” as was pointed out by a member of the audience at the Canadian Society for Biblical Studies conference; see Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, trans. Rodney Livingstone (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), 38.

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monastic clothing, Shenoute’s monk remembers the salvation available in the White Monastery, thanks to the leadership of Shenoute, even as s/he is aware that salvation needs to be closely guarded. Another aspect of social memory centers on creating what Jan Assmann has called “fateful events” that are crucial to identity.44 Of Shenoute’s nine Canons, several remember a crucial episode in the formation of the community, though the fragmentary state of their survival limits our ability to reconstruct any connective theme. Canon 1 recalls the events that led to Shenoute’s selection as the third head of the monastery, a validation of Shenoute’s divine revelations about the corruption in the community and an indictment of his (unnamed) predecessor.45 Canon 2 details Shenoute’s expansion of his authority to include a nearby women’s community, bringing them into a set monastery through the taking of an oath and so submitting them to his leadership and the decisions that were part of it.46 Canon 7 centers on the construction of the central church building, making it symbolic of the expectations of purity and pollution that defined the monastic community.47 In these Canons, Shenoute defines identity in the White Monastery through those events he determines to be “fateful” and so worth remembering. While it is not yet known whether a central event connects all the letters of Canon 8, it contains several letters that refer to an on-going debate about clothing.48 Shenoute’s discussion of clothing in Canon 8 is complex but it is 44   Jan Assmann and John Czplicka, “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity,” New German Critique 65 (1995): 129. 45   The main scholarly descriptions of the events of Canon 1 are Stephen Emmel, “Shenoute the Monk: The Early Monastic Career of Shenoute the Archimandrite,” in il monachesimo tra eredita e aperture: Atti del simposio “Testi e temi nella tradizione del monachesimo cristiano” per il 50e anniversario dell’instituto monastico di Sant’Anselmo, Roma, 28 maggio–1e giugno 2002, eds Maciej Bielawski and Daniel Hombergen (Roma, 2004), 151–74; and Caroline T. Schroeder, “Prophecy and Porneia in Shenoute’s Letters: The Rhetoric of Sexuality in a Late Antique Egyptian Monastery,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 65 (2006): 81–97, later expanded in Monastic Bodies, Chapter 1. 46  Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women, 80. 47   See Schroeder, Monastic Bodies, Chapter 3. 48   Likewise, Shenoutean studies have not yet determined whether the remaining Canons are constructed around a main event within the history of Shenoute’s leadership. Such historical reconstructions await the production of the critical editions of the Canons, currently the goal of an international translation team headed by Stephen Emmel. The major codex for Canon 8 is XO, according to Emmel’s classification (Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 593–8). The first 16 folios of XO are wanting but parallels survive (Emmel, Shenoute’s Literary Corpus, 764–77). The first line, including the incipit, survives in XL, the summary codex. Further parallels throughout XO 1–16 have been published, with

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clear that he argues about both the monks’ clothing in general and the correct production of his own clothing. Two of the opening letters in the Canon, So Listen and Who But God is the Witness, declare clothing as a means of revealing the sins that monks try to hide.49 These letters also discuss the state of Shenoute’s clothing, which has been made unwearable through some sort of illness. Shenoute’s own garment, and its relationship to his body, thus becomes an expression of his leadership and so his relationship to the monastic institution as a body.50 His second letter in Canon 8, My Heart is Crushed, again creates an association between the women’s clothing production and his divinely approved leadership, but here the focus is on the correct construction of Shenoute’s clothing, not all habits.51 He begins the letter by describing the loss of a much-loved garment due to moth damage; he continues with a long account of the distress he has experienced both because the women seem to delay making a replacement, even though he is ill, and because whatever he received is not as good as the earlier, now damaged garment.52 He wants the women to “hurry” to make “this type of garment for me” (XO 66) and seems to suspect that either the inferiority or delay signals a resistance of his leadership by the women. He wants yet another garment, which he apparently regards as the means by which the women can make up for their apparent disloyalty.53 translation, in Dwight W. Young, “Additional Fragments of Shenute’s Eighth Canon,” Archiv für Papyrusforschung 44 (1998): 47–68. 49   Dwight W. Young, “Additional Fragments,” 47–68; Dwight W. Young, “Pages from a Copy of Shenute’s Eighth Canon,” Orientalia 67 (1998): 64–84, has the Coptic and English translations for two folios of My Heart is Crushed and additional folies for Who But God is the Witness. Cf. my discussion in Krawiec, “Garments of Salvation,” where I conclude from this material: “For both male and female monks in the White Monastery, clothing does not just signify monastic identity but also the spiritual status of that self, either pure or polluted” (146). 50   “The pollution that the monks’ sins have created for that community is evident to Shenoute in the state of his own body and his aversion to his monastic clothing, the locator of his identity” (Krawiec, “Garments of Salvation,” 145). 51   This letter is XO 63–124; two manuscripts leaves (FR-BN 1305 f. 19 and f. 20) are published in Young, “Pages.” The rest (EG-CF 2 ff. 2–30) remain unpublished. See, however, the forthcoming diplomatic edition: Anne Boud’hors, Le Canon 8 de Chénouté (d’après le manuscrit Ifao Copte 2 et les fragments complémentaires). Introduction, édition critique, traduction, 2 vols Bibliothèque d’études coptes 21 (Le Caire: Institut Francais d’Archéologie Orientale), 2013. 52  Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women, p. 154. 53   Cf. the passage in Krawiec, Shenoute and the Women, 203 n.154.

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Finally, after three intervening letters, Canon 8 concludes with a short letter that begins with a reference to a garment the women have sent.54 If we assume that this letter is chronologically later than My Heart, it would seem that this is the replacement he requested. This final letter apparently serves as ultimately upholding Shenoute’s leadership: he is now clothed correctly and the women have complied with his leadership in having produced that clothing. The production of Shenoute’s own clothing has therefore become enshrined as a “fateful event” of the community, and so becomes part of its social memory through reading.55 Monks in the White Monastery will remember this event, and its relationship both to their identity as “people of Apa Shenoute”56 and to their actions, as obedient to Shenoute, through hearing this text. This memory also, as with the Canon 6 material, reminds them of the necessity of Shenoute’s leadership for their salvation. Shenoute’s successor, Besa, also left behind numerous writings pertinent to his leadership of the monastery, which, like Shenoute’s, have survived in a fragmentary state. We are at a further disadvantage in that the status of these texts for the community is less clear; there is no evidence that they were collected into canons yet they had sufficient on-going authority to be copied as part of the monastic library. Further, monastic tradition linked Besa with Shenoute both literarily, in that Shenoute’s hagiography is ascribed to Besa, and visually, in the paintings of the church at the northern community of the Red Monastery.57 They do, however, continue the work of reminding the monks about their identity, still as “people of Apa Shenoute” (even under Besa’s leadership), and the correct actions that that identity requires. As such,   “Since you have sent this cloak to me, why do you mix up the children of light and the children of darkness in this place” (XO 307). I have yet to determine the role of clothing in the intervening letters. 55   An event linked with the equally “fateful event” of Shenoute’s illness, which, as I have noted, he entwines together in the three opening letters. 56   This is how Besa refers to the monks in the White Monastery. For Coptic text and English translation, see Karl Kuhn, Letters and Sermons of Besa. CSCO 21 22. (Louvain: Peeters, 1956). All translations are from Kuhn; this passage is from Frag 23. I.6. 57   Nina Lubomierski has argued that the attribution of Besa as the author is based on later tradition; see her “Untersuchungen zur sog. Vita Sinuthii,” (Ph.D. diss., Heidelberg University, 2006). For a recent challenge to parts of her argument, see López, Shenoute of Atripe, 135–6. For a discussion of the artwork of the Red Monastery, and the relationship of Besa and Shenoute in niches, see Elizabeth Bolman, “Late Antique Ascetics, Chromophobia and the Red Monastery, Sohag, Egypt,” Eastern Christian Art 3 (2006): 1–24. The “Red Monastery” was part of the collection of monastic settlements that make up what scholars term the White Monastery Federation. 54

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they can be viewed as commemorative texts, rather than simply formative ones.58 Rather than setting the norms, and formulating the identity, of the community, they remember the basis for them and re-inscribe them. When Shenoute’s works had monks remember why Shenoute was head of the monastery, the focus was on Shenoute and his divinely ordained leadership. Besa’s texts, in contrast, primarily remember the words and teachings of other writers. Rather than teaching himself, his authority lies as a “memory specialist” of the teachings that are the foundation of the monastery.59 It is noteworthy that, despite several letters to particular female monks and the female community as a whole, there are almost no references to clothing production. Rather, besides the unremarkable warnings against stealing clothing, there are simply two admonitions to avoid mistreating clothing, either through the act of embroidery or some sort of alteration of clothing that departs from a monastic norm. These particular condemnations stand in contrast to at least one positive view of embroidery since, as Stephen Davis has shown, Shenoute uses discussion of particular scenes embroidered on clothing as the basis for Christological notions, particularly the “putting on” of Christ.60 Yet Besa suggests the opposite: that clothing could somehow be the site of a demonic attack, stirring up the passions or lust.61 The difference could lie in the memory associated with clothing. Whereas Shenoute was creating a new social (i.e., monastic) memory situated on clothing, Besa could be guarding against the encroachment of previous, non-monastic social memory. It is somewhat unclear what aspect of clothing production or wearing Besa finds problematic. The term in dispute is ⲱⲗⲙ.62 Kuhn suggests that Besa is condemning “embroidery,” which is in keeping with Crum’s proposed translation of a similar phrase from Shenoute.63 Since, however, Crum also suggests “entwine” as a translation of this term, it could, according to Janet

  “Commemorative text” is my innovation of Connerton’s “commemorative ceremony.”  In Religion and Cultural Memory, Assmann uses “memory specialist” to describe oral cultures, as opposed to literate, but, as noted above, that is not a binary that works here; both Shenoute and Besa, as well as other late antique monastic teachers, use written texts as extension of oral-based leadership. See Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 105–7. 60   Davis, “Fashioning a Divine Body,” 353. 61  Kuhn, Letters and Sermons, Frag. 17.VII.1 for embroidering “garments in demonic passions”; and Frag. 12.V.2 for “lustful embroiderings of garments.” 62   See W. E. Crum, A Coptic Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1930), 522. 63  Kuhn, Letters and Sermons, Frag. 17.VII.1 for embroidering “garments in demonic passions”; and Frag. 12.V.2 for “lustful embroiderings of garments.” 58

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Timbie, be indicating a twisting of clothing to make it more attractive.64 Both of these possibilities, while differing in how the clothing is being treated, seem to refer to physical adornment of clothing and so indicate issues of social memory situated in clothing. First, let us consider the potential problem of embroidery. Besa’s fears about the danger of embroidery are reasonable, if he is concerned about monks distancing themselves from the surrounding religious context of Panapolis. David Frankfurter has argued that there is evidence for continued Egyptian religious practice in the area.65 Elisabeth O’Connell has further shown in particular that textile design on clothing and household objects associated with late antique Panapolis combine “pagan” and Christian images in ways that challenge modern scholarly separation of these categories as distinct identities.66 One possible reason that Besa describes embroidery as “demonic” could be that it engaged subjects other than Christian figures.67 Rather, they could contain references to traditional Egyptian religion; the production of such images would be problematic in a monastic setting since it blurs the allegiance monastic identity required.68 If, however, the alternative translation, “twisting” their clothes, is considered, clothing still remains a site of contested monastic identity, wherein the monk’s incorrect treatment of clothing, to make him attractive, makes him vulnerable to demonic forces. Clothing needs to have a proper (albeit here not image-based) appearance in order for the monk to remember his identity as a monk. The act of embroidery (or of twisting clothing) is very much like the act of writing: a habit memory of a skill that carries with it particular meanings. Just as other writers, such as Cassian, re-define the habit memories of reading and   Janet Timbie made this suggestion in personal correspondence. I am grateful to her for her advice and alternative translation. 65   David Frankfurter, “‘Things Unbefitting Christians’: Violence and Christianization in Fifth-Century Panopolis,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 8 (2000): 274–81. 66   Elisabeth R. O’Connell, “Representation and self-presentation in late antique Egypt: ‘Coptic’ textiles in the British Museum” (2008). Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings. Paper 121. http://digitalcommons.unl.edu/tsaconf/121. Her “most dramatic” example is a burial that combines a tunic with Mary on it and a textile with images of Dionysius. Although none of the examples of “pagan” images appear on tunics, only on household goods, it is still possible to extend this practice to embroidery on garments. 67   Davis, “Fashioning a Divine Body,” 336–47, includes a survey of some examples of Christian garment decoration. 68   The wearing of such images would be even more so, since, as Davis argues, the monastic body would then not be “Christianized” (to say nothing of “monasticized”) but rather “paganized” through ritual dressing (Davis, “Fashioning a Divine Body,” 336). 64

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writing from their “pagan” roots to having monastic meaning, here Besa could guard against an action in the monastery that would transfer a non-monastic social memory, through the habit of the skill, into the monastery. If monks were to embroider inappropriate subjects, or render clothing attractive, these actions would allow for alternative social memories of a pre-monastic identity, located in clothing, to compete with the social memory of the monastic institution. Besa’s teaching about clothing production is not focused on remembering, here, but also forgetting. Conclusion In the anonymous Historia Monachorum, a text produced in late antique Palestine claiming to record monasticism in Egyptian as practiced by a variety of men and women, two of the monks are reported to be illiterate. Both are granted the ability to read through supernatural means, God’s grace, and both are likewise connected to monastic issues of clothing: one is identified as the inventor of the monastic habit; the other has clairvoyance such that he knows when a monk is hiding sins behind his habit.69 In both cases, the monks’ “illiteracy” with regard to literature is corrected and is then manifested in a literacy of dress—either inventing or being able to properly read a monk’s (deceptive) clothing. These stories again link two forms of knowing that combine to create social memory. Social memory does not refer simply to the traditions that are established and passed on for either a social institution or a cultural movement. Rather social memory examines how people in a group (that is, in a monastery, understanding themselves as participating in monasticism) transfer their identity to others in the group. Clothing, in these texts, serves as a medium of transfer. Monks are taught what to remember in relationship to clothing such that the actions around clothes become habitual and unconscious sites of memory. Yet, I have argued, what monastic authors want the monks to remember or, in the case of Besa, to forget, is not always the same. Rather there are competing social memories that question the idea of the creation of “a” monasticism in late antiquity. Monasticism is a cultural movement, manifested in a variety of social institutions; while the cultural memory of this movement seeks a shared tradition, the inscribing and incorporating practices of the different monasteries reveal a diversity of social memory, all located in monastic dress.   Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 10 (On Patermuthius) and 2 (On Abba Or).

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Chapter 4

Unraveling the Pallium Dispute between Gregory the Great and John of Ravenna Adam Serfass

In a letter dating to July 593, Pope Gregory the Great upbraids John, metropolitan archbishop of Ravenna, for “certain things done … contrary to custom and the path of humility,” more precisely, for when and where John wears his pallium.1 From no later than the early sixth century, popes granted this garment to certain bishops. Gregory requires many of its recipients, including John, to wear it only during mass; he tells John that a metropolitan who does otherwise is virtually unheard of.2 But the pope has learned that John wears his pallium in ways sanctioned neither by general custom nor by special privilege: before mass, in his cathedral’s secretarium with laypeople present, and, of greater concern, during solemn litanies, penitential processions through the streets of Ravenna. To Gregory, these practices are not minor breaches of ecclesiastical etiquette. By persisting in them, John risks an unfavorable verdict before the judgment seat of Christ: And what are we going to say to our future judge, dearest brother, if we defend what is a heavy yoke and chain (grave iugum atque vinculum) about our neck, not, I say, for ecclesiastical dignity but for a certain secular dignity? … Do we wish to be decorated (decorari) with the pallium, which is perhaps indecorous

  “quaedam … contra consuetudines atque humilitatis tramitem geri” Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 200. Gregory’s works are cited without author and, unless otherwise noted, all translations are mine. 2   “prope de nullo metropolita” Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 201. On Gregory’s attempts to regularize the use of the pallium by restricting its use to mass, see Ernst Pitz, Papstreskripte im frühen Mittelalter: Diplomatische und rechtsgeschichtliche Studien zum Brief-Corpus Gregors des Grossen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1990), 126–7, 144–5. 1

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(indecori) for our morals, while nothing on the episcopal neck more brightly shines than humility?3

Responding in a missive of his own, John defends himself against the pope’s allegations: yes, he wears the pallium in the secretarium, but only when the laity is leaving the room and mass is about to begin, and, yes, he wears the pallium in litanies, but this is sanctioned by local tradition.4 In subsequent years, the epistolary row over the pallium escalates, with clerics from both sees and highranking laymen from Ravenna drawn into the dispute. Not even John’s death in January 595 ends the controversy. After a brief détente, it resurges during the episcopacy of John’s successor, Marinianus.5 As late as June 599, to which Gregory’s last letter regarding the conflict dates, the problem of the pallium continues to divide the two preeminent sees in Italy, with no reconciliation in sight.6 Having reviewed this long, acrimonious dispute, we may wonder: why does when and where a garment is worn matter so much to the bishops of Rome and Ravenna? We will return to this question in the conclusion of this chapter. To answer it, we must first understand the significance of the pallium itself. Following this introduction, three brief sections lay the groundwork for this   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 201; my rendering of this passage is indebted to John R.C. Martyn, trans., The Letters of Gregory the Great (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2004), 1: 273. Before sending this written reprimand, Gregory had voiced his concerns to John through Castor, a Roman cleric who served as the pope’s representative in Ravenna. John responded to Castor’s verbal admonition by sending to Gregory a letter, now lost, together with a rescript of Pope John III, dating to Sept. 569, which is preserved in Gregory’s Registrum: Ep. Appendix 7 = CCSL 140a: 1100. The rescript confirms John’s right to the pallium, but says nothing about the circumstances during which the garment should be worn. 4   Ep. Appendix 6 = CCSL 140a: 1097–9. 5   The later history of the dispute may be followed in Ep. 5.11, 5.15, 5.61, 6.31, 9.168 = CCSL 140: 277, 280–281, 363, 403–4; 140a:726–7. For further discussion, see Pitz, Papstreskripte, 141–6; F. Homes Dudden, Gregory the Great: His Place in History and Thought (New York: Longmans, Green, 1905), 1: 434–43; John Albert Eidenschink, The Election of Bishops in the Letters of Gregory the Great with an Appendix on the Pallium (Washington: Catholic University Press, 1945), 109–25; R.A. Markus, Gregory the Great and his World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 150–52; Steven A. Schoenig, “The Papacy and the Use and Understanding of the Pallium from the Carolingians to the Early Twelfth Century” (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 2009), 176–7; José María Martí Bonet, El palio: Insignia pastoral de los papas y arzobispos (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 2008), 20–23, with a helpful chronology of events at 21n7. 6   Ep. 9.168 = CCSL 140a: 726–77. 3

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inquiry. The first examines the earliest appearances of the pallium in art to show how the garment’s conspicuous display, bright white color, and yoke-like drape contribute to its significance. The second surveys the rare references to the pallium in literary sources that predate Gregory’s papacy, wherein the garment is presented as a marker of papal authority, the apostle Peter’s favor, and the wearer’s moral worth. The third, drawing on liturgical texts, argues that the rite of episcopal consecration current in Gregory’s day taught viewers to interpret symbolically a bishop’s vestments. The chapter then comes to its central concern: the symbolism of the pallium in Gregory’s letters. The pallium, it will be argued, advertises its wearer’s special connection to the apostolic see, to Gregory and his papal predecessors, back to Peter himself, in whose authority the wearer mystically shares. At the same time, its visible splendor manifests the invisible beauty of the wearer’s virtues, namely, his humility and obedience, considered by Gregory to be essential qualities for Christian leaders. In donning his prestigious pallium, a prelate signals his deference to papal authority: the garment at once symbolizes status and submission. We will also see that Gregory, by emphasizing particular aspects of the pallium’s significance when writing to particular persons, turns the granting, denying, and revoking of the garment into a powerful tool of papal diplomacy.7 Earlier examinations of the pallium have tended to focus less on its symbolism than the procedure by which it was conceded and the much-debated and, to my mind, insoluble question of its origin.8 This chapter has benefited from the new wave of scholarship on ancient dress discussed in this volume’s introduction. Two principles of these recent studies are especially important here. First, dress served as a barometer of an individual’s character, his or her ethical, philosophical, or religious values. Secondly, late antiquity was marked   On the role of clothing in disputes about authority and power, see also Rebecca Krawiec’s chapter in this volume. 8   Theories of the pallium’s origin are surveyed in Martí Bonet, Palio, 9–11; Joseph Braun, Die liturgische Gewandung im Occident und Orient: Nach Ürsprung und Entwicklung, Verwendung und Symbolik (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1907), 652–64; Odilo Engels, “Der Pontifikatsantritt und seine Zeichen,” in Segni e riti nella chiesa altomedievale occidentale, 11–17 aprile 1985 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1987), 2: 728–33. Michele Maccarrone analyzes the pallium as a symbol of Petrine and papal authority but (for this is outside the purview of his study) pays little attention to the garment’s connection to humility and obedience: “La dottrina del primato papale dal IV all’VIII secolo nelle relazioni con le chiese occidentali,” in Le chiese nei regni dell’Europa occidentale e i loro rapporti con Roma sino all’800, 7–13 aprile 1959 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1960), 2: 730–38. For an astute analysis of the pallium’s symbolism in the Middle Ages, see Schoenig, “Papacy,” 201–34, 514–59. 7

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by shifting fashions and heightened expressiveness in dress; among Christians, clothing was freighted with new symbolic values derived from scripture and developed by its interpreters. Late antique bishops who wore the pallium lived in a time when there was an extraordinary sensitivity to the capacity of clothing to articulate meaning. Those who saw a bishop wearing the pallium were primed to consider the garment as an outward ornament that served as a window into his inner life.9 But what did the pallium look like, and how did its appearance shape its symbolism? The Pallium in Early Christian Art The pallium is first artistically represented in the famous mosaics of S. Vitale in Ravenna, which date to the 540s (see Plate 4.1).10 In a panel located in the north wall of the church’s apse, Justinian presents a paten to Maximian, archbishop of Ravenna, who, over a white tunic trimmed at the sides and cuffs with thin, dark stripes and a russet-gold chasuble, wears his pallium: a narrow strip of white cloth draped over his other vestments and looped around his neck to form a shape akin to a lower-case letter “y.” Above the fringed edge of the pallium appears a black Greek cross. In a second mosaic (Plate 4.2), found in the halfdome of the apse, the Ravennate bishop Ecclesius also wears a pallium, over a purple chasuble.11 Pallia are also worn by the bishops of Ravenna in the apse mosaic of S. Apollinare in Classe, which dates to the mid sixth century, and by the popes in the apse mosaic of S. Agnese fuori le mura in Rome, which dates to 625–38. These representations of the pallium differ in small details, but, overall, the garment’s drape, dimensions, color, and decoration are consistent. Three aspects of the garment’s appearance in these mosaics deserve mention as they are germane to its symbolism. First, the pallium is worn atop the bishop’s 9   The bishop’s garment is not to be confused with the philosopher’s tribōn, as discussed in Arthur Urbano’s chapter in this volume. On the garb of Judean clerics, see Joan Taylor’s chapter in this volume. 10   For a summary, up-to-date treatment of the S. Vitale mosaics, see Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 236–50. 11   The lower two-thirds of the figure of Ecclesius were restored ca. 1100: his stole and other garments were added under the chasuble and the end of his pallium was decorated with a palmette and a red and orange fringe: Irina Andreescu-Treadgold, “The Emperor’s New Crown and St. Vitalis’ New Clothes,” Corsi di cultura sull’arte ravennate e bizantine 41 (1994): 153, 177–86.

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other vestments; its prominent display underscores its prestige. In the mosaics, it is always worn over a chasuble of contrasting hue, which sets off the whiteness of the garment; the pallium’s color is the second visual element worthy of note. In classical antiquity, the color white, characterized less by the absence of color than by its luminosity, was associated with high status, purity, and the gods.12 Christian writers further developed these associations. For example, candidates for baptism stripped off their garments, were immersed, and donned white robes, which were variously interpreted as signifying purity, incorruptibility, the protection of the Holy Spirit, a return to prelapsarian sinlessness, a mystical marriage to Christ, or a sharing in the glory of his resurrection.13 Since God is light, white represents the divine; it is an otherworldly, eschatological color. Gregory himself riffs on the color’s significance in his exegeses of the ephod, the polychromatic garment worn by high priests in the Levitical cult. Part of the ephod is made from “finely woven linen of refulgent appearance” (byssus nitenti specie), which symbolizes the wearer’s “bodily chastity gleaming white with the beauty of purity.”14 The bright white color of the pallium reflects the bishop’s special proximity to God and his moral probity. Lastly, the drape of the pallium—how the garment is worn—is significant. The pallium is loosely wrapped once around the wearer’s neck so that one end depends over his back and the other depends over the right side (from the viewer’s perspective) of his chest. Since the pallium encircles the neck, it resembles a yoke, and this resemblance shapes the significance of the garment. 12   See, for example, Mary Harlow, “Clothes Maketh the Man: Power Dressing and Elite Masculinity in the Later Roman World,” in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900, eds Leslie Brubaker and Julia M.H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 55; Judith Lynn Sebesta, “Symbolism in the Costume of the Roman Woman,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 48; Christopher Rowe, “Concepts of Colour and Colour Symbolism in the Ancient World,” in Color Symbolism: Six Excerpts from the Eranos Yearbook 1972 (Zurich: Spring Publications, 1977), 28–9, 44–5; Liz James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 50, 73; Erwin R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1953–68), 9: 165–8. 13   For a concise survey of these interpretations, see Vincenzo Pavan, “La veste bianca battesimale, indicium escatologico nella Chiesa dei primi secoli,” Augustinianum 18 (1978): 257–71. See further Carla Noce, Vestis varia: L’immagine della veste nell’opera di Origene (Rome: Institutum Patristicum “Augustinianum,” 2002), 57–76; Ante Crnčević, Induere Christum: Rito e linguaggio simbolico-teologico della vestizione battesimale (Rome: Edizioni Liturgiche, 2000). 14   “Et quid per byssum, nisi candens decore munditiae corporalis castitas designatur?” Reg. Past. 2.3 = SC 381: 186; the quotation appears verbatim in Ep. 1.24 = CCSL 140: 25.

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The Pallium’s Symbolism Before Gregory It is important to examine the scant textual references to pallia that antedate Gregory’s papacy so that we may see how he builds on the nascent symbolism of the garment. Two episodes dating to the 530s portray the pallium as a metonym of the papal office. In 530, the ailing Pope Felix IV issued a decree in which he presumptuously named his successor, the archdeacon Boniface. In the decree, Felix reports that, with presbyters, deacons, senators, and patricians present as witnesses, he has handed over his pallium to Boniface.15 This gesture visually marked the transfer of papal power, and was modeled on a scriptural exemplar. After Elijah is carried to heaven in a whirlwind, Elisha picks up his mantle (2 Kings 2), a symbol of authority and proximity to God, and thus assumes Elijah’s prophetic ministry as his divinely appointed successor. The word for mantle here in the Vulgate is pallium. By leaving his own pallium to his protégé, Felix cast Boniface as a latter-day Elisha, a legitimate successor chosen by God.16 Similar symbolism is found in a second story, dating to 537. The Byzantine empress Theodora, vexed with Pope Silverius’ refusal to restore the patriarch of Constantinople to communion and office, ordered the general Belisarius to arrange for Silverius’ deposition from the papacy. Silverius was summoned to Belisarius’ palace in Rome. There, in the presence of Belisarius, the patrician Antonina, and the deacon Vigilius, a subdeacon, John, “removed the pallium from Silverius’ neck and led him into another room; [then,] stripping Silverius, John dressed him in monastic clothes.”17 There are three stages in this carefully choreographed act. First, John, before witnesses, removed the pallium. No formal rite of deposition was needed: it was enough for Belisarius and the others to see the pallium, that symbol of papal authority, snatched from Silverius’ neck. Next,   If Felix recovered, Boniface had to return the pallium. Edward Schwartz, ed., Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1914), 4.2: 96–7. For the historical context, see, for example, Jeffrey Richards, The Popes and the Papacy in the Early Middle Ages, 476–752 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), 122–5. 16   On the symbolism of Elijah’s garb, see Rebecca Krawiec, “‘Garments of Salvation’: Representations of Monastic Clothing in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 17 (2009): 132–6; Lynda L. Coon, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), 30–31. Maccarrone also connects the story of Felix and Boniface to that of Elijah and Elisha: “Dottrina del primato,” 2: 730–31. 17   “tulit pallium de collo eius et duxit in cubiculum; expolians eum induit eum vestem monachicam,” Louis Duchesne, ed., Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction et commentaire (Paris: Thorin, 1884), 1: 293. For clarity, proper names were substituted for most of the Latin pronouns in the translation. 15

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John escorted Silverius to a private room, where he forced the deposed pope to take off the rest of his clerical clothes. As these garments were not essential signs of papal identity—note that the author does not mention them by name—John could have them removed in the absence of witnesses. Finally, John dressed Silverius in a monk’s habit. The meaning of Silverius’ sartorial transformation was clear: after another subdeacon, Xystus, saw Silverius in his new garb, Xystus told the rest of the Roman clergy that the pope had been deposed and had entered monastic life.18 Popes were not the only prelates who wore the pallium before Gregory’s papacy. Bishops from Ostia, Ravenna, and Taormina in Sicily are known to have done so,19 and four letters are extant in which popes grant pallia to bishops of Arles who served as papal vicars in Gaul. Caesarius of Arles, the first such papal vicar, is also the first known recipient of the pallium, granted by Pope Symmachus in a letter dating to 513.20 Subsequent popes awarded the same office and privilege to Caesarius’ successors in 543, 546, and 586.21 In these letters, the garment’s significance is mentioned just twice, and only briefly. Pope Vigilius concedes the garment to Aurelian “so that, with the favor of Saint Peter the apostle, you may not lack an ornament of your morals and all your good deeds.”22 The pallium is linked to the apostle Peter and exemplifies the ancient commonplace, mentioned earlier, that dress should correspond to character. Pope Pelagius I grants the pallium to Sapaudus “so that, established in the dignity of so great an office, you may also be adorned by a splendid habitus.”23 The word habitus 18  Duchesne, Liber Pontificalis, 1: 293. Cf. Dyan Elliott, “Dressing and Undressing the Clergy: Rites of Ordination and Degradation,” in Medieval Fabrications: Dress, Textiles, Clothwork, and Other Cultural Imaginings, ed. E. Jane Burns (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 55–69. 19   For references to the pallium before Gregory’s papacy, see Martí Bonet, Palio, 12–18; Braun, Liturgische Gewandung, 624–5; Maccarrone, “Dottrina del primato,” 2: 730–34. 20   Epistolae Arelatenses 26 = MGH Ep. 3: 40. Since Symmachus does not describe the pallium or its use, Caesarius must have been familiar with it, which suggests that the popes conferred the garment on other prelates before Caesarius’ time. Preserved in Arles as relics of this bishop are two textiles traditionally, but to my mind not conclusively, identified as pallia: Anastasia Ozoline, “Histoire des reliques de saint Césaire et restauration du pallium à l’enveloppe hispano-mauresque,” in L’Église et la mission au VIe siècle: La mission d’Augustin de Cantorbéry et les Églises de Gaule sous l’impulsion de Grégoire le Grand, Actes du Colloque d’Arles de 1998, ed. Christophe de Dreuille (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2000), 291–305. 21   Epistolae Arelatenses 39, 44, 50 = MGH Ep. 3: 59, 66, 74. 22   “ut et morum et omnium bonarum rerum vobis, beato Petro apostolo suffragante, non desit ornatus” Epistolae Arelatenses 44 = MGH Ep. 3: 66. 23   “ut in tanti loci fastigio constitutus praeclaro quoque habitu decoreris” Epistolae Arelatenses 50 = MGH Ep. 3: 74. The ut-clause is ambiguous, perhaps deliberately so. It

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is multivalent: it might be rendered as “appearance” or “character”; such is the correlation between the two that one word can express both. In his own letters, Gregory develops in new, nuanced ways the pallium’s nascent associations with papal power, St Peter, and the wearer’s character. The Rite of Episcopal Ordination Since both Gregory and earlier popes shape the meaning of the pallium through their correspondence, an important question should be raised: would someone without knowledge of their letters have appreciated the garment’s symbolism? No other sources are extant that shed light on the question: no contemporary homilies or liturgical commentaries, for example, unfold the garment’s significance. Yet, as noted earlier, late antiquity is characterized by sensitivity to the semiotics of clothing, so it may be reasonably assumed that viewers knew to interpret symbolically a bishop’s dress. On at least one occasion, they were explicitly asked to do so: at his consecration, an elaborate, two-day ritual that clergy and laity alike attended.24 On the second day of the ceremony, as the gradual was chanted, the ordinand, escorted by acolytes, subdeacons, and the archdeacon, left the sanctuary for the sacristy, where he was vested in episcopal finery. Accompanied by the same entourage, he re-emerged before the congregation.25 The ordinand’s theatrical entrance and change of clothes suggest that, although the consecration has not been completed ritually, visually the ordinand has already assumed the episcopal office. The ritual then climaxed with the prayer of consecration, in which the bishop-elect was likened to the high priest Aaron, who was “clothed in a mystical raiment” whose various elements typologically presaged the virtues that the ordinand was to manifest: “we pray, may express purpose: the pope gives Sapaudus the pallium for the purpose of enhancing his appearance, to lend it a splendor that corresponds to the high dignity of his office. Or it may express result: the pope gives Sapaudus the pallium with the result that it may inspire him to a holier life. 24   Ordo Romanus 34.14–45 = Michel Andrieu, Les Ordines Romani du haut MoyenÂge (Louvain: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense Administration, 1931–56), 3: 606–13; Sacramentarium Veronense 942–7 = Leo Cunibert Mohlberg, ed., Sacramentarium Veronense (Cod. Bibl. Capit. Veron. LXXXV [80]), 3rd ed. (Rome: Herder, 1978), 118–20. The description of the rite here found relies on Sharon L. McMillan, Episcopal Ordination and Ecclesial Consensus (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2005), 14–32. 25   Ordo Romanus 34.37 = Andrieu 3: 612. The pallium was not one of the garments donned by the bishop-elect, but this does not invalidate the main point of this section: the rite of consecration taught viewers to see episcopal dress as symbolic.

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Lord, that what [Aaron’s] clothes signified … may shine (clariscat) in the morals and actions of [this man].” The principal consecrator further prayed that the “strength of [God’s] spirit may both fill [the ordinand] within and enclothe (circumtegat) [him] without.” The congregation was asked to see the ordinand’s vestments as material manifestations of the Holy Spirit. Yet these splendid garments were not to win for their wearer worldly honor, as in Aaron’s day, for “no longer does the dignity of robes commend to us episcopal glory, but the splendor of souls.”26 Through ritual, the congregation was conditioned to read a bishop’s vestments not as trappings of power but as signifiers of the virtues that made him worthy of his new office. The Pallium in Gregory’s Letters Having examined the pallium in art, its earliest appearances in literary sources, and the rite of episcopal consecration, we may now ask: what did the pallium signify for Gregory, and how did its significance make the garment an invaluable bargaining chip in his negotiations with secular and ecclesiastical leaders? To begin, it is helpful to discuss what it did not signify: the pallium was not yet a symbol of metropolitan authority—that is, authority over other bishops, known as suffragans, within an ecclesiastical province—during Gregory’s papacy, as it has been for more than a millennium.27 Many of the prelates to whom Gregory granted the pallium were indeed metropolitans, but others were simply

  The quotations in this paragraph all derive from Sacramentarium Veronense 947 = Mohlberg 119–20. On the prayer of consecration, see further Antonio Santantoni, L’ordinazione episcopale: Storia e teologia dei riti dell’ordinazione nelle antiche liturgie dell’occidente (Rome: Editrice Anselmiana, 1976), 54–6; Paul F. Bradshaw, The Ordination Rites of the Ancient Churches of East and West (New York: Pueblo, 1990), 55–6. 27  Braun, Liturgische Gewandung, 640; Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 436; Schoenig, “Papacy,” 12–13; cf. Pitz, Papstreskripte, 126. Gregory links the pallium to metropolitan authority in a single letter, wherein the garment is granted to Augustine of Canterbury and is promised to his successors so that (ita ut) he may consecrate suffragans, a traditional prerogative of metropolitans, and is promised for the same purpose to the future metropolitan of York: Ep. 11.39 = CCSL 140a:934–5. Based on this concession, made late in Gregory’s papacy ( June 601), Maccarrone argues for a “profonda evoluzione” in the garment’s symbolism and Gregory’s “coscienza di nuovo valore dato al pallio”: “Dottrina del primato,” 2: 736–7. But in the sole grant of the pallium by Gregory that postdates the letter to Augustine, there is no hint of the garment’s connection to metropolitan authority: in fact, the recipient of the garment, John of Palermo, is a suffragan: Ep. 13.38 = CCSL 140a: 1041 ( July 603). 26

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suffragans.28 Moreover, not all metropolitans received the pallium. Gregory denied the petition of Desiderius, metropolitan of Vienne, for the use of the vestment, and he seems to have done the same to Aetherius, metropolitan of Lyon.29 Gregory typically granted the pallium in response to a request from the bishop who sought the privilege, as the examples of Desiderius and Aetherius suggest, or after notification of an episcopal election.30 In many cases Gregory cited custom as justifying the grant of the pallium, which means that some of the bishop’s predecessors in office had enjoyed the privilege; in others, Gregory was innovative, in that he granted the vestment to a bishop whose predecessors had never received it. The pallium was a personal privilege: it could not be transferred to one’s successor in the episcopacy. Even if a see’s ordinaries customarily had received the pallium, each incumbent’s right to it had to be confirmed individually, as the concessions to the bishops of Arles make clear. Tradition did not guarantee an automatic grant: there is no evidence that Licerius, bishop of Arles from 586–88, received the pallium, though his three predecessors and his immediate successor in office were authorized to wear it.31 In Gregory’s time the 28   Suffragans: Palermo, Syracuse, Messina, and Taormina (Sicily); Autun (Gaul): Ep. 6.8, 6.18, 9.214, 9.220, 9.223, 13.38 = CCSL 140: 377, 388; 140a: 772–5, 790–792, 794–7, 1041 and Pelagius I Ep. 41 = Pius M. Gassó and Columba M. Batlle, eds, Pelagii I Papae Epistulae Quae Supersunt (556–561) (Barcelona: Tallers Gràfics Marià Galve, 1956), 114–15. The suffragan bishops of Ostia also received pallia. According to the Liber Pontificalis, which was compiled by the 540s (Duchesne, Liber Pontificalis, 1:xxxiii–xlviii), Pope Marcus in 336 decreed that the bishop of Ostia could use the pallium (Duchesne, Liber Pontificalis, 1: 202). For a reader of the text in the 540s to have countenanced this anachronistic claim, the bishops of Ostia must have received pallia for some time. 29  Desiderius: Ep. 9.221 = CCSL 140a:793. In a letter to Aetherius (Ep. 11.40 = CCSL 140: 936–7), Gregory denies “that which you request to be conceded by ancient custom” because no record of past concessions to Lyon can be found in papal records. Although the item denied is not identified specifically as the pallium, the language is so similar to that found in the letter to Desiderius that Gregory would seem to be denying the pallium to Aetherius as well: so also Dudden, Gregory the Great, 2: 73–4; Luce Pietri, “Grégoire le Grand et la Gaule: Le projet pour le réforme de l’Église gauloise,” in Gregorio Magno e il suo tempo: XIX Incontro di studiosi dell’antichità cristiana in collaborazione con l’École Française de Rome, Roma, 9–12 maggio 1990 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum “Augustinianum,” 1991), 1: 120; Ralph W. Mathisen, “Syagrius of Autun, Virgilius of Arles, and Gregory of Rome: Factionalism, Forgery, and Local Authority at the End of the Sixth Century,” in de Dreuille, Église et la mission, 284. 30  Pitz, Papstreskripte, 126–9. The claim that the emperor’s permission was required for the grant of the pallium has long been disproven: Braun, Liturgische Gewandung, 634–9; Eidenschink, Election of Bishops, 101–4. 31  Predecessors’ pallia: Epistolae Arelatenses 39, 44, 50 = MGH Ep. 3: 59, 66, 74; Successor’s pallium: Ep. 5.58 = CCSL 140: 354–7. See further Mathisen, “Syagrius of Autun,” 266, 278.

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pallium was not a badge of office worn by all metropolitans; rather, it was a rare gift. The pallium indicated that its wearer enjoyed a special, personal relationship with the pope who gave the garment to him. But not just with the pope. Gregory regularly writes that the pallium is granted by the apostolic see (sedes apostolica).32 While the phrase sedes apostolica is common in papal correspondence, it is not simply bureaucratic boilerplate. The noun sedes, in classical Latin a civil official’s seat of power, underscores the institutional authority of the papacy; the adjective apostolica points to the source of that authority—Peter himself. The wearer of the pallium, granted to him by Peter’s heir, is mystically linked to that apostle. In Gregory’s letter to Leander, metropolitan of Seville, he writes that, “with the blessing of Saint Peter, first of the apostles, we have sent to you a pallium.”33 A close friend of Gregory, Leander played a pivotal role in the conversion of Visigothic Spain from Arian to Chalcedonian Christianity,34 and his pallium represented the communion thus established between Spain and Peter’s see. While all dioceses could claim apostolic succession, most, like Seville, could claim no apostolic founder. Wearing the pallium grafted Leander, and by extension Seville, into the line of Peter, not just an apostle but first of the apostles. Peter was thought to wield authority over his fellow apostles, just as his papal successors did over subject bishops. The phrase apostolorum princeps, not common in papal correspondence until Gregory’s reign, suggests that Peter’s authority was analogous to that of the Roman emperor (princeps), in whose ancient capital the sedes apostolica was

  Ep. 2.19, 5.61, 6.8, 6.18, 9.221, 9.229, 11.39, 13.38 = CCSL 140: 105–6, 363, 377, 388; 140a:793, 805–11, 934–5, 1041. On sedes apostolica, see Maccarrone, “Dottrina del primato,” 2: 634–50; Erich Caspar, Geschichte des Papsttums von den Anfängen bis zur Höhe der Weltherrschaft (Tübingen: Mohr, 1930), 1: 242–7; Charles Pietri, Roma Christiana: Recherches sur l’Église de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte III (311–440) (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1976), 2: 1505–10; Pierre Batiffol, Cathedra Petri: Études d’histoire ancienne de l’Église (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1938), 151–68, who at 157 argues that the phrase should be translated as the, not an, apostolic see when it appears in Roman sources. 33   “ex benedictione beati Petri apostolorum principis pallium vobis transmisimus” Ep. 9.228 = CCSL 140a:804. 34   For the historical context, see Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 403–14; Markus, Gregory the Great and his World, 164–8; Pablo C. Díaz, “Gregorio Magno y el reino visigodo: Un conflicto de poderes,” in Gregorio Magno, l’impero e i “regna”: Atti dell’incontro internazionale di studio dell’Università degli studi di Salerno … 30 settembre–1 ottobre 2004, ed. Claudio Azzara (Florence: Sismel, 2008), 59–99. 32

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founded.35 Furthermore, Gregory often refers to the apostolic see’s auctoritas, the word used to express the emperor’s power.36 Through his pallium Leander shared in the quasi-imperial authority transmitted by Peter to his episcopal successors. The mystical link between the pallium’s wearer and the apostolorum princeps would have been heightened were pallia stored near Peter’s tomb before they were distributed, as was the custom in later centuries and is still the custom today.37 By Gregory’s time, garments and other textiles were regularly placed near the saint’s tomb.38 Imbued with sacred power, these items became contact relics that were given by the popes to select recipients.39 It seems reasonable to assume that pallia were likewise charged with Peter’s sanctity before they were distributed. Yet Gregory’s letters do not present clear-cut evidence that this was the case. The single possible reference to the practice appears in the letter to Leander, in which Gregory sends a pallium “with the blessing of Saint Peter” (ex benedictione beati Petri). In Gregory’s letters, a benedictio may indicate an object blessed through contact with a saint’s body given as a gift.40 Gregory sends the Visigothic king Reccared, for example, a small key “from the most sacred body of Saint Peter the apostle, as his blessing.”41 Elsewhere in Gregory’s correspondence, however, a benedictio may refer to a blessed object with no   Gregory refers to the Byzantine emperors as principes, indicating that the word maintains its imperial connotations: see for example, Ep. 6.16, 9.46 = CCSL 140: 385–6; 140a: 605. On principatus and princeps apostolorum, see Batiffol, Cathedra Petri, 83–93, 169–95; C. Pietri, Roma Christiana, 2: 1462–6. 36   For example, Gregory had granted the pallium to Natalis, metropolitan of Salona, “ex auctoritate sedis apostolicae”: Ep. 2.19 = CCSL 140: 106. On papal auctoritas, see Maccarrone, “Dottrina del primato,” 2: 648–9; C. Pietri, Roma Christiana, 2: 1510–15. 37   This practice is not securely attested before the early twelfth century: Braun, Liturgische Gewandung, 642; Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor: Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1994), 2: 710–12. 38   For a memorable description of the process, see Gregory of Tours In Gloria Martyrum 27 = MGH SS rer. Merov. 1.2: 53–4. 39   For example, Pelagius I Ep. 20 = Gassó and Batlle 62–3; John M. McCulloh, “The Cult of Relics in the Letters and ‘Dialogues’ of Pope Gregory the Great: A Lexicographical Study,” Traditio 32 (1976): 145–84; Francesca Riganati, “Reliquie, reliquiari e cose sacre dal Registrum Epistularum Gregorii Magni,” in L’orbis christianus antiquus di Gregorio Magno: Convegno di studi, Roma, 26–28 ottobre 2004, ed. Letizia Ermini Pani (Rome: Società Romana di Storia Patria, 2007), 2: 531–76. 40   McCulloh, “Cult of Relics,” 169–80. 41   “a sacratissimo beati Petri apostoli corpore pro eius benedictione” Ep. 9.229 = CCSL 140a: 810. Gregory indicates that the key was near Peter’s body; similarly explicit language is not found in Leander’s letter. 35

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connection to the cult of the saints, such as a horse.42 In Leander’s letter, the phrase “with the blessing of Saint Peter” indicates that the pallium was a blessed gift, which could plausibly, but not definitively, be identified as a contact relic charged with saintly power. Even if pallia were not stored near Peter’s tomb before their distribution, the language in Gregory’s letters makes it clear that the pallium linked its wearer to Rome’s authoritative, apostolic founder. This Petrine connection is emphasized in Gregory’s letter to Brunichildis, in which he informs the Frankish queen that he has agreed to provide a pallium to Syagrius, bishop of Autun in Gaul, so that, “since [Syagrius] has been zealous to promote spiritual things, he may also be found to have advanced in the spiritual order, with the assistance of the first of the apostles (apostolorum principis solacio).”43 Born to a venerable family, Syagrius was a friend of the court and influential in the Gallic church.44 Syagrius’ pallium recognized his aid to Augustine as that missionary travelled through Gaul en route to England. But it also advanced Gregory’s plan to reform the church of Gaul. For he added a condition to the garment’s receipt: in exchange for his pallium, Syagrius had to convene a council to address the pervasive problems in Gaul of simony, the buying or selling of ecclesiastical office or privilege, and the appointment of unqualified laymen to the episcopacy.45 As neither a papal vicar nor a metropolitan, Syagrius was not an obvious candidate to superintend a synod.46 Should Syagrius have actually managed to organize the council, which never came to pass, the pallium would have boosted his status as presider: the garment would have indicated to the assembly that the bishop of Autun, though only a suffragan, acted as a papal representative with Petrine authority—indeed that he acted “with the assistance of the first of the apostles.” Lest Syagrius’ authority be undercut, Gregory, in the very month during which he authorized Syagrius’ pallium, denied bishop Desiderius of Vienne’s request for the garment.47 To 42   “unum autem caballum vobis … de benedictione sancti Petri transmisimus” Ep. 11.3 = CCSL 140a: 861; other examples cited in McCulloh, “Cult of Relics,” 170n97. 43   Ep. 9.214 = CCSL 140a:774. 44   On the historical context, see L. Pietri, “Grégoire le Grand et la Gaule,” 1: 109–28; Mathisen, “Syagrius of Autun,” 260–90. 45   Ep. 8.4, 9.220, 9.223 = CCSL 140a: 518–21, 790–92, 794–7. 46   Mathisen, “Syagrius of Autun,” 280; William E. Klingshirn, Caesarius of Arles: The Making of a Christian Community in Late Antique Gaul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 268. 47   Ep. 9.221 = CCSL 140a:793. Gregory may also have refused Desiderius’ request for political reasons: Brunichildis despised Desiderius, and, since Gregory wanted her support for the synod, it would have been impolitic to authorize the grant: Jeffrey Richards, Consul of

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accede to Desiderius’ petition would have undermined Syagrius’ special status as symbolized by his pallium. Writing to Syagrius, Gregory adds an admonition about the pallium: “with an increase of honor, care for others’ welfare ought also to grow, so that the ornaments (ornamenta) of action may also correspond to the elegance (cultui) of your clothes.”48 Here Gregory develops another important facet of the pallium’s symbolism, one adumbrated in his predecessors’ letters to the bishops of Arles: the pallium represents the virtues and good deeds of its wearer. In authorizing a pallium for John, bishop of Palermo, Gregory emphasizes that the splendor of the garment should match the splendor of the wearer’s character: Just as you rejoice that you have received from us the use of this ornament (decoris) for the honor of the episcopal office, so also by the uprightness of your morals and actions may you strive to adorn the office you have assumed. For thus you will be conspicuous by both kinds of ornament in turn, if the virtues of your mind should also be in harmony with the appearance (habitum) of your body.49

The pallium was sacramental, an outward sign of inward holiness.50 The correspondence between a cleric’s appearance and character is also limned in a famous passage from Gregory’s synodal letter, sent to the other patriarchs soon after his consecration; this passage appears nearly verbatim in Gregory’s influential Pastoral Rule.51 The pope enjoins the spiritual leader (rector) to be fortified always “by an adornment of virtues.”52 Gregory expatiates on these virtues in an exegesis of Aaron’s multicolored ephod. Each color of the ephod symbolizes a virtue possessed by the wearer, and reminds him and the viewer to cultivate that virtue: gold, for example, represents wisdom; scarlet, love. Each color invites admiration, yet serves as admonition. Gregory imputes to the pallium similar significance. Like the ephod worn atop the other vestments, the pallium is a conspicuous ornament that draws attention to the wearer. With its white color suggestive of holiness and high status, the pallium marks the wearer God: The Life and Times of Gregory the Great (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1980), 215; Dudden, Gregory the Great, 2: 73; cf. Eidenschink, Election of Bishops, 136. 48   Ep. 9.223 = CCSL 140a: 796. 49   Ep. 13.38 = CCSL 140a:1041; similar language in Ep. 5.58, 5.61, 6.8, 6.18 = CCSL 140: 354–7, 363, 377, 388. 50   See esp. Ep. 9.234 = CCSL 140a: 816–7. 51   Ep. 1.24 = CCSL 140: 24–5; Reg. Past. 2.3 = SC 381: 184–6. 52   “contra adversa ac prospera virtutum semper ornamento muniatur” Ep. 1.24 = CCSL 140: 24; Reg. Past. 2.3 = SC 381: 182.

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as a favorite of Gregory, as a prelate who shares in the apostolic authority of Peter and his heirs. The pallium, again like the ephod, reifies the virtues of the wearer and encourages their cultivation. Drawing on the pallium’s yoke-like drape, Gregory associates the garment, in particular, with humility and obedience. Gregory explicitly links the pallium with the former virtue: “the honor of this garment,” he writes to one prelate, “is humility and justice.”53 Gregory sometimes emphasizes the garment’s connection to humility to bolster his own authority. This motive underlies Gregory’s grant of the pallium to Constantius, the newly elected metropolitan of Milan, who is asked to protect the garment’s “honor and divine spirit with humility.”54 Until Gregory’s papacy, Milan was the metropolitan see of an ecclesiastical province independent of Rome. From the mid sixth century, relations between Rome and Milan had been frayed by the Three Chapters controversy, and Milan had suffered grave losses of personnel and property during the Lombard invasions. Capitalizing on Milan’s weakness, Gregory secured a pledge from Constantius’ predecessor, Laurentius, to submit his province to Roman authority. After Laurentius’ death in 593, Gregory carefully superintended the election of his successor and discreetly promoted the candidacy of his close friend Constantius: the pope wanted to make sure that Milan’s next bishop would uphold Laurentius’ pledge, which was resented by some clergy in the province. The yoke-like pallium reminded such critics of Milan’s subjection to Rome and manifested the humble obeisance expected from Constantius in return for Gregory’s electoral support. Humility occupies a privileged place in Gregory’s economy of the virtues. It is the tap-root of personal holiness and, for a cleric, of authority within the church. Humility’s sister virtue is obedience. Obeying divinely ordained   “huius enim indumenti honor humilitas atque iustitia est” Ep. 9.234 = CCSL 140a: 816. The use of indumentum is significant. In Gregory’s letters, the noun appears twice in reference to the pallium (here and Ep. 9.223 = CCSL 140a:795) and only once elsewhere. The word derives from Latin induo, “to put on,” which corresponds to Greek ἐνδύω, the New Testament’s verb of choice when the act of “putting on” is metaphorical: Noce, Veste Varia, 32–4; Gerhard Kittel and Gerhard Friedrich, eds, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964–76), s.v, ἐνδύω. For example, the Colossians are urged to “put on humility” (3.12: ἐνδύσασθε … ταπεινοφροσύνην; humilitatem induite). When Gregory employs indumentum in reference to the pallium, he highlights the garment’s symbolic nature; cf. Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, s.v. indumentum B. 54   “eius honorem ac genium ex humilitate” Ep. 4.1 = CCSL 140: 218. On relations between Rome and Milan, see Richards, Consul of God, 176–8; Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 429–34; Markus, Gregory the Great and his World, 125–7, 133–7, 140–42; Caspar, Geschichte des Papsttums, 2: 477–9. 53

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superiors mortifies the rebellious and self-destructive will. Humility and obedience together promote stability, the inner tranquility that permits the soul, shielded from transient, worldly cares, to commune with God.55 Since these virtues go hand-in-hand, it is unsurprising that obedience was also signified by the pallium. This association is emphasized in Gregory’s conferral of the pallium on Maximus, metropolitan of Salona in Dalmatia, after the two men had feuded for years. A full account of this controversy is beyond the scope of this chapter, so only a sketch is here provided. In April 594, Gregory, as primate of Dalmatia, refused his consent to Maximus’ election, on the grounds that the election was illicit and Maximus was morally unworthy of the episcopacy.56 When Maximus nonetheless assumed office, Gregory excommunicated him. Civil and ecclesiastical authorities tried to broker a resolution between the pair. At last, in July 599, Maximus publicly prostrated himself for three hours in Ravenna as penance and swore, by the relics of St Apollinaris, that he was innocent of the acts of which he was suspected. After taking the oath, Maximus received a letter in which the pope restored him to communion, confirmed his election, and asked him to send a representative to Rome to pick up the pallium, an honor that the incumbents of Salona had enjoyed by custom.57 The grant of the pallium to Maximus is freighted with meaning. Authorized by the sedes apostolica, Maximus’ pallium manifested the restoration of communion between Salona and Rome: “your fraternity [Maximus] understands that he has restored communion with the apostolic see.”58 As a gift from Gregory, it symbolized the personal reconciliation of the two prelates. But this was not a reconciliation of equals: Gregory tells Maximus that “you have submitted yourself humbly to the yoke of obedience.”59 With its yoke-like drape, the pallium reminded Maximus of papal primacy and his penitential prostration. Even the   Giuseppe Cremascoli and Antonella Degl’Innocenti, eds, Enciclopedia Gregoriana: La vita, l’opera e la fortuna di Gregorio Magno (Florence: Sismel, 2008), s.vv. “obedienza,” “umiltà,” 243–4, 363–4; Carole Shaw, Gregory the Great: Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 73–89, 95–6; Conrad Leyser, Authority and Asceticism from Augustine to Gregory the Great (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 160–63, 174–5. 56   Ep. 4.20 = CCSL 140: 238. On the feud, see Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 457–66; Richards, Consul of God, 203–7; Pitz, Papstreskripte, 164–70; Caspar, Geschichte des Papsttums, 2: 432–7; Markus, Gregory the Great, 157–9; Dominic Mandić, “Dalmatia in the Exarchate of Ravenna from the Middle of the VI until the Middle of the VIII Century,” Byzantion 34 (1964): 358–70. 57   Ep. 9.177 = CCSL 140a: 734. 58   “fraternitas tua apostolicae sedis communionem se reparasse cognoscit” Ep. 9.177 = CCSL 140a: 734. 59   “iugo te oboedientiae humiliter summisti” Ep. 9.177 = CCSL 140a: 734. 55

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manner in which the pallium was offered to Maximus impressed upon him the need for obedience. The pope did not send the pallium to Maximus, which seems to have been the usual procedure,60 but asked him to send a representative to Rome to fetch the garment. This adjustment to protocol reminded Maximus of the subordinate status he accepted by wearing his pallium. Since the pallium signified obedience, threatening to revoke the garment provided an appropriate disciplinary sanction against insubordinate bishops, like Natalis, Maximus’ predecessor in the see of Salona, whom one of Gregory’s biographers describes as a “merry, free-handed bon-vivant, whose good dinners were notorious.”61 Natalis fell afoul of his archdeacon, Honoratus, who found his superior’s sybaritic lifestyle galling. Furthermore, the archdeacon accused Natalis of giving to his parents property belonging to the church: liturgical plate and garments (velamina), either vestments or clothes to be distributed to the poor.62 In response, Natalis ordained Honoratus to the presbyterate, a backhanded promotion that stripped him of his powerful archidiaconal post. After Honoratus’ supporters informed Gregory of the situation,63 the pope ordered Natalis to restore Honoratus to his former office. If Natalis failed to comply, Gregory would revoke his pallium.64 The threatened sanction is apt. Since the pallium symbolized submission to Rome, the garment’s absence from Natalis’ neck would have pointed to his disobedience. Just as the pallium symbolized the wearer’s obedience to Rome, so also it inspired others to obey. When Gregory apprises the bishops of Achaea that he has sent a pallium to their new metropolitan, John of Corinth, he adds, in the very next sentence, that “it is very much fitting that you obey him.”65 John’s predecessor, Anastasius, had been deposed for simony;66 with the grant of the pallium and the call to obedience, Gregory sought to restore respect among the suffragans for their metropolitan see, its reputation tarnished by Anastasius’   Cf. Schoenig, “Papacy,” 77–8, who claims that the procedure by which Maximus received his pallium was not the exception but the norm. The frequent use of verbs of sending (mitto, transmitto) with pallium as their direct object in Gregory’s grants of the garment seem to contradict this assertion. 61  Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 455. For further discussion of these events, see Dudden, Gregory the Great, 1: 455–7; Richards, Consul of God, 201–3; Pitz, Papstreskripte, 159–64; Caspar, Geschichte des Papsttums, 2: 430–32. 62   Ep. 1.10, 2.17 = CCSL 140: 12, 102–3. 63  Pitz, Papstreskripte, 163. 64   Ep. 2.17–19 = CCSL 140: 102–7. 65   “pallium Iohanni fratri nostro Corinthiorum episcopo nos transmisisse cognoscite. Cui vos magnopere convenit oboedire” Ep. 5.63 = CCSL 140: 367–8. 66   Ep. 5.57 = CCSL 140: 351–3. 60

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malfeasance. Likewise Gregory enjoins the bishops of Illyria to obey their new metropolitan, John of Prima Justiniana, who, in the letter, is granted the pallium. The garment bolstered the authority of John, one of whose suffragans had openly refused to obey him.67 The pallium should elicit obedience even from recalcitrant subordinates. This section has considered the symbolism imputed by Gregory to the pallium. It may be aptly capped with a final observation: the pallium is a gift.68 Like all gifts, the pallium bridges the giver and receiver, the pope and privileged bishop, as well as the institutions they represent, the sedes apostolica and the recipient’s diocese. This bond transcends not just space, but time: the pallium links its wearer not just to the present occupant of the apostolic see, but to all the previous popes, back to Peter himself.69 The pallium advertises this prestigious connection to the apostolorum princeps, in whose nonpareil authority the recipient shares. The pallium’s splendor testifies to the spiritual worthiness of its wearer. He who receives a gift must offer a gift in return: reciprocity is the key to gift-exchange. How could the recipient of a pallium reciprocate? A material gift would be rejected. A Roman synod, with Gregory presiding, made it illicit for anything to be accepted in return for the pallium.70 Doing so would come close to simony, which may be why Gregory, in letters wherein he authorizes a pallium, regularly denounces this sin.71 But the pallium’s recipient could offer a spiritual gift: humble obedience to God and to Gregory, God’s supreme earthly representative. By wearing his pallium, in the manner mandated by Rome, a prelate offers his subordination as a gift. Lastly, the meaning of a gift is often contested.72 Different persons may interpret a gift’s meaning in   Letter to bishops: Ep. 5.10 = CCSL 140: 276; rebellious suffragan: Ep. 5.8 = CCSL 140: 274–5. 68   Schoenig employs models of gift exchange in his dissertation on the medieval pallium: “Papacy,” esp. 29–30. On Gregory as gift-giver, see Riganati, “Reliquie,” 2: 531–76 and Grazia Rapisarda, “I doni nell’epistolario di Gregorio Magno,” in Gregorio Magno e il suo tempo, 2: 285–300. 69   “The bonds that gifts establish are not simply social, they may be spiritual and psychological as well. There are interior economies and invisible economies”: Lewis Hyde, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World, rev. ed. (New York: Vintage Books, 2007), 74. 70   Ep. 5.57a.5 = MGH Ep. 1: 365; see also Ep. 5.62 = CCSL 140: 364–6. 71   For example, Ep. 5.58, 5.62, 5.63, 6.7 = CCSL 140: 354–7, 364–6, 366–8, 375–6. 72   Gadi Algazi, “Introduction: Doing Things with Gifts,” in Negotiating the Gift: Pre-Modern Figurations of Exchange, eds Gadi Algazi, Valentin Groebner, and Bernhard Jussen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 9–27, esp. 10. 67

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different ways. This is the case in the dispute between Gregory and John over the pallium, to which this chapter now returns. Ravenna Revisited This dispute must be viewed in light of tension between the sees of Rome and Ravenna, which had grown more acute from the middle of the sixth century.73 Robert Markus attributes this increased friction to two interrelated causes.74 First, Rome was reluctant to recognize Ravenna’s growing prominence as an ecclesiastical center in Italy. For example, Justinian raised Ravenna to an archbishopric, but the popes refused to address the see’s ordinaries as archbishops in their correspondence. Furthermore, although Ravenna, once a suffragan diocese in the province of Rome, had itself become a metropolitan see by Gregory’s papacy, the popes continued to exert a metropolitan’s prerogatives over it, such as consecrating the bishops of Ravenna in Rome. Secondly, the clergy of Ravenna and the city’s lay elite sought to boost the diocese’s autonomy. Hence prominent laymen from Ravenna lobbied Gregory on John’s behalf during the pallium dispute.75 These two factors contextualize the controversy, but do not fully explain what is at stake. Why is Gregory so disturbed by the misuse of a garment? Why do the particular circumstances during which John wears the pallium matter so much to the pope? Now that we have explored the symbolism of the pallium in Gregory’s correspondence, we can properly address these questions. In the letter with which this chapter began, Gregory alleges that John misuses his pallium in two ways, by wearing it in the secretarium and during litanies.76 What links these two situations is that they are outside the mass, to which Gregory seeks to restrict the wearing of the garment.77 The bishop’s liturgical role as the celebrant of the eucharist, his proximity to the altar and the consecrated elements, justifies his donning of the pallium. To appreciate   For the historical background, see Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, 201–13.  Markus, Gregory the Great and his World, 143–56; R.A. Markus, “Carthage—Prima Justiniana—Ravenna: An Aspect of Justinian’s Kirchenpolitik,” Byzantion 49 (1979): 292–302; R.A. Markus, “Ravenna and Rome, 554–604,” Byzantion 51 (1981): 566–78. These essays are reprinted in the author’s From Augustine to Gregory the Great: History and Christianity in Late Antiquity (London: Variorum Reprints, 1983), chapters 13 and 14. 75   Ep. 5.11, 6.31 = CCSL 140: 277, 403–4. 76   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 200–203. 77  Pitz, Papstreskripte, 126–7, 144–5. 73 74

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Gregory’s first allegation, it is important to understand the many purposes served by secretaria in late antique cathedrals.78 These rooms acted as sacristies, in which clergy vested. They accommodated church councils and other assemblies. Some secretaria were grand rooms, with a dais and throne, from which the bishop, with his clergy seated around him, adjudicated cases that fell under episcopal jurisdiction or formally received guests.79 Hence secretaria were also called salutatoria, rooms where patrons gave audience to their clients.80 Keeping these functions of secretaria in mind, we may return to Gregory’s allegation. Gregory is not concerned that John wears the vestment in the secretarium per se, but that he does so with the laity present, before they are dismissed from the room as mass is about to begin. A crucial detail about John’s behavior in his secretarium is easily overlooked: while wearing his pallium, John sits to receive his lay visitors.81 Seated in his secretarium, probably on a throne, John, like a civil magistrate, seeks to overawe the laity by wearing his pallium in order to win, in Gregory’s words, “a certain secular dignity.”82 An instructive parallel may be drawn: Gregory’s complaint is similar to that lodged more than three centuries earlier against Paul of Samosata, who, as bishop of Antioch, is said to have affected the appearance of an imperial procurator, “assuming secular honors” and haughtily presiding over church assemblies from a throne perched on a tribunal.83 Surrounding himself with an entourage, Paul is also chided for currying favor with the crowds in the streets—which, according to Gregory, is why John wears his pallium during litanies in Ravenna. 78  On secretaria, see Maureen C. Miller, The Bishop’s Palace: Architecture and Authority in Medieval Italy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000), 38–9 and Jean-Charles Picard, “La fonction des salles de réception dans le groupe épiscopal de Genève,” Rivista di archeologia cristiana 65 (1989): 87–104. 79   Picard, “Fonction des salles de réception,” 91–5. To appreciate the potential size and grandeur of secretaria, cf. the reception hall in the sixth-century cathedral-complex in Parentium (now Parenzo-Poreč, Croatia), a large, lofty room (> 1000 sq. ft.) lit by a clerestory and terminating in a raised apse framed by a triple-arch with marble columns: Yuri A. Marano, “Domus in Qua Manebat Episcopus: Episcopal Residences in Northern Italy during Late Antiquity (4th to 6th Centuries A.D.),” in Housing in Late Antiquity, eds Luke Lavan, Lale Özgenel, and Alexander Sarantis (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 116–17. 80   Picard, “Fonction des salles de réception,” 94; Miller, Bishop’s Palace, 39. For Gregory, secretarium and salutatorium are synonymous: Ep. 3.54, 5.11, 5.61 = CCSL 140: 200–203, 277, 363. 81   “De secretario autem quod fraternitas tua resedisse cum pallio et filios ecclesiae suscepisse et fecit et excusavit” Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 202. 82   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 202. 83   “κοσμικὰ ἀξιώματα ὑποδυόμενος’’ Eusebius Hist. Eccl. 7.30.8–9 = GCS 6.2: 708–10.

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In the letter, dating to July 593, under discussion, Gregory forbids John from wearing his pallium during all litanies.84 Fifteen months later, after Ravennate aristocrats lobbied the pope on John’s behalf, Gregory backs down and allows him to wear the garment during three litanies each year and on the anniversary of his ordination, since these practices seem to be supported by local tradition. After John’s death, Gregory permits his successor, Marinianus, to do the same.85 While no description of these Ravennate litanies is extant, comparative evidence about litanies from the Roman ordines—rubrics for conducting liturgical rites—may be adduced to illuminate them.86 Litanies were penitential processions through the streets of the city during which intercessory prayers were chanted. They were popular and participatory, drawing persons from every social stratum. The atmosphere was one of spectacular, solemn pomp. After crosses, candles, banners, clouds of incense, images of the saints and their relics, other bishops, presbyters, and subdeacons came the pope himself, flanked by his deacons and followed by the choir that intoned the prayers. In some processions, the pope and his inner circle, vested splendidly, rode through the city on horseback87—but not during litanies. During litanies the clergy walked, sometimes barefoot. Costly, colorful vestments were not appropriate; black or dark-colored clothes are mandated in the rubrics. For the annual observance of the Great Litany in Rome, “all Christians ought to observe the litany on this day, not on horseback, not wearing costly clothes, [but] sprinkled with ash and wearing a hairshirt, unless ill health prevents it.” 88 Clothed not in elaborate finery but in simple garb, the pope, during litanies, modeled the humility that underlay his spiritual authority. Gregory himself participated in and promoted litanies: most famously, during his papacy he twice mandated the conduct of   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 200–203.   Ep. 5.11, 5.61 = CCSL 140: 277, 363. 86   For the following description, see Victor Saxer, “L’utilisation par la liturgie de l’espace urbain et suburbain: L’exemple de Rome dans l’Antiquité et le haut Moyen Âge,” in Actes du XIe Congrès international d’archéologie chrétienne: Lyon, Vienne, Grenoble, Genève et Aoste (21–28 septembre 1986) (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1989), 2: 959–80; John F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy (Rome: Pont. Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987), 118–66. 87   For example, Ordo Romanus 1.9–12 = Andrieu 1: 70–71. 88   “Quam letaniam una die observare debent omnes christiani, non equitando, non pretiosis vestibus induti, cinere respersi et cilicio induti, nisi infirmitas impediret” Ordo Romanus 50.35.4 = Andrieu 5: 315. Similar instructions in Duchesne, Liber Pontificalis, 1: 477; Ordo Romanus 20.2, 21.2, 50.36.2 = Andrieu 3: 235, 247; 5: 316. 84 85

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an extraordinary penitential procession, the letania septiformis, in which all residents of Rome, divided into seven groups, took part.89 With this description of litanies in mind, we may comprehend more easily Gregory’s concern about John’s insistence on wearing the pallium during them. Instead of comporting himself humbly, setting an example as the ecclesiastical leader of Ravenna, John exploits the litanies as an opportunity for self-display: taking place in the open air before Ravenna’s populace, these rites offer maximum visibility for public posturing. During what Gregory calls “a time of ash and the hairshirt” (cineris atque cilicii tempore),90 when dun clothes are appropriate, John wears his bright white pallium, probably over a garment of contrasting color to draw attention to the vestment. This is not just a fashion faux pas: John’s inability to wear the right garment at the right time threatens to undercut the penitential nature of the litanies he leads. In short, John wrongly believes that the “honor of his episcopacy” derives from external ostentation rather than inner holiness.91 His actions, in Gregory’s view, invert the significance of the pallium, that “heavy yoke and chain” (grave iugum atque vinculum). The yoke should drag John’s head downward, toward his feet trodding “the path of humility” (humilitatis tramitem).92 The chain should tether him, lest he suffer from elatio, a “floating away” or a “carrying off ” caused by pride.93 How John wears his pallium articulates not obedience, but disobedience; not humility, but pride. His pallium is no longer a symbol of Petrine authority, but of a rebel bishop; it is no longer a symbol of unity, of a special connection between Gregory and John, Rome and Ravenna, but of disunity, of a bishop rejecting the traditions of the universal church.

89   Ep. 9.25, Appendix 4, 9 = CCSL 140a:585–6, 1096, 1102–4. See also Jacob A. Latham, “The Making of a Papal Rome: Gregory I and the letania septiformis,” in The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity: Selected Papers from the Seventh Biennial Shifting Frontiers in Late Antiquity Conference, eds Andrew Cain and Noel Lenski (Burlington: Ashgate, 2009), 293–304. 90   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 200–203. 91   “honor episcopatus totus foras in ostensione est, non in mente” Ep. 5.15 = CCSL 140: 281. The adverb foras (“outwardly”) is pregnant; literally it means “out-of-doors” (Oxford Latin Dictionary, s.vv. foras, foris), and thus hints at John’s fondness for flaunting his pallium alfresco. 92   Ep. 3.54 = CCSL 140: 201, 200. 93   Ep. 5.15 = CCSL 140: 280.

Part 3 Dress and Character Types

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Chapter 5

The Unibrow That Never Was: Paul’s Appearance in the Acts of Paul and Thecla Callie Callon

The late second century Acts of Paul and Thecla (APTh) contains the earliest physical depiction of the apostle Paul.1 The account occurs early in the narrative, immediately prior to when the audience first encounters him. Paul is described as “a man small of stature, bald headed, bandy-legged, healthy, a brow meeting in the middle (σύνοφρυν), a somewhat longish nose (μικρω̑ς ἐπίρρινον), a gracious presence; for some times he appeared as a man, but at other times he had the face of an angel.” 2 Scholars have offered a range of interpretations of each of these physical traits. Their preferences, driven largely by physiognomic commonplaces, inform their conclusions about Paul’s characterization throughout the narrative and the subsequent interpretation of that characterization by ancient audiences. These scholarly assessments have met with limited amounts of success, and while some of the particulars are addressed below, the overarching weakness is that each “type” that Paul is identified as (a “general”, a “Greek hero” or the “ideal male”) does not correspond to how Paul is portrayed throughout the narrative as a whole. That this narrative was composed and circulated independently from the larger Acts of Paul (AP) is widely acknowledged.3 Therefore any description of Paul’s physical characteristics would need to be applicable to how his character 1   An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies in Waterloo, ON, in May 2012. For the compositional date of the second century and the provenance of Asia Minor, see Jeremy W. Barrier, The Acts of Paul and Thecla. A Critical Introduction and Commentary (WUNT 2. Reihe 270; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 21–4. 2   Paul’s nose is often erroneously translated as “hooked nose.” Here I employ Jan N. Bremmer’s more accurate understanding of the Greek to indicate a “somewhat longish nose” (“Magic, Martyrdom and Women’s Liberation in the Acts of Paul and Thecla,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, ed. Jan N. Bremmer [Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House, 1996], 38). With this exception, throughout this paper I employ Barrier’s translation or a slight modification based on the Greek text provided in Barrier’s work. 3   For example see Barrier, The Acts, 22.

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is portrayed in the APTh in and of itself, rather than in other material that comprises the broader AP. In this chapter, I propose that Paul’s so-called “unibrow” is better understood as the intellectual “knitted brow” of antiquity, being more consistent with the portrayal of Paul throughout the APTh and also with broader literary and iconographic traditions that present Paul as a philosophic figure. I argue that such an understanding may help shed light on the other physical attributes accorded to him in the APTh. These features can be understood as modeled after the characteristic image of the philosopher, and more specifically those of Socrates.4 Paul’s characterization as a philosopher through his physical appearance lends credibility and authority to his teachings in the narrative. Previous Scholarship on the Description of Paul in the APTh Recent scholarship on this subject has taken a new approach to understanding the description of Paul. Rather than viewing the text as a historically accurate representation of Paul,5 contemporary studies have utilized the principles of ancient physiognomy—a science that interpreted individuals’ characters from features of their appearance—viewing the description of Paul in this text to be deliberately cultivated in order to represent his inner character.6 Despite this 4   David R. Cartlidge and J. Keith Elliott mention in passing that Socrates was likely a model for the early iconography of Paul, yet they do not elaborate on this suggestion and scholars have not addressed this proposal in subsequent literature (Art and the Christian Apocrypha [London and New York: Routledge, 2001], 139). Paul Zanker proposes that Socrates in particular served as the model for the depiction of Paul in a fifth century pyxis. See his, The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity, trans. Alan Shapiro (Berkley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1995), 304. 5   This was the trend of the twentieth century, during which interpreters concluded that this was a decidedly unflattering portrait of the apostle. For example, on being a historically accurate portrayal, see E. von Dobschütz, Der Apostel Paulus: II. Seine Stellung in der Kunst (Halle: Buchhandlung des Waisenhauses, 1928), 1. On the description as being unflattering, see Leon Vouaux, Les Actes de Paul et ses lettres apocryphes (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1913), 122. Moreover, the description does not readily lend itself to a literal understanding. As Barrier notes, “there seems to be a subtle manipulation of the wording by the author of the AP to suggest that his is not a literal description of Paul’s features. The author claims that this is the ‘form’ or ‘image’ of Paul, and when one considers the description presented in 3.3, it appears that this is not a description of Paul’s actual appearance, but a description of a persona that Paul possessed” (The Acts, 72). 6   For an excellent overview of ancient physiognomy, see Elizabeth C. Evans,

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shared methodological underpinning, the conclusions are rather diverse and have not yet provided a satisfactory understanding. Robert M. Grant was one of the first scholars to attempt to understand the description of Paul in non-historical terms, although he maintained that the physiognomic manuals themselves did not serve as the basis for the description.7 Rather, citing fragment 58 of Archilochus, which was popular in the second century, Grant argued that the description of Paul was based on a literary tradition in which a general appears as short, bow-legged, and indifferent to his hair. Thus Paul fits the characterization of a military general, a “general of God.”8 Yet this characterization does not cohere with the text itself, for nowhere in the narrative does Paul act like a military general.9 As Monika Betz suggests, Paul does not appear as a great strategist or organizer, but instead brings social chaos with him wherever he goes, with the goal of undermining the existing order.10 Abraham J. Malherbe also sought to re-contextualize the description of Paul within ancient Mediterranean literary materials, and likewise argues that this portrait would not have been unflattering in antiquity.11 Like Grant, Malherbe cites fragment 58 of Archilochus, yet supplements it with other texts in order to provide a more substantial literary background to Paul’s purportedly hooked nose, small stature, and meeting eyebrows. Malherbe notes that all of these characteristics appear in Suetonius’ physiognomic-based account of Augustus (Vit. Caes. 2.79.2), and in other texts which describe the Greek hero type, especially those associated with Hercules (Clement Protrep. 2.30 and Philostratus Vit. Soph. 552).12 He suggests that in these texts and other ancient literature, meeting eyebrows were seen as a sign of beauty, a hooked nose indicated royalty or a magnanimous nature, and cedes that while tallness was preferred, what was more important was that the individual was well-proportioned, as Suetonius

“Physiognomics in the Ancient World,” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 59.5 (1969): 1–101. 7   Robert M. Grant, “The Description of Paul in the APTh,” Vigiliae Christianae 36.1 (1982): 1–4. 8   Grant, “Description,” 3. 9   Although the phrase “soldier of Christ” does appear in the larger AP, it does not in the APTh itself. 10   Monika Betz, “Die betörenden Worte des fremden Mannes: Zur Funktion der Paulusbeschreibung in den Theklaakten,” New Testament Studies 53.1 (2007): 130–45; 133. 11   Abraham J. Malherbe, “A Physical Description of Paul,” Harvard Theological Review 79.1–3 (1986): 170–75. 12   Malherbe, “Description,” 172–4.

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stipulates that Augustus was. For Malherbe this is a flattering portrait of Paul, evoking the image of the Greek hero type.13 Yet, there are significant problems with this assessment. Paul’s nose is not, in fact, hooked, his shortness is not qualified with the attribute of being wellproportioned, and more importantly, nowhere in the text does Paul act like the conquering Greek hero—he is thrown in prison, expelled from the city, and physically beaten at the behest of civic authorities. Moreover, Malherbe himself notes that these texts do not adequately account for Paul’s baldness. He attempts to remedy this lack by postulating that either the text retains accurate knowledge of Paul actually having been bald (which undermines his argument that the description was intended to be non-historical), or that Paul’s baldness corresponds to his Nazarene vows to shave his head in the canonical Acts.14 This latter is a rather unlikely suggestion that is taken up by Bruce Malina and Jerome Neyrey, and addressed below. Malina and Neyrey accept Grant’s conclusion that this is a flattering portrait of Paul, but argue that the portrait is “first and foremost that of a noble or ideal male,” with his identity as a general constituting one aspect of this masculine identity.15 In order to support this assertion, their arguments tend towards what Heike Omerzu has rightly referred to as “hypothesising and psychologising.”16 To cite but one example, Malina and Neyrey suggest that “[Paul’s] benevolent eyes are fixed to goodness, his voice with a conversational tone, evokes sincerity, kindness, and truthfulness,” despite the fact that neither Paul’s eyes nor his voice are mentioned in the catalogue of his physical attributes. Malina and Neyrey arrive at this interpretation from passing references in the text that do not require this interpretation, let alone readily suggest it.17 As for Paul’s baldness, they take Malherbe’s suggestion that this corresponds to vows of shaving his head in Acts and expand upon it, noting that the term ψιλός can be understood, according to the LSJ, as “shaved, plucked, or stripped.”18 They also note that one of the Latin translations employs “shaved,” and thus this attribute is “a mark of piety, which is   Malherbe, “Description,” 175.   Malherbe, “Description,” 175. 15   Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, Portraits of Paul: An Archeology of an Ancient Personality (Louisville, KY, Westminster John Knox Press: 1996), 146. 16   Heike Omerzu, “The Portrayal of Paul’s Outer Appearance in the Acts of Paul and Thecla. Reconsidering the Correspondence between Body and Personality in Ancient Literature,” Religion and Theology 15.3–4 (2008): 252–79; esp. 262. 17   Malina and Neyrey, Portraits, 148. 18   Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, eighth edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1901), 1498. 13 14

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a part of the virtue of justice.”19 However, other Latin variations do not stipulate “shaved,” and while it is true that ψιλόω in the verb form does have this meaning, the adjective, which is the form utilized in the APTh, seems to mean “bare.”20 In any case, Omerzu is correct to suggest that such a reading requires a stretch of the imagination. Likewise Chad Hartsock maintains that this is a positive depiction of Paul, although not a handsome one, and proposes an innovative yet still problematic understanding of Paul’s baldness.21 He notes Aristotle’s view (Gen. an. 783b) that baldness is the result of a lack of hot fluid—either blood or semen—and suggests that this would mean that a man was bald due to being too sexually active (the loss of semen thus rendering the brain cooler and causing hair to fall out) or due to an insufficient amount of semen production in the first place, caused by not being sexually active at all.22 He posits that the latter is the best understanding in the case of Paul, and that this aspect of his description functions as a way to underscore Paul’s celibacy because it conveyed the fact that Paul’s relationship with Thecla and other women was not sexual.23 Yet Hartsock’s reading of the text goes beyond what Aristotle says. In the passage discussed by Hartsock, Aristotle does not mention lack of sexual activity as a cause of deficient amounts of hot fluid. Aristotle only suggests that it is excessive sexual intercourse that will cause this lack of fluid, which in turn causes baldness. Hartsock thus appears to be interpolating a physiological basis for baldness that is not articulated by Aristotle. Rather, if Aristotle’s expressed understanding was present in the mind of an ancient audience, Paul’s baldness would be seen as the result of excessive sexual activity, which is at odds with his exhortations of celibacy in APTh. At the other end of the spectrum, János Bollók argues that the portrait of Paul is by no means idealized, and correlates each of Paul’s features with physiognomic manuals which offer a negative interpretation of them. To note but one example, he states that for physiognomic manuals “meeting eyebrows” indicate a person who is “irascible, crude, [and an] imbecile; not very intelligent.”24 He proceeds to attempt to reconcile the “love of Paul” of the redactor of the text to this seemingly   Malina and Neyrey, Portraits, 139–40.   Although according to the LSJ it does allow for a shaved or plucked meaning when referring to animals. 21   Chad Hartsock, Sight and Blindness in Luke-Acts: The Use of Physical Features in Characterization (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 22   Hartsock, “Sight and Blindness,” 134. 23   Hartsock, “Sight and Blindness,” 135. 24   János Bollók, “The Description of Paul,” in The Apocryphal Acts of Paul and Thecla, ed. Jan Bremmer (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 8. 19 20

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contradictory negative assessment of his physical appearance. Bollók concludes that the text has been influenced by the insults leveled by Paul’s opponents in 2 Cor. 10: 1–2;10: 10, 12: 11 and 16, and that these correspond to how each physical characteristic mentioned in APTh is understood in physiognomic manuals.25 Yet in adhering so closely to the formulaic manuals themselves, Bollók renders his own argument vulnerable to critique. He notes that for these manuals the eyes were of utmost importance, yet Paul’s eyes are not discussed in the APTh. Bollók attempts to remedy this by positing that the reference to Paul being “full of grace” was likely meant to refer to his eyes, given that this would be the most logical place that the power of god in a person would be manifest. And while this is perhaps true, it does not solve the problem that the manuals discuss eyes explicitly, deriving meaning from their shape, color, and other very specific qualities. If the author of the APTh were indeed following the manuals as closely as Bollók’s argument requires, no doubt we could expect to see the color and shape of Paul’s eyes described explicitly. While rejecting the flaws in Malina and Neyrey’s argument, Heike Omerzu nonetheless agrees that there was a correspondence between Paul’s “(almost) ‘ideal’ physical appearance and … ‘ideal’ apostolic qualities.”26 For Omerzu, this conclusion is based on the fact that the description of Paul is couched in terms of what Onesiphorus saw—that is, a person well-disposed to Paul, and thus unlikely to see him as unattractive.27 She further suggests that a positive understanding of Paul’s appearance is attested in the remarks of Thecla’s mother Theocleia, saying that there is thus “a strong visual element to his appeal.”28 And while the hostile and non-comprehending Theocleia does describe Thecla as “gazing intently as though enraptured” (3.8), the narrative later stipulates that Thecla looked toward: “the word of Paul,” and thus not Paul himself (3.10). These verses can hardly be taken as an indication of Paul’s physical appearance, especially in view of the fact that the text also stipulates that Thecla had not yet seen Paul (3.7), and there is no reason to suppose that this changes until later when she goes to visit him in prison. Monika Betz rightly notes the role of erotic tension throughout the work; she sees Paul as a place holder for the message of Christianity, and thus the immediate object of Thecla’s devotion. She suggests that Paul’s physical appearance is not flattering and serves, in part, to make his place holder status clear. Of all the   Bollók, “Description of Paul,” 8–12.   Omerzu, “Portrayal,” 268. 27   Omerzu writes: “We ‘see’ Paul through [Onesiphorus’] eyes and thereby implicitly adopt his perspective” (“Portrayal,” 265). 28   “Portrayal,” 266. 25 26

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solutions offered hers is the strongest, but could be expanded upon, and will be discussed further below. In all of these discussions the focal point is what Paul’s appearance would have conveyed to an ancient audience about his character, yet also whether or not he would have been deemed “ugly” or “attractive.” Obscuring the discussion, I suggest, is how the “meeting eyebrows” have been interpreted. The bulk of interpretation has understood σύνοφρυς as a reference to eyebrows that meet in the sense of “unibrow”, and, setting aside modern conceptions of beauty, most of these authors have observed that the unibrow was perceived as a flattering trait in antiquity. With the exception of Bollók’s negative assessment, all subsequent authors follow Malherbe’s understanding of the meeting brow as indicating attractiveness. Yet, despite an articulated interest in identifying how a given physical characteristic would correspond to a given character trait, no author (again with the exception of Bollók) has been able to go beyond the “skin deep” attribute of attractiveness when discussing Paul’s purported unibrow. I propose that the alternative translation of “knitted brow” is more likely what was meant by the term. By “knitted brow,” I mean the visible contraction of the forehead muscles, creating a furrowed look. This translation can provide something of a foothold from which to begin a new evaluation of this description of Paul. While Malina and Neyrey are correct in noting that that cognate of σύνοφρυς; namely συνοφρυόομαι, can mean “knitted brow,”29 neither they nor any other author have noted that σύνοφρυς itself can have, and did have, this same meaning. Citing the lexicon of Hesychius, the LSJ notes that a secondary meaning of this word is “with knitted brow.”30 Heyschles II.49 reads: “and the brows that join [indicate] the deep thinker [the brows being drawn together] (καὶ τὰς ὀφρυ̑ς συνάγων ὁ φροντιστής [τὰς ὀφρυ̑ς συνέλκων]).”31 Here then, albeit not the exact same word (although the LSJ deems it close enough!), is a correlation between a knitted brow and attributes of a philosophic figure. The specific word, σύνοφρυς, 29   Malina and Neyrey note that this term could indicate a frowning facial expression, an expression that, according to Ps.-Aristotle’s physiognomic manual signals that a person is easily vexed (Malina and Neyrey, Portraits, 142). They do not consider this interpretation of knitted brow for the APTh, presumably because the positive traits associated with the unibrow align better with their argument (Malina and Neyrey, Portraits, 142). And while a knitted brow may very well cause a frown, that Paul is not to be associated with a subsequent gloomy character trait is clear because upon seeing Onesiphorus he immediately smiles. 30   LSJ, 1498. 31   Hesychii Alexandrini Lexicon, ed. Mauricius Schmidt, Vol. 4 (Amsterdam, Adolf M. Hakkert, 1965), 107.

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finds similar attestation in meaning in the second-century Onamasticon of Julius Pollux. The primary definition provided is μεγαλόφρων, which in its positive sense means “high minded” or “high moral or intellectual value” (2680.85). Facial gestures involving the brow and forehead as a physical characteristic of the philosopher are also attested in Lucian. For example, he portrays hypocritical philosophers as adopting the typical outward characteristics of philosophers in order to dress the part: “… elevating their eyebrows, wrinkling up their foreheads and letting their beards grow long, they go about hiding loathsome habits under a false garb …”32 Moreover, Diogenes writes of Zeno that “he was of a frowning countenance.”33 The connection between knitted brows and philosophers is even clearer in visual sources, which further pair the knitted brow and balding heads. As Paul Zanker notes regarding sculpted portraits of philosophers and intellectuals from the end of the second century which exhibit “deeply furrowed brows”, “in this context such traits can hardly mean anything other than introspection and an intellectual bent. Another element of the fashionable ‘intellectual look’ is the receding hairline or bald head, suddenly popular in the later second and early third centuries.”34 While Zanker notes that baldness in real life prior to this time was no doubt common, it was nonetheless rarely shown in artistic representation until the later portraits of Marcus Aurelius. Zanker explains: [I]f in the late Antonine period [baldness] first was thought worthy of representation, then it was probably because the evocation of Classical portraits of intellectuals conferred on these individuals a mark of spiritual distinction. Support for this interpretation can best be found in the Praise of Baldness of Synesius of Cyrene (370–413), who refers specifically to the portraits of such ‘ancient wise men’ as Socrates and Diogenes in order to prove that the wisest men had been bald.35 32  Lucian, Icaromenippus 29 (LCL Lucian, Vol. 3; trans. Harmon, 317). See also Lucian, Dialogues of the Dead 368. 33  Diogenes, Lives of Eminent Philosophers 7.16 (LCL Diogenes Laertius, Vol. 2, trans. Hicks, 127), also discussed by Zanker, Mask, 93. Zanker’s translation makes better sense of the Greek (πρόσωπον συνεσπασμένον), which literally means “drawn together” or “contracted” countenance. Zanker also notes that because the knitted brow of Zeno which appears in portraiture was likely honorific, this expression was not universally meant to indicate a negative character trait. Rather, he suggests that the knitted brow can be a positive characteristic, intended to highlight concentrated thinking (95). 34  Zanker, Mask, 224. 35  Zanker, Mask, 224.

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Thus the development of the idea of baldness as correlated to spiritual distinction and wisdom emerges and becomes something of a commonplace in the late second century, the time of composition of the APTh. Additionally, as Zanker also notes, “often [in this period] baldness and the thinker’s [knitted] brow are combined in the same head and mutually reinforce one another … One former athlete even had himself depicted in this manner, in a portrait whose intellectual forehead, with brows drawn up and tensed furrows, is especially pronounced.”36 The numerous busts that he cites in support of these assessments are, somewhat amusingly, labelled “Portraits of the Late Antonine and Severan periods in the guise of intellectuals.”37 This serves to reinforce his point that anyone could “dress up” themselves or others they wished to honor in the form of a philosopher. Zanker posits that artists were motivated to sculpt their busts with these features because intellectual activity carried connotations of dignity and authority.38 He further notes that the desire to be portrayed as an intellectual was not limited solely to the elite, as widespread imagery of paideia on funerary reliefs attest.39 It seems plausible, then, to understand Paul’s σύνοφρυς as a knitted brow, a feature that lends further significance to his bald head. The APTh applies both attributes to him in order to present him as a philosopher. In the rest of this chapter, I will demonstrate that this interpretation is the best of our options because it conforms to the characterization of Paul not only in early Christian literary and artistic traditions, but more importantly within the APTh itself. Literary and Artistic Portraits of Paul as a Philosopher Omerzu is quite right to caution against the potential circularity of reading “certain presuppositions about Paul’s personality—informed for instance by his letters or by the canonical Acts of the Apostles,” and that the understanding of Paul’s appearance in the APTh should be based primarily on how he is portrayed throughout this narrative itself.40 However, one could run the risk of going too far in the other direction, viewing the APTh in complete isolation from other traditions about Paul. That is, while linking a specific physical trait with a  Zanker, Mask, 224.  Zanker, Mask, 226. 38  Zanker, Mask, 192. 39  Zanker, Mask, 190. 40   Omerzu, “Portrayal,” 263. This criticism is rightly leveled against the respective works of Bollók and Malina and Neyrey. 36 37

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specific reference in a given text is potentially problematic in being somewhat microscopic, contextualizing a broader “type”—that of the philosopher—within the same broad “type” that is evinced elsewhere arguably does not run this same risk. The convention of portraying Paul as a philosophical figure was widespread in early Christian literature and art, and no doubt part of the impetus for doing so can be traced back to Paul’s own letters. To note but a few examples, Abraham J. Malherbe has persuasively argued that Luke portrays Paul as a philosophical figure in the canonical Acts. More specifically, he proposes that in the scene where Paul debates with the philosophers in the market place before making a speech in the Aeropagus, Luke has infused this episode with allusions to Socrates.41 In the fourth-century pseudepigraphical correspondence between Paul and Seneca, Seneca praises Paul for his intellectual brilliance—a brilliance that is not manifest in Paul’s letters to Seneca themselves, which are rather devoid of content except for expressions of mutual admiration. Thus this fictional correspondence seems to have been crafted with the primary purpose of presenting Paul as a philosopher, and as the intellectual equal of his philosophic contemporary. Paul’s own letters and behaviour among the communities he established readily lent themselves to this trope of portraying him as a philosopher in early Christianity. Numerous scholars have addressed the similarities in ideas and rhetoric found in Paul’s letters with contemporaneous philosophical schools.42 Recently Bert Jan Lieaert Peerbolte has illustrated how aspects of how Paul conducted his ministry were similar to the practices of many ancient philosophers—the practice of manual labour to support himself in order to educate, a life of abstinence, and referring to his message as “teachings” (διδαχή).43 The realm of visual art also attests to the tendency to portray Paul as a philosopher. In 2009, a fourth-century fresco of Paul was restored at the catacomb of St Thecla in Rome, which archaeologists claimed to be the earliest portrait of the apostle Paul (Plate 5.1). These scholars noted that in this portrait 41   Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), 151. 42   For example, see Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers, 35–48; Troels EngbergPedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000); Runar M. Thorsteinsson, “Stoicism as a Key to Pauline Ethics in Romans,” in Stoicism in Early Christianity, eds Tuomas Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010), 15–38. 43   Bert Jan Lieaert Peerbolte, “Paul and the Practice of Paideia,” in Jesus, Paul, and Early Christianity: Studies in Honor of Henk Jan De Jonge, eds Rieuwerd Buitenwerf, Harm W. Hollander, and Johannes Tromp (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 262.

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his characteristics cohere to those of a philosopher: the “pointed beard and furrowed brow”44 and a bald head. Here the contracted forehead muscles that produce his knitted brow are made quite clear by the contrast of the darker red color used to illustrate them. His baldness and beard are readily apparent. These three components dominate the image and thus seem intended to convey something significant about his appearance. Yet even beyond this fresco, these same three physical characteristics associated with philosophers are frequently applied to Paul in other early images. For example, the fourth-century fresco of Paul found in the catacomb of Praetextatus presents him in a similar fashion—Paul’s beard, balding head, and what appear to be knit brows are portrayed.45 The fresco of Paul and Theocleia in the grotto of St Paul (albeit of a later date, most likely the sixth century) also depicts Paul with a balding head, beard, and a prominently knitted brow.46 Like the image in the catacomb of St Thecla, here again his contracted forehead muscles are rendered in a darker color in contrast to the rest of his skin. In this portrait Paul is also portrayed as having an open book in front of him—most likely an indication that the artist wished to highlight an intellectual nature. In both of these catacomb depictions, as well as in the fourth-century portrait found in the catacomb of Domitilla, Paul is dressed similarly: he wears a tunic under a draped cloak and he wears sandals.47 According to Robin M. Jensen, this was “the everyday garb of an upper-class Roman citizen of the third or fourth century and specifically identified with teachers of philosophers.”48 In this image the bald, bearded and knitted-browed Paul is also depicted as standing by a basket of scrolls. This is best understood as another aspect of the artist’s attempt to portray Paul as an intellectual figure. The APTh is temporally sandwiched between literary and artistic traditions that attest to the representation of Paul as a philosopher. Rather than an innovative departure from this commonplace depiction, it seems reasonable to posit a similar conception of Paul in the APTh. Yet beyond this, evidence 44   Nick Pisa, “Is this the earliest image of St. Paul? ‘Sensational’ 1,600-year-old icon of saint found in a Roman tomb,” UK Daily Mail, 29 June 2009; accessed: http://www. dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1196118/Pictured-The-sensational-1-600-year-old-icon-StPaul-Roman-tomb.html. 45   Image available at http://digitalcollections.library.yale.edu/0/1963590.jpe. 46   Image in Barrier, The Acts, 62. 47   For more on philosophical dress in antiquity, especially the wearing of the cloak, see the chapter by Arthur Urbano in this volume. 48   Robin M. Jensen, “Paul in Art,” in The Blackwell Companion to Paul, ed. Stephen Westerholm (Sussex: Blackwell, 2011), 509. The image is produced on this same page.

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suggests that Socrates in particular was the “model” philosopher used to describe Paul’s appearance. Paul’s bald head and knitted brow as characteristic of representations of ancient philosophers in general has already been discussed. Here it will suffice to note that Socrates is among philosophers who were depicted as such. See, for example, Plate 5.2, where his knitted brow is quite pronounced. This, then, leaves Paul’s “shortness of stature,” “bandy-legs,” and “somewhat longish nose.”49 The differences in nose can, I suggest, be satisfactorily explained, and the other attributes closely correspond to accounts of Socrates’ physical appearance. That Socrates was considered to have been short—and, like Paul, not qualified with the admired quality of “well-proportioned”—seems to have been the consensus. George Boys-Stones suggests that this tradition is derived from Phaedo 102b, where Socrates is shorter than Simmias, who is shorter than Phaedo.50 Although Socrates uses this description to highlight the relativity inherent in concepts such as tall and short, later he remarks that “I admit and endure shortness and still remain the same person I am, this short man.”51 That Socrates was held to have bandy-legs, and that these were considered a subject for ridicule, rather than an attractive feature, is also attested in antiquity. Jerome, drawing from Ps-Seneca, describes Socrates as “the ugliest of men, with snub nose, bald forehead, rough-haired, and bandy-legged.”52 49   Perhaps, also, his “gracious presence” or being “full of grace,” although this might be solely derived from the depiction of Stephen in the canonical acts, as I take the “sometimes he appeared as a man, but at other times he had the face of an angel” to be. “Healthy” does not require much in the way of correlation, as it seems a vague indicator of good bodily constitution. However, a correspondence between this and the frequent references to the healthy body and it’s correlation to a healthy soul by Plato’s Socrates could be entered into the discussion. Perhaps most notably the analogy of “good health in the body” indicates “justice in the soul” in Rep. 444c–e: “Because just and unjust actions are no different for the soul than healthy and unhealthy things are for the body … Virtue seems, then, to be a kind of health, fine condition, and well-being of the soul, while vice is disease, shameful condition, and weakness” (LCL Plato Vol. 5, 416–8; trans. G.M.A. Grube, rev. C.D.C. Reeve, in Plato: Complete Works, ed. John M. Cooper [Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, 1997], 1075–6). 50   George Boys-Stones, “Physiognomy and Ancient Psychological Theory,” in Seeing the Face Seeing the Soul: Polemon’s Physiognonmy from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, ed. Simon Swain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 37. Boys-Stones acknowledges that Socrates is about 70 years old in this dialogue—perhaps accounting for his diminutive statue—whereas the other two men are in the prime of their lives. 51   Phaedo 102e (LCL Plato Vol. 1, 352; trans. Grube, Plato: Complete Works, 88). 52   Against Jovinianus, 1.48 (PL 23, 291; trans. W.H. Fremantle, NPNF 2-06, 384). Here Jerome is citing Ps-Seneca, De Matrimonia.

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And as for the nose, Daniel R. McLean remarks that “a snub nose is almost universally characterized among ancient physiognomists as a marker of lasciviousness.”53 In a text featuring a protagonist proclaiming a doctrine of celibacy, it is clear why this sort of nose would be inappropriate on said protagonist. As such, Paul’s longish nose is a distinct departure from the latter, thus presumably avoiding the lustful connotations of the snub nose.54 However, the silence of the text on whether or not Paul had a beard is admittedly problematic. Not only because Socrates sports a beard in portraiture, but the beard is perhaps “the” marker of the philosopher in antiquity, as the examples addressed below demonstrate. And while of course this is an argument from silence (which can be rightfully accused of circular reasoning), it could be posited that the presence of a beard was so readily assumed on the figure of the intellectual that it did not need mentioning. Moreover, artistic works which exhibit familiarity with the APTh also depict Paul as having a beard.55 While of course this could be a move to align the image of Paul to other artistic representations, it also implies that it is plausible that those who heard the story likewise assumed or envisioned the presence of a beard, regardless of it not being stipulated in the text. David R. Cartlidge and J. Keith Elliott also see a correspondence between representations of Paul (both iconographical and in the APTh) and Socrates, although they do not note the above specifics. They seem to base their interpretation on the idea that both figures seem to be inconsistent with an image of a man who is “handsome and dignified.”56 Based on this they remark that

  Daniel R. McLean, “The Socratic corpus: Socrates and physiognomy,” in Socrates from Antiquity to the Enlightenment, ed. Michael Trapp (Farnham: Ashgate, 2007), 68. 54   Although bald heads were similarly associated with sexual promiscuity (discussed above), given the prominence of bald heads in the trope of the philosopher it is understandable why this detail would be nonetheless included in the APTh. 55   For example, the fourth century sarcophagus lid depicting the Thecla ship with Paul as the captain, or the early fifth-century ivory plaque portraying a bearded Paul reading to Thecla (images reproduced in Barrier, The Acts, 60–61), or the image in the grotto of Saint Paul, discussed above. 56   Cartlidge and Elliott, “Art,” 142. Zanker relates an anecdote from Apuleius defence (Apol. 4.1), where his accusers cite his handsome and carefully attended appearance as evidence that he as a magos, rather than a philosopher as he claimed. Zanker quips: “‘thus if a man wanted to be acknowledged publically as a philosopher, at least according to Apuleius’ accusers and the people of Sabratha, where the trial took place, the one thing he could not appear was handsome” (Mask, 234). 53

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Paul, therefore, stands in the early church, at least in respect to his physical depictions, as the church’s Socrates. There has been a certain amount of expurgation of the portrait in its transfer from Socrates to Paul. The Pauline face is not ‘satyr-like.’ Nevertheless, Paul is depicted in rhetoric and iconography as martyr to the cause of the true, and, in spite of his physical characteristics, at least according to the Acts of Paul, he is seductive in his message. His opponents in the Acts of Paul, however, take a more earthly view of his seduction.57

However, this more “earthly view” of seduction also has a counterpart in traditions regarding Socrates, whereby some of his disciples exhibit a response similar to Thecla’s response to Paul. The erotic pull that Paul has on Thecla corresponds to characterizations of Socrates. This erotic pull of Paul over Thecla has been noted by many. Monika Betz has recently discussed this in light of the motif of “love at first sight” in the genre of the ancient romance novel. She, unlike many, understands Paul’s physical appearance as unappealing. She argues that part of the function of Paul’s unattractiveness is to underscore that he was ultimately only the medium for the divine power which is what Thecla actually falls in love with.58 Such a view coheres well with the effect that Socrates is said to have had on some of his own followers: they are enraptured by his words, yet aware of his physical unattractiveness. Perhaps the clearest example of this is Alcibiades’ so-called praise of Socrates in the Symposium. He begins his speech by likening Socrates’ physical appearance to that of a statue of Silenus—a notoriously ugly satyr. However, a few lines later Alcibiades begins to describe the compelling hold of Socrates’ speech, likening him to the musician Marsyas whose music was able to “cast spells” on people: The only difference between you and Marsyas is that you need no instruments; you do exactly what he does, but with words alone. You know, people hardly ever take a speaker seriously … but let anyone—man, woman, or child—listen to you or even a poor account of what you say—and we are all transported, completely possessed. … the moment he starts to speak, I am beside myself: my heart starts leaping in my chest, the tears come streaming down my face, even the frenzied Corybantic seem sane compared to me—and, let me tell you, I am not alone.59

  Cartlidge and Elliott, “Art,” 142.   Betz, “Die betörenden,” 140–41. 59   Symp. 215c–e (Greek text edited by C.J. Rowe, in Plato: Symposium, 108; trans. Alexander Nehamas and Paul Woodruff, in Plato: Complete Works, 497–8). 57 58

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Alcibiades continues with a story of a failed attempt to seduce Socrates—initially confusing the man himself (who was only the medium for the benefits of a philosophic life) with his words. This accords well with Betz’s reading of the APTh.60 In another dialogue, Meno also notes the ability of Socrates’ words to affect those who hear them in a compelling way. He remarks to Socrates: “I think you are bewitching me and beguiling me, simply putting me under a spell … both my mind and my tongue are numb … I think you are wise not to sail away from Athens to go and stay elsewhere, for if you were to behave like this as a stranger in another city, you would be driven away for practicing sorcery.”61 Xenophon’s Memorabilia also links Socrates with magic, albeit playfully, in depicting him in dialogue with a courtesan saying that he too used a ἴυγχ (a wheel-like device often employed in erotic magic spells) in order to draw people to him (3.11.17). Likewise, in the APTh, Paul is accused of being a foreign sorcerer, despite having worked no wondrous deeds that might readily lend themselves to this sort of accusation.62 Paul’s defence speech before the governor in the APTh is comparable to that of Socrates before the Athenian jury in that Paul must give an account of what he has been teaching. Both men claim that they are under the compulsion of god to go about with their respective messages, and that their messages ultimately were revealed to them from the divine. Moreover, in the charge that they have done damage or harm to persons of the city, both respond that their teachings are meant to help, or are for the hearer’s own good, rather than to harm. As is well known, Socrates is accused of (among other things) corrupting (διαφθείρει) the youth (Apol. 24b), and while Paul’s accusations pertain to wives (and are different in nature), he too is charged with having “corrupted” (διέφθειρεν) persons of the city (3.15).

60   That Alcibiades also perceives something of the divine in Socrates, like Thecla seems to in Paul, is also mentioned in this dialogue. Alcibiades remarks: “once I caught him when he was open like Silenus’ statues, and I had a glimpse of the figures he keeps hidden within: they were so godlike, so bright and beautiful, so utterly amazing—that I no longer had a choice—I just had to do whatever he told me” (Symp. 216e–217a [C.J. Rowe, Plato: Symposium, 110; trans. Nehamas and Woodruff, Plato: Complete Works, 498–9]). 61   Meno 80a–b (LCL Plato Vol. 2, 296–8; trans. G.M.A. Grube, Plato: Complete Works, 879). 62   Bremmer (“Magic,” 42) suggests that the implication behind this is that Paul is accused as having worked erotic magic. This is a viable interpretation, and potentially adheres well to the traditions about Socrates just discussed.

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Yet beyond these aspects that are relevant to a comparison with Socrates in particular, there are numerous others in the APTh that correspond to a philosopher more generally. The names of Onesiphorus’ children, for example, support the portrayal of Paul as a philosopher. Jan Bremmer notes that the “philosophical names” of Simmias and Zeno “suggest an intellectual father.”63 As such, Onesiphorus is depicted as a figure interested in philosophy, who extends hospitality to Paul to teach in his home—not unlike resident philosophers in the ancient world. Of even greater significance in understanding Paul as a philosopher figure is that nowhere in the text is Paul himself depicted as working a miracle. This is in stark contrast to how he is portrayed in the extended narrative of the Acts of Paul, the canonical Acts, and, indeed, how the apostles are portrayed in general throughout the apocryphal acts which are replete with their wonder-working abilities. Rather, Paul is described first and foremost as acting as a teacher, and his role as teacher is the backbone of his role in the narrative. From the outset of the story his ministry is described as conveying teachings (διδασκαλίας, APTh 3.1), and it is his teaching that captivates Thecla and initiates their subsequent relationship (διδάσκοντι, APTh 3.8), although other young men and women are also described as having been taught by him (διδασκόμενοι, APTh 3.9). It is Paul’s teaching that puts him in the cross hairs of Thamyris (διδασκαλία, APTh 3.13) and will put his persecution in motion. Demas and Hermogenes recommend that Thamyris “lead [Paul] before the governor Castellius as one who is persuading the crowds over to a new Christian teaching (διδαχῃ̑), and thus destroy him” (APTh 3.14). When facing the governor, he is called upon to defend his teachings (διδάσκει, διδάσκεις APTh 3.16, διδάσκω APTh 3.17). Because the governor wished to hear Paul more thoroughly on the subject, he sentenced him to prison until the official would have time to hear him at length. The prison, of course, is where Paul first meets Thecla in person (3.18). In other words, Paul as teacher is the theme which propels much of the story along. Given the importance placed on Paul as a teacher in the narrative, it seems only fitting that his physical description coheres with the traits of the philosopher in the ancient world. One’s physical appearance played an important role in how one’s character was evaluated, and great significance was placed on “looking the part” of one’s social role. As Michael Koortbojian rightly observes, “[ο]ne 63   Bremmer, “Magic,” 37–8. Zeno may refer to the Cynic influenced by the thought of Socrates (Plato’s Parmenides contains a discussion between this Zeno and Socrates, albeit one clearly fabricated), and Simmias, more relevant for present purposes, was a disciple of Socrates.

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identified, indeed individuated oneself, by adopting the conspicuous appearance that was synonymous with a distinctive social role.”64 He notes that this individuation was, of course, predicated on the collective convention.65 Evidence suggests that the importance placed on “looking the part” in the ancient world was equally applicable to philosophers. In support of this, Koortbojian discusses the anecdote related by Aulus Gellius (NA 9.2.1–5). The story goes that a man who looked the part of a philosopher encountered Herodes Atticus and requested money for bread. When asked who he was, the philosopher was indignant, thinking that his role of philosopher should have been obvious by his appearance. Koortbojian remarks of the man: “what mattered was neither his individual, specific visage nor his distinctive statue, but the conventional type whose costume he affected … Herodes’ suppliant expected to be numbered among [the sages]—on the grounds of appearance alone.”66 Lucian’s works also attest to the commonly held view of the importance of looking the part of the philosopher, although it is clear he is satirizing this perspective. In Dialogues of the Dead, Socrates asks Menippus for the current events in Athens. Menippus replies that “many of the young men call themselves philosophers, and, to judge at least from their garb and gait, are tiptop philosophers.”67 In The Eunuch, Lucian further mocks this widespread view, crafting a dialogue where the eunuch Bagoas was considered by some to be an inappropriate choice to take a chair in philosophy given that he was unable to grow a beard.68 Conclusion As the appearance of the philosopher contributed to credibility, it is understandable why the APTh would portray Paul as possessing physical characteristics consistent with his primary role as wise teacher throughout the narrative. If we accept the position that Paul is deliberately being cast in the role of a philosopher in the narrative, this has noteworthy implications.   Michael Koortbojian, “The Double Identity of the Roman Portrait Statues: Costumes and Their Symbolism at Rome,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto, 2008), 73. 65   Koortbojian, “Identity,” 73. 66   Koortbojian, “Identity,” 73–4. 67  Lucian, Dialogues of the Dead 418 (trans. MacLeod; LCL Lucian Vol. 7, 33). 68  Lucian, The Eunuch 8 (trans. Harmon; LCL Lucian Vol. 5, 341). This anecdote is also noted by Zanker, Mask, 110. 64

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First, it forms a composite and readily comprehensible portrait of Paul in the narrative—he looks like a philosopher and he acts like a philosopher. Second, and similar to Betz’s point, portraying Paul as a philosopher underscores his message of self-control which is a key component of the narrative.69 Third, and more significantly, depicting Paul as a philosopher lends credibility to his message, and conveys dignity and authority—much like those who erected funerary monuments depicting the deceased in such a light discussed above. In a text promoting ideals that undermine many cultural norms and even depicts confrontations between Christian teaching and figures of political authority, such credibility bestowed upon the foundational figure was crucial for lending authority to the message itself. In sum, this discussion has offered an understanding of the description of Paul that is coherent and consistent with how he is portrayed both within the APTh, and elsewhere in early Christian tradition. While Paul is not handsome, his description in the APTh is positive in the sense of bolstering the image of Paul as a philosopher, lending further credibility to his teachings. Once the stumbling block of Paul’s purported unibrow is removed, a composite and coherent picture of Paul the philosopher emerges.

69   In terms of sexuality, but also in terms of consumption. Notably Paul consumes bread, vegetables and water when not fasting (3.25), unlike the overly passionate Thamyris who indulges in highly priced meat and wine (3.13).

Chapter 6

Adorning the Protagonist: The Use of Dress in the Book of Judith Erin K. Vearncombe

Introduction: Irony and the book of Judith The book of Judith, an exaggerated “historical” novel narrating the defeat of the Assyrian army outside a small (unknown) town named Bethulia, encodes many opposites, reversals, and challenges to the reader’s expectations.1 Scholarly discussion of Judith regularly references the importance of irony in the book. Carey A. Moore, for example, states that few if any of the biblical books are “as quintessentially ironic as Judith.” Moore names Judith “a saint who murdered for her people” and describes her as a childless widow who gave spiritual and political life to her people.2 Further instances of irony include the emphasis on a 1   Judith, a deuterocanonical or apocryphal book originally composed in Greek by a Palestinian Judean, is generally thought to have been written during the late Hasmonean period (late second–early first century BCE). The mention of the text in 1 Clement (close of the first–early second century CE) indicates that it cannot have been composed later than the middle of the first century CE. The earliest extant versions of Judith are preserved in four Septuagintal recensions: codices Vaticanus, Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus and Basiliano-Vaticanus. “Historical” is placed in quotation marks as the book is highly historically inaccurate; though the text is presented as a work of historical fiction, the errors in history would have been obvious to the ancient reader (for example, Nebuchadnezzar was not the king of Assyria, but rather of Babylon). 2   Carey A. Moore, Judith: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Garden City: Doubleday, 1985), 78. The translation of Judith used in this chapter comes from Cameron Boyd-Taylor, Ioudith, in A New English Translation of the Septuagint, eds Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 441–55. Boyd-Taylor’s translation is based on the critical edition of R. Hanhart, Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum Auctoritate Academiae Scientiarum Gottingensis editum VIII.4: Iudith (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979). The only change I have made to Boyd-Cameron’s translation is the use of more conventional forms of names: “Judith” instead of Boyd-Cameron’s “Ioudith” and “Holophernes” instead of “Olophernes,” et cetera, just to make reading a bit simpler.

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woman’s active role in responding to aggressors while men wait passively behind city walls; the assassination of a powerful general at the hand of a socially weak and powerless widow; and the actions of a single woman in bringing down the might of an entire army. More controversial is the central moral irony of the text: a woman who uses lies, deception, and her seductive power to bring down a man is hailed as a heroine of piety and named “the great boast of Israel” (Judith 15: 9). While the contrast between deceit and faithfulness may contribute to a certain moral ambiguity in the text, the protagonist’s use of her “seductive power,” expressed through her manipulation of clothing and adornment, represents arguably the most underestimated irony of the book. The self-conscious dress, undress and re-dress of the protagonist define Judith’s identity and structure the movement of the narrative. This definition of identity and production of narrative flow are significant elements in and of themselves, but more critical for interpretation of the text is the ironic impact of Judith’s dressing up (and down). The positive valuation accorded to Judith’s adornment of her body both within the text itself and in early interpretation or reception of Judith is ironic in that women’s adornment was, in the ancient context, highly negative; according to male writers, women dressed up to achieve only for destructive purposes. Early male Christians therefore come to unexpected conclusions in their readings of the book of Judith as they positively evaluate Judith’s “dressing to kill.” The construction of Judith’s body is a wholly overlooked irony of the book on two important levels: first, with regard to clothing, while female adornment was generally given a negative evaluation in ancient discourse relating to dress, here, Judith’s intentional act of adornment is praised as it gives her the opportunity to save her people through the seduction and murder of Holofernes. When women dress up, they do so to seduce men—so assert ancient male writers on women’s dress. This “dressing up” is invariably negative; women are shamed for having “too attractive” an appearance, or for manipulating their bodies in order to appear beautiful. Judith dresses up just for this purpose—her intention is to seduce Holofernes. However, ancient male writers commend Judith for her use of the “womanly arts,” as she applies them to the larger goal of the murder of the enemy leader. While Judith’s usual performance of dress (her widow’s garb) falls within acceptable boundaries for female dress, it is her exceptional performance of dress, her clothing and objects of adornment worn specifically to seduce and weaken the Assyrian general in order to create space for his defeat that receives the highest praise, both within the text of Judith and in early Christian interpretation of the story. The author of the story presents Judith’s dressed body

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in a way that creates a certain tension within traditional (male) assessments of female dress. The second irony of Judith’s body and dress concerns Judith’s gender status. The dressed body profoundly mattered in the world of the ancient Mediterranean; how one dressed and adorned oneself was of great significance beyond the expression of individual taste. Clothing and overall public presentation were signs of status: the social or honor status of the individual, as well as the honor status of the groups to which the individual belonged. The body, particularly the clothed body, was therefore the property of both the individual and of his or her social world; the clothed body was the vehicle of personal identity, but this identity had to be managed in the context of the norms of the social situation of the individual, which imposed particular modes of construction or performance upon the dressed body. As the primary signifier of identity, dress was regulated by particular social and moral imperatives specific to multiple social, economic and religious contexts across the ancient Mediterranean. The performance of identity through dress was linked to the construction and presentation of gender as well: however men dressed, women were to dress differently. Dress was a visual means of representing the position of the individual along the gender spectrum and, accordingly, the position of the individual in the social world. Women dressed in a manner that communicated private sexual status, with clothing and hairstyle changing according to life cycle stages (young girl, bride, married woman, widow), while men dressed in a manner that communicated civic role or public status. Individuals who deviated from acceptable practices of dress—men who dressed too much like women, for example, or even women who dressed too “womanly” in the over-application of cosmetics or embellishments—would be subject to shame and ridicule. Dress was therefore essential in instilling the norms of gender into bodily practice through the repeated actions of dress. Judith’s clothed and adorned body seems to challenge “norms” of gender established through dress. While the adorned female is usually defined as an artificial construct designed to deceive men, in Judith, the protagonist redefines the adorned female in order to achieve and assert a social power normally reserved for the male. Judith acquires power as her character manipulates the cultural discourse concerning women’s appearance, articulated in Judith’s “appearance-management behaviors” throughout the narrative.3 The character 3   For a discussion of perceptions of female social power in relation to certain “appearance-management behaviors,” behaviors which may range from “mild” (everyday

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uses this “feminine” power in order to execute a “masculine” effort; she does something typically “womanly” in order to accomplish something “manly.” Indeed, the author of 1 Clement, one of the earliest commentators on Judith, presents the protagonist as exemplary for her performance of a “manly deed”: Many women also, being strengthened by the grace of God, have performed numerous manly exploits. The blessed Judith, when her city was besieged, asked of the elders permission to go forth into the camp of the strangers; and, exposing herself to danger, she went out for the love which she bare to her country and people then besieged; and the Lord delivered Holofernes into the hands of a woman.4

The reference to Judith in 1 Clement is ironic in its characterization of Judith’s act of beheading the enemy general as a “manly deed,” for the means by which Judith accomplishes this act, according to ancient literary conventions of gendered behavior, are at the opposite end of the gender spectrum. Holofernes is explicitly defeated “with the hand of a female” (Judith 16: 5): “Judith the daughter of Merari undid him with the beauty of her face” (Judith 16: 6). Judith uses the resources available to her as a woman—the resources of beauty and dress—to perform Clement’s so-called “manly deed.” Her use of typically “womanly” items gives her a social power that renders her “manly.” However, according to ancient appraisals of women’s dress, in “dressing to kill,” as it were, Judith could not have done anything more womanly. Dress and the Narrative of Judith Dress functions to challenge the reader’s interpretation of Judith but also, on a larger, scale, dress structures the flow of the narrative as a whole. The king Nebuchadnezzar, styling himself as “Lord of all the earth” (Judith 2: 4), sends his chief general Holofernes out to subdue the surrounding western nations. As grooming) to “extreme” (disorders relating to body image), see Nancy A. Rudd and Sharron J. Lennon, “Social Power and Appearance Management among Women,” The Berg Fashion Library (1999), doi: http://dx.doi.org.myaccess.library.utoronto. ca/10.2752/9781847887221/AANDPOWER0012. Rudd and Lennon define “social power” as “the potential to change a person’s beliefs, behaviors, or attitudes as a result of the actions of the influencing agent” (Rudd and Lennon, “Social Power”). 4   1 Clem. 55 (LCL, Apostolic Fathers Vol. 1, 102; trans. Roberts-Donaldson, ANF Vol. 1, 1–22, esp. 19–20 [Chapter 55]).

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nations submit, their shrines are torn down and their gods destroyed so that they should worship Nebuchadnezzar alone (Judith 3: 8). Holofernes gets ready to march against the little town of Bethulia, a stronghold protecting the mountain passes leading into the land of Judea. Holofernes receives warning that this campaign might not end well due to the relationship of the people of Israel to their powerful God (Judith 5: 20–21), but he disregards the warning and continues with his plans to move against Bethulia. The inhabitants of Bethulia despair at the great numbers of the army camped below them, an army that has also taken control of their water supplies. The town elders agree to surrender to Holofernes in five days, to allow some time for God to show mercy. At this point in the text (Judith 8), Judith finally appears, emerging from her widowhood to shame the town elders for their inappropriate testing of God (Judith 9: 16–17). Judith promises that the Lord will deliver Israel by her hand. Judith then leaves Bethulia and goes to Holofernes, claiming that she will show him a way by which he may capture the whole region. Holofernes, amazed at what she has to say and taken in by her beauty, tries to seduce her at a banquet but ends up drinking too much and, while he is in a drunken stupor, Judith cuts off his head with his own sword. She returns to Bethulia with the head of the Assyrian general, and the elders praise her as the most blessed of all women (Judith 13: 18). When the Assyrian camp sees the head of their general hanging from the parapet of the town wall, they are thrown into panic and flee. Each major event in the story of Judith is marked in some way by dress or changes in dress; dress structures and guides the progression of the text. As Israel prepares for war, the entire nation dons the garb of mourning, dressing even slaves and cattle in sackcloth (Judith 4: 9–15). When the reader meets the protagonist for the first time, the reader receives a detailed description of her appearance.5 Judith’s status as a widow is granted pride of place in this description, and this status is communicated through clothing: she wears sackcloth around her waist and “widow’s clothing,” and she is beautiful to behold (Judith 8: 5, 7). After confronting the elders of Bethulia, Judith prepares to meet Holofernes, first by prostrating herself before the Lord, putting ashes on her head and uncovering her sackcloth (Judith 9: 1). Her prayer to the Lord is formulated with reference to clothing, or here the violent removal of clothing: she prays to the Lord God of her ancestor Simeon, “to whom you 5   Judith is first described with reference to her genealogy, perhaps an early indicator of her gender instability, as genealogy is generally male territory in biblical narrative (Judith 8: 1–2).

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gave a sword in hand for vengeance on aliens, the ones who … stripped naked the thigh for shame” (Judith 9: 2). Judith then changes her appearance as she prepares to meet Holofernes. Note the detail of this passage, and the number of verbs referring to the process of dressing: [ Judith] removed the sackcloth which she wore and stripped off the clothing of her widowhood, and she washed herself, all around the body, with water and anointed herself with thick ointment and fixed the hair of her head and placed a turban upon it and put on the clothing of her merriment with which she was accustomed to dress in the days of the life of her husband [Manasseh], and she took sandals for her feet and put on the anklets and the bracelets and the rings and the earrings and her every ornament, and she made herself up provocatively for the charming of the eyes of men, all who would cast eyes upon her. (Judith 10: 3–4)

As Judith travels to the Assyrian camp, having made herself an object upon which to be gazed, all the men who see her marvel at her transformed appearance and in their astonishment, pray for her success (Judith 10: 7–8). The male gaze remains on Judith as she leaves the town gates and passes through the valley (Judith 10: 10). Arriving at the Assyrian camp, Judith continues to be an object of the male gaze, easily convincing the soldiers that she has abandoned her people. Her attractive appearance has a positive impact on the men of the camp, who infer, because she is attractive, that not only she, but her people as a whole, must be judged positively. This positive judgment based on appearance has a negative result as her beauty is recognized as dangerous; if Judith, a single representative of her people, is so beautiful, how much more beautiful, and therefore powerful, must her nation be (Judith 10: 18–19)! Judith’s beauty makes the destruction of Israel an even more pressing imperative as her appearance affects what the beholder infers about not only her own, but her entire people’s characteristics. Judith is then brought before Holofernes, the famous general. The reader encounters Holofernes also in the context of clothing, or textile and adornment, as he rests on a bed embroidered with purple, gold, emeralds and precious stones (Judith 10: 21–2). The Assyrian general makes up his mind to seduce Judith at a banquet, stating that if he does not seduce her, it would essentially be counter to her purpose (Judith 12: 12). Judith prepares for the banquet by dressing herself even more lavishly (Judith 12: 15). When Holofernes becomes

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too drunk to defend himself (Judith 13: 2), Judith seizes the opportunity to kill him. The beheading is marked by Judith’s tearing down of the jeweled bed linens (Judith 13: 9). After she returns to Bethulia, Judith instructs the people to hang the head of the Assyrian general from the town walls, causing panic in the Assyrian camp; the soldiers display their panic through the tearing of their clothes (Judith 14: 19). The inhabitants of Bethulia celebrate their victory over the scattered armies with the wearing of olive wreaths and garlands (Judith 15: 12–13), and the text ends with Judith’s dedication of the fabric of the bed canopy as a votive offering (Judith 16: 19). Judith sings, The omnipotent Lord set them aside with the hand of a female. For their mighty one did not capitulate to young men, nor did sons of the Titans strike him, nor did towering Giants set upon him; but Judith the daughter of Merari undid him with the beauty of her face. For she stripped off the dress of her widowhood for the eminence of those who are weary in Israel. She daubed her face with an anointing, and she put up her hair in a turban, and she took a linen stole for the seduction of him. Her sandal caught his eye, and her beauty captivated his soul; the scimitar passed through his throat. (Judith 16: 5–9)

Judith’s victory is presented very explicitly in the context of her intentional act of dress. We see clearly that dress defines the identity of Judith and structures the movement of the narrative. We know Judith from beginning to end through dress, and it is Judith’s use of dress, her careful construction and presentation of her body, that brings about the climax of the text: the murder of Holofernes and the resulting salvation of her people. Judith, in “dressing to kill,” actually dresses to preserve and save.

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The Discourse of Women’s Dress and the Interpretation of Judith The ancient Mediterranean assessment of women’s dress, as handed down in the writings of male authors,6 maintained, overall, that women’s appearance was “constructed” in a way that men’s appearance was not, and this construction could grant women a certain kind of social power that threatened the hierarchical place of men above women. Men must be vigilant in their awareness of this constructed nature of the female and their subsequent maintenance of female appearance in order to protect their honorable placement in the social hierarchy. While we cannot make any absolute conclusions regarding the authorship of Judith, we might expect the protagonist, as a literary creation, to conform closely to (male) conventions of female dress. Instead, the character walks a thin boundary line; the narrative exploits a tension within the discourse of dress, using the “power” created through Judith’s self-adornment to achieve a positive result or interpretation where the reader would expect a negative one. The “conventional” appraisal of women’s dress affixes numerous negative values to the female sex, not only the “dressed” female, but the interpretation or presentation of the female more generally. While the male world is public, civic, and outside of the body, the female world operates “within” the body to a certain extent, defined by bodily, private practice. The “woman’s world” revolves around appearance: Livy, in his account of the repeal of the Oppian law, reports a statement of Cato the Elder as follows: “elegance (munditiae) and ornamentation (ornatus) and care of the self (cultus), these are the insignia of women, in these they delight and glory; this our ancestors called ‘woman’s world’ (mundum muliebrem)” (34.7.9).7 The phrase “woman’s world” (mundus muliebris) denotes both a certain collection of “stock” objects—mirrors, combs, hair pins, toiletry kits, bottles for perfumes, lotions and other unguents,

6   As Maria Wyke notes, “The modern study of the female body in the ancient world is largely a study of reflections … we do not gaze directly upon women of flesh and blood, instead we see women only indirectly in the mirror of discourses composed almost exclusively by men” (Maria Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror: the Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World,” in Women in Ancient Societies: An Illusion of the Night, eds Léonie Archer, Susan Fischler, and Maria Wyke [New York: Routledge, 1994], 134). 7   Livy 34.7.9: munditiae et ornatus et cultus, haec feminarum insignia sunt, his gaudent et gloriantur, hunc mundum muliebrem appellarunt maiores nostri (Ab urbe condita, eds W. Weissenborn and M. Mueller [Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1966–]). For a discussion of the vocabulary of munditia, ornatus, cultus and mundus muliebris, see Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-presentation and society (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 7–9.

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indoor slippers, and devices for straightening or curling the hair8—as well as the broader encapsulation of female activity and status.9 Dress belonged to and defined the feminine; ornatus (ornamentation, adornment) and cultus (care of the body, elegance or grooming) composed and represented the female and feminine experience.10 As constitutive of the female, a narrowly defined standard of appearance and dress was necessary or normative for social life; adornment was acceptable only within a prescribed range. The proper amount of care for the female body located that body within her social realm, according her an honor status accessible to her as a woman. Olson states, “differing amounts of munditia, cultus, and ornatus together served to delineate the Roman woman as belonging to a specific social class. It fixed her within the proper boundaries in a particular social sphere.”11 A certain degree of care for the body, expressed through grooming and dress, was “necessary” for proper self-presentation. A woman’s self-presentation located her in a particular social role or sphere, and accorded a certain amount 8   These objects are of such “stock” quality that in some cases, when the editors of inscriptions encounter funerary reliefs depicting a collection of these beautification tools, instead of listing them individually below the inscription, as they do for reliefs of “male” objects (for example, the mason’s plumb bob, hand axe, square, and ruler), the editors simply represent the imagery as “mundus muliebris.” For example, CIL IX 3826, the monument of Poppaedia P.F. Secunda and her daughter Aetia (?), from Ortona, depicts a toiletry box with four bottles or containers inside; the right side of the monument depicts a mirror in a case, two flasks, one with a handle; the left side shows a closed parasol, comb and two flasks. The CIL description of these objects is only “mundus muliebris.” See the discussion of this monument in Leslie Shumka, “Designing Women: The Representation of Women’s Toiletries on Funerary Monuments in Roman Italy,” in Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Allison Keith (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 180. 9  Olson, Dress, 8. 10   As an example of “feminine experience,” I am here thinking of the direct link between female dress and ritual practice. Rites relating to goddesses often involved undressing, bathing and re-dressing images of a goddess; mirroring the behavior of the goddess, women would also bathe as part of the ritual observance (Ovid, Fast. 4 133–60; Apuleius, Metam. 11.9; Augustine, Civ. 6.10). See Eve D’Ambra, “Nudity and Adornment in Female Portrait Sculpture of the Second Century AD,” in I Claudia II: Women in Roman Art and Society, eds Diana E.E. Kleiner and Susan B. Matheson (Yale University Art Gallery; Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000), 101–14; Shumka, “Designing Women,” 184. There are also quite a number of records of donations of clothing to deities, particularly Artemis at Brauron, donated always by women. 11  Olson, Dress, 9. Olson’s chapter “Self-Presentation, Status and Power” contains a wealth of primary source references concerning women’s dress as status claim (Olson, Dress, 96–112).

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of honor to her husband or household as well. Shumka writes, “the ideal woman was attractive, well dressed, and expended time and energy making herself so; she was also a woman whose financial situation afforded her the leisure to engage in cultus and ornatus and to employ slaves or servants to assist her.”12 The dressed body proclaimed personal and household status. In the case of Judith, for example, the heroine’s appearance is first and foremost linked to the status of her deceased husband Manasseh (Judith 8: 1–7). Judith begins and ends the narrative within these strict standards of “acceptable” dress. According to masculine interpretations of feminine dress, it seems as though it was fairly easy for women to stray beyond the narrow boundaries of appropriate dress, and the most common references to women’s dress in the literature of the ancient Mediterranean are negative. Plutarch differentiates between gaudiness or “wanton conduct” and “cleanliness”, suggesting, When women wear rouge, perfume, and gold and purple, they are considered too showily dressed; but no one takes exception to bathing, the use of oil, or shampooing. Homer brings out the difference very neatly in his lines on Hera adorning herself: ‘First with ambrosia she cleaned all soil from her person. Then with sleek oil she anointed herself.’ So far she is showing concern for cleanliness, but when she picks up those gold brooches and finely wrought earrings, and, lastly, turns to the witchery of Aphrodite’s magic band [girdle], it is plainly a case of overdoing things and of wanton conduct unbecoming to a wife.13

Styling the hair and washing and anointing the body were acceptable practices; too much jewelry and the wearing of cosmetics were not. This “gaudiness” or overuse of adornment was unacceptable as it threatened male social power, conferring a level of indirect power on the female. The indirect power obtained through adornment, hedonic power, was the primary source of social power for the ancient woman, but this social power was mistrusted, viewed as manipulative and harmful, due to its derivation from adornment or physical   Shumka, “Designing Women,” 186. Shumka highlights this ideal of the dressed female body in the context of mortuary reliefs from the early imperial period through the late third century, in locations across the Roman Empire: “the emphasis placed on selfpresentation in mortuary contexts, where Romans wished to leave some record for posterity of their earthly achievements, points strongly to dress and adornment as activities suited to honorable women and endorsed by them as well as their (often male) commemorators” (Shumka, “Designing Women,” 186). 13  Plutarch, Quaes. conv. 6.7 (693) (LCL, Moralia, Vol. 8, trans. Paul A. Clement and Herbert B. Hoffleit, 493). 12

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display.14 The disruption of male power ranges from milder expressions of the shaming of a husband through excessive desire for or spending on adornment to more extreme articulations of female attempts, through adornment, to appeal to a lover other than the husband, rendering the adorned female, according to some authors, a prostitute. The object of female adornment is the shaming of the male, shame that undermined proper male status. The threat of the improperly dressed or adorned female leads an impressive number of male authors to express fear of the “false” or constructed women; men were to protect their social status through the “unveiling” of the “made-up” woman. Propertius’ lover must rid herself of foul cosmetics in order to be truly beautiful (Eleg. 2.18B 23–8); Horace identifies a lustful woman by the sweaty melting of her makeup (“now remains damp whitener [foundation] and pigment [blush] coloured in crocodile shit,” Epod. 12); Seneca identifies “womanish vices” as unchastity and the temptation of gems and pearls (Helv. 16.4).15 The vice of luxuria links spending on dress and adornment with lust and uncontrolled sexuality.16 Hedonic power must be neutralized, according to male writers on female dress; women should not be granted influence over men due to their improper appearance-management behaviors.17 Paradoxically, while women’s adornment of their bodies defined the female gender as frivolous, socially threatening, and inherently sexual, this excessive dress is also considered essential to the construction of the female body; woman 14   Rudd and Lennon define hedonic power as “indirect influence over others” which is obtained “by virtue of one’s appearance, charm, exhibition, or political savvy” (Rudd and Lennon, “Social Power”). Hedonic power is contrasted with “real” or direct agonic power, conventionally associated with masculine behaviors; hedonic power is a “feminine” power: “attractiveness can become a woman’s primary source of social power or influence over others” (Rudd and Lennon, “Social Power”). Rudd and Lennon here draw on the work of Rita J. Freedman, Beauty bound (Lexington: Lexington Books, 1986). 15   Translation of Horace is my own; while I would not generally choose to swear in translations, swearing seemed appropriate in this case. For more on make-up, particularly male rhetoric against make-up, see Amy Richlin, “Making Up a Woman: The Face of Roman Gender,” in Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion and Culture, eds Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, and Wendy Doniger (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1995), 185–213; see also Olson, Dress, 80–95 (on the “dangers of adornment”). 16   On concerns about luxuria in antiquity, see the chapters by Alicia Batten and Maria Doerfler in this volume. 17   To use the vocabulary of Rudd and Lennon, women should not achieve or be granted “reward power” through the manipulation of their appearance (Rudd and Lennon, “Social Power”).

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is a constructed being, a body that is “made-up.”18 The woman’s over-dressed body, though discursively negative, is the essential site of her gendered identity and social location. In Plautus’ Poenulus, for example, two courtesans discuss the necessity of female adornment, comparing the female body to pickled salt-fish: without pickling, fish cannot be eaten; without adornment, the female body is likewise not palatable. This notion of palatability recalls Moore’s statement concerning Judith’s dressing up: if Judith had not “prettied herself up,” Judith would not have had the same credibility before Holofernes.19 While adornment is necessary for female presentation, the male must recognize the fundamental “constructedness” of the female body and rise above it: Ovid’s remedy for love of a woman is for the male lover to arrive early in the morning, to catch the beloved before she has had time to adorn herself. Men admire only a “pageant” or show of beauty; the true woman is the least part of her appearance (Rem. 340ff.). In recognizing the source of womanly social power or influence, this power is defused. Ancient male authors characterize the dressed woman as a construct designed to deceive men. While a certain degree of “constructedness” was necessary for female social performance, the scope of acceptable or appropriate appearance was very narrow. Women who strayed beyond this scope receive an invariably negative treatment in the literary sources as their use of items of dress was interpreted as threatening to male honor or social positioning. This assessment sets interesting interpretative limits for Judith, as both the author and early Christian readers of the text, pre-conditioned to interpret the protagonist’s conventionally feminine act of “dressing up” negatively, end up reading the action positively. Judith’s counter-conventional use of her hedonic influence grants her the ultimate “reward power” over Holofernes, a power that challenges the norms of female appearance-management behaviors. The Manipulation of Dress and Social Power in Judith Judith’s “made-up” or constructed body is located right at the boundary line of socially acceptable female self-presentation. At first, her practice of dress appears to be acceptable, within the male definitions of appropriate female   See Wyke, “Woman in the Mirror,” 134.   “Had she appealed to Holofernes in drab clothes and without first prettying herself up, Judith would have had a more difficult time gaining a hearing or establishing credibility” (Moore, Judith, 200 n. 3). 18 19

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clothing and adornment. She bathes her body with water, anoints herself with ointment, combs her hair, and dresses herself “in the clothing of her merriment with which she was accustomed to dress in the days of the life of her husband [Manasseh]” (Judith 10: 3). So far, so good: she engages in proper munditia and cultus, wearing attire that is connected honorably to her late husband. Next, she puts sandals on her feet, and puts on all her jewelry. No mention is made of cosmetics; the reader is not told that Judith paints her face or applies any sort of make-up. Again, Judith’s practice appears to be acceptable. However, trouble comes in the next line: “and she made herself up provocatively for the charming of the eyes of men, all who would cast eyes upon her” (Judith 10: 4; italics added).20 Judith dresses her body excessively in order to achieve a conventionally negative purpose: the seduction of the male. Judith constructs her body in order to deceive “all the men who might see her,” with Holofernes as her particular focus; she makes herself up as an object of male gaze. Her character is very clear in the narrative, announcing to the town elders that it was her adorned appearance only, not sexual intercourse, that secured her victory: “And the Lord lives, who preserved me in my way in which I went, that my face deceived him for his destruction and that he caused no transgression with me for defilement and shame” (Judith 13: 16). In this respect, her actions are consonant with male assessment. However, her adorned appearance was meant to disrupt and deceive. Judith’s decision to dress herself up is a demonstration of agency in a context where she had little opportunity for social influence; she manipulates her appearance in order to achieve a particular social power. Ironically, her mastery of this hedonic power leads to an ultimate expression of agonic power: the violent, “manly” murder of Holofernes. Contrary to the expectations occasioned by conventional interpretations of female dress, Judith’s deception (and aggression) is given a positive evaluation both within the text of Judith and within early commentary on the text. Where excessive dress or adornment are generally understood as “female intellectual weakness visualized and made manifest,”21 in Judith, dress appears to do the opposite: “In beauty of face and sagacity of words there is not such a woman from one end of the earth to the other” (Judith 11: 21; see also Judith 11: 23). Her deception actually proves her honor, as the elders of Bethulia state that she has “[travelled] straight before our God” (Judith 13: 20), rescuing her people from 20   Carlin Barton’s article on the male gaze is particularly helpful in this context: “Being in the Eyes: Shame and Sight in Ancient Rome,” in The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body, ed. David Fredrick (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press), 216–35. 21  Olson, Dress, 81.

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idolatry and destruction: “Her sandal caught his eye, and her beauty captivated his soul; the scimitar passed through his throat” (Judith 16: 9). Judith takes on a conventional female role in dressing to deceive, and it is her disguise that, according to gender conventions, leads to male dishonor. Here, the dishonor is acceptable, as it belongs to Holofernes, the enemy or outsider. The negative convention yields a positive result. The positive assessment of Judith’s made-up body within the text therefore appears to go against general male presentations of female dress and its link to negative sexuality. In this context, the innate deception of “woman” is acceptable as it is aimed at an outsider group, with the goal of the protection and maintenance of honor of the insider group, Israel.22 Her acts of dress throughout the text are also surprising, however, as they work to subvert her gender status. Judith begins the text dressed as a widow; despite her wealth after her husband’s death, she did not fall victim to luxuria, and maintained her widow’s dress and status. She actively summons the town elders to speak with them, which may be interpreted as a distinctly masculine role: the virtuous woman was known by her silence.23 Montley discusses Judith’s “sequential” sexuality in this context, a sequence which begins and ends with asexuality. Judith begins the text as an “asexual” widow (according to Montley). She takes on a “masculine” sexuality in her summons of the elders and then in going out to meet Holofernes while the elders remain behind the town walls passively (womanly). Judith is “feminine” in dressing up, masculine again in cutting off the Assyrian general’s head, then 22   See the discussion of lying and deception in the ancient Mediterranean context in Philip S. Esler, “‘By the Hand of a Woman’: Culture, Story and Theology in the Book of Judith,” in Social Scientific Models for Interpreting the Bible: Essays by the Context Group in Honor of Bruce J. Malina, ed. John J. Pilch (BIS 53; Leiden: Brill, 2001), esp. 91–6. 23   The combination of beauty and speech as positive attributes in descriptions of the feminine are rare in literature of the ancient Mediterranean, and it is noteworthy that they are combined so frequently in descriptions of Judith (especially Judith 11: 21, 23). A woman with an open (speaking) mouth was frequently offered by male writers as a demonstration of her unchastity: for example, see b.Ber. 3a; b.Ned. 20a–b; Ross Shepard Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph: When Aseneth Met Joseph: A Late Antique Tale of the Biblical Patriarch and His Egyptian Wife, reconsidered (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 207. Judith’s speech bears further investigation not only in the context of her summons of the elders of Bethulia, but also within the banquet context, as Holofernes invites her to a semi-public dinner with his personal attendants (Judith 12: 10). At first, Judith behaves as a virtuous woman would in the meal context, refusing company and eating by herself (Judith 12: 2, 9); on the fourth day, Judith not only attends the banquet of Holofernes, but dresses “in all her woman’s finery” and proceeds to recline at the meal, an act with erotic connotations (see Kathleen E. Corley, Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition [Peabody: Hendrickson, 1993], 24–79).

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ultimately permanently reverts to the asexuality of widowhood, rejecting all the advances of the many men wishing to marry her after her “deed of manly valor.”24 Montley therefore presents Judith as the “archetypal androgyne,” a “heroine who rises above the sexism of her author’s culture.”25 Conventional modes of masculine and feminine are manipulated to some degree within the text, but Judith remains very much the subject of male discourse, both within the text of Judith itself and in subsequent interpretation. Though the reader is not explicitly informed of a clothing change after her successful slaying of the general, Judith does revert to the life of a widow, refusing all suitors and “[growing] old in the house of her husband” (Judith 16.23). Judith is here dressed in the conventional ideal of the feminine, a woman dressed properly

  Patricia Montley, “Judith in the fine arts: the appeal of the archetypal androgyne,” Anima 4.2 (1978): 37–42. 25   Montley, “Judith in the fine arts,” 40. There is much discussion of Judith’s value as a “feminist” heroine, though many of these discussions uphold problematic definitions of “feminist” and “feminine.” Nickelsburg maintains that Judith is a “feminist” character as she is “superior” to men in the narrative; the narrative of Judith is, for Nickelsburg, “especially striking for its feminism. In creating a protagonist the author has chosen a woman, who calls to mind the Israelite heroines of the past—Judith—‘the Jewess.’ As the narrative unfolds, Judith is consistently depicted as superior to the men with whom she is associated” (George W.E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature between the Bible and the Mishnah [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981], 108). Nickelsburg tempered this response to Judith somewhat in the second edition of this text, stating instead that Judith “is a rare example of a book in biblical and early postbiblical Jewish (and, for that matter, Christian) literature whose protagonist is a woman whose roles and actions often confound normal portrayals of gender relations” (Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature, 2nd edition, 99). For Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Judith is “a woman who fights with a woman’s weapons, yet far from being defined by her ‘femininity,’ she uses it to her own ends” (Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins [New York: Crossroad, 1983], 117). Amy-Jill Levine offers quite a different perspective on the character of Judith. She argues that Judith manifests an “otherness” that intrudes into conventional social categories and relationships. This “otherness”—her independence and her sexuality—threatens androcentric community and discourse, and it must therefore be “domesticated,” or brought under control, through Judith’s eventual re-inscription into society as a traditional widow. Judith therefore both represents her community (she sustains conventional social relationships) and “exceeds” this representation in her threat to sexual hierarchy (“Sacrifice and Salvation: Otherness and Domestication in the Book of Judith,” in A Feminist Companion to Esther, Judith and Susanna, ed. Athalya Brenner [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995], 223). For a helpful summary of feminist approaches to the interpretation of Judith, see Pamela J. Milne, “What Shall We Do With Judith? A Feminist Reassessment of a Biblical “Heroine”,” Semeia 62 (1993): 37–58. 24

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with virtue and modesty rather than pearls or gold.26 However, Judith has the most social power when she is dressed up, rather than down, as her hedonic potential is transformed into agonic aggression. Early interpretation of Judith maintains this ideal of female dress: despite her dressing to seduce and kill, Judith becomes an exemplar of the virtue of piety and chastity. Jerome depicts Judith in a manner that completely opposes his description of “Gentile widows”; Jerome avows that Gentile widows adorn themselves in order to attract a new husband, one over whom they might have control.27 In contrast, Jerome interprets Judith’s actions in dressing up in terms of “chastity beheading lust.” The painted, glittering, disobedient widow stands in stark contrast to Jerome’s depiction of Judith, though Jerome tries to avoid mention of her jewelry or cosmetics; he sees her standing armed with a bloody sword: “here a woman vanquishes man, and chastity beheads lust.”28 Though dressing for the specific purpose of seduction, according to Jerome Judith dresses up not from her inherent sensuality as a woman but from virtue, and because of this, Jerome states, the Lord paradoxically increased her beauty.29 It does seem important to Jerome, though, to note that, after the bloody deed was accomplished, Judith “quickly changed” out of her “seductive” garb, back into the “mean dress” of her widowhood. Judith’s dressing to deceive and kill gets something of a free pass in interpretive literature. Judith becomes a model of perfect widowhood (Apos. Con. 3: 7; 5: 20; 8: 2, 25) and an exemplar of monogamy (Tertullian, Mon. 17); she presents the paradigm for virtue and “acceptable” falsehood (Ambrose, Off. 13.85; Jerome, Ruf. 1.18). Judith’s actions are even interpreted as an example   The Roman philosopher Seneca, for example, describes his mother as one who “lacks all female flaws” and rises above her sex as her “unique jewel” is modesty (Helv. 16). 27  Jerome, Epist. 127 (LCL Select Letters, trans. F.A. Wright, 444–5). 28  Jerome, Epist. 54 (LCL Select Letters, 260; trans. W.H. Fremantle, NPNF Vol. 6, 108). 29   While Clement praises Judith’s “many deeds of manly valor” (1 Clem. 55.3), discussed earlier, he also retells the story so that Judith does not summon and confront the elders, but rather asks for permission from the elders to enter the enemy camp. Judith puts herself at risk in approaching Holofernes, and it is the humility of her self-sacrifice in which Clement finds value (1 Clem. 56.1ff.). On Clement’s interpretation of Judith and also of Esther, see Barbara E. Bowe, “‘Many Women have been Empowered through God’s Grace …’ (1 Clem. 55.3): Feminist Contradictions and Curiosities in Clement of Rome,” in A Feminist Companion to Patristic Literature, eds Amy-Jill Levine with Maria Mayo Robbins (Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings 12; London: T&T Clark, 2008), 15–25, especially 21–2. Moore mentions that for Tertullian and Ambrose also, Judith is “their type of woman” (Moore, Judith, 64–5). 26

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of the safeguarding of purity for the coming of Christ (Methodius, Symp. 11.2; Ambrose, Vid. 7).30 While the protagonist’s actions are lauded in Christian literature, her character does not seem to have been called upon to support the sartorial recommendations of early Christian leaders. Upson-Saia describes in detail the concern for these leaders to regulate Christian dress, often invoking scriptural precedents for their criticism of adornment; she writes, “their aim was to interpret all of the passages so that they spoke with a single voice against lavish dress.”31 Most helpful to their case were 1 Timothy 2: 9–10 and 1 Peter 3: 3–4, though other texts were recontextualized in order to provide the appropriate condemnation of inappropriate cultus. For example, Cyprian interprets Galatians 1: 10—“If I were still pleasing men, I would not be a servant of Christ”—in terms of the attitude female ascetics should take to dress: the passage is read as directing the female ascetic “to refuse to appear sexually appealing to the ‘male sex’ in order to be a servant of Christ.”32 Judith is a model of many things (virtue, monogamy, courage), but not a fashion model. Judith dresses up for the purpose of deception. Her wielding of a woman’s “weapons,”33 cosmetics and jewelry, is a negative value, always threatening to male honor. However, her dressing-up plays itself out outside of her (and presumably the reader’s) group; she does not deceive her kin, but rather the enemy general. Interpretation of her actions invariably overlooks her intentional act of adornment, focusing only on the positive result. Judith’s deliberate donning of the feminine role (shedding the garments of widowhood, clothing herself in “woman’s finery”), her explicit construction of herself as disruptive woman, does not challenge her status, as a reader familiar with ancient interpretations of female dress might expect; rather, it elevates her status, rendering her the “great boast of Israel” (Judith 15: 9).

  Ambrose is quoting John 1: 30.   Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 37. 32  Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 7–38; Cyprian, Hab. Virg. 5. Upson-Saia describes several such recontextualizations of scripture: see Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 37–40. 33   Focusing on Judith 16: 8–9, Esler notes, “There is grim humor here in military language … being applied metaphorically to the effect of ‘weapons’ which consist of women’s clothing and cosmetics, but in a passage which climaxes with the woman so clothed and perfumed using an actual weapon to achieve a very literal result” (Esler, “‘By the Hand of a Woman’,” 96). Ancient sources indicate that women’s clothing and cosmetics are no metaphorical threat, however; their use presented very real or literal danger to male honor. 30 31

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Judith’s status as widow would identify her as powerless, yet she dominates her town elders and murders a notorious general. She takes a life in order to save lives; she deceives yet is praised for her righteousness. All of these ironies are commonly identified in interpretation of Judith. However, lists of ironies and reversals in Judith have missed an essential challenge to the ancient reader’s expectations: Judith, in her undoing of Holofernes through her adorned body, exploits a typically negative, rejected category of female self-presentation in order to bring about a positive result. Ancient writers maintain that women dress up only to shame men, but Judith’s careful construction and presentation of her body are interpreted as honorable, and as bringing honor to her nation. Judith’s dressing-up is part of her “woman’s world”, her mundus muliebris; Judith uses the tools available to her as a woman, her potential to exert hedonic power, to deceive and kill the Assyrian general. In the performance of her “deed of manly valor,” her only option was to act as a woman, within the “woman’s world.” Dress was an important vehicle for self-expression, defined not in reference to “individuality,” per se, but in the communication of social achievement, honor or status. At points in the narrative, Judith seems to have certain “male” tools at her disposal: she shames the men of Bethulia with a long speech, for example. However, her crowning achievement is the murder of Holofernes, ironically made possible only through the use of the resources within her womanly power: her use of dress. Judith could not have acted otherwise.

Part 4 Dress and Status Change

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Chapter 7

A Robe like Lightning: Clothing Changes and Identification in Joseph and Aseneth Meredith Warren

Introduction Joseph and Aseneth is a pseudepigraphic Hellenistic romance novel that elaborates on the biblical character of Joseph and his wife Aseneth. An expansion of Genesis 41: 45, the text describes how Aseneth is transformed into a radiant bride fit for Joseph, and is thereby associated with his God.1 Previous studies may have overstepped the limits of what Joseph and Aseneth is willing to tell us about religious identity; rather than treat the novel as a description (or prescription!) of religious initiation, I propose to view it as a reflection of the complex interactions of Judean and “pagan” modes of religious experience.2 Aseneth’s transformation associates her with the divine realm through several methods, one of which, I argue, is her clothing, a culturally anticipated identity marker for both Judeans and “pagans.” Aseneth’s multiple clothing changes punctuate her transformation process until at last she is clothed in shining garments, ready to be presented to Joseph as his divinely chosen bride. Ross Kraemer has previously argued that Aseneth   For a concise review of the various discussions about date, manuscript tradition, and provenance, see Ross Kraemer’s introduction to her book, When Aseneth Met Joseph: A Late Antique Tale of the Biblical Patriarch and his Egyptian Wife, Reconsidered (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 1–16; although I disagree with her conclusions, Rivka Nir also gives a good, up-to-date overview (Joseph and Aseneth: A Christian Book [Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 2012], 1–18). 2   For the purpose of this chapter “Judean” encompasses the religious affiliations of people who identify with the temple in Jerusalem whether or not they participate in worship at that location. See Steve Mason, “Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History,” Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period 38.4–5 (2007): 457–512 for issues of terminology. Likewise, the term “pagan” serves as a placeholder for the various non-Judean and non-Christian religious practices and communities of the Hellenistic Mediterranean. 1

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transforms into a state of angelic being, parallel to other apocalyptic descriptions of angelic presence.3 Kraemer’s observations regarding the texts of the biblical milieu are helpful in pinpointing precisely what Aseneth’s transformation signifies in this context. Building on Kraemer’s analysis of the role of light in apocalyptic texts, I will widen the pool of literary data which suggests Aseneth’s transformation associates her with God. Joseph and Aseneth also uses “pagan” divine imagery to depict Aseneth in her transformed state; thus the category of conversion seems inadequate, since conversion implies the renunciation of one set of religious affiliations in favor of exclusive affiliation to another.4 Instead, the narrative trope of shining clothing indicates that a variety of overlapping religious identities share narrative space in Joseph and Aseneth. This novel, then, reflects a ‘sliding scale’ of religious affiliation that marked the Greco-Roman world, something which also reflects the complexity of Judean religious affiliation. This chapter will explore how Aseneth’s post-transformational clothing intersects with the descriptions of the attire and appearance of the heroines of romance novels, a genre to which Joseph and Aseneth belongs.5 Imagery involving light and shining is used to signify correspondence with divinity in Hellenistic romances such as Chaereas and Callirhoe. Callirhoe appears as the epiphanic manifestation of a deity, recognizable by her shining garments and radiant appearance throughout the novel, often prompting those around her to regard her with reverence typically reserved for the divine.6 The romances make use of pre-existing Hellenistic understandings about epiphanic experiences and the relationship between human beings and divinities. Likewise, Aseneth’s transformation associates her with Joseph’s God, and her new status is manifested by her radiant clothing; the first person who meets her—her “foster-father”—falls down in reverence as a result. As a trope within the genre of the romance, I propose that shining garments articulate a shared cultural expectation concerning divine identification. Their use in Aseneth reflects that this expectation also was shared  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 105.   For an excellent discussion of the problems with conversion and its applicability to the ancient world, see Zeba A. Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion: Patronage, Loyalty, and Conversion in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2004). 5   The dates of the Greek Romances range from the first century BCE to the third or fourth century CE (Bryan P. Reardon, ed., Collected Ancient Greek Novels [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989], 5). The dating for Joseph and Aseneth is controversial but most scholars, including the present author, assign it a date between the first century BCE and the second century CE. A few scholars date it later. Ross Kraemer, for instance, proposes a date “no earlier than the third or fourth century C.E.” (When Aseneth Met Joseph, 237). 6   On the significance of luminosity associated with dress and appearance, see also the essays by Kristi Upson-Saia and Arthur Urbano in this volume. 3 4

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by Judean communities of the Hellenistic world.7 The shining light imagery used to describe the heroines in the romances therefore serves to emphasize the transformation Aseneth has just experienced which brings about her new association with the Most High God. As such, viewing Joseph and Aseneth as a conversion narrative under-emphasizes those elements Aseneth’s appearance and transformation share with “pagan” descriptions of similar events; in reading Aseneth’s experience in light of stories like Callirhoe, we can better understand the complexities of religious identity and identification in the ancient world. Joseph and Aseneth8 We first hear of Aseneth’s clothing early on in the narrative when Aseneth dresses in ornate clothing in order to greet her parents. Her dressing is described in detail: And Aseneth hurried into the chamber, where her robes lay, and dressed in a (white) linen robe interwoven with violet and gold, and girded herself (with) a golden girdle and put bracelets on her hands and feet, and put golden buskins9 about her feet, and around her neck she put valuable ornaments and costly stones which hung from all sides, and the names of the gods of the Egyptians were engraved everywhere on the bracelets and the stones, and the faces of all the idols were carved on them. And she put a tiara on her head and fastened a diadem around her temples, and covered her head with a veil. (3.6)   Kraemer and Nir argue that Joseph and Aseneth reflects Christian authorship, but the majority of scholars assume a Judean-Egyptian origin for the text, as do I. See Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 245–74; Nir, Joseph and Aseneth, passim but especially 23–65; and for opposing views, see, among others, Christoph Burchard, trans., “Joseph and Aseneth,” in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Garden City: Doubleday, 1983), 187 and Randall D. Chesnutt, From Death to Life: Conversion in Joseph and Aseneth (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 76–80; Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 6 nn.7–8 provides a good overview of the opinions. 8   Greek citations are from Christoph Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth (Leiden: Brill, 2003). When relevant, differences will be noted between Burchard’s long recension and the shorter recension translated by David Cook, “Joseph and Aseneth,” in The Apocryphal Old Testament, ed. H.F.D. Sparks (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), 473–503. Burchard’s editions do not indicate the verses only found in the shorter version. Unless otherwise indicated, English quotations of Aseneth are from Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” 177–247. 9   Burchard calls buskins “an ill-defined piece of oriental clothing,” giving trousers as an unlikely option here for the translation of the word ἀναξυρίδας, since Aseneth wears them on her feet (Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” 206.n). 7

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Aseneth’s parents are impressed with her finery—likening her to a bride of God—and tell her about her impending marriage to Joseph (4.8).10 When we meet Joseph in 5.5, he is dressed in a similar manner to Aseneth: a white tunic, a purple robe with gold threads, and a golden crown encrusted with jewels. Aseneth is taken aback by his grand appearance, comparing him to “the sun from heaven” who “shines in [the house] like a light upon the earth” (6.2). She wonders, indeed, how a person born of a woman could possibly produce such a light, wondering if he is a son of a god (6.3–4). Joseph’s dazzling appearance, the light he seems to be giving off in his finery, is mentioned four times in Aseneth’s soliloquy. After being rejected by Joseph for her worship of idols, Aseneth locks herself in her room and replaces her fancy clothing with a “black tunic of mourning” (10.10). The text again details the items of clothing that Aseneth removes: the golden girdle, the tiara and diadem, her bracelets and anklets, and her linen and gold “royal robe.” Dressed as a mourner, she destroys her golden and silver gods and throws various food items or sacrificial offerings, including the serving implements, out the window. At this point, she further debases her appearance by putting on sackcloth, loosening her hair, and covering herself in ashes (10.14). She spends the next seven days fasting, weeping, and screaming. Aseneth now gives two soliloquies about her wretched state and her decision to destroy the statues of her gods in order to please Joseph and his god (11.3–18).11 After a third statement, this time a prayer to Joseph’s God, during which she again lists the items of clothing she has put on or removed (13.3–6), Aseneth sees the sky ripped open with a great light. Now begins her visit with the heavenly being (14.1–4). This heavenly man is dressed “in every respect” like Joseph, down to the crown and the robe, “except that his face was like lightning, and his eyes like sunshine, and the hairs of his head like a flame of fire of a burning torch, and 10   This scene is similar to the dressing scene in Judith 10.3–4, where Judith beautifies herself with bracelets, earrings, and a tiara. Although Judith’s scene also describes her taking off clothes of mourning previous to this, the description of items is closer to Aseneth 3.6 than to the later, post-heavenly visitor scene. 11   It is peculiar that neither the two soliloquies nor the prayers use the imagery of light or darkness—imagery that pervades the narrative portions of Aseneth’s transformation—to describe her suffering. There is indeed only one mention of light in the prayer, 12.1, which refers to God’s role in creation rather than to Aseneth’s religious state. Given Chesnutt’s assertion that the light and dark imagery is part of the overall theme of conversion, it is surprising that such imagery is not found in the very prayers which result in her visit with the angel and thus her transformation (From Death to Life, 125–6).

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his hands and feet like iron shining forth from a fire, and sparks shot forth from his hands and feet” (14.9). The man instructs Aseneth to take off her mourning outfit, to wash herself, and to dress herself in a new linen robe with a “twin girdle of [her] virginity” (14.12, 14). Aseneth follows his instructions and again the text repeats the items of clothing that Aseneth puts on, which includes Aseneth’s own addition of a new veil for her head (14.15), which the heavenly man asks her to remove, since her “head is like that of a young man” (15.2). It is at this point that Aseneth hears the result of her week of fasting and mourning. She learns that her name has been written in the book of the living in heaven (15.4), and that she has been made alive again (15.5).12 As a result, she is now eligible to become Joseph’s bride (15.6). The heavenly being then instructs Aseneth to prepare for Joseph’s arrival by dressing in her wedding dress, “the ancient and first robe which is laid up in [her] chamber since eternity, and put around [her] all [her] wedding ornaments, and adorn [herself ] as a good bride, and go meet Joseph” (15.10). But instead of going to do this, Aseneth remains with the heavenly visitor and invites him to eat. At this point we reach the climax of the work, the so-called honeycomb scene, where Aseneth’s transformation is completed through consuming a portion of a heavenly honeycomb (16.1–16), which gives her heavenly knowledge (17.1–2).13 Aseneth is dramatically and physically transformed in Chapter 18, where she dresses as a bride. When she is seen after her experience with the heavenly man by her “foster-father,” her face is still tear-streaked and marked from her fasting and weeping (18.4); after she dresses, however, she is transformed into an awe-inspiring beauty (18.11): And Aseneth remembered the man (from heaven) and his commandment, and she hurried and entered her second chamber where the chests (containing) her ornaments were, and opened her big coffer and brought out her first robe, (the one) of wedding, like lightning14 in appearance, and dressed in it. And she girded a golden and royal girdle around (herself ) which was (made) of precious stones. And she put golden bracelets on her fingers and on her feet golden buskins, and precious ornaments she put around her neck in which innumerable costly (and) precious stones were fastened, and a golden crown she put on her head, and on   Here the text uses the eating and drinking imagery used before by Joseph in 8.5–6.   For more on this topic, see my thesis, “‘Like Dew From Heaven:’ Honeycomb, Religious Identity and Transformation in Joseph and Aseneth” (Master’s thesis, McGill University, 2006). 14   Shepherd of Hermas 4.2.1 describes a vision of the Church as a bride all in white, with white robe, hair, and sandals. Aseneth’s description differs in that her beauty and finery are emphasized, as is her dazzling brightness. 12 13

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that crown, in front on her brow, was a big sapphire stone, and around the big stone were six costly stones. And with a veil she covered her head like a bride, and she took a scepter in her hand. (18.5–6)

At this point, Aseneth remembers that her face is still “fallen” from seven days of tears, and thinks she had better clean herself up. In the basin of water brought for her, she catches sight of her face and decides not to wash it after all, for fear of washing off such great beauty: And it was like the sun and her eyes (were) like a rising morning star, and her cheeks like fields of the Most High, and on her cheeks (there was) red (color) like a son of man’s blood, and her lips (were) like a rose of life coming out of its foliage, and her teeth like fighting men lined up for a fight,15 and the hair of her head (was) like a vine in the paradise of God prospering in its fruits, and her neck like an all-variegated cypress, and her breasts (were) like the mountains of the Most High God. (18.7–9)16

When Joseph sees her, he does not recognize Aseneth, such is her transformation (19.5); Aseneth’s parents, too, are amazed (20.7). The next day the couple marries, but here Aseneth’s clothing does not appear significant. Her great beauty is mentioned yet again (21.4) but there is no detailed account of her attire as we might expect in a text which has been more than forthcoming about clothing changes at other significant events. The conspicuous absence of such a description suggests that clothing in Joseph and Aseneth does not serve merely a descriptive role, but rather that it functions to impart some sort of ontological meaning to the wearer. In this light, Aseneth’s marriage to Joseph, therefore,   A similarly militaristic description of female beauty can be found in Song of Songs

15

4: 4.

16   In both the short and the long recensions, Aseneth’s robe is described as “like lightning” and in both when she sees her reflection in the water, her face and eyes shine with celestial brilliance. The shorter version gives the following for 18.3–7: “And Aseneth went into her room and opened her wardrobe, and she took out her finest robe that shone like lightning, and she put it on. And she tied a resplendent royal girdle round her waist—and this girdle was of precious stones. And she put golden bracelets round her hands, and golden boots on her feet, and a costly necklace about her neck; and she put a golden crown upon her head, and in the crown, in front, were the costliest of stones. And she covered her head with a veil. And she said to her maidservant, ‘Bring me pure water from the spring.’ And Aseneth bent down to the water in the basin [on the cockle-shell]; and her face was like the sun, and her eyes like the rising morning star.”

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is not ritually significant whereas her clothing before, during, and after her transformation is. Clothing as an Indicator of Transformation Aseneth wears a total of four outfits that punctuate her transformation: her original finery, her mourning clothes, and two outfits demanded by the heavenly visitor, the first with the “twin girdle” and the second with the “robe like lightning.” Aseneth is seen by other humans at only two times during the process: after the first outfit and just before the final outfit. These human onlookers act as witnesses to her transformation. The first outfit is seen by her parents, by Joseph, and presumably by the rest of her household, as well as Aseneth’s virgin attendants. After the visitor returns to heaven, Aseneth’s fallen face is seen by her foster father, who likewise witnesses her transformed and radiant state once she dons that final ensemble with the robe that is “like lightning.” Scholars who have focused on Aseneth’s clothing changes have framed their analysis either in terms of biblical parallels or initiation rituals. Randall Chesnutt’s contribution falls under the latter category but he ignores the final change of clothing into the robe like lightning since he sees it as “explicitly related to Aseneth’s marriage to Joseph rather than her conversion.”17 Generally, Chesnutt views the mourning clothes as symbolic of Aseneth’s death and he therefore associates them with the death-to-life imagery that he argues symbolizes her conversion.18 However, it seems unlikely to me that Aseneth remained in her final outfit for the whole remainder of the day, overnight, and into the next, since her wedding is not to occur until the following day (20.8). Rather, the final description of clothing is significant for Aseneth’s transformation rather than for her wedding; her wedding to Joseph is clearly chronologically and sartorially distinct from her transformative experience.19

 Chesnutt, From Death to Life, 125–6. Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” likewise does not remark on this event. 18  Chesnutt, From Death to Life, 126. 19   Jung Hoon Kim’s discussion of clothing in Joseph and Aseneth also makes the claim that Aseneth’s clothing changes reflect actual historical rituals such as “Jewish proselyte baptism” (The Significance of Clothing Imagery in the Pauline Corpus [London: T&T Clark International, 2004], 60). I find that Kim’s conclusions, in being unconvincing, actually support my proposal that Aseneth’s transformation is best viewed in its narrative context rather than through hypothetical historical parallels. 17

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Kraemer’s analysis is closer to the mark, in my opinion; she finds affinities between Aseneth’s transformation and mystical transformations in the hekhalot traditions. Indeed, there are similarities between Joseph and Aseneth and the Enoch traditions: 2 Enoch 22.8–10 describes brilliant and radiant clothing, as does 3 Enoch 12; likewise, the various traditions share the imagery of glowing splendor attained by those transformed in this way.20 Kraemer acknowledges some important deviations, however, such as the absence of anointing in Joseph and Aseneth and the fact that Aseneth changes into special attire twice at the visitor’s command, not once.21 Regardless, the similarities are strong enough for Kraemer to conclude that Aseneth’s experience with the heavenly man represents her transformation into some kind of angelic being, as evidenced by her radiant face and eyes.22 Clearly, the imagery used to describe both the heavenly visitor and Aseneth shares affinities with this tradition; but the description of a heroine in these terms should also be examined in the context of other novels from the Hellenistic era, which describe heroines in similar terms and which, as I discuss below, have well-established generic links with our text. Thus, while I agree that Aseneth’s clothing could reflect the imagery used in heavenly visits in biblical texts, I would also suggest that a more complete understanding of her clothing and its functions can be understood in light of these other novels. As a Hellenistic text, Aseneth likely also shares “pagan” understandings of transformation and divine association. Epiphanic Light in Chaereas and Callirhoe The use of the trope of the divine epiphany in the ancient romance novels is the key event for this chapter. Epiphanies in ancient literature are common and their use persisted through the Hellenistic period.23 This section on epiphanic  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 127–8.  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 128. 22  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 129; Burchard writes: “the details of the angel’s description are traditional, e.g. Daniel 10.6; Apocalypse of Abraham 17.12; Apocalypse of Zephania 9.3f.; Matthew 28.3; Revelation 1.13–5, 10.1” (Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” 225.q); and “[Aseneth] comes close to being an angelic creature” (Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” 232.o). 23   Tomas Hägg, “Epiphany in the Greek Novels: The Emplotment of a Metaphor,” in Parthenope: Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969–2004), eds Lars Boje Mortensen and Tormod Eide (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen, 20 21

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representations of the heroines of the romances illustrates how the novels use descriptions of goddesses’ appearance in order to blur the line between the goddess and the heroine, most frequently borrowing tropes from the earlier epic literature, such as a shining appearance and a glowing aura. The ancient novel, according to Lawrence Wills, is a “written popular narrative fiction, expanded significantly beyond a single episode, which focuses on character and virtue.”24 Certainly, Joseph and Aseneth fits this description; it further includes the tropes of romantic love between characters, a component of danger which is simultaneously a threat to the chastity of the character(s) (in the second part of the text, Chapter 21, Aseneth faces an attempted abduction), its location in a “far away” land (Egypt), and its characterization of the hero and heroine as divinely beautiful.25 Wills goes further than other scholars who have made connections between Aseneth and Hellenistic Romances by arguing that Aseneth fits this generic character more than any other Judean authored novel.26 Likewise, I argue, her radiance and beauty are comparable with those of the romantic Greek heroines; the divine beauty of the Greek heroines often takes the form of shining appearance and the (mis)taking of the character for a deity, a reflection of classical literary tropes.27 It is this shining appearance which I argue is integral to understanding the shifts in clothing in Joseph and Aseneth. In sharing this literary trope of shining beauty, Aseneth reflects the complexity of religious affiliation. Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe is perhaps the best text through which to view the use of epiphanic imagery in Aseneth’s transformation. The typical use of Homeric tropes of divinity to associate the romantic heroines with 2004), 141–55; Daniel Turkeltaub, “The Gods’ Radiance Manifest: An Examination of the Narrative Pattern Underlying the Homeric Divine Epiphany Scenes” (Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 2003). 24   Lawrence M. Wills, Ancient Jewish Novels: An Anthology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 5. 25  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 10. 26   Lawrence M. Wills, “The Jewish Novellas” in Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context, eds John Morgan and Richard Stoneman (London: Routledge, 1994), 233. See also Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 10; Nir, Joseph and Aseneth, 15; Wills, Ancient Jewish Novels, 121–62; Richard I. Pervo, “Aseneth and Her Sisters: Women in Jewish Narrative and in the Greek Novels,” in “Women Like This:” New Perspectives on Jewish Women in the Greco Roman Period, ed. Amy-Jill Levine (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991), 145–60. For an excellent overview of the scholarly conclusions on this connection, see especially Catherine Hezser, “Joseph and Aseneth in the Context of Ancient Greek Erotic Novels,” Frankfurter judaistische Beiträge 19 (1997): 1–40. 27  Kraemer, When Aseneth Met Joseph, 10.

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goddesses is represented most visibly in this text.28 Chariton’s Callirhoe makes a clear link with Homer when referring to his characters, given the prolific use of direct Homeric quotations to describe Callirhoe. Two examples makes this link clear: first, in 4.7.5, Callirhoe is announced to the Persian court as a woman as beautiful as Artemis or “Aphrodite the Golden” (Cf. Odyssey 17.37; 19.54, both in reference to Penelope); and second in 6.4.6, the King of Persia likens his beloved Callirhoe to Artemis the archer (Odyssey 6.102–4, this time in reference to Nausikaa).29 Heroines of the romances are frequently mistaken for goddesses in part because of their extraordinary beauty, but also because of their shining appearance. It is taken for granted by both ancient authors and modern scholars that gods and goddesses can be recognized by their shining faces and radiant, ethereal light. In Homer, humans experience the epiphanies of gods and goddesses as manifestations of light and brightness, among other descriptive terms.30 Since the time of the Iliad and the Odyssey, then, epiphanies 28   Despite the prevalence of the epiphanies in both Classical literature and in the romances of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, Tomas Hägg’s “Epiphany,” remains the only recent treatment of this device in the novels. Kerényi’s 1927 work (Die griechisch-orientalische Romanliteratur in religionsgeschichtlicher Beleuchtung [Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1927; repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1962] esp. pp. 95–122) has largely been dismissed, as has Reinhold Merkelbach’s Roman und Mysterium in der Antike (Munich: Beck, 1962) and Merkelbach, Die Hirten des Dionysos: Die Dionysos-Mysterien in der römischen Kaiserzeit und der bukolische Roman des Longus (Stuttgart: B.G. Teubner, 1988). See Roger Beck, who discusses the problems with Merkelbach and Kerényi’s conclusions in “Mystery Religions, Aretalogy and the Ancient Novel,” in The Novel in the Ancient World, ed. Gareth Schmeling (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 131–50. For a more detailed analysis of the tropes of divinity in the Hellenistic romances, see Meredith Warren, My Flesh is Meat Indeed (Ph.D. Diss, McGill, 2013), 80–158 29   Hägg, “Epiphany,” 154; Hägg observes that in most cases in Homer, the heroine, Penelope for instance, is merely likened in her beauty to the goddess, not actually mistaken for one; the few exceptions include Odyssey 6.149ff, where Odysseus first addresses Nausikaa and wonders whether she is Artemis or a mortal. 30   Bernard C. Dietrich, “Divine Epiphanies in Homer,” Numen 30.1 (1983): 54–5. Indeed, Alfred Heubeck, commenting on the Odyssey, notes that the source of light attributed to Athena’s lamp in 19.36–40 is actually emanating from the goddess herself, something he understands as “characteristic of a divine presence” ( Joseph Russo, Manuel FernándezGaliano, and Alfred Heubeck, eds, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, Vol. 3 [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002], 76). Whether this manifestation is in the lighting of lamps, in a bright light from seemingly no source at all, or from the eyes, face, or hair of a god in human form, it is clear that this trope is commonly used as a marker of divine presence in ancient literature. Achilles’ power, for instance, is shown in the Iliad by the light that shines from his armor (for example Iliad 19.374–6; 22.25–32). Fritz Graf writes that it is simply standard that deities appear surrounded by light (“Epiphany” New Pauly Online (Brill, Accessed 30

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are described using tropes such as the radiance and beauty of a not-so-ordinary human being, and as such, identifying the romantic heroines as having a special association with the goddess in question.31 The heroines of the Hellenistic romances are described as divine beings created in the images of the epiphanic forms of Hellenistic goddesses; the main characters, but most often the females, are described with language used to depict goddesses. Further, they are frequently worshipped as goddesses by other characters. Chaereas and Callirhoe is the novel in which epiphanies of this sort most frequently occur. In comparing Joseph and Aseneth with this novel, I aim to show how the radiance of Aseneth’s lightningcolored robe and the brilliant quality of her transformed beauty, when examined in the context of other Hellenistic literature, identifies her with her heavenly visitor and therefore with the God of Joseph. In turn, Aseneth’s participation in this novelistic trope suggests a more ambivalent example of exclusive religious affiliation than is usually assumed of this text. In Chariton’s Chaereas and Callirhoe,32 Callirhoe is either compared to or assumed to be a goddess because of her great beauty. Callirhoe is a double of Aphrodite, a point which drives the plot continually forward, as Hägg shows.33 Unlike other women, she is not simply beautiful, but radiantly so:34 Then Chaereas ran forward and kissed her; recognizing the man she loved, Callirhoe, like a dying lamp once it is replenished with oil, flamed (ἀνέλαμψε) into life again and became taller and stronger. When she came out into the open, all Jan 2012); and Burchard agrees that light is a “must” for heavenly appearances (“Joseph and Aseneth,” 14.2f ). Finally, N.J. Richardson, in his commentary on the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, concurs that “divine radiance is a common epiphany feature” (The Homeric Hymn to Demeter [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974], 208). 31   Dietrich, “Divine Epiphanies,” 70–71. For example, Hymn. Dem. 275–80; Hym. Aph. 172–5; Hesiod, Scut 7–8; Theog. 9; Aesch. P.V. 115; Eur. Hippol 1391. In Latin poetry, see Verg. Aen. 1.403; Ovid, Fasti 5.375. See also Turkeltaub, “The Gods’ Radiance Manifest,” esp. 16–39. 32   Greek citations are from the critical edition: Chariton of Aphrodisias, De Callirhoe Narrationes Amatoriae, ed. Bryan P. Reardon (Munich: K.G. Saur, 2004). Unless otherwise noted, English translations are from LCL Callirhoe. 33   Hägg, “Epiphany,” 143. 34   The first time we hear of her beauty is in 1.1.2: “Her beauty was more than human, it was divine (οὐκ ἀνθρώπινον ἀλλὰ θεῖον), and it was not the beauty of a Nereid of a mountain nymph at that, but of the maiden Aphrodite herself ” (Reardon, De Callirhoe, 1; trans. Goold, LCL Callirhoe, 29). Here we have three categories of beauty distinguished: ordinary, human beauty; semi-divine beauty; and divine beauty attributed to goddesses. This judgment on Callirhoe’s beauty is confirmed at the end of the first section, where, at her wedding, the girl is shown to the public in her finery.

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were astounded, as when Artemis appears to hunters in lonely places. Many of the onlookers even knelt in homage (προσεκύνησαν). (1.1.15–16)35

In this situation, it is not just that the crowd is comparing Callirhoe’s radiant beauty to that of a goddess; rather, they actually behave as if they are in the presence of a goddess and begin to worship her, again a not uncommon occurrence in the plot of Chaereas and Callirhoe. The verb προσκυνέω is most often used to describe this act, and occurs in this sense in the other novels as well.36 The onlookers kneel down in homage. This is ironic because Callirhoe seems so far to be a mortal woman; but her hints of divinity point to a different ontology, one which would make worship not only appropriate but necessary.37 The crowd behaves in this way because of her radiance. The use of flames in her description is not incidental; rather, it conforms to a pattern of divine descriptions in Hellenistic literature that uses light and fire imagery to identify divinity. Another incident takes place while the other household slaves are bathing Callirhoe in order to show her at her best advantage to her new master, Dionysius. This event foreshadows the epiphany Dionysius is about to experience in 2.3.6: After she had gone in [to the bath] they rubbed her with oil and wiped it off carefully, and marveled at her all the more when undressed, for, whereas when she was dressed they admired her face as divine, they had no thoughts for her face when they saw her hidden beauty. Her skin gleamed (ἔστιλψεν) white, shining (μαρμαρυγῇ) just like a shimmering (ἀπολάμπων) surface. (2.2.2)38

The servants marvel at her gleaming and shimmering appearance. Callirhoe’s shining skin is more than just the shimmer of oil. Just as in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite where Aphrodite’s jewelry and clothing gleam and shine both in a mundane way to denote their high quality and in a way that suggests her divinity,39 in the case of Callirhoe’s skin, a visual double entendre is taking place: her skin gleams because of the oil, but also to signify that she is divine. Shining is a hallmark of divine presence and serves as another marker of Callirhoe’s complicated ontological status, implying that she is both divine and human. In  Reardon, De Callirhoe, 4; trans. Goold, LCL Callirhoe, 35. Emphasis added.   See, for example, Xenophon of Ephesus, An Ephesian Tale, 1.2.2ff, 1.12.1–2. 37   See Turkeltaub, “The Gods’ Radiance Manifest,” passim for more on ironic treatment as indicative of divinity in Homeric texts. 38  Reardon, De Callirhoe, 25; trans. Goold, LCL Callirhoe, 89, 91. Emphasis added. 39   Turkeltaub, “Gods’ Radiance Manifest,” 58, esp. n. 101. 35

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the next section, when her master catches sight of her, he assumes she is the goddess and is only prevented from prostrating himself (καταπίπτοντα) before her by his servant Leonas (2.3.6). A final, clear example which juxtaposes the dazzling radiance of Callirhoe’s visage and her worship by other characters is found in 5.3.9: Callirhoe’s face shone (ἐξέλαμψε) with radiance which dazzled (μαρμαρυγὴ) the eyes of all, just as when on a dark night a blinding flash (φωτὸς) is seen. Struck with amazement, the Persians knelt (προσεκύνησαν) in homage.40

Callirhoe is in Persia to take part in a trial to determine whose wife she really is, but when the Persians first catch sight of her in a beauty contest arranged by the other royal women (who clearly did not properly vet their opponent), not only does she win the contest, but her shining brightness convinces the Persians that she belongs to an ontological category deserving of worship. The terms used in this passage, the shining of the face, the dazzling of the eyes, the amazement felt by the witnesses, are all typical terms used to describe epiphanies, as I have shown above. In sum, Chaereas and Callirhoe makes use of the epiphanic trope of shining, light, and brightness41 to make a clear association between its main character, Callirhoe, and the goddess Aphrodite. Aseneth, too, displays a characterization consistent with the use of shining and light to describe the heroines, a pattern shared with the Greek romances in general and with Chaereas and Callirhoe specifically. Aseneth’s Robe Like Lightning Upon close examination of the two passages where Aseneth clothes herself to prepare for Joseph, once before and once after her transformation, it becomes apparent that the passages are striking literary parallels. The items Aseneth selects with which to adorn herself are nearly identical in both cases, with just a handful of important differences.  Reardon, De Callirhoe, 83; trans. Goold, LCL Callirhoe, 245. Emphasis added.   There are also other examples which do not use the trope of radiance or brilliance that associate Callirhoe with the goddess: 1.1; 1.1.15–16; 1.14.1; 2.1.5; 2.2.2; 2.2.5; 2.3.6; 3.2.14; 3.9.1; 4.1.9; 4.7; 5.3.9; 5.9.1–2; 6.3; 6.4; 8.6. 40

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150 Joseph and Aseneth 3.6

Joseph and Aseneth 18.5–6

a (white) linen robe interwoven with violet and gold, and girded herself (with) a golden girdle and put bracelets on her hands and feet, and put golden buskins about her feet,

her first robe, (the one) of wedding, like lightning in appearance, and dressed in it. And she girded a golden and royal girdle around (herself ) which was (made) of precious stones. And she put golden bracelets on her fingers and on her feet golden buskins, and precious ornaments she put around her neck in which innumerable costly (and) precious stones were fastened,

and around her neck she put valuable ornaments and costly stones which hung from all sides, and the names of the gods of the Egyptians were engraved everywhere on the bracelets and the stones, and the faces of all the idols were carved on them. And she put a tiara on her head and fastened a and a golden crown she put on her head, and diadem around her temples, on that crown, in front on her brow, was a big sapphire stone, and around the big stone were six costly stones. and covered her head with a veil. (3.6) And with a veil she covered her head like a bride, and she took a sceptre in her hand.

Notable differences in the second example are the description of the robe being “like lightning;” the absence of Egyptian religious ornamentation on the necklace; the increase in ornamentation of the head-gear; and the presence of a sceptre. The parallel order in which the clothing is described serves to highlight these differences in her attire. Some new elements in Aseneth’s clothing match descriptions of Joseph’s clothing: when we first meet him, his crown is set with stones and ornamented with golden rays, and he, too, holds a sceptre (5.5). Aseneth describes him in her prayer as giving off light in his appearance as well, and compares him to the sun (6.2), but does so in the figurative language of a prayer; Joseph does not dazzle in person. The heavenly man, too, is described in terms that associate him with post-transformation Aseneth. His face is like lightning (ὡς ἀστραπὴ),42 his eyes like sunshine, his hair like flames, his limbs and fingers glowing like hot metal, and sparks come out from his body; when Aseneth sees him, she falls down in worship (ἔπεσεν ἐπὶ πρόσωπον) (14.9–11).43 Aseneth would have recognized her visitor in herself when she caught sight of her own transformed appearance in the mirror in 18.9; her face is also described as like the sun, her eyes like stars. Joseph and Aseneth wear ornamented clothing; this ornamentation associates them with one another. But it is Aseneth (and not Joseph) whose appearance  Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth, 178.  Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth, 180.

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is described using the same radiant descriptors as those used to describe the heavenly visitor. Thus, Aseneth’s sceptre and her elaborate crown associate her with Joseph while her shining appearance associates her with the heavenly visitor and therefore with the divine.44 Since Joseph and Aseneth has such close generic ties to the Hellenistic romances, it seems reasonable to draw parallels about the shining and radiant heroines described by these texts. Aseneth’s description as wearing clothing “like lightning” dovetails with the above conclusions about the visibility of divine beings through their shining appearance. As such, while both Aseneth and the heavenly being are described using language which mirrors other epiphanic scenes from biblical45 and extra-canonical texts, I would argue that this representation can be contextualized, like much else from Aseneth’s story, by identifying its similarities with the Hellenistic novels. This connection is particularly clear when we look at the reaction Aseneth gets from her foster father after her final clothing change: “when he saw her he was alarmed and stood speechless for a long (time), and was filled with great   Rivka Nir connects the imagery of 18.3–7 to biblical texts referring to the bride of God and concludes that Aseneth is a metaphor for the Christian church (Joseph and Aseneth, 136–37, esp. n. 5). Indeed, similar imagery describes the clothing that brides wear in the biblical examples that Nir lists such as Isa 49.18; 61.10; 62.4–5; Jer. 2.1; Ezek. 16.8–14, and so on; however, none of these texts references the brightness that we see used to describe Aseneth’s appearance, both her face and her dress. A parallel is found in John Chrysostom’s description of Christian post-baptismal attire, which he calls “shining,” and in Methodius’ commentary on Revelation 12.1–6 where the Lady Church is “clothed […] in the brightness of the Word” (John Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, 4.23; 5.18; 7.24, as cited in John Chrysostom, Baptismal Instructions, ed. Paul W. Harkins, trans. [Westminster: Newman Press, 1963]; Methodius, Symposium: A Treatise on Chastity, Logos 8.5, as cited in Methodius, The Symposium: A Treatise on Chastity, ed. Herbert Musurillo, trans. [Westminster: Newman Press, 1958]; Nir, Joseph and Aseneth, 138). This is not surprising, since other ancient texts depicting initiation rituals also describe their special clothing in such terms—for example, the clothing in Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11. Nir notes also that Ephrem, a fourth-century Syrian Christian, described Adam and Eve as wearing clothes of light which they were obliged to remove as part of their exile from the garden (Nir, Joseph and Aseneth, 139; Ephrem, Nativity, 1.43). Nir concludes that Aseneth’s robe of light, then, refers to the sin-free garments Ephrem mentions and that therefore Aseneth’s clothing should be read in Christian terms. Ephrem’s conclusions about Adam and Eve’s clothing, however, can also be read in the way that I read Aseneth’s clothes: they are heavenly and can only be worn by those belonging in paradise. Just as Aseneth puts on the robe as a result of her identification with the divine, Adam and Eve must take them off once they are no longer permitted to walk with God. 45   The transfiguration is a good example from the New Testament (Matthew 17: 2; Mark 9: 3; Luke 9: 29). 44

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fear and fell at her feet (ἔπεσεν)” (18.11).46 We saw this same term of reverence previously with Aseneth in 14.10; when Aseneth sees the heavenly visitor for the first time, she, too, falls down before him (ἔπεσεν).47 Already Burchard connects the foster father’s behavior with the novels.48 As I observed above, multiple times in the novel Callirhoe is worshipped by onlookers viewing her as a deity; the foster father’s behavior to Aseneth aligns with this pattern of worshipful behavior as seen in the novel, further highlighting not only her appearance, but also that her appearance—and therefore her association with God—has been transformed by this last clothing change. Despite the fact that she wears almost identical articles of clothing, the radiance and light that come from first her robe and then her face have marked her as having a special affiliation with the divine, a fact which her foster father recognizes in his prostration. Conclusions Joseph and Aseneth engages in the description of clothing and clothing changes at significant plot points in the narrative; the attire for the wedding to Joseph is not included but multiple other changes of attire punctuate and define Aseneth’s transformation. The early description of Joseph’s clothing foreshadows Aseneth’s final outfit which, in turn, reflects the divine radiance of the heavenly man’s appearance. The parallel descriptions of Aseneth’s original clothing and her final clothing serve to highlight important distinctions, the most significant of which is the radiance which connects Aseneth—with her lightning-dress and shining face—to the heavenly visitor and therefore to God.49 Thus, in putting on clothes that shine with divine light, Aseneth establishes her close association with God. The radiance of her final clothing change highlights the distinction between mere finery and divine attire. Further, the transformation that Aseneth undergoes is emphasized by the way her behavior when she meets the divine visitor parallels  Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth, 238–40.  Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth, 180. 48   Burchard, “Joseph and Aseneth,” 232.y. 49   The idea that Aseneth’s clothing signifies her close affiliation with Joseph’s God is supported by Mary Ellen Roach and Joanne Bubolz Eicher’s statement about clothing as an indicator of a magico-religious condition: “adornment […] may also be a means for [the individual] assuming the power of the supernatural as [the individual] puts on the clothes of God” (“The Language of Personal Adornment,” in The Fabrics of Culture: The Anthropology of Clothing and Adornment, eds Justine Mayer Cordwell and Ronald Allan Schwarz [The Hague: Mouton, 1979], 18). 46 47

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the behavior of her foster father when he meets the transformed Aseneth. Whereas earlier, Aseneth bows down to the visitor, after her transformation she is the one to receive such honor; in both cases the worship occurs when the worshipper connects the brilliant, fiery appearance with the divine realm. Aseneth’s glistening new appearance and this worshipful behavior find affinities with similar examples of divine protagonists in the Hellenistic romance novels, such as the character of Callirhoe, who is constantly mistaken for a deity because of her shining appearance; those who meet her cannot resist falling down in worship. Thus, while Aseneth’s radiance shares many points of contact with biblical and extra-canonical literature dealing with divine experience, given Joseph and Aseneth’s established connections to the genre of the novel, her clothing and appearance are more fully understood in light of these parallel narrative events. As such, Aseneth’s transformation from ordinary woman to divinely chosen bride is made clear by her marked clothing changes, where epiphanic tropes of light and brilliance from the Hellenistic world are put to work to make clear Aseneth’s new ontological category. This use of narrative tropes found also in the Greek romances indicates that this text reflects the sliding scale of religious affiliation of the ancient Mediterranean world, and as a result, calls into question the practice of examining Joseph and Aseneth as a text which depicts conversion. Aseneth’s transformation uses culturally expected tropes about clothing and light to affiliate her with Joseph’s God—tropes which are not unique to Judean narratives. In expanding the cultural and narrative repertoire available to understand this text, I suggest that Aseneth’s transformation has less to do with conversion and more to do with her new association with the powerful God of her beloved. Calling Aseneth’s experience a conversion not only prevents us from seeing parallels to her experience elsewhere in Hellenistic literature, but also, as Crook has pointed out, imposes modern language and assumptions on the complex relationships between human beings and gods in the ancient world.50 Taking a step away from our notions of religious belonging and religious transformation allows for Aseneth’s experience to be viewed on the spectrum of the many literary examples of affiliation to the divine.

 Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion, passim but esp. 10–12.

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Chapter 8

Hairiness and Holiness in the Early Christian Desert1 Kristi Upson-Saia

In his infamous treatise, “Medusa’s Head,” Sigmund Freud attempted to elucidate the terror induced by the mythological Medusa, a figure whose frightful appearance turned spectators to stone. In short, he concluded that Medusa’s head, which was artistically figured with a gaping mouth and wild hair, is a metonym for female genitalia. What was horrifying about this image—and what is horrifying about female genitalia, in general—was the absence of a phallus. Thus, Freud concluded, the sight of Medusa’s head elicits in the male spectator a fear of his own potential castration.2 Since the early 1920s, scholarship on the social significance of hair has tended to move beyond Freud’s narrow theory of castration anxiety, yet the scholarly literature is still dominated by studies that investigate how and why hair is interpreted as a sign of sexual desire or sexual activity.3   I would like to express my gratitude to the participants of the 2012 Canadian Society of Biblical Studies meeting, as well as to my co-editors, Alicia Batten and Carly DanielHughes, for their instructive comments on drafts of this paper. 2   Sigmund Freud, “Medusa’s Head,” in Sexuality and the Psychology of Love (New York: Collier, 1963), 202–3. In sum, Medusa’s head “isolates the horrifying effects [of female genitalia] from their pleasure-giving ones” (203). Freud understands the conversion of Medusa’s hair into snakes as a “mitigation of the horror” and he understands the male spectator’s “stiff ” reaction as a reassuring reminder that he still has his phallus (202). 3   In the field of psychoanalysis, see, for example, Charles Berg’s The Unconscious Significance of Hair (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1951). By the 1960s social anthropologists had joined the conversation, adding new analyses of the social significance of hair. See, for example, Christopher R. Hallpike, “Social Hair,” Man 4 (1969): 256–64; Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge, 1966); Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology (New York: Pantheon, 1970), 65–82; Anthony Synnott, “Shame and glory: A Sociology of Hair,” The British Journal of Sociology 38.3 (1987): 381–413. On the blending of these disciplinary perspectives, see Edmund Leach, “Magical Hair,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological 1

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In this chapter, I analyze representations of hair in accounts of early Christian desert ascetics, asking: how is the hair of desert ascetics described and how do these descriptions signify something about their subjects? Given that Christian ascetics were well known for their sexual renunciation, we might initially think that depictions of Christian ascetics’ hair related to perceptions of their sexual status. Yet, I argue that descriptions of ascetics’ hair served rather to mark their spiritual state. As many readers know, Christian ascetics were routinely figured as having progressed beyond the confines of their corporeality and—to some degree—to have achieved an “angelic” state already in the here-and-now.4 Institute 88.2 (1958): 147–68; P. Hershman, “Hair, Sex and Dirt,” Man 9 (1974): 274–98; Gananath Obeyesekere, Medusa’s Hair: An Essay on Personal Symbols and Religious Experience (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981); and Gananath Obeyesekere, The World of Culture: Symbolic Transformation in Psychoanalysis and Anthropology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). For nice discussions of the trends in this scholarship, see Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger, Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 1–13 and Patrick Olivelle, “Deconstruction of the Body in Indian Asceticism,” in Asceticism, eds Vincent Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 203–7. Recently, hair has drawn the attention of several scholars in the field of Classics. These scholars have shifted the terms of the discussion, focusing almost exclusively on the ways in which head hair was vital to the ancient performance of gender, as well as to how symbolic changes to one’s head hair were implicated in rites of passage and important life transitions. See for example Molly Myerowitz Levine, “The Gendered Grammar of Ancient Mediterranean Hair,” in Off with Her Head!, 76–130; Elizabeth Bartman, “Hair and the Artifice of Roman Female Adornment,” American Journal of Archaeology 105.1 (2001): 1–25; Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-presentation and Society (New York: Routledge, 2008), 21–4, 38–9, 70–76, 82, 90. Valerie M. Hope, Roman Death: The Dying and the Dead in Ancient Rome (New York: Continuum, 2009), 125; Christian Bromberger, “Hair: From the West to the Middle East through the Mediterranean,” Journal of American Folklore 121.482 (Fall 2008): 387; David Ephraim, “Sparta’s Social Hair,” Eranos 90 (1992): 11–21. 4   This notion stems from Jesus’ pronouncement that in heaven, mortals will not be married or sexually active: “they will be like the angels in heaven” (Matthew 22: 30); thus, those who renounce marriage and sexual intercourse in this age were understood to have already achieved some manner of their angelic condition. For examples and discussions, see Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 293–4, 323–38, 436; Ellen Muehlberger, “Ambivalence about the Angelic Life: The Promise and Perils of an Early Christian Discourse of Asceticism,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 16.4 (2008): 447–78; Richard Valantasis, “A Theory of the Social Function of Asceticism,” in Asceticism, eds Vincent Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 557–69; Steven Kaplan, “The Ethiopian holy man as outsider and angel,” Religion 15.3 (1985): 245–6.

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Their liminal existence between mortality and immortality was evidenced by a whole host of commonplaces: they were able to defer the needs of the body (not needing to eat or sleep as ordinary mortals) and they received food directly from the hands of angels, to name just two. I conclude that depictions of early Christian ascetics’ hair functioned as an additional sign of their liminal status. My analysis builds from the work of Patricia Cox Miller who argues that through ascetic regimens and discipline, desert hermits altered their bodies in ways that distinguished them from ordinary Christians. Simultaneously, desert “reporters” who wrote about the Christian hermits encouraged readers to apprehend particular aspects of ascetic bodies as evidence of their extraordinary spiritual state. Together, ascetics’ actual bodies and the writings about those bodies, channeled readers’ and spectators’ perceptions of ascetics’ status: specifically, ascetics were to be perceived as already in the process of transforming from a mortal to an immortal state.5 With Cox Miller, I too am interested in the ways in which desert bodies were transformed through ascetic discipline and, even more so, in the ways in which the narrative Lives of desert hermits directed readers’ perceptions of ascetics’ transformed bodies. Yet, whereas Cox Miller concentrates on emaciated and mutilated bodies, my focus is trained squarely on ascetics’ hair. When we turn to our sources, we find that the desert abounds with hair: facial hair so full and long that hermits’ beards stretched all the way to the ground and body hair so abundant that hermits’ bodies were covered entirely from head to toe (making it easy to confuse them with wild animals). Contemporary science can explain such proliferation of hair (now dubbed hypertrichosis lanuginose): according to recent studies, individuals who greatly restrict their caloric intake tend to grow fine, downy hairs that cover their entire bodies.6 Yet ascetics’ limited diet was not solely responsible for the unusual volume and look of ascetics’ hair. Our sources suggest that some ascetics were diligent in their neglect of their 5   Patricia Cox Miller writes: “Thus the texts themselves are, as it were, bodies from nowhere that mimic the repetitive performative gestures of the subjects of their gaze” (“Desert Asceticism and ‘The Body from Nowhere’,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 2.2 [1994]: 144). 6   Studies conclude that the growth of these hairs likely results from hypothyroidism. While this growth of fine, downy, pigmented hair covers their body, it is mostly concentrated on the back, abdomen and forearms. See Roberto Glorio et al., “Prevalence of cutaneous manifestations in 200 patients with eating disorders,” International Journal of Dermatology 39.5 (2000), 348–53; Renata Strumìa, “Dermatologic Signs in Patients with Eating Disorders,” American Journal of Clinical Dermatology 6.3 (2005): 165–73; Renata Strumìa, “Skin Signs in Anorexia nervosa,” Dermato-endocrinol 1.5 (2009): 268–70.

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appearance—including a neglect to cut or groom their hair—thus contributing to its length and wildness. Hilarion, for instance, is reported to have cut his hair only once a year and many others are reported to possess matted, tangled, and unkempt hair because of a conscious lack of cultus.7 While some ascetics offer biblical and theological rationale for avoiding conventional hair care, it is also reasonable to presume that desert ascetics grew their hair long in order to protect their bodies from the harsh wind, sun, and cold of their extreme environs.8 Whatever the cause, the result was a very strange look that visibly distinguished an ascetic from ordinary folk. With these physiological and practical explanations for the strange appearance of ascetics’ hair in the background, I concentrate my investigation on how early Christian writers described body and head hair in their stories about desert hermits and I investigate the potential significations of their descriptions. In the end, I conclude that descriptions of ascetics’ hair—profuse, beast-like, white or grey—are part of an attempt to accomplish the seemingly impossible task of depicting the undepictable: describing in material and corporeal terms the hermit who has already begun to exceed his materiality and corporeality.9 In what follows, I show how depictions of ascetics’ long and profuse hair coincided with other indicators of their liminal status, drew from contemporaneous considerations of the near-dead and post-mortem body, and provided a physical basis for ascetics’ perceived radiance.10 The Coincidence of Hairiness and Otherworldliness Not every desert ascetic was depicted as exceedingly hairy. While some are described with more facial hair than usual (e.g., with uncommonly long beards), others are described with an abundance of hair that covers their entire body.  Jerome, Vita S. Hilarionis Eremitae 10 (PL 23.33).   On ascetics’ rationale for neglecting their appearance, see Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011), 33–48. On dress, the body, and the environment, see Susan J. Vincent, The Anatomy of Fashion: Dressing the Body from the Renaissance to Today (Oxford: Berg, 2009), 163–5. 9   Or in Cox Miller’s words, describing a body that is in the process of transforming into an “angelic super-body” (Cox Miller, “The Body from Nowhere,” 140–41, 143; cf. Brown, Body and Society, 31). 10   For a discussion on early Christians’ evaluation of hair, see also Maria Doerfler’s chapter in this volume. For a discussion of clothing in early Christian asceticism, see also Rebecca Krawiec’s chapter in this volume. 7

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Further, the profuse and wild hair of the latter group is regularly depicted as terrifying or awe-inspiring. In this section, I demonstrate that ascetics who are described as the most excessively hairy tend to be located in the remotest reaches of the earthly realm, where ancients conventionally envisioned the location of the otherworld or afterlife. Further, given contemporaneous medical and theological conversations about hair growth and hairiness near and directly after death, I argue that the narratives’ geographic positioning of the Christian hermits work in tandem with the narratives’ descriptions of the hermits’ hairiness in order to make a claim about their liminality. Let us take as our first example the Greek Life of Mark the Athenian, an ascetic who was thought to have lived on a mountaintop in Ethiopia at the end of the fourth century.11 A description of Mark is related by Abba Serapion, who, upon receiving instructions in a dream, set out on a 30-day journey to track down the aged hermit. The trip was treacherous. As Serapion traversed a desert void of all life— the harsh conditions could not sustain plants, animals, or birds—he survived only with the help of angelic guides.12 When Serapion finally arrived at the foot of the mountain on which Mark lived, he remarked on the elevation of the mountain: “it was so lofty that it seemed to reach the height of heaven.”13 Serapion ascended the mountain and spent several days searching for the recluse. Finally, one night, he witnessed angels descending from heaven and, following them, he at last discovered Mark’s hidden cave. Upon meeting Mark, Serapion praised the hermit’s virtue and holiness and asserted his admiration for the hermit’s body, which—even in the dark—he described as being “sanctified by the radiance of the angels.”14 In return, Mark praised Serapion for having endured such an arduous journey to “see my hoariness (τὴν πολιἀν ταύτην).”15   The Greek text can be found in Acta SS (29th) March 3. . A seventeenth-century Latin translation is located in the same volume on pages 776–8. An English translation, which I will use throughout this chapter, can be found in Charles Allyn Williams, Oriental Affinities of the Legend of the Hairy Anchorite, Part II: Christian (Urbana: University of Illinois, 1926), 64–9. 12   Serapion nearly perished on day 20 when his water ran out. At that moment, the angels from his dream arrived and pointed out a kommi root that revived his strength to continue on. The description of his revival is striking: “After I had eaten a little I became as wet as if I had been rolling in water …” (Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 3–4 [Acta Sanctorum 9.776; trans. Williams, 65]). 13   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 4 (Acta Sanctorum 9.776; trans. Williams, 65). 14   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 5 (Acta Sanctorum 9.776; trans. Williams, 65). 15   The Latin term is canitiem. Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 6 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 65). 11

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After their initial exchange, Mark described to Serapion his way of life on the mountaintop, where he had been living for the past 95 years. Mark explained that, in the early years, his existence was quite difficult: he was hungry and thirsty and his body was dragged up and down the mountain by demons, scourging his flesh.16 But, after 30 years of perseverance, God rewarded him by commanding Mark’s body to change.17 Namely, as Mark himself specifies, “hairs grew on my whole body until my body was made heavy by them” and “until all my members were covered.”18 From the time he grew hairy, Mark reports, the demons were not able to assault him nor were they able even to come near him. At the same time, God’s angels began to minister to him, bringing him heavenly food.19 Finally, Mark explains, he began to see the “kingdom of heaven and the abodes of the souls … the Paradise of God” and its inhabitants (including Adam, Eve, Enoch, and Elijah) “living on earth.”20 It is unclear from the narrative whether Mark saw Paradise as a vision or whether Mark, being in fact geographically near Paradise, could now see nearby souls that had been imperceptible up to that point. There is some reason to lean toward the latter reading since he identifies these heavenly inhabitants as “living on earth” and since, earlier in the narrative, Mark explained that the demons’ mistreatment of him was prompted not (as we find in other ascetic sources) as a means to undermine his ascetic practice, but simply by his presence in this place. The demons claim that he has entered their dwelling place, exclaiming: “Depart from our land! Since the beginning of the world no man other than you has come in here and you, how dare you enter!”21 Moreover, later in the narrative, as Mark’s death is approaching, the hermit expresses gratitude to God for leading him to this “holy place that I might not die in my own land and be buried in earth that is defiled with many sins,” indicating that this place was somehow holier than the place he left behind.22 Further, recall that Serapion traversed to the edges of the desert to reach Mark and, upon reaching the mountain, he commented on the height of the mountain that seemed to reach to the heavens.   Mark reminiscences about this early period in Chapter 7 and again in chapters 12–13.   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 13; cf. 8 (Acta Sanctorum 9.778; cf. 9.777). 18   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 8 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 66). 19   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 13 (Acta Sanctorum 9.778). 20   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 8 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777). 21   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 7 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 66). Earlier in the narrative, Mark explains that for 95 years he had not seen another earthly being—no bird, no beast, no human—only heavenly beings (Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 12 [Acta Sanctorum 9.778]). 22   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 10 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 67). 16 17

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This placement of Mark in the highest heights parallels Plato’s assertion that, upon releasement from the body, the souls of those of “surpassing holiness” are lifted up from the valleys or “hollow regions” of the earth where ordinary mortals reside to the earth’s true surface.23 While Mark’s geographic location positions him in a liminal space between worlds, his liminality is further punctuated by his claim to have had no contact with earthly beings and to no longer have access to earthly foods.24 But what of his hair? How does the hair that covers Mark’s body relate to his spiritual location and to his spiritual status? Interestingly, to this point in their dialogue the two ascetics had been conversing in the dark of night and, although Serapion commented on Mark’s angelic radiance and although he has heard from Mark that he was covered in hair, Serapion had yet to witness Mark’s appearance in the light of day. Thus, as the sun rose and Serapion was finally able to see Mark’s body with his own eyes, he was immediately struck with fear. The narrative recounts his reaction: “seeing his body wholly covered with hair like that of a beast, I was afraid and from this fear, I trembled, seeing in him not at all the form of a man. He was not recognizable [as a human] except for the speech that came forth from his mouth.”25 I propose that Mark’s hair here is functioning to indicate Mark’s spiritual state—namely, a state between corporeal and extracorporeal existence—in a way that coincides with descriptions of his geographic location. Specifically, I suggest that contemporaneous notions of hair growth near death might lie at the root of this depiction of the long-haired, other-worldly ascetic. Democritus (an atomist philosopher flourishing in the fifth century BCE, whose work only survives in excerpts quoted by others), argued, along with Plato, that in the process of dying, sometimes a soul or part of the soul lingers in the dying or dead body and, as such, continues to animate the body as if still living.26 As proof of this claim, Democritus pointed to the post-mortem growth of hair and nails.27 We know that this idea remained prevalent 600 years later 23  Plato, Phaedo 114 b–c; 111c–e (trans. Hugh Tredennick in The Collected Dialogues of Plato, eds Edith Hamilton and Huntington Cairns [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989], 94, 92). 24   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 7–8 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 66). 25   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 9 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777; trans. Williams, 67, amended). 26   Tertullian describes the theories of Democritus and Plato in De Anima 51.2 (PL 2.736). See also Plato, Republic 10. According to Cicero, the Epicureans criticized Democritus for holding the view that sensation persists after death. Yet, Democritus’ followers deny that their teacher actually held this view (Cicero, Tusculan Disputations I.34.82). 27  Tertullian, De Anima 51.2 (PL 2.736–7).

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when Tertullian cites Democritus’ theory in De Anima 51.2 and it is probably this idea he has in mind when, in another text, Tertullian queries how Christians will look once they acquire their new spiritual bodies in the resurrection.28 Although some, with Democritus and Plato, might imagine there to be postmortem hair growth because resurrected bodies continue to be animated by the soul, Tertullian takes a hard and fast position against this view. He argues that nails and hair will cease to grow in the afterlife as bodies are transformed from a corruptible to an incorruptible nature. Next, Tertullian presents what he believes to be scriptural support for his view. He points out that scripture indicates that God preserved the clothing and shoes of the Israelites wandering through the desert and then presumes, by extension, that God must have likewise arrested their nail and hair growth. For Tertullian, the wandering Israelites of scripture are to be taken as figures of the resurrection and thus we can conclude, he asserts, that heavenly bodies—like the wandering Israelites—will not be overly hairy.29 Approximately two centuries later, as Jerome debated the resurrection body with John of Jerusalem, he repeated Tertullian’s logic and scriptural evidence.30 Yet other Christians found different biblical passages to be more directly relevant. As many strived to elucidate the precise constitution of the “spiritual bodies” promised by Paul (1 Cor. 15: 44), some envisioned a glorified body that need not be entirely equivalent to the earthly body, while others held firmly to the opinion that the body would be qualitatively the same.31 To support the latter position, some culled the promise Jesus made in the Gospel of Luke: “not a hair on your head shall perish” (Luke 21: 18) and posited that, upon death, God would reassemble every part of an individual’s body that had been fragmented, corrupted, scattered, and even consumed by worms, birds,  Tertullian, De Resurrectione 58 (PL 2.880).   Referencing Deuteronomy 8: 4, Tertullian, De Resurrectione 58 (PL 2.880). For a discussion of this passage, see David Satran, “Fingernails and Hair: Anatomy and Exegesis in Tertullian,” Journal of Theological Studies 40.1 (1989): 116–20. While this argument may have worked to address opponents’ views in his own time, Tertullian’s conflation of the Israelites wandering in the desert with the resurrected might have invited later readers to liken the desert ascetics—who were thought to be receiving provisions from heaven, like the Israelites in the desert—with the already or almost resurrected. 30  Jerome, Contra Joannem Hierosolymitanum ad Pammachium 32 (PL 23.400). 31   On the range of views, see Carolyn Walker Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995) 1–114; Kristi Upson-Saia, “Resurrecting Deformity: Augustine on Wounded and Scarred Bodies in the Heavenly Realm,” in Disability in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: Sacred Texts, Historical Traditions, and Social Analysis, eds Darla Schumm and Michael Stoltzfus (New York: Palgrave, 2011), 93–122. 28 29

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and wild animals.32 Opponents—both pagans who found the notion of fleshy resurrection preposterous and Christians who held different views on the nature of the resurrection body—mocked this idea. Given that they would be composed of all of the hair shed during their lifetime, they retorted, resurrected bodies would have to be excessively hairy and thus also unseemly and unbefitting of the heavenly realm. Opponents jeered, “Who would not shudder at the horrid sight?”33 While these debates remained unsettled by the time the Lives of the desert hermits were written, the point I wish to highlight is that there was a long tradition of implicating hair growth and hairiness in non-Christian discussions about the near-dead body, as well as early Christian discussions about the resurrected body.34 Thus, I contend, just as the ascetic narratives mapped out a topography of the desert that positioned Christian hermits in spaces affiliated with an afterworld, so too they seem to be taking a position within these debates by envisioning the heavenly bodies of desert hermits as hairy bodies.35 Several other narrative accounts of desert ascetics corroborate this linkage between desert ascetics’ habitat, hairiness, and holiness. In the Dialogues of   See, for example, 1 Enoch 60.7: “And it shall be, that those who have been destroyed in the desert, and who have been devoured by the fish of the sea, and by wild beasts, shall return, and trust in the day of the Elect One; for none shall perish in the presence of the Lord of spirits, nor shall any be capable of perishing;” and Apocalypse of Peter 4: “From the east to the west shall all the children of men be gathered together before my Father who lives forever … And the wild beasts and the fowls shall he command to restore all the flesh that they have devoured, because [God] wills that people should appear; for nothing perishes before God, and nothing is impossible with him, because all things are his.” By far the most detailed discussion of God’s process of reassembling human bodies can be found in Athenagoras’ De Resurrectione 2–11, 15, 25, in which Athenagoras argues that God can separate out elements of the body that either had dissolved into another element or had been absorbed into another creature during digestion. While all of these thinkers agreed that God would preserve the complete material integrity of the earthly body—gathering up all the bodily bits belonging to an individual—they also claimed that all of these bits would be thoroughly transformed into an immortal, incorruptible, and glorious new state befitting the heavenly realm. See Tertullian, De Res. Carn. 57; Aphrahat, Demonstration 8; Ephraem Serm. 1 and Hymns 37.1–10; 46.16; 49.1–2, 8; Jerome, Contra Joannem Hierosolymitanum, 23–6 and Jerome, ep. 84.8. 33  Augustine, De Civitate Dei XXII.12.1 (PL 41.775). 34   For a discussion on the relationship between dress and the resurrection body, see also Carly Daniel-Hughes’ chapter in this volume. 35   On fashioning the spiritual landscape of the Christian desert, see James Goehring, “The Dark Side of Landscape: Ideology and Power in the Christian Myth of the Desert,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33.3 (Fall 2003): 437–51. 32

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Sulpicius Severus, a brother from Gaul describes to Sulpicius his encounters with ascetics in Palestine and Egypt.36 Although he was able to converse with many ascetics, he reports that one recluse remained out of reach. This ascetic lived on Mount Sinai, “the top of which almost touches heaven and cannot, by any human effort, be reached.”37 While the narrator himself was unable to make contact with the anchorite, he spoke with a man who did five years prior. To this man, the hermit explained that he “shunned assiduously” contact with other humans because mortals who commune with other mortals “could not often be visited by angels.” 38 Here again, we find a hermit positioned in a remote location that is linked to the heavens and angels. And here also the narrative describes only this anchorite—distinct from all of the other ascetics encountered in the story—as excessively hairy: “he used no clothes, but bristles covered his body.”39 Similarly, the Life of Macarius of Rome makes an explicit connection between the dwelling place and the hairiness of the ascetic. The authors are Syrian monks who left their monastery in Mesopotamia and traversed east through Persia and India to the very edge of the known world. The description of the place—namely, the outer edge of the world where “the sun’s light was scarcely able to reach”—here parallels the location of the land of the dead in Homer’s Odyssey.40 In this place, the Syrian monks found not only strange peoples, but also dangerous beasts of every kind: “serpents, dragons, asps, basilisks, vipers, unicorns and other horned animals.”41 Following a stag and then a dove, the group was led past a variety of people being tormented as punishment for their past deeds, before finally arriving at a more pleasant, sweet-smelling, and beautiful place, whose (presumably angelic) inhabitants were venerable in appearance.42 Just beyond this latter group, they came upon a cave in which lived the recluse Macarius:

  Sulpicius Severus, Dialogus I.9–22 (PL 20.189–98).   Sulpicius Severus, Dialogus I.17 (PL 20.194; trans. Roberts NPNF ser. 2, 11.32). 38   Sulpicius Severus, Dialogus I.17 (PL 20.195; trans. Roberts NPNF ser. 2, 11.32). 39   nullo vestis usu, setis corporis sui tectus (Sulpicius Severus, Dialogus I.17 [PL 20.195]). 40   Vita Sancta Macarii Romani 7 (PL 73.417); Homer, Odyssey 11.14–25, which describes the kingdom of the dead as a place at the “outer limits” of the world, where “the sun sank and … the world grew dark,” where “the eye of the sun can never flash his rays through the dark and bring them light ….” 41   Vita Sancta Macarii Romani 7 (PL 73.417). 42   Vita Sancta Macarii Romani 9–13 (PL 73.418–20). Later, in Chapter 18, the angel Raphael characterizes these places as the “place of darkness, the place of torments and of punishment, and the place of light” (PL 73.423). 36

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There we saw a man a long way off, hurrying toward us, whose hair, as white as snow, covered his whole body and floated in the wind … He came right up to us, lifted up his hands to heaven and prayed for quite a long time. His prayer finished, he shook his hair back from his face and mouth and gave us a blessing. His hair and beard were milk-white and his face was as the face of an angel … his eyes were not visible because of the way his eyebrows hung over them. His toenails and fingernails were exceedingly long, his beard and hair covered his whole body.43

As they begin conversing, Macarius tells the brothers that they are a mere 20 miles away from the Paradise of Adam and Eve.44 Here again we see a narrative positioning the ascetic at the edge of the mortal world, attributing to him angelic qualities, and describing him as excessively hairy. Hairiness, Beastliness, and Radiance The radiant appearance of desert hermits is a regular feature of ascetic literature. Abba Arsenius was described as an “old man entirely like a flame.”45 Abba Pambo was said to have the appearance of Moses “when his face shone” (referencing the fact that Moses’ “face had become radiant because he had been talking with God,” Exodus 34: 22); Pambo’s face “shone like lightening … [and] it was the same with Abba Silvanus and Abba Sisoes.”46 In each case, the radiance of the ascetic often communicated something of their holiness and their superhuman status.47 While not all of the narratives link hair, radiance, and angelic status as explicitly as others (e.g., Abba Or is characterized as looking “just like an angel” before attention is drawn specifically to the “snowy white beard [that fell] down to his chest” and to his radiant face),48 in this section, I aim to   Vita Sancta Macarii Romani 15 (PL 73.420–21).   A few sentences earlier Macarius calls this also “the place where the earth joins the sky” (Vita Sancta Macarii Romani 16 [PL 73.421]). 45   Apophthegmata Patrum Arsenius 27 (PG 65.96; trans. Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers [Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1975], 13). 46   Apophthegmata Patrum Pambo 12 (PG 65.372; trans. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 197). 47   Abba Silvanius, for instance, is said to have a “face and body shining like an angel” (Apophthegmata Patrum Silvanus 12 [PG 65.412; trans. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 224], emphasis added). 48   Historia monachorum in Aegypto 2.1 (A.J. Festugière, Subsidia Hagiographica 34 [Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1961], 35; trans. Norman Russell and Benedicta Ward, The Lives of the Desert Fathers [Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1981], 65). 43 44

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demonstrate how hermits’ excessive hairiness—especially when conflated with beastly hairiness—was the physical source of their radiance and luminosity and contributed to a perception of their angelic status.49 Let us begin with the story of Onnophrius.50 The story, narrated by Paphnutius, is part of a bigger travel narrative in which Paphnutius journeys to the furthest reaches of the desert in search of holy ascetics. The first anchorite Paphnutius encounters along the way is Timothy, who Paphnutius finds among a herd of antelope.51 Timothy explains that when his clothing wore out, God had given him a natural covering of hair to hide “his shame.”52 After greeting one another (and after Paphnutius proved that he was not a demonic spirit there to undermine Timothy’s ascetic practice), Timothy told Paphnutius about how he came to the desert in order to find solitude. He explained that in this unpopulated land he was able to escape the temptations of the world   For discussions on the relationship between dress and luminosity, see also Arthur Urbano and Meredith Warren’s chapters in this volume. 50   Onnophrius is encountered in the second part of the Peregrinatio Paphnutiana (a section that seems to have circulated independently). The reputation of the anchorite Onnophrius seemed to have been quite widespread, evidenced by the fact that the Life of Onnophrius was translated into a number of languages and that many versions remain extant still today. The Greek Vita was translated into Latin early and this translation can be found in PL 73, 211–20. A Coptic translation can be found in E. Amélineau’s “Voyage d’un Moine Égyptien dans le Désert,” Recueil de Travaux 6 (1885): 166–94 (with French translation) and in E.A. Budge’s Coptic Texts: Coptic Martyrdoms, Vol. 4 (London: Oxford University Press, 1914), 205–24. For a thorough introduction to Paphnutius’ Vita—including discussions of authorship [pp. 42–50], date [pp. 52–4], and extant manuscripts in a variety of languages [pp. 69–70]—see Tim Vivian’s Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt and the Life of Onnophrius (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2009). English translations can be found in Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 145–66 and Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms, 455–73. Onnophrius was venerated in Rome, Cappadocia, and several cities in Poland (Dąbrówka, Drelów, Jabłeczna, Łąka, Oleszyce, Pasłęk, Posada Rybotycka, Stryki, and Wisłok Wielki), where churches and monasteries bear his name. Onnophrius was an especially popular subject in artistic representations in Asia Minor. There a variant tradition circulated: Onnophrius began life as a woman, Onnophria, and when faced with the threat of a coerced marriage, she prayed fervently to be spared and, in answer to her prayers, God turned her into a man. An image of the female-male Onnophria/Onnophrius can be found in the Snake church in Göreme (see Ömer Demir, Göreme [Ankara: Pelin Ofset, 2008], 63). 51   Or, “buffalo,” as Budge translates. Vita Sancti Onnophrii 3 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 206 fol. 2a). Technically, before finding Timothy, Paphnutius encounters the body of another brother whose dead body is so long dead that it disintegrates into dust as soon as Paphnutius touches it (Vita Sancti Onnophrii 2 [Budge, Coptic Texts, 205–6 fol. 1b]). 52   Vita Sancti Onnophrii 3 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 206 fol. 2a; trans. Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 146). 49

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(especially the temptations of one particular woman) and that, even in this barren land, he found a spring of water and a palm tree that provided him sufficient sustenance. Finally, he reported, “My hair continues to grow and since my clothes have completely worn out, I clothe with my hair what should be respectfully covered.”53 After receiving a blessing from Timothy, Paphnutius continues his journey into the depths of the desert. Several days and many miles later, Paphnutius encounters the anchorite, Onnophrius, who is also quite hairy, but in a somehow more frightening way. Paphnutius remarks: “Now suddenly I looked and I saw a man in the distance; he was very terrifying because his hair was spread out over his body like a leopard’s … When he came up close to me I was afraid and I climbed up on a ledge of the mountain, thinking that perhaps it was a wild ass.”54 Again, we see a gradation of hairiness as we travel deeper and deeper into the desert: while Timothy has enough hair to cover his genitals, Onnophrius’ hair covers his entire body. What I wish to highlight in this story is the hermits’ relation to animals: while Timothy is merely attended by a herd of animals,55 Onnophrius is initially perceived to be himself some kind of animal, whether a leopard or a wild ass. In fact, when the two begin to converse, Onnophrius frames himself in animalistic terms, saying: “For sixty years I have lived in this desert. I walk in the mountains like a wild beast ….”56 How are we to understand this conflation of Onnophrius with a hairy beast especially given that much ascetic literature advised ascetics to suppress base impulses and desires they dubbed “beastly” or “animalistic”?57 I suggest two possible answers to this question. First, figuring the hermit as a wild animal   Vita Sancti Onnophrii 7 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 208 fol. 4b; trans. Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 149). 54   Vita Sancti Onnophrii 10 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 209–10 6a–b; trans. Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 151). 55   Throughout ascetic literature, desert ascetics are regularly reported to have animal companions and sometimes are described as living like beasts. See, for example, Abba John and Paul’s domesticated lioness (Apophthegmata Patrum 14.4; trans. Chadwick, Western Asceticism, 150). On living like a beast, Abba Nesteros explains that he has been able to endure trouble in silence by adopting the character of a donkey, which he attributes to a calling from scripture: “I am become as a beast before thee and I am always with thee” (citing Psalm 73: 22–3, Apophthegmata Patrum 15.30; trans. Chadwick, Western Asceticism, 164). 56   Vita Sancti Onnophrii 11 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 210 fol. 7a; trans. Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 152). 57   See discussions on animal urges and beastly desires in Robert M. Grant, Early Christians and Animals (London: Routledge, 1999) and Patricia Cox Miller, “The Physiologus: A Poiēsis of Nature,” Church History 52.4 (Dec 1983): 433–43. 53

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underscores that he is an outsider from society, as one living a decidedly antisocial lifestyle. Such asociality or pre-sociality is a trope that recurs throughout ascetic, especially desert, literature.58 As Peter Brown writes: “the desert was the land where men and beasts had once mingled in a state of pre-social liberty. As a result, many ascetics were content to sink back into that state, by living an angelic freedom that resembled that of the beasts.”59 Second, I wish to argue that ascetics’ conflation with beasts signaled their angelic status not only through associations with beastly asociality, but also through beasts’ hair. Specifically, when we attend to the quality—namely, the “whiteness” or “greyness”—of the animals’ hair to which the hermits’ hair was regularly conflated, we find a means by which to depict the hermits’ angelic luminosity or radiance. Let me illuminate this point by looking at a few of these depictions in greater detail. Turning back to Mark’s story, when Mark describes his own “hoariness,” he uses the Greek term πολιός, which refers specifically to grisly, gray/white hair of old men and also of wolves, but the term was also used metaphorically to mean “bright.”60 Mark uses this term to describe his hoariness in the dead of the night and, at this time, Serapion remarks on Mark’s “angelic radiance.”61 At daybreak, when Serapion was first able to see Mark clearly, he is frightened by Mark’s appearance, which, at that time, he claims resembles a beast.62 In this story, we find linguistic and narrative evidence for linking hairiness, beastliness, and radiance. Elsewhere, in the Apophthegmata Patrum, Abba Daniel describes the appearance of Abba Arsenius first rather straight-forwardly: he possessed “a heavy beard that reached all the way down to his waist.”63 But he does not stop there. He continues by remarking that he is an “angelic vision” due to his “handsome body” and his canis ornatus (Erat enim visio ejus angelica, sicut Jacob, canis ornatus, elegans corpore, siccus tamen).64 Canis can derive either from the noun canis (in the genitive case) meaning “dog” or “wolf ” or from the adjective

58   See, for example, Apophthegmata Partum Antony 10 and Macarius 23 (PG 65.77, 65.272). 59  Brown, Body and Society, 332. Here Brown speaks specifically of Syrian ascetics, but I would not limit the image to Syria. 60   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 6 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777); Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, An Intermediate Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1889). 61   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 5–6 (Acta Sanctorum 9.776–7). 62   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 9 (Acta Sanctorum 9.777). 63   Apophthegmata Patrum 15.10 (PL 73.955). 64   Apophthegmata Patrum 15.10 (PL 73.955).

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canus (an ablative of description) meaning “white” or “hoary.”65 While the latter is the more probable reading given its parallel construction with the ablative corpore, the ambiguity between the possible interpretations—“being adorned as a dog/wolf ” or “being adorned with white hairs”—might be precisely what the author meant to convey to readers: Arsenius’ wolf-like hair is notable for its whiteness, a whiteness or luminosity that contributes to the perception of his angelic nature. That the radiance emitted from their beastly, white hair signaled the degree to which ascetics had taken on an angelic status is corroborated by the fact that the hermits shone even brighter at their deaths. Returning to the beast-like Onnophrius, when Paphnutius witnesses the hermit passing into immortality, he notes that the hermit “turned completely into fire and his appearance greatly frightened me.” 66 Similarly, Serapion describes a bright light radiating from the cave when hairy Mark died: “the cave was filled with light, outshining that of the sun.”67 This link between beastliness and radiance, I suggest, contributes to the perception that excessively hairy desert hermits are angelic and explains why they inspired more fear and awe than other, slightly less hairy ascetics. Conclusion That early Christian ascetics were purported to be angels on earth is nothing new. In this chapter, I have attempted to demonstrate how ascetic Lives directed readers to perceive their subjects’ transition from an earthly to a heavenly existence through, among other techniques, descriptions of their excessive hairiness. I suggested that the unique hairiness of desert hermits—a biological phenomenon that resulted from their rigorous ascetic regimes—could have been read as evidence of their other-worldliness given contemporaneous discussions of the hairiness of the near-dead or of resurrection bodies and given that these same hermits were positioned in closer proximity to spaces conventionally   Charlton T. Lewis and Charles Short, A Latin Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1879). Owen Chadwick opts for the latter, rendering canis ornatus as “having white hair” in Western Asceticism, 158. 66   Vita Sancti Onnophrii 20 (Budge, Coptic Texts, 215–6 fol. 13a; trans. Vivian, Life of Onnophrius, 157–8). Compare Abba Sisoes who, when dying, “shone like the sun”; “his countenance increased in brightness;” and “once more his countenance suddenly became like the sun” as the angels came to retrieve his soul (Apophthegmata Patrum Sisoes 14 [PG 65.396; trans. Ward, Sayings of the Desert Fathers, 214–15]). 67   Vita S. Marco Atheniensi 14 (Acta Sanctorum 9.778; trans. Williams, 68). 65

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associated with the other world or afterlife. Finally, I have argued that the hermits’ hairiness, which was often characterized as beastly, could have been the source of their angelic radiance. If I am correct, such depictions would have shaped how these ascetics were regarded, while simultaneously taking a side in the on-going debate about the nature of the resurrection body. Moving forward, more work needs to be done to understand the gendering of hair throughout ascetic contexts in late antiquity.68 Readers surely noticed that the anecdotes analyzed in this chapter all involve male ascetics. The depictions of hairy men in the desert contrast sharply with advice given to female ascetics in this period: Christian leaders urged them to keep their hair simply styled and to refrain from embellishing their hair with dyes, adornments, and hair extensions.69 Their cultus—not overly tended, but also not overly unkempt—was intended to communicate a female ascetic’s renunciation of worldly good looks, her refusal to be an object of desire, and also her refusal to draw too much attention to herself. Yet many ascetic women, ignoring their advisors, cut their hair short or even shaved their head.70 As Susan Ashbrook Harvey has shown, this practice was both practical and imbued with theological significance. The ascetic could shave her head as a preventative measure against lice that flourished in long, neglected hair,71 while she could also claim, as Syncletica did, that the practice of cutting off her hair signified the cutting off of “worldly elements of life: honors, fame, possession of goods, splendid outfits of clothing, use of baths, enjoyment

68   And it would be useful to contextualize these representations within broader discussions of gender and hair in physiognomic, medical, and philosophical literature. Jonathan P. Wilcoxson has begun this investigation in his paper, “Clement of Alexandria, Beards, and the Ornamentation of the Mind” (presented at the annual meeting of the North American Patristic Society, Chicago, Illinois, May 2013). On opinions on beards in particular, see A. Edward Siecienski, “Holy Hair: The Church Fathers on Beards” (presented at the annual meeting of the North American Patristic Society, Chicago, Illinois, May 2012), which has now been updated and revised in “Holy Hair: Beards in the Patristic Tradition” (forthcoming). 69   On the advice given to, and hair practices of, female ascetics, see Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress, 37, 38–9, 41, 44, 52–3, 59, 61–9, 70–72, 80–82, 90, 92, 97, 101–2, 106. 70   See, for example, Life of Paul and Thecla 25; The Life and Regimen of the Blessed and Holy Syncletica 11, 80; and conciliar pronouncements against the practice (Can. Syn. Gangr., canon 17; Cod. Theod. 16.2.27). 71   On lice, see Kosta Y. Mumcuoglu, “Human lice: Pediculus and Pthirus,” in Paleomicrobilogy: Past Human Infections, eds D. Raoult and M. Drancourt (Berlin: Springer-Verlag, 2008), 215–22; Joann Fletcher, “A Tale of Hair, Wigs and Lice,” Egyptian Archaeology 5 (1994): 31–3.

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of foods.”72 In either case, whether neatly bundled or shaved, female ascetics were never depicted as excessively hairy.73 We might wonder if this is because such a depiction would have activated gendered connotations of women’s hair: namely, extravagance, seduction, and unrestraint. We need also to explore how artistic and iconographic visualizations of hairy ascetics, from late antiquity through the medieval period (see, for example, Plates 8.1 and 8.2), complement the narrative depictions discussed in this chapter.74 We should study where these images were situated in monastic and 72  Pseudo-Athanasius, Vita Syncletica 80 (PG 28.1533; trans. Elizabeth Bryson Bongie, The Life & Regimen of the Blessed and Holy Syncletica [Toronto: Peregrina Publishing, 1999], 50). In the same chapter, Syncletica further argued that rooting out lice symbolized the excision of vices associated with the lifestyle she had renounced. For a discussion of the above, see Susan Ashbrook Harvey, “Housekeeping: An Ascetic Theme in Late Antiquity,” in To Train His Soul in Books: Syriac Asceticism in Early Christianity, eds Robin Darling Young and Monica J. Blanchard (Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 2011), 145. 73   In the desert, I can think of only one female ascetic whose hair receives attention: Mary of Egypt. Yet Mary’s hair is not like her male peers: “The hair on [her] head was white as a fleece and not long, falling just below its neck” and Mary herself laments that her body remains uncovered (Sophronius of Jerusalem, Vita S. Mariae Aegyptiae 10 [PG 87.3705]). 74   As we look forward, we should also look backward, considering how the authors of these narratives might have drawn their images of the desert ascetics from a repository of hairy men in earlier tradition. As far back as the second millennium BCE, the Babylonians circulated a story about Enkidu, a feral man who was raised by a gazelle and wild donkey. Not only did he live like an animal—eating what they ate, sharing their habitat and regimen, and possessing similar skills, such as their speed—but he was said to have resembled the wild animals himself: “shaggy with hair was his whole body … the locks of his hair grew thick as a grain field” (Gilgamesh Epic tablet I, 105, 107). Yet the feral Enkidu was eventually “civilized” and thus functioned as a figure who straddled two worlds. So too, a common figure in Mesopotamian art is the laḫmu, “the hairy one,” who is naked, yet covered with a beard and long hair. Like Enkidu, the laḫmu seems also to straddle categories. In the textual and artistic traditions, he is a demonic or semi-divine hero who is regularly depicted on doorways and gates (especially at temples), serving as a guard. For discussion and images, see Jeremy Black and Anthony Green, Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Illustrated Dictionary (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992), 17, 114–15, 177–8, 184; Gregory Mobley, “The Wild Man in the Bible and the Ancient Near East,” Journal of Biblical Literature 116.2 (1997): 224; and F.A.M. Wiggermann, “Mischwesen. A” and A. Green, “Mischwesen B,” both in Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie, Band 8 (3/4 Miete-Moab), edited by Dietz Otto Edzard (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1994), 222–46 and 246–9. Late antique Christians need not look far and wide for inspiration. Within Hebrew Scriptures, they could read about Esau’s abundant body hair, hair that his brother impersonated by wearing goat skins (Genesis 25: 25; 27: 1–45). They could read about King Absalom who was famous for

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ecclesial contexts and how they functioned—theologically and ritually—therein. Further, we need to understand why certain early Christian figures, such as Mary Magdalene and John Chrysostom, began to be rendered as similarly hirsute in medieval art, architectural decoration, and illuminated manuscripts.75 Finally, it would be instructive to explore in more detail how late ancient Christians understood the relationship between geography and hairiness. Physicians, philosophers, and natural historians noted that communities’ natural environment shaped not only their dispositions and personalities, but also gave rise to their distinctive appearances.76 It would be useful to investigate further how depictions of hairy ascetics might be lining up with these ethnographic theories and taxonomies. his plentiful hair, which he cut only once per year (2 Samuel 14: 25–6). Or they could read about groups of distinctive Israelite men, such as the Nazarites, who vowed that “no razor come upon [their] head” and their long locks were to be a sign of their distinctive holiness (Numbers 6: 5; on a specific Nazarite, Sampson, see Judges 13–16) or certain prophets or “men of God,” such as Elijah, who were known for being excessively hairy (2 Kings 1: 8–13). For a fuller discussion of hair in ancient Israel, see Susan Niditch, “My Brother Esau Is a Hairy Man”: Hair and Identity in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). Despite the many differences between each of these hairy men, the common thread that ties these men together is their special designation as semi-divine or as men endowed with God’s favor. Thus, they may have been looming in the background of the stories of desert ascetics. That said, I contend that the desert accounts reflect a new eschatological concern, thus adding a new layer of signification to excessive hairiness among men of God. 75   See, for instance, several examples of a hairy Mary Magdalene depicted on alter pieces from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries (Katherine L. Jansen, “The meaning of the Magdalen for Female Penitents,” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 45 [2000]: 134–8). See also woodcut illustrations of Mary Magdalene and John Chrysostom in a fifteenth-century German volume of the Lives of the Saints (Leben der Heiligen). (The Metropolitan Museum of Art has made available images of the woodcuts on ARTstor and some of the images can be found also in Timothy Husband, The Wild Man: Medieval Myth and Symbolism [New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1980].) An investigation into the subsequent tradition of rendering hairy early Christian saints might help us understand the significance of illustrations of hairy men in the margins of fourteenth-century illuminated Psalters and of the three hairy figures carved above the main portal of the College of San Gregorio, Valladolid, Spain (1490 CE), images of which can be found in Husband, Wild Man, 100–106. Scholars might also study how these medieval depictions of hairy saints relate to veneration of hair relics or the burgeoning popularity of the tonsure in this period. On hair relics, see Margaret Sleeman, “Medieval hair tokens,” Forum for modern language studies 17.4 (1981): 322–36. On the tonsure, see Robert Mills, “The Signification of the Tonsure,” in Holiness and Masculinity in the Middle Ages, eds P.H. Cullum and Katherine J. Lewis (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005), 109–26. 76   See, for example, Hipp., De aere, aquis et locis 24; Galen, De Usu Partium Corporis Humani XI.14; Ps.-Aristotle, Physiognomonica 806b, 812b; and Cicero, De lege agraria 2.95.

Part 5 Dress, Image, and Discourse

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Chapter 9

Sizing up the Philosopher’s Cloak: Christian Verbal and Visual Representations of the Tribōn Arthur P. Urbano

In his work On the Pallium, the third-century North African Christian Tertullian posed a question to his toga-clad audience: “How do you feel in a toga: dressed or oppressed? Is it like wearing clothes or bearing them?”1 In defense of his decision to doff the toga and don the pallium, Tertullian contrasted two commonly worn male garments. The toga was the emblematic Roman garb, the formal public attire of the citizen. The pallium, on the other hand, was associated with careers in education and oratory, posts often held by non-citizen Greeks. The toga was oblong and meticulously draped in a nexus of folds, almost ceremoniously, with the help of a slave. The pallium, by contrast, was rectangular and lighter; it simply wrapped around the waist and draped over the left shoulder. Originating in the Greek world, and called a himation, it was ordinary male clothing. When it became “worn out” (from the Greek: τρίβω) through exposure to the elements and constant wear, the Greeks also called it a tribōn.2 Tertullian’s declaration that “there is nothing so convenient as the pallium,” spoke not only to the garment’s practicality and comfort when compared to the toga, but also to the political and social meanings interwoven into the two garments.3

  This paper is the product of sabbatical research generously funded by the Shohet Scholars Program of the International Catacomb Society. An earlier version was presented at the 2012 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature. Thanks are owed to all who commented on this piece, in particular the editors of this volume. Tertullian, On the Pallium 5.2.1 (Marie Turcan, ed., Tertullien: Le manteau, Sources chrétienne 513 [Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2007], 196; trans. Vincent Hunink, De pallio: A Commentary [Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 2005], 57). 2   I will use the terms pallium and tribōn interchangeably in this paper. 3  Tertullian, On the Pallium 5.3.1 (SC 513, 198; trans. Hunink, De pallio, 57). 1

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As philosophers and orators were men of words, meticulous about public image, they often spoke and wrote about their dress. Benefactors and patrons also commissioned images in their honor—statues and portraits in paint and mosaic—that carefully depicted the folds and wear of their garments. These representations glorified these professions and enshrined the memory of their subjects among a community of intellectual authorities. Tertullian’s public declaration of his preference for the pallium over the toga engaged and challenged these meanings through a “tailoring rhetoric” that brought the garment into the service of Christianity. As an increasing number of learned men like Tertullian received baptism in the second through fifth centuries CE, some of them adopted or continued to wear the pallium. In so doing, they engaged their polytheist rivals and colleagues in a competition of doctrines and self-representation using words, images, and clothing. In this chapter, I will examine Christian attitudes towards the tribōn, focusing on verbal and visual representations of the garment. In his classic work, Système de la mode (The Fashion System), the French theorist Roland Barthes presented a semiotic analysis of dress and fashion in which garments could be interpreted as “signifiers” in a “vestimentary code.” This code, conditioned by social, cultural, and historical assumptions, provides a profuse, though not limitless, array of significations that can be ascribed to garments and their wearers.4 These significations can be delimited to varying degrees by transforming the real garment into what Barthes called “image-clothing” or “written-clothing.” “Image-clothing” is the visual representation of a garment, as in a drawing or photograph. It makes the garment an object of observation and displays it alongside other visual cues. Though “image-clothing” can direct the significations of a garment, it is not definitive and always leaves the possibilities of meaning open. On the other hand, verbalizations of garments, or “written-clothing,” use language to privilege a set of meanings suggested by the vestimentary code. Written descriptions, such as those found in fashion magazines, infuse garments with definitive value and set them in relation to particular circumstances, occupations, moods, and ideologies in order to create fashion.5 While recent studies on early Christianity and dress have focused largely on women’s dress and ascetic garb, this study of the tribōn calls important attention to a simple article of male clothing that punctuated cultural, social, and religious 4   Roland Barthes, The Fashion System, trans. Matthew Ward and Richard Howard (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 98. 5  Barthes, Fashion System, 13.

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developments in Greek and Roman antiquity.6 This chapter is not a history of the tribōn, but a discussion of verbal and iconic representations of the garment primarily in Christian contexts. Through a sample of literary and iconographic evidence, I argue that transmutations of the garment into words and images reflected and contributed to its perception. This had concrete implications in the contexts of philosophical competition where the tribōn functioned as a contested and negotiable object of cultural capital. The sizing-up of the philosopher’s cloak by Christians spanned a range of positive and negative attitudes and reflected the complexities of participating in ancient educational contexts. Weaving a Garment of Words In antiquity, philosophers were visibly identifiable by the clothing they wore. The sophist and philosopher Dio Chrysostom (ca 45 BCE–15 CE) made the visual recognition of the philosopher the subject of one of his public orations. When people saw “someone un-tunicked in a tribōn letting his hair grow long on head and chin,” they knew that he was a philosopher.7 As simple as it was, the rectangular cloak with worn edges was the most identifying feature of a philosopher’s appearance. The combination of shabby cloak, beard, and unkempt hair was made “fashionable” through the iconic authority of Socrates (Plate 9.1). In the Symposium, Alcibiades recounts how he tried to seduce Socrates by creeping beneath his “worn-out cloak.” Plato links Socrates’ disciplined resistance to the young man’s advances to his perseverance as a soldier on the frontlines at Potidaea where he withstood the severe cold wearing   Some recent examples include Rebecca Krawiec, “‘Garments of Salvation’: Representations of Monastic Clothing in Late Antiquity,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 17, no. 1 (2009): 125–50; Carly Daniel-Hughes, The Salvation of the Flesh in Tertullian of Carthage: Dressing for the Resurrection (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); and Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress: Gender, Virtue, and Authority (New York: Routledge, 2011). Paul Zanker’s study of intellectual portraiture (The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity, trans. Alan Shapiro [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995]) provides a thorough formal and social analysis, mainly in nonChristian contexts. On the role of clothing, appearance, and gestures in the performance of masculinity in intellectual contexts, see Timothy Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 23–30. 7   Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.2 (Text and translation are from H. Lamar Crosby, Dio Chrysostom, 5 vols, Loeb Classical Library [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1951], 5: 176; trans. Crosby, 5: 177, with modification). 6

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nothing but his tribōn.8 Here the simple, austere clothing became a sign of a selfcontrolled (σωφροσύνη), masculine nature. By contrast, critics of Socrates and his philosophical outlook used his clothing and appearance as an occasion for disparagement. For example, the fourth-century Christian Clementine Homilies represents Socrates’ tribōn as the location of illicit pleasure with Alcibiades.9 Socrates’ clothing was not unusual. Athenian men generally wore a himation over a tunic. Instead, how he wore it—threadbare around the borders, dirty, and torso exposed—enacted the values and way of life that became foundational for later Greek philosophy and made Socrates “the model of the ideal philosopher.”10 His style of dress, therefore, became the “uniform” of the intellectual, the “philosopher’s look” (φιλόσοφου σχῆμα).11 Portraits of a tribōn-clad Socrates could serve as “a kind of extension of Socratic discourse into another medium.”12 Literature and portraiture attest that the look was fairly consistent down to late antiquity.13 It became a signifier of professional identity, which, like later monastic garb, signified “an accepted set of values that carried with it an expected set of behaviors.”14 Academics, Stoics, and Epicureans all wore the tribōn.15 The few surviving late antique portraits of Neopythagorean and Neoplatonist philosophers represent them in more elegant tribōnes with long, flowing hair, a style that “reflected their mainly aristocratic” and urban contexts.16 Despite the affiliation of the tribōn with all of the major philosophical schools, the surviving  Plato, Symposium 219b–220b (Plato, The Symposium, ed. Robert G. Bury, 2nd ed. [Cambridge: Heffer, 1932], 156–60). 9  See Clementine Homilies 5.18. 10   For a concise synopsis of Socratic philosophy, see Pierre Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy? (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002), 36–8. 11   For the phrase, see Herodian, History of the Empire 1.9.3 (Herodian, History of the Empire, ed. C.R.Whittaker, 2 vols, Loeb Classical Library [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969–70], 1: 54). 12  Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 32–9 and 57–62. 13   For an example from the late fourth century, see Augustine, On Order 2.2.4. 14   Krawiec, “Garments of Salvation,” 131. See also Alison Lurie, The Language of Clothes (New York: Random House, 1981), 18–19. 15   Diogenes Laertius (Lives of Eminent Philosophers 7.26) reports that Zeno, the founder of Stoicism and former Cynic, wore a “light” tribōn characteristic of his perseverance and frugality. On Stoic and Epicurean portraiture, see Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 97–102 and 113–29, and Bernard Frischer, The Sculpted Word: Epicureanism and Philosophical Recruitment in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982). A mosaic from Pompeii (Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (inv. 124545)), commonly identified as Plato’s Academy, shows a gathering of philosophers dressed in tribōnes of different colors, some with tunics, others without. 16  Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 307–20. 8

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evidence most often associates the garment with the Cynics.17 The cloak of Diogenes, founder of the Cynic way of life and student of Socrates’ student Antisthenes, became emblematic of the Cynic lifestyle of self-mastery, physical endurance, and rejection of social conventions.18 The bawdy and aggressive behavior of Cynics dominated the popular perception of the garment to such a degree that other intellectuals complained of receiving insult and abuse in public, mistaken for Cynics by their dress.19 In addition to philosophers, other professionals—such as grammarians, doctors, and poets—also donned the robe.20 Moreover, it became a cultural asset and even a requirement for those seeking to climb social and political ladders in late antiquity. It communicated one’s formation in paideia, a habitus that translated into cultural, moral, and political power. Funerary portraits from the third century often represent male elites dressed in the pallium, a significant iconographic shift in the art of ancient sarcophagi that filtered the memory of the dead through a visual code that evoked the practices and values of paideia.21 This move to display “Greek education” in self-representation became a “crucial element” in the public self-definition of men of power.22 Some were touting actual educational training, while others sought to create an “impression of learning” through a display of cultural signs that could yield posthumous prestige.23 As those educated in Greek paideia joined Christian communities, they brought with them their erudition and its vestimentary markers. Christians who retained or adopted the pallium displayed their intellectual credentials as they positioned themselves in the philosophical field. Teachers, priests, and monks, they enacted a visual engagement and presented a visual challenge to other intellectuals by proclaiming a “barbarian” philosophy that was highly critical of the dominant modes of Greek thought.24 As we will see below, the garment also proved to be controversial among Christians as the value and place of Greek

  On Cynic portraiture, see Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 129–33.   See Diogenes Laertius, Lives 6.13; 6.22; 6.66. 19   See Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.9–10. 20   See Tertullian, On the Pallium, 6.2.2. 21  Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 270. 22  Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 226. 23  Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 206. 24   See, for example, the Neoplatonist Porphyry’s critique of the Christian Origen in Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 6.19.7. 17

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literary and philosophical education were debated, especially in the wake of the last polytheist emperor, Julian (361–63).25 If we are to understand the physical and vestimentary components of the philosopher’s appearance as a sartorial utterance, it was indeed an equivocal one. The tribōn was open to a multiplicity of associations, both positive and negative, and subject to a range of significations. Contingencies such as historical period, location, class, and gender would determine how someone intended to display the garment and how observers perceived it.26 Unlike the world of modern fashion, however, where “fashion” is periodically established by the arbitrary judgment of a cultural elite, this ancient fashion was established through durable dress practices that developed as part of the symbolic economy of an ancient cultural and intellectual elite.27 Subject to a vestimentary code, it came to be associated with other practices, behaviors, and personalities. A man in a tribōn dealt in words, ideas, and books, and gathered with other men who did the same. His simple garment connoted a simple, even a poor lifestyle, shunning economic gain and frivolous delights. Poverty was a hallmark of the lived philosophy of Socrates, as well as of the Cynics.28 If his mantle was tattered, he was likely an itinerant Cynic. If not, he might be an orator, or an adherent of another school of philosophy. Perception of the garment depended on one’s relation to the fields of intellectual activity. Another philosopher would see a potential debating partner. Those outside the intellectual class might feel threatened, “suspecting that [philosophers] scorn them … holding that the unenlightened are all pitiable creatures.”29 Or they might approach a philosopher, precisely because of his dress, to ask a question or some advice.30 But one also had to beware of the “sartorial lie,” charlatans hiding behind the philosopher’s dress, who took advantage of the naive and turned people away from genuine philosophy.31   For further discussion see Niels Hyldahl, Philosophie und Christentum: eine Interpretation der Einleitung zum Dialog Justins (Kopenhagen: Munksgaard, 1966), 102–12; and Arthur P. Urbano, “‘Dressing a Christian’: The Philosopher’s Mantle as Signifier of Moral and Pedagogical Authority,” Studia Patristica 62.10 (2013): 213–29. 26  Lurie, Language of Clothes, 12–14, and Barthes, Fashion System, 98. 27  Barthes, Fashion System, 254–5. On the notion of “symbolic economy” and practice theory in the context of cultural competition, see Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Production: Essays on Art and Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), Chapter 2. 28   See, for example, Plato, Apology 23b, and Ps.-Crates, Ep. 7. 29   Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.7 (LCL 180; trans. Crosby, 181). 30   Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.11. Cf. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 1. 31  Lurie, Language of Clothes, 24. See Dio Chrysostom, Or. 32.9–12; 72.13–15; and Lucian, The Death of Peregrinus 11–15. 25

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In the highly competitive arenas of professional philosophy and oratory, the tribōn was a site of contention in the crafting of intellectual identity and authority. Transforming their material garment into words, philosophers and orators vied to establish its “proper custody,” defining who properly possessed and wore it. Their professional skills, as well as their masculinity, fell constantly under the scrutiny of their peers.32 Engaging in a spoken and written rhetoric of dress, intellectuals fused the material stuff of clothing with language, shifting the garment from the functional to the “spectacle.”33 This verbalization of clothing “arrests the level of reading,” delimiting the garment’s signification by privileging one set of meanings.34 The production of literary (and oratorical) dress assigned signification to the garment, interpreting it in a way that images could not, and guiding readers and listeners to associate it with the privileged status of intellectuals. This rhetorical system, or “poetics of clothing,” evoked nature, geography, historical figures, art, mythology, and divinity so as to infuse it with dignity and sublimity.35 The tribōn became the object of this tailoring rhetoric in the early empire as Cynics and Stoics disputed fundamental questions and their shared Socratic heritage.36 Cynic oral and written traditions aimed to verbalize the garment as emblematic of their ideology. The anecdotal sayings, or chreiai, about the acts, sayings, and clothing of Diogenes, became enshrined in the rhetorical education of young men.37 Diogenes’ tribōn and other accessories were written into Cynic origins as it was said that he was the first “to fold his cloak because he was obliged to sleep in it as well.”38 The Cynic Epistles developed the long-standing chreiai tradition and contributed to an idealization of the Cynic way through letters attributed to its iconic founders.39 The letters are replete with a poetic   Maud Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), xxii. 33  Barthes, Fashion System, 235–9. 34  Barthes, Fashion System, 13. 35  Barthes, Fashion System, 239–41. 36   On Stoicism, see Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy?, 126–39. 37   On the chreiai tradition, see R. Bracht Branham, “Defacing the Currency: Diogenes’ Rhetoric and the Invention of Cynicism,” in The Cynics: The Cynic Movement in Antiquity and Its Legacy, eds R. Bracht Branham and Marie-Odile Goulet-Cazé (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 81–104; and Derek Krueger, “The Bawdy and Society: The Shamelessness of Diogenes in Roman Imperial Culture,” in The Cynics, 222–39. 38   Diogenes Laertius, Lives 6.22 (Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum, ed. Miroslav Marcovich, 3 vols. Stuttgart: Teubner, 1999, 1: 389; trans. R.D. Hicks, Diogenes Laertius: Lives of Eminent Philosophers, 2 vols [London: W. Heinemann, 1925], 2: 25). 39   See M. Billerbeck, “The Ideal Cynic from Epictetus to Julian,” in The Cynics, 209–11. 32

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rhetoric that raises the tribōn and its accessories—staff and traveling bag—to sublimity, transforming them into signifiers of an exalted philosophy: they are “the weapons of the gods.”40 Similarly, when the tribōn enters as verbal clothing into the discourse of the Stoic Epictetus, it is configured as part of the wardrobe of the self-sufficient, but decorous, wise man. With rival Cynics in mind, he laments those who rely on appearance to make them philosophers. Epictetus declares the tribōn ought to be a kind of visual extension of the well-ordered soul, not a mere status sign.41 He contrasts the material “stuff ” of appearance with the spiritual “stuff ” that really makes a philosopher.42 The dress, however, need not be abandoned by the authentic philosopher. Rather, the Cynic appearance and lifestyle partake in a “great matter”—a divine mission to educate humanity.43 Christians, Philosophy, and Dress Though the evidence for tribōn-wearing Christians is not overwhelming, Christians nevertheless helped shape its vestimentary code through participation in the arenas of paideia. Christians were educated alongside other Romans and Greeks through the fourth century. Some of the most prominent figures of late antique Christianity—Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, John Chrysostom—studied in major centers such as Antioch and Athens with “pagan” teachers of rhetoric and philosophy. The philosopher’s look was familiar to them. They imbibed significations of the tribōn through the texts they studied, as well as through the men they encountered. The chreiai, for example, remained a fundamental component of education that assured Diogenes’ cloak a place in the literary and moral training of young men.44 Honorific statues of philosophers and orators punctuated the urban landscape. Teachers, colleagues, and fellow students wore the garment, and some Christian students likely wore it. Though it is unclear how a philosopher obtained his mantle, late antique sources indicate it was ritually bestowed upon students of oratory at

 Ps.-Crates, Ep. 16.4–6 (Abraham J. Malherbe, ed., The Cynic Epistles: A Study Edition, Society of Biblical Literature Sources for Biblical Study 12. [Missoula: Scholars Press, 1977], 66). 41  Epictetus, Discourses 4.8.15–16. 42  Epictetus, Discourses 4.8.12. 43  Epictetus, Discourses 3.22.23. 44   Derek Krueger, “Diogenes the Cynic Among the Fourth Century Fathers,” Vigiliae Christianae 47, no. 1 (March 1993): 31–3. 40

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Athens.45 It advertised one’s educational achievement and served as “a mark of accomplishment and standing in Athens, and a means of differentiating status among the student population.”46 Thus the significations of the tribōn were communicated and received through texts, images, and the educational and social practices of schools, producing and reproducing the vestimentary code of the male intellectual class. In this section, I identify three trends in the Christian verbalization of the philosopher’s mantle: first, instances rooted in the general cultural vestimentary code that recognized the garment’s moral and pedagogical significations; second, instances in the defense of the intellectual legitimacy of Christianity; and third, instances of disparagement intended to create a divide between Christians and non-Christians. Educated Christians were not left unaffected by the intellectual and social formation of schools. Even when they assailed the philosophical positions of their “pagan” rivals, they still could impart the meanings and values attached to the philosopher’s dress conveyed to them in their educational training.47 Diogenes and his cloak could be simultaneously retained and “revalued” as illustrating “appropriate Christian behavior”—such as self-mastery through ascetic practice.48 Never shy to flaunt his literary learning, Jerome (ca 347–420) evoked the “palliolum” of Diogenes in his defense of Christian monasticism. In the treatise Against Jovinian, he cited Diogenes as a model of virtue and “selfrestraint” (continentia), a type of the Christian monk.49 Christian verbalizations 45   See Olympiodorus, fragment 28 (= Photius, Cod. 80). On education in late antique Athens, see Edward Watts, City and School in Late Antique Athens and Alexandria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 46   Dallas DeForest, “Between Mysteries and Factions: Initiation Rituals, Student Groups, and Violence in the Schools of Late Antique Athens,” Journal of Late Antiquity 4, no. 2 (2011): 315–42. 47  In Dialogue with Trypho 4–5, for example, Justin Martyr takes issue with the Platonists’ teaching on the nature of the soul and its transmigration. Also writing in the second century, Clement of Alexandria provides extensive citations of the classical Greek poets and philosophers. Eusebius of Caesarea’s encyclopedic Preparation for the Gospel, written in the fourth century, aims to expose the contradictions within the Greek philosophical tradition so as to demonstrate its insufficient grasp of truth. Books 14 and 15, in particular, target the philosophers’ views on first principles, providence, and the origin and structure of the universe, among other topics. Theodoret of Cyrrhus’ Cure for Greek Maladies and Augustine’s City of God represent fifth-century examples of Christian apologetic works that directly engage and critique Greek literary and philosophical texts from Homer to the third-century Neoplatonist Porphyry. 48   Krueger, “Diogenes the Cynic,” 36. 49  Jerome, Against Jovinian 2.14 (PL 23.305). See David G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy in Ancient Christianity: The Jovinianist Controversy (New York: Oxford

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of the tribōn replicated the established associations from the philosophical field, while claiming it as proper dress for another “philosophy.” Thus verbal representations of the garment could speak in favor of Christians as legitimate participants in arenas of philosophical activity. One of the earliest examples of the tribōn appearing as written-clothing in a Christian context is found in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho (ca 160). Here the philosopher’s mantle, worn by a Christian, functions as a sign of pedagogical and moral authority. The Dialogue’s opening scene finds the unnamed narrator (presumably Justin) strolling beneath the colonnade of a gymnasium, centers of education in antiquity. Thus the garment is situated in relation to other familiar signs of paideia.50 The Judean Trypho, attracted by the sight of the garment, greets Justin as “philosopher!” Not knowing what school Justin represented, Trypho explains, “I was taught by Corinthus, the Socratic philosopher, never to slight or ignore those who wrap themselves in this garment (σχῆμα).”51 Justin emphasizes the visual attraction of the cloak as the narrative provides instruction on how to engage a person dressed in it: he is “to be greeted respectfully” and approached in the hope of deriving “some benefit.”52 The reference to “Corinthus the Socratic,” otherwise unknown, appeals to the long history of the garment and its origins with Socrates, who figures prominently in the writings of Justin.53 Perhaps this implies that Christians properly received the teaching and dress of this “protoChristian.” Relying on the established symbolic authority of the garment, Justin seeks to make it a suitable signifier of the “only true and useful philosophy” that he professes: Christianity. The Latin writer Tertullian also touted his garment as a fashion suitable for the “better philosophy.” On the Pallium is an unusual and extraordinary text that explores the origins and meanings of clothing.54 Like Justin’s Dialogue, Tertullian’s verbalization of the pallium reinforces the existing vestimentary code University Press, 2007), 232. See also Jerome, Life of Paul 12–13 (PL 23.26), and Life of Hilarion 44 (PL 23.52) and 46 (PL 23.52), for the terms pallium and palliolum used of monastic garb. 50   Cf. Xenophon, Memoribilia 1.1.10. For the setting, see J.C.M. van Winden, An Early Christian Philosopher: Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho, Chapters One to Nine (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 20–21. 51   Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 1.2 (PG 6.473; trans. Thomas B. Falls, St. Justin Martyr: Dialogue with Trypho, ed. Michael Slusser, Fathers of the Church 3 [Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003], 3, with modification). 52   Cf. Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.11. 53   See Justin Martyr, 1 Apology 5 and 46. 54   See the commentary by Vincent Hunink (De pallio) and the studies by T. Corey Brennan (“Tertullian’s De Pallio and Roman Dress in North Africa,” in Roman Dress and the

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and introduces a new context for its “proper custody.” Relating a pre-Roman history of the garment, Tertullian suggests that those who customarily wore the pallium—that is, those dedicated to study—engaged in activities that conflicted with the public duties introduced by Roman social and political life. Thus the pallium was a sign of withdrawal from these duties. Tertullian has the garment “speak” for itself: “I owe nothing to the forum, nothing to the campus, nothing to the curia … A better life can be enjoyed in seclusion than out in the open.”55 The “voice” of the pallium is authoritative and speaks from its “nature.” It rejects these arenas of Roman life and asserts its proper place in the arenas of intellect and soul. However, Tertullian does not deny a public role to the pallium-wearer. His clothing is a visual sign of moral authority: “A philosopher is heard when he is seen. Just by showing up I make vices feel embarrassed!”56 Tertullian’s closing line declares the proper custody of the pallium to be with the professor of the “divine sect and discipline”: “A better philosophy has deigned you worthy, from the moment that it is the Christian whom you started to dress.”57 While the evidence for tribōn-wearing Christians in the third and fourth centuries is minimal, the garment remained a potent image in Christian rhetoric.58 Almost two centuries after Tertullian’s wardrobe apology, the Athenian-educated bishop Gregory of Nazianzus would enlist the philosopher’s cloak to defend the philosophical enterprise, but this time against Christian anti-intellectualism. The garment was not Gregory’s own, but that of the Alexandrian priest Maximus, an adherent of the Cynic way of life, a thoroughly educated philosopher, and zealous defender of Nicene orthodoxy.59 Maximus was an eccentric figure, who wore long hair, cosmetics, and the emblematic tribōn.60 In 380 Gregory delivered two orations in honor of Maximus in Constantinople, transmitted under the title “In Praise of Hero the Philosopher.” Gregory’s verbalization of Maximus’ “novel dress” reveals the ambiguities and Fabrics of Roman Culture, eds Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008]) and Daniel-Hughes, Salvation of the Flesh, Chapter 2. 55  Tertullian, On the Pallium 5.4.2, 3 (SC 513, 202; 206; trans. Hunink, 59, with modification). 56  Tertullian, On the Pallium 6.1.3 (SC 513, 218; trans. Hunink, 63, with modification). Cf. Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.7–8. 57  Tertullian, On the Pallium 6.2.5 (SC 513, 224; trans. Hunink, 63). 58   Origen of Alexandria wrote that his student Heraclas continued to dress as a philosopher while a Christian priest. See Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History 6.19.14. 59   For discussion of Maximus in relation to Cynicism, see Krueger, “Diogenes the Cynic,” 40–42. 60   Martha Vinson, St. Gregory of Nazianzus: Select Orations, Fathers of the Church (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2003), 157n1.

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tensions in his defense of paideia. On the one hand, it belongs to those Greeks who “make a pretense of solemnity with their robes (τρίβωνι) and beards.”61 Thus, Gregory can call the garment “foreign” to Christians. Yet, with Maximus present, Gregory attempts to verbalize his embodied robe into a proper fashion, not to be adopted by other Christians, but to function iconically. He tailors the cloak of Socrates and Diogenes into an instrument of Christian pedagogy, not cutting it off completely from the vestimentary code of philosophical significations, but situating its moral and pedagogical authority within the context of Christian intellectual life. Gregory harnessed Maximus’ robe into an apology for the harmony, and necessary union, of rational philosophy with revealed faith, not just for Greeks, but also for Christians. Maximus’ appearance gave him leverage with philosophers. He “takes up a middle position between their empty boasting and our wisdom and assumes their garb and manner while adopting our truth and sublimity.”62 But, perhaps more importantly, his dress also confirmed the legitimacy of philosophical inquiry for Christians, contrary to “the studied simplicity of some in our own camp.”63 Therefore as Gregory defended philosophy and Nicene orthodoxy on the eve of the council of Constantinople, Maximus visually represented their marriage. A Garment Unfit for Christians Verbalization of a garment could also work towards making it unfashionable. The voices disparaging the tribōn became louder and more frequent in the fourth century, as Christian intellectuals aimed to distinguish themselves from their non-Christian colleagues and rivals both in doctrine and self-representation. Responding to philosophical and political justifications for the persecution of Christians, Lactantius wrote his Divine Institutes (ca 305–10) expounding the principles of his faith and making a case for religious toleration.64 He attacks a self-professed “high priest of philosophy”—“such a corrupt person that as a teacher of continence he burned no less with avarice than with inordinate   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 25.5 (PG 35.1204; trans. Vinson, St. Gregory of Nazianzus, 161). 62   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 25.5 (PG 35.1204; trans. Vinson, St. Gregory of Nazianzus, 161, with modification). 63   Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 25.6 (PG 35.1205; trans. Vinson, St. Gregory of Nazianzus, 161). 64   See Elizabeth DePalma Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000). 61

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desires.”65 His clothing betrayed his pretension to truth: “He used to cover his faults by his beard (capillis) and the pallium and, which is the greatest veil, by his wealth.”66 Lactantius contends that the philosopher’s hair and mantle acted to veil, rather than reveal, the true disposition of his soul. Echoing the trope of the charlatan’s lying exterior, familiar in Dio Chrysostom and Lucian, Lactantius’ attack styles the pallium as a deceptive “cloak” specifically worn by Greek philosophers. Not surprisingly, after the reign of the emperor Julian (361–63), Christian attitudes towards the philosopher’s robe became increasingly critical. Remembered as the “apostate” because of his renunciation of Christianity and embrace of polytheism, Julian promoted policies intended to revitalize Roman religion and to reform paideia with a view to excluding Christians from teaching. He surrounded himself with philosophers. As the fifth-century Christian historian Socrates later wrote, men wearing tribōnes and long beards flocked to the imperial court to enjoy Julian’s patronage, “more conspicuous for their costume than their erudition.”67 With Julian’s sudden death in battle, a sudden change in fashion occurred: “the tribōn-wearers (τριβωνοφόροι) put aside their tribōnes and they changed into the common dress (σχῆμα).”68 Although Julian did not order violent actions against Christians, his policies were traumatic for Christians and provoked reflection on the place of traditional education.69 This period also saw the rhetoric of clothing used by some to deconstruct the symbolic power and authority of Greek pedagogues, their history, and their schools. In contrast to the nuanced approach of Gregory, John Chrysostom (347–407), monk, priest, and bishop of Constantinople, stands out as the most vocal critic of fourth-century philosophic fashion. A native of Antioch, John received an education in literature, philosophy, and rhetoric. A student of the famous polytheist orator Libanius, he rejected a public career in oratory and turned to asceticism and theological studies.70 Putting his rhetorical training to the service of homiletics, John received the moniker “Golden Mouth” because

 Lactantius, Divine Institutes 5.2.3 (PL 6.553; trans. Digeser, The Making of a Christian Empire, 94). 66   Digeser makes a strong case that Lactantius is referring to Porphyry, see pp. 93–107. 67   Socrates Scholasticus, Ecclesiastical History 3.1 (PG 67.380; trans. Schaff, NPNF, ser. 2, 2: 78). 68   Socrates Scholasticus, Ecclesiastical History 3.24 (PG 67.449; my translation) 69   Susanna Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 139–43. 70  Socrates, Ecclesiastical History 6.3. 65

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of his excellent oratorical skills.71 He also became a harsh critic of his former teachers.72 Exhibiting a “disenchantment” with “traditional Hellenic culture and education,” Chrysostom encouraged parents to educate their children in alternative ways, whether at home or by sending them to monasteries.73 He told them not to make their sons orators, but philosophers, taught not by “men worthless as they are, and dogs” who impress many by “wearing the threadbare cloak (τρίβωνα) and letting their hair grow” but by one who is a “true philosopher,” that is, a monk.74 Plato, the “chief ” of the philosophers, falls under John’s condemnation for the “state of gross darkness” and “corruption” before the coming of Christ. Singling out the philosopher’s views on women’s participation in wrestling and war, he condemns “those who had a long beard and threw their tribōn over themselves” as “subverters of all decency,” who do “the work of the devil.”75 Rooted in Second Sophistic tropes attacking the pseudo-philosopher, John’s rhetoric unraveled the clothing of professional orators and philosophers, and, in its place, exalted the garment of a different class of shabby-robed men who inhabited caves and cells. Verbalizations of the philosopher’s cloak could serve to reify and reinforce distinctions between Christian and non-Christian intellectuals. For some in the western empire the pallium no longer signified erudition and moral authority as it had for Tertullian. Instead it became a sign of an “other” who was Greek, “pagan,” and unbelieving. Reacting to the attempt by Maximus the Cynic to supplant Gregory of Nazianzus as bishop of Constantinople, Pope Damasus’ condemnation accentuated his clothing. By clothing himself in the “garb of philosophers” (habitum philosophorum), Maximus attempted to dress faith in a philosophy that was “hostile to faith” and not suited (non convenire) for any Christian to wear.76 Moreover, Damasus associated the habitum philosophorum with the habitum idoli, the robe worn by the statues of divinities, regarding it as an infectious and idolatrous threat to Christianity.77 Interestingly, when 71   On John Chrysostom’s youth and education, see J.N.D. Kelly, Golden Mouth: The Story of John Chrysostom, Ascetic, Preacher, Bishop (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995), 4–8. 72   See Raffaella Cribiore, The School of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 140. 73  Kelly, Golden Mouth, 51–4 and 85–7. 74   John Chrysostom, Homilies on Ephesians 21.3 (PG 62.153; trans. Schaff, NPNF, ser. 1, 13: 155). 75   John Chrysostom, Homilies on Titus 5.4 (PG 62.694; trans. Schaff, NPNF, ser. 1, 13: 539, with modification). 76   See Damasus, Ep. 5.1–2 (PL 13: 365). 77   Cf. Dio Chrysostom, Or. 72.5.

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Gregory Nazianzen wrote condemning Maximus’ actions, he ridiculed his hair and cosmetics, passing over his tribōn in silence.78 Perhaps Gregory still regarded the cloak as a signifier of philosophic virtue, even if its wearer betrayed it. Claudianus Mamertus (ca 425–74) furnishes an example of a Christian monk who continued to embrace philosophical learning while insisting on a visual distinction from non-Christian peers. In a letter mourning Claudianus’ death, his close friend Sidonius Apollinaris, bishop of Clermont and literary man who “placed himself firmly in the classical tradition,” 79 explains how the “man of wisdom, prudence, and learning” differentiated himself from his polytheist colleagues:80 “It was only by his faith, and by his adoption of ordinary dress, that he dissociated himself from his friends of the Platonic school (a collegio … conplatonicorum); for he never let his hair and beard grow long and would make fun of the pallium and staff, sometimes with much bitterness.”81 Claudianus never abandoned his intellectual pursuits and continued to defend Neoplatonic positions, but in fifth-century Gaul the Christian intellectual was to make a clear visual distinction between himself and contemporary philosophers, abandoning the iconic look of Socrates. Sidonius’ emphasis on Claudianus’ short hair, short beard (or no beard), and “ordinary dress” acknowledges the social distance and class distinction communicated by the apparently simple and austere robe of the philosophers. By the fifth century the garment that gave visibility to the philosophy of Justin and Tertullian became a fashion unfit for Christians. Mantles in Marble and Mosaic If the practices and skills of paideia served as a “distinguishing mark of the diffused governing class of the empire,” the public display of learning in material self-representations was its visual marker.82 Visual representations of intellectuals punctuated the many landscapes of the late Roman world. Tribōn-wearing men, eternally occupied by the labor of thoughts and words, adorned political, domestic, funerary, educational, and liturgical settings. In these representations,   See Gregory of Nazianzus, Concerning His Own Life, 750–773 (PG 37: 1081–2).   Jill Harries, Sidonius Apollinaris and the Fall of Rome, AD 407–485 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), 2. 80  Harries, Sidonius Apollinaris, 107. 81   Sidonius Apollinaris, Ep. 4.11.1 (PL 58.515; trans. O.M. Dalton, The Letters of Sidonius, 2 vols [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1915], 2: 21). 82   Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992), 36. 78 79

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the material tribōn was carefully crafted into an impliable, static garment presented to viewers in a spatial relation of “forms, lines, surfaces and colors.”83 Instances of “image-clothing” differ from verbal-clothing in that they do not restrict perception to the same degree. If verbal-clothing “arrests” meaning, image-clothing “freezes an endless number of possibilities” and “provokes a fascination” with the garment as an object of observation.84 Yet unlike new fashions, the tribōn had a long, culturally authorized history, more potent than the ambiguous iconic fashion of Barthes’ analysis. Thus “readers” of these visual garments had more to inform their perceptions. Late antique statues, busts, and funerary portraits commonly depicted subjects with the physical and vestimentary attributes of philosophers and orators. Just about all classes of Roman society commissioned portraits of themselves in the style of the intellectual.85 While for some these were displays of intellectual achievement, for others they might have represented no more than a fascination with the fashion of elite culture. Late second- and early thirdcentury sarcophagi, mainly from Rome, display the deceased surrounded by the signs of paideia.86 With pallia, beards, and scrolls of stone, they are engaged in reading or declaiming, often surrounded by Muses or philosophers. The sarcophagus of Lucius Pullius Peregrinus represents a Roman centurion dressed in a pallium with tunic, seated and reading from a scroll.87 He and his wife are flanked by six tribōn-wearing male figures with torso exposed, long hair and beards, and engaged in discussion or contemplation. This representation of Peregrinus saturates him in the contemplative activity taking place around him. However, his distinctly Roman hairstyle, shaved face, and tunic simultaneously distance him from the “Greek” figures that surround him. While invoking the  Barthes, Fashion System, 3.  Barthes, Fashion System, 13. 85  The Historia Augusta (Tacitus 16) notes that the emperor Tacitus (274–75) was depicted in a palace fresco in a number of different garments, including the philosopher’s robe. The third-century Mausoleum of the Aurelii in Rome contains fresco portraits of philosophers, some of whom may be portraits of the freed slaves buried there. For the range of interpretations, see Agnese Pergola, “Il quadrante delle interpretazioni,” in L’ipogeo degli Aureli in Viale Manzoni: restauri, valorizzazione e aggiornamenti interpretative, ed. Fabrizio Bisconti (Città del Vaticano: Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Sacra, 2011), 81–124. 86   See Björn Christian Ewald, Der Philosoph als Leitbild: Ikonographische Untersuchungen an römischen Sarkophagreliefs (Mainz: Von Zabern, 1999) for a typological analysis. The classic study remains Henri Irénée Marrou, Mousikos Anēr. Étude sur les scènes de la vie intellectuelle figurant sur les monuments funéraires romains (Grenoble: Didier & Richard, 1938). 87   See Ewald, Der Philosoph als Leitbild, 152 [C1] and Zanker, Mask of Socrates, 272–5. 83 84

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cultural superiority of Greeks, the piece also evokes the colonization of Greece and its culture. The stylized Greek philosophers here serve as cultural capital and ornamentation.88 In Christian contexts, visual representations of the tribōn are found most commonly in funerary and liturgical contexts. These instances of iconicclothing served to provoke a fascination with a panoply of positive associations and to produce a sapiential saturation. Iconically robed Christians signified approbation of the practices taking place in their presence. Ironically, while the philosopher’s look became unwelcome dress for flesh and blood Christians, its presence expanded in Christian art, dressing the marble and mosaic portraits of apostles, martyrs, and Christ himself. In the third century, a Christian visual vocabulary began to emerge from the semantics of Roman art. It developed a distinct, but related, order and system of values encoded in its images.89 The intellectual in his tribōn was a shared sign, and Christian art contributed to its coding through iconic representations both in familiar and new ways. The third-century Santa Maria Antiqua sarcophagus is one of the earliest extant Christian examples (Plate 9.2).90 A seated male figure, dressed in a tribōn, reads from a scroll, but instead of Muses and philosophers, he is flanked by images of the prophet Jonah and the baptism of Jesus. Clearly, the commissioner of this piece invested in the cultural and social prestige of being memorialized as a literate intellectual, “in-vesting” his memory in a sign, or type that already belonged to a visual vocabulary of self-representation.91 The biblical scenes provide the hermeneutic for understanding this tribōn in the arena of contested fashion, a bold move on the cusp of the Great Persecution (303–13). This tribōn, like Justin’s, attributes its wisdom to the prophets of Israel and the acts of Christ, not, like Peregrinus’, to the Greeks. Post-Constantinian Christian sarcophagi continued to include portraits of the deceased marked by the insignia of learning. Produced in workshops across the Roman world, their similarities attest to how a “shared paideia bridged the  Ewald, Der Philosoph als Leitbild, 66.   See Tonio Hölscher, The Language of Images in Roman Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004). 90   Friedrich Wilhelm Deichmann, Giuseppe Bovini, and Hugo Brandenburg, Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage I. Bd., Rom und Ostia (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1967), 306–7. 91   On consumer’s input to sarcophagus production, see Ben Russell, “The Roman Sarcophagus Industry: A Reconsideration,” in Life, Death and Representation: Some New Work on Roman Sarcophagi, eds Jas Elsner and Janet Huskinson (New York: De Gruyter, 2010), 123, 137–8. 88 89

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distances of a vast empire.”92 Portraits in roundrels often depict husband and wife, with the male figure (and sometimes the female figure)93 wearing a pallium, making an oratorical gesture, and holding a scroll. The famous Junius Bassus and Dogmatic Sarcophagi, both from late fourth-century Rome, demonstrate how this fashion of image-clothing became woven into the fabric of Christian art (Plate 9.3). The iconography of these pieces emphasizes the “majesty” of Christian theology and rule, contrasting these “with the dying aspects of Roman traditional paganism.”94 Moreover, the clothing may be informed by theological formulations of Christ as Wisdom incarnate and the Apostles as the theological architects of a Christian philosophical worldview. There also seems to be an element of archaizing in Christian depictions of the tribōn. Appeal to ancient authority, particularly in language, literature, and customs, and the replication of these were common tropes of paideia from the Second Sophistic to late antiquity. Archaizing aimed at “cultural purity” and mastery of the past.95 Imitation of the archaic philosophic fashion was the way intellectuals identified themselves with the authority of the past. Justin and Tertullian did this, but later generations of Christians (Maximus aside) rejected this fashion, opting for other dress. Nevertheless the figures who stood at the origins of Christian history continued to be adorned by the tribōn in visual depictions. The fourth-century grammarian Theodosius defined the tribōn as the clothing of ancient teachers.96 This is precisely who Christ, the prophets, and the apostles were. In Christian art, the garment as image-clothing suggested a signification of a past epoch of revelation. Christian liturgical spaces are filled with tribōn-wearers in brilliant white, and sometimes gold, garments. Stylized in two dimensions, they bear resemblance to sarcophagi portraits and depictions of philosophers. In the naves and apses of basilicas and the domes of baptisteries from the fourth century on, Christ, the incarnate Logos, and his angels and sages, dressed as philosophers, hovered over Christian communities as they were initiated through baptism, instructed through reading and explication of sacred texts, and fed the body of the Lord. Gregory of Nazianzus had made the visual link between the dazzling white  Brown, Power and Persuasion, 41.   For example, the sarcophagus of Crispina in the Pio Cristiano collection of the Vatican Museums (inv. 31552) represents a Christian woman reading from a codex and flanked by biblical scenes. 94   Robin Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art (New York: Routledge, 2000), 98. 95   Graham Anderson, The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire (New York: Routledge, 1993), 101–5 and Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic, 42–3. 96   Theodosius of Alexandria, Grammatica 18.5. 92 93

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garments of figures of angels and the tribōn of Maximus.97 Depictions of Christ with long hair, scroll, and tribōn, accompanied by similarly dressed saints, was one of the most common motifs in early apse decoration.98 The decorative program of the so-called Orthodox, or Neonian, baptistery in Ravenna (dated to the mid fifth century) shows how image-clothing could saturate liturgical space, creating an aura of wisdom and binding the liturgical actors to the sages of the past.99 In the dome, the Apostles circle around an image of the baptism of Jesus. At window level, a register of white stucco figures, framed by columns and dressed in pallia and tunic, hold scrolls and codices, gesturing in oratorical fashion. Above the spandrels of the lower arcades, men dressed in mosaic pallia and posed as orators punctuate gold acanthus scrolling (Plate 9.4). Deichmann interpreted these figures as the prophets, heralds of the salvation history ushered in by Christ.100 The display reminds one of the portraits of philosophers, gods, and other mythological figures that adorned domestic spaces into late antiquity. These learned collections linked identity formation to practice, expressing “status, education, distinguished background, and leisured pursuits.”101 Educated men often gathered in villas for intellectual discussion in the presence of ancient philosophers.102 Similarly, these sages of Christian wisdom dressed in dazzling pallia participate in the “illumination” of the newly baptized.103 Observing and frozen in acts of speaking and reading, they attest to the working of divine grace.

  Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 25.2.  Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art, 108–12. See also, Beat Brenk, The Apse, the Image, and the Icon: An Historical Perspective of the Apse as a Space for Images (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2010). The early iconography of Jesus is too large a topic to treat here. Two important studies are Thomas Mathews, The Clash of Gods: A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993) and Robin Jensen, Face to Face: Portraits of the Divine in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005). 99   Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 89. 100   Friedrich Wilhelm Deichmann, Ravenna: Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes Bd I, Geschichte und Monumente (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1969), 137–41. 101   Lea Stirling, The Learned Collector: Mythological Statuettes and Classical Taste in Late Antique Gaul (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005), 227. 102   See Cicero, Brutus 24 and Lucian, Nigrinus 2. 103   For baptism as “illumination,” see Justin Martyr, 1 Apology 61. 97 98

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Conclusion Transforming the intellectual’s clothing into words and images belonged to the field of cultural production in Greco-Roman antiquity. Representations of clothing and appearance were also fundamental aspects of identity formation and competition among intellectuals; they could affirm one’s own authority and disparage a rival’s. The verbal and visual vestimentary representations of Christians from the second through fifth centuries testify to the complexities of the perception of clothing and the reception of paideia. Christians could affirm or critique the value and prestige of the garment, while ascribing it new layers of signification. When making the tribōn a verbal garment, Christians aligned or distanced themselves from their polytheist peers and established the conditions for their own relationship to the curricula and institutions of paideia. When making the tribōn a visual garment, Christians gave expression to a cosmic structure, rooted in a sapiential theology that encompassed and permeated the environments of Christian ritual. These new significations became part of the language of competition by which educated Christians struggled with outsiders and with each other.

Chapter 10

Imagining Judean Priestly Dress: The Berne Josephus and Judaea Capta Coinage Joan E. Taylor

How we can distinguish distinctive clothing in images from the past, when our knowledge of ancient dress is quite limited? In this chapter, I will examine this issue in regard to how we might imagine Judean priestly clothing: the clothing worn by priests only within the Jerusalem Temple compound.1 This Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, and thereafter priests no longer undertook their sacred duties in their distinctive clothing in this place. In order to identify images of it accurately, we need to pay very close attention to texts, and also the different languages of texts. However, our understanding of these texts is based on how well translators can properly “see” clothing described in them. I will consider two images: firstly, a representation of the historian Josephus found in a ninth-century manuscript in the Berne Burgerbibliothek, and, secondly, the representation of a kneeling Judean man on Roman coins that were issued after the destruction of the Temple, in the first century CE. The Berne Josephus Visual art from ancient Judea does not help us determine the clothing of Jewish priests. While there are many statues, frescoes, reliefs, and other artistic works showing Greeks and Romans, there are precious few works of art likely to show Judeans, and when they do the representations are of biblical figures, such as in the Dura Europos synagogue images of the third century CE.2 As is well known, this is because Judeans of the Second Temple Period (ca 530 BCE 1   On the priestly garb of Christian clerics, particularly the bishop’s pallium, see the chapter by Adam Serfass in this volume. 2   Joseph Gutmann, “The Dura Europos Synagogue Paintings and Their Influence on Later Christian and Jewish Art,” Artibus et Historiae 9 no.17 (1988): 25–9.

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to 135 CE) understood the biblical prohibitions on images (Exod. 20: 3–6; Lev. 26: 1; Num. 33: 33: 52; Deut. 4: 16, 27: 15) to mean that there should be no image of humans or animals, and therefore they did not have a tradition of figurative art. While this was relaxed by the third–fourth centuries CE, as we see in synagogue mosaics and manuscript illumination, the prohibition during Second Temple times means that we do not have any contemporaneous images or statues of prominent Judeans in the clothing they wore in Judea. Therefore, we do not have a contemporaneous depiction of the great writer Josephus, the first-century Judean historian and priest who chronicled the history of the nation and the revolt against the Romans in his works Antiquities of the Judeans (ca 93 CE) and the Judean War (ca 75 CE). However, a Latin codex containing Antiquities 1–12 and War, dated to the first half of the ninth century, in the Berne Burgerbibliothek, Switzerland, has a depiction of Josephus on the second page of the book (Codex 50, fol. 2 recto; Plate 10.1). The problem is that no one has been able to understand why, in this picture, he is wearing such strange clothing. The small image of Josephus appears in the bottom right section of the page, and is drawn in fine detail. Immediately above the Josephus depiction there is some Greek text, identifying him. It reads, with unusual spelling: ΥΩСΥΠΠΟС ΥСΘΩΡΥΩΓΡΑΦΟС, “Josippos Historiographer,” so there can be no doubt about who is being represented. There is an ancient tear in the image that has been patched on the other side of the page. As far as I can distinguish, Josephus is presented as wearing: (1) head-gear of some kind, which has small lines indicating that it is conceptualized as being hairy; (2) a close-fitting, long-sleeved top; (3) a girdle which we see around the top of his thighs; (4) baggy pants or breeches tied in at the knees, with cloth in between and on the sides; (5) what seems to be a square of cloth tied at the neck with long sashes flying out over his left shoulder; (6) pointed shoes and hose with ribbon ties going around the heel, ankle, up the calves in an upside-down V shape, and tied mid-calf to billow out sideways from the legs.3   Otto Homburger distinguishes things as: “Er hält in der Rechten einen langen Wanderstab und is bekleidet mit einer helmartigen, fellüberzogen (?) Mütze mit flatternden Bändern (fasciae, fanones), einem kurzen, gebauschten Rock under einem Schultermantel, der nach vorn überfällt und an den Enden nach aussen umgeschlagen ist. Um die niederen Schuhe under die Beine is ein Band deschlungen, dessen Enden – nach damals üblicher Weise – unter dem Knie geknotet sind (es ist nicht ersichtlich, warum der Zeichner jeweils zwei Knoten mit Bändern angibt) …” In other words he sees the figure as having a walking stick, and being clad with a helmet-like, fur-covered hat with fluttering ribbons; a short, billowing skirt; an off-the-shoulder coat worn front ways with edges folded out; with his legs 3

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In terms of item 5, the square cloth around his neck, experimentation has shown that the folds and folded over edges are consistent with wearing a 50 cm square piece of material, with the upper corners tied together behind the neck, which makes the two lower corners flap outwards at the front. In the depiction there are ties that fly out over the left, meaning that they have been attached to the top two corners. As for Josephus’ face in this image, it has been somewhat smudged, creating a darker complexion and rubbing out his features. He has a long bifurcated beard. This image of Josephus from the Berne codex was first published by Guy Deutsch, who defined it as presenting Josephus as a hairy and infernal barbarian comparable with an ancient Oriental god of doom, in military attire, with a soldier’s helmet.4 The eminent Josephus scholar Heinz Schreckenberg objected to this on many counts, and has proposed that Josephus is wearing a kind of Phrygian cap, with a caduceus (herald’s wand): he is therefore shown as a messenger with an emblem of office.5 Having examined this manuscript myself in the Berne Burgerbibliothek, it seems clear to me that neither analysis is correct. A representation of a historical figure should include well-known motifs that are characteristic of that person. Neither suggestion ties in with any known characteristic of Josephus in terms of the tradition about him. While the key distinguishing feature of Josephus in the Medieval imagination was simply that he was a Jew, in this manuscript he is not labelled “Judeus” alone: the manuscript is of “Ioseppi Historiographi Iudaice” (fol. 2 verso): “Josephus the Judean historian.” But this dress does not show a typical Jew or historiographer. Additionally, one of the most well-known things about Josephus was that he was a Judean priest, from a distinguished family of Hasmonean priests. In his Vita 1–6, he describes himself as the son of a certain priest named Matthias, and a mother who had distinguished Hasmonean lineage, and through his father he belonged to the priestly order of Jehoiarib, the first of the 24 priestly orders serving the Jerusalem Temple. It would therefore be more appropriate to see Josephus in the Berne manuscript as being presented as tied with ribbons knotted under the knee. This description strikingly indicates how hard it is even to distinguish what is actually drawn. The bands fluttering off the left shoulder I do not see related to the hat but rather to a garment tied behind the neck; see Otto Homburger, Die illustrierten Handschriften der Burgerbibliothek Bern (Berne: Bern Burgerbibliotek, 1962), 93. 4   Guy Deutsch, “Un portrait de Josèphe dans un manuscrit occidental du IXe siècle,” Revue de l’art 53 (1981): 53–5; Guy Deutsch, Iconographie: L’Illustration de Flavius Josèphe dans le temps de Jean Fouquet (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 63 (Fig. 4). 5   Heinz Schreckenberg and Kurt Schubert, Jewish Historiography and Iconography in Early and Medieval Christianity (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1991), 86–8 (Pl. 1).

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exactly that: a Judean priest. Here I turn to biblical passages as well as Josephus’ own presentation of priestly garb to show that while the Berne codex does intend to represent Josephus as a priest, it does not neatly conform to what we know about priestly dress. In what follows, I ask how we can explain this particular vision of priestly raiment. Priestly Dress Descriptions of priestly dress are found in Exodus 28–9; Leviticus 6: 3 [10]; 16: 1–4 and Ezekiel 44: 17–18. In Exodus 28, there is a description of the sacred vestments required for the High Priest Aaron, after which there is a summary of the clothing of Aaron’s sons, the ordinary priests. My translation of the Hebrew text of this passage is as follows: 40 For Aaron’s sons you shall make tunics (kuttonot) and sashes (avnētim) and items of headgear (migba`ot); you shall make them for their fine adornment. 41 You shall put them on Aaron your brother, and on his sons with him, and shall anoint them and lay hands on them and consecrate them, so that they may be priests for me. 42 You shall make for them linen pants (miknese-bad) to cover their naked flesh; they shall be from the hips to the thighs … 43 Aaron and his sons shall wear them when they go into the tent of meeting, or when they come near the altar to minister in the holy place; and they will not bring guilt and die. This shall be everlasting for him and for his descendants after him.

This provides us with a number of distinctive items of dress: (1) a tunic, a ketōnet,6 (2) a sash or girdle, avnēt, (3) linen pants, miknese-bad, over the thighs, and (4) an item of headgear, migb`ah which is called a pe`er in Ezek. 44: 18. Items 2, 3 and 4 were not ordinary Judean attire and were only worn by priests in the Temple. In the third century BCE the Hebrew Bible was translated into Greek, in the translation of the Septuagint (LXX), and, at the beginning of the fifth century   Deborah Rooke notes that the tunic is “a fundamental element of dress not just for the priests, for the whole population, male and female; as evidenced by 2 Sam. 13.18 and Song 5.3”; see “Breeches of the Covenant: Gender, garments and the Priesthood,” in Embroidered Garments: Priests and Gender in Ancient Israel, ed. Deborah Rooke (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009), 20. 6

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CE, it was translated into Latin by St Jerome, in an edition that became known as the Vulgate. With these translations there were attempts to find appropriate words in Greek and Latin to explain the items of priestly dress. The words found in these versions line up against each other as follows: Item

Hebrew

LXX (Greek)

Vulgate (Latin)

(1) tunic (2) sash (3) linen breeches/pants (4) headgear

k tōnet ‘avnēt miknese-vad migb`ah

chitōn zōnē periskelē lina kidaris

tunica linea balteus feminalia linea tiara

e

The translations across languages for items of very distinctive dress are not necessarily perfect, and indicate that translators were making comparisons with items of clothing more widely known to them. The ketōnet is defined as a chitōn in Greek, which for a man would normally be short, likewise a man’s tunica (in Latin). The ‘avnēt is a zōnē in Greek, which is anything you tie around the body like a girdle, sash or belt, but in Latin balteus is more commonly a belt. The Latin term feminalia was used by Suetonius to describe what the emperor Augustus wore under his garments to keep him warm in cold weather (Suetonius, Aug. 82). The Latin word for “breeches” or “trousers” is usually bracca, but Jerome chose to use a different word for the Vulgate.7 While the Greek word periskelē generally refers to Persian breeches, the word feminalia, as “pants,” or “undergarments,” creates a different sense for miknese-vad, and there was perhaps an association with the word femina, “woman,” leading to a supposition of these being rather feminine. As for the headgear, in Greek a kidaris is a type of Persian turban, as in Latin the similar word tiara (see Herodotus, Hist. 8: 120). While it is not easily apparent from the Hebrew, both the Greek and Latin word choices link priestly dress with Persian attire. When items of dress are very distinctive, it is no wonder that people choose to think of the nearest corresponding clothing they know about. The difficulty of finding exactly the right words can be seen in the way that the translators of the King James Version rendered Exod. 28: 40 and 42, when this Bible edition was published in 1611. Translation also becomes interpretation when it comes to items of dress that are completely different to the familiar clothing worn by the translators themselves:

  See Jerome Ep. 64: 10 to Fabiola.

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40. And for Aaron’s sons thou shalt make coats, and thou shalt make for them girdles, and bonnets shalt thou make for them, for glory and for beauty. 42. And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall reach.

This fact should warn any historian of dress to be careful not to read translations of texts as accurate representations of it because these are invariably approximations. In terms of what we have described in biblical literature, nevertheless, the pants or breeches are what most obviously connect the Berne Josephus depiction with priestly dress. Yet Josephus does not exactly wear a turban or a sash. I suggest, then, that the particular representation of priestly garb that we find in the Berne codex does not come from biblical literature at all. Instead, it derives from Josephus’ own description of his priestly dress, and misunderstandings of his description by later interpreters. To see these points, we need to turn to the work contained in the codex itself. Josephus’ Description of Priestly Clothing In Antiquities 3: 7: 1–4 (151–8) Josephus describes priestly vestments, providing the most important detailed explanation that we have, since he discusses items of clothing that he would have worn himself, with distinctive terms.8 The Greek text of Josephus can be translated as follows: (151) There are garments (stolai) also for the priests, both for all the main group,9 which they call chananaiai, and especially for the high priest, whom they entitle arabache, signifying ‘high priest.’ So then it happens that the clothing of the main group is as follows. (152) When the priest goes to the sacred duties purified, a purity the law decrees, first he puts on the so-called manachasē; this [word] is intended to signify a “binder” (sunaktēr). It is a sewn wrap (diazōma) around the private parts made from finely-spun byssus.10 The feet go down into it as into pants/breeches (anaxurides). It is divided over halfway and finishes at the the waist, around which it is bound.   The Greek text is found in Josephus, Flavii Josephi Opera, ed. Benedikt Niese, 7 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1885–95), and also in: Josephus, Antiquities I–IV, ed. and trans. H. St J. Thackeray (Loeb Classical Library; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1961). 9   Literally ‘the others’. I am very grateful to Carol Downer for discussing the translation of this passage with me, and for her very helpful suggestions and corrections. 10   Byssus is a type of fine linen. 8

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(153) On this he wears a linen garment of double-twined byssus cloth, called a chethomenē, which means ‘linen-garment’, for chethon to us is linen. This garment is a chitōn to the feet, enclosing the body, with sleeves bound tight around the arms. … (156) This chitōn has no folds/seams anywhere, but it provides a slack opening at the neck, and is attached with strings fastening from both the [sides] of the edge relating to the chest and back, above each collarbone (katakleis). It is called a massabanē.11 (154) They gird it around the chest, tying the sash (zōnē) around a little above the armpits (maschalēs). It is about four fingers wide, loosely woven to seem like snake skin. Flowers are woven into it, worked in colours of red and purple with hyacinth and byssus, and the warp is only byssus. (155) And it is bound by taking the beginning of the roll against the chest and going around again, and then it drops far down to the ankles when the priest is not working, for in this way it shows its appearance beautifully (kalōs) to the beholders, but when he has to be busy with the sacrifices and minister, so that when it moves it will not interfere with his work he wears it thrown back over his left shoulder. (156) Moses called it an abaith, but we call it a hemian, as we learnt from the Babylonians, for so it is designated among them. (157) Upon his head he wears an un-tipped (akōnon) felt cap (pilos), not covering [the head] in its entirety but extending a little bit over the middle. It is called a masnaephthē, and it is made in such a way as to seem like a crown (stephanē), made out of a band of thick woven linen, for indeed it is folded over and stitched many times. (158) Then a thin cloth (sindōn) envelopes it from above descending to the forehead (metōpōn), concealing the stitching of the band and what is unbecoming from this, and being completely even on the skull (shape), fitted tightly so that it does not slip off while [the priest is] undertaking priestly labour. So we have set out the nature of the clothing of the many priests.

As this passage shows, in the Greek text of Josephus there is no complete correlation with the terms used in the Septuagint (LXX). Josephus gives the transliteration of the Hebrew and Aramaic terms, clearly wanting to be   The order of the text of Josephus is changed here to make it clearer where he is discussing the chiton. Note that the Hebrew transliterations found in the manuscripts are corrected in Thackeray’s Loeb edition (pp. 386–91), in order to make them match the Hebrew and Aramaic terms more closely. For manachasē Thackeray corrects the text to machanases, and suggests underlying Heb. mikneshaim; and for massabanē Thackeray has massabazanes, reflecting the Heb. mishbetseth (Exod. 28: 4, 39). 11

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more specific, but he uses what he knows from his own experience, with the pronunciation of this time, and terms can be compared as follows: Item

Hebrew

LXX Greek

Josephus Greek (Hebrew/Aramaic)

(1) tunic

ketōnet

chitōn

(2) sash (3) linen pants

‘avnēt miknese-bad

zōnē periskelē

(4) headgear

migb`ah

kidaris

sindonos bussinēs, chitōn (chethomenē, massabazanē) zōnē (abaith, hemian) lina anaxurides, diazōma ek bussou (manachasē) pilos (masnaephthē)

This translation alerts us again about how much the attempt to describe priestly clothing rested on analogies, even in antiquity, and it was not easy to be entirely clear about clothing that was extremely distinctive and limited in terms of its use. The Hebrew and Aramaic terms signal the peculiarity of these items. All we can do is find rough correlations. Furthermore, reading a description like this we cannot help but imagine what is being described, but Josephus—for all his attempt at accuracy—does not manage to give us a perfect picture. It is not a particularly easy Greek passage to translate, and thus English renderings can vary. Just to compare it with one, for example, in section 154 I have translated a phrase as indicating that the sash is wound “around a little above the arm-pits” but the eighteenth-century translation by William Whiston has the sash bound “a little above the elbows by a girdle often going round.”12 In choosing to translate maschalēs not as “arm-pits,” but rather as “elbows,” Whiston creates a different picture, and having the sash wound round “often” also expands on the word periagontes, which just means “going around,” and we do not know how many times. With Whiston one has the impression of a sash going around over the midriff, but if we try to imagine how a sash would go around the body, and bind the tunic, above the armpits different choices are possible. In my translation the long sash is wound to culminate in a curve above the arm-pits up towards the neck, with the two ends dropping down at the front, unless they are flung back over the left shoulder, as we learn in terms of the specific description that follows (155). However, clearly others could imagine that the sash is tied around “above the arm-pits” at the shoulders. In both Whiston and Thackeray’s translation, the word katakleis (156) appears as “shoulder,” rather than “collar bone,” thus, regarding the chiton, 12   William Whiston, The Works of Flavius Josephus, ed. D.S. Margaliouth (London: Ward, Lock and Co., 1906), 86–7.

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Thackeray has (oddly): “at the back it is supported on each shoulder.”13 However, more correctly, there are ties lying a little down from the shoulder on the collar bone, where a usual Greek woman’s peplos was fastened. Certain aspects of the Greek text may be noted in regard to the headgear and the pants/breeches. Josephus’ word for the headgear, pilos, is very striking as this word is used particularly for felted cloth.14 He states that it is made to look like a stephanē, a coronet or crown. This would suggest in fact that the cap, or headgear, did have something of an opening at the top, and (158) “then a thin cloth (sindōn) envelopes it from above descending to the forehead (metōpōn) … being completely even on the skull (shape)” (158), indicating that the original felt “crown” is wrapped in a thin outer cloth to the forehead, something like a smooth turban. Curiously, the Hebrew word Josephus uses as the designation for the headgear, masnaephthē (Heb. mitsnepheth), is what is found in Exod. 28: 4, 39 as a reference to the High Priest’s headgear exclusively, not the headgear of the ordinary priests. However, Josephus, as a priest himself, would have known the terms for actual items used in the Temple of his time, in the first century, and also would have worn these items of clothing. At any rate, that the headgear is designated as a pilos could indeed have encouraged someone to think of it as being a little woolly. The term anaxurides for pants/breeches is an analogy, since Josephus states that the feet are put through a linen girdle, diazōma, “as into pants/breeches (anaxurides).” The word anaxurides is commonly used by Greek writers to refer to the trousers of Persians or Parthians (so for example Herodotus, Hist. 5: 49; 7.61), or Scythians (for example Herodotus, Hist. 1: 71), and so Josephus creates a comparison rather than an exact correlation, but nevertheless associates the clothing of priests with eastern dress.15 In terms of the Berne codex, there does seem to be a clear representation of breeches that are tied in around the knees. A chiton – or tunic – is shown on the upper body, with long sleeves, as indicated in the description of priestly clothing, and it appears very tight fitting.16 The lower part of the tunic of the   Josephus, ed. Thackeray, 391. Whiston has: “it is tied with certain strings hanging down from the edge over the breast and back, and is fastened above each shoulder.” Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon, revised and augmented throughout by Sir Henry Stuart Jones, with the assistance of Roderick McKenzie (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1940), 894, defines katakleis as “clavicular region.” 14   Liddell, Scott and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, 1404. 15   Liddell, Scott and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, 114. 16   It does not go down to the ankles, but in fact the description by Josephus of this 13

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figure is possibly shown in a way that integrates it with the breeches. Around the breeches there is material shown in between each leg and around the side, though the lower edge is curling in like the tucked-in breeches. The low girdle in the Josephus picture seems to represent the upper part of the breeches, with the legs going through a divided lower part. The “sash” of Josephus’ description of priestly clothing is hardly what is shown in this picture, though there are thin ties that are flying off from Josephus’ left shoulder, and it is said that when a priest was working this is how the sash was worn. As noted, the idea that it was tied “above the arm-pits” may have led to an assumption that it was tied above the arms, around the shoulders. It does hang down, but not as far as the feet. The artist would have read the tying of the sash over the breast to mean a square cloth tied over the breast with thinner ties at the upper corners. Here we need to note that Josephus’ measurement of “four fingers” in length can be misinterpreted; while Josephus is using a biblical measurement designating a finger, of 2.4 cm, an alternate one used in Medieval Europe considered a finger to be 11.4 cm,17 meaning that the sash could be imagined as 46 cm wide. It is this miscalculation of the unit of measurement that would account for it being depicted as a hanging square of cloth. However, thus far we are only considering the Greek text, the language in which Josephus wrote. The scribe that created the depiction of Josephus was copying a Latin manuscript of the Antiquities. Not only this, he was copying a slightly idiosyncratic Latin manuscript, as became clear to me when I studied it in the Berne library.18 Here, priests are described as wearing the following, again in my translation: 1. the manachasin (should read machanasin) which is said to denote a constrictorium, a “binder,” and additionally: “It is then a cinctorium (girdle) placed around the thighs, made from finely-spun linen. The feet are put through it like devastrapis (trousers). More than one half is split downwards and it is bound at the waist” (Ant. 3: 7: 1; 152). priestly chiton being quite tightly bound and “girded” by the sash makes it difficult to fathom exactly how it was worn. All the words used by Josephus concern the upper body. 17   William L. Hosch, ed. The Britannica Guide to Numbers and Measurements (New York: Britannica Educational Publishing, 2011), 246–7. 18   Codex 50 forms one of a northern group of Josephus manuscripts designated in terms of its origin at Micy monastery as Siglum Micianensis 142: Franz Blatt, The Latin Josephus. i: Introduction and Text: The Antiquities, Books i–v (Acta Jutlandica, xxx. 1; Aarhus: Universitetsforlaget/Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1958), 5. The relevant section of text is found on folio 30 verso and recto.

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2. the massabazan: “Above this is a garment made of double-spun byssus linen, called a cechomene which in Hebrew language signifies a linen item, for we call linen cheton. This garment is then a tunic going down to the ankles (ad talos) embracing all the body, and it very tightly grips the arms with sleeves” (Ant. 3: 7: 2; 153). It is accinguntur, “girded” or “bound up,” around the chest. Furthermore, the next bit of the Latin text in this manuscript does not really make sense, deviating from the usual Latin text of Josephus here. While it should read: “this vestment does not have any fold (sinum) anywhere; but there is a wide opening at its neck, and ties (nastuli) from each part of the same garment, from the part of the chest and the shoulders, tie the edge (oram)” (Ant. 3: 7: 2; 156), the manuscript has hora meaning “hour”, for oram, and an unknown word nastale for nastuli (probably indicating ties or strings). Thus the manuscript is corrupted and could have been interpreted in various ways. 3. an arabaneh, as called by Moses, or hemsanea, “as the Babylonians say” is defined as a multi-coloured sash/girdle (cinctoria) “about four fingers wide” (lata[m] quasi digitur quattuor) mainly made of fine linen. As noted above, it would be possible to understand the measurement as being a longer finger than Josephus intended. The text continues: “So taking the beginning of the sash against the chest and going around (circumda) it is bound again (iteru[m]) against the breast and is left (hanging) down to the legs (usq[ue] ad crura) while the priest is not working.” The word crura, “legs,” is used, so that the sash is not imagined as hanging to the ankles. Along with the Greek text, it is said that the sash is carried “over the left shoulder when the priest is on duty” (Ant. 3: 7: 2; 154–5). 4. a pileum or cap on his head, called a masnaempthis. In terms of the description in this manuscript, it can be translated as follows: “He wears a felt cap upon his head, like a small calamacus or a cassidis, that extends up to the top of the head and slightly exceeds beyond the top half, and such it is, as seen from the texture of the compressed linen, in having an entangled style which is often connected, not easily dislodged. Another one goes around it covering it over, descending down to the lower beard: a cap that hides its ties and the whole surface of the head, and is fitted perfectly, so as not to come apart about a priest labouring on his sacred ministry” (Ant. 3: 7: 3; 157–8). This does modify the Greek text slightly. As with Greek, we have a felt cap (pileum), but it is also said to be a helmet, a cassidis, or calamacus, rather than a crown, and there is specific mention of a beard rather than the hairline.

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It seems to me that the Latin here correlates with the depiction of Josephus in the manuscript image even more than the Greek text, particularly in regard to the headgear, which is shown as a furry or hairy, felted helmet bulging out from the head. In the Latin text it is not said that the outer cloth is made of fine material, and it could be indicated that it is also a kind of felt, and furthermore it is something, as the manuscript has it, “descending down to the lower beard” (descendens usq[ue] ad inferiora barbe), accounting for the depiction of a beard here, not found in the Greek text. There is no reference in the Berne Josephus manuscript of a priest having a stick, or shoes. The staff shown in the image of Josephus could be a reference to Aaron’s staff (Deut. 17: 16–24), perhaps to give Josephus particular status. Given the possible accrual of this High Priestly staff, Josephus’ headgear may have something of the High Priestly mitre about it, which was supposed to have a plate of gold on his forehead (Exod. 28: 36–8) since this seems to be depicted in a small square at the bottom front of Josephus’ headgear in the manuscript image. However, more likely the lines show the constructed nature of the headgear, as indicated in the text. The ribbons tying a pair of hose wound up from pointed shoes to below the knee, like garters, are not paralleled in Josephus’ text of the Antiquities. It may be that Josephus is portrayed in some ways as a travelling priest – with a walking stick and wearing pointed shoes and hose – as an additional piece of artistic licence. The text of Josephus has, after all, travelled far. However, this examination does seem to show that the main items of clothing here appear to be imagined priestly dress, visualized by a ninth-century scribe reading a slightly corrupted Latin version of Josephus’ description of what priests wore. What this exercise teaches is that translations themselves become interpretations, as the translators and scribes try to make sense of words that no longer relate to items of clothing they know. With no images to guide them, these words – and also whole phrases in which the words appear – become altered. Josephus’ accurate description of what he himself would have worn in the Temple becomes transformed in the Latin version into something slightly different. These representations then inform the way that historians imagine priestly clothing. Can we do much better than the ninth-century scribe in determining the garb of Jewish priests on the basis of ancient descriptions, which we must translate? Translators can struggle to find accurate ways of rendering what they find in ancient languages, reading what they find often in terms of their own time. It is not necessarily the case therefore that reading a

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translation will enable historians of dress to “see” what clothing is being defined. Even with sufficient skills in ancient languages, the descriptions can leave us with only rough ideas of items of dress when there are no extant artefacts or contemporaneous visual representations. Judaea Capta Coinage Yet even contemporaneous visual representations are difficult to interpret. I would like to explore this fact in terms of the question of the clothing shown in the Judaea Capta coinage of the first century CE. The emperors Vespasian and Titus issued this coinage in the 70s and 80s of the first century in order to advertise the Roman victory in putting down the Judean Revolt of 66–70 CE. Here we have representations of Judeans wearing pants, in Josephus’ own time. On the Judaea Capta coinage issued by Vespasian and Titus there are two types of Judean men presented. In Type 1 the figure is not wearing pants, in Type 2 he is. In the Type 1 (see Plate 10.2), a Judean man is shown with his hands tied behind his back, on one side of a side of a palm tree (or Roman military/religious trophy), often with a weeping veiled woman on the other side, with both figures sometimes framed by two types of shields: one round and a more oblong shaped with tapering top and base (not always all shown), and sometimes with fallen spears and other weaponry indicated also. Alternatively the man and woman are tied up and sitting back to back.19 In Plate 10.2 we see this Type 1 Judean in an early sestertius coin, where it is clear that the man has his hands tied behind his back, and is dressed in a military cloak (sagum) which would have had a clip (fibula) on his right shoulder, with the bulk of it falling down his back. He is otherwise naked—which would indicate some kind of humiliation. He is bearded, and his hair appears short.20 Exactly the same image appears in a cuirass   Titus, 80 CE; David Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins, 5th ed. (Amphora, Nyack, 2010) 788; Harold Mattingly and R.A.G. Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum, 6 vols (London: British Museum, 1923–63) 37; Silver Denarius; cf. Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins 787; Mattingly and Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire 36. See: http://judaea.chimehost.net/main/ivd_coins/hendin_787.html and http:// judaea.chimehost.net/main/ivd_coins/hendin_788.html. 20   See also Vespasian 71 CE; Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins 773, 774; Mattingly and Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire 533, 540. Rome, Bronze sestertius; David Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins 792a. Titus 80–81 CE; David Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins 792; 19

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of a statue found in Sabratha, Libya, celebrating the Judean victory (Sabratha Museum, no. 659).21 These images were much copied in many different coin mints and some show more detail than others: coin artists could also make subtle changes to types. However, the most detailed images clearly indicate the standing man as naked: a humiliated Judean soldier. However, in Type 2 of the coinage, for example in a denarius of Titus from 79 CE shown in Plate 10.3,22 the Judean man is clothed. He is wearing pants and a cap or hat. The man is kneeling below the Roman military trophy (which Roman soldiers ceremonially and religiously honoured). He also wears something hanging down his back and may wear a tight-fitting top. This Type 2 figure is found in a number of similar forms, some more distinct than others. This item hanging down his back is not a himation or sagum as it ends in a single point. It looks like a wide scarf flung over both shoulders and tied up into a knot at the end. Pants or breeches were one of the main indicators of Persians and Barbarians in the iconography of Greece and Rome, along with beards, and a kneeling man was a frequent motif in imperial art and coinage.23 There are a number of Roman coins and reliefs showing kneeling Parthians,24 one example being in a coin of Augustus from 19 BCE (Plate 10.4).25 The question then is whether the Type 2 figures of Judaea Capta coins show Judeans behaving in the manner of the Roman arch-enemies further East, the Parthians, or whether they accurately depict Judean clothing.

Mattingly and Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum 169; Titus 80–81 CE, Bronze sestertius. See for variants: http://www.judaea.chimehost.net/main/study/ rome/hendin_792/. 21   Richard A. Gergel, “Costume as Geographic Indicator: Barbarians and Prisoners on Cuirassed Statue Breastplates,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith L. Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 197 and Fig. 12.7. 22  Henden, Guide to Biblical Coins 786; Mattingly and Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum 258; see also http://judaea.chimehost.net/main/ivd_coins/ hendin_786.html. 23   Susan P. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy: Imperial Strategy in the Principate (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 195–6. 24   See Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 195–6. 25   Augustus Denarius. Rome mint, 19 BCE; H.A. Seaby, revised by David R. Sear and Robert Loosley, Roman Silver Coins (London: Seaby, 1978), 484, 485; cf. Augustus Denarius 18 BCE; Harold S. Mattingly, Edward Allen Sydenham, and Percy H. Webb, rev. ed. with C.H.V. Sutherland, The Roman Imperial Coinage (London: Spink and Son, 1984), 314.

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While the kneeling Parthian of the coin is similar to the Type 2 Judean man in that he is wearing the same pants, the Parthian does not have a flowing scarf knotted at the back, but rather a shirt with a curly bottom edge. He does not wear anything on his head, but rather has curly hair and a curly beard. While the pants, beard and the kneeling, subservient posture appear the same, the Parthian is not bound, and holds the standard to present it. Bound captives are shown on Roman coinage as being forced to kneel before Roman trophies naked, for example in a coin of Fundanius from 101 BCE,26 but the Type 2 Judean man is clothed, and it seems that his clothing is significant in some way in order to identify him as a Judean. In the same way as a cartoon will portray a Scotsman in tartan kilt, or a Frenchman with a beret, there appear to have been stock tropes of representation that Romans could employ on coinage and expect their audiences to respond to.27 In choosing a naked man in a sagum, as in the Type 1 coinage, the figure is defined by his bound hands as a captive, and additionally by a beard (Barbarian, Parthian, Judean), along with the symbol of Judea: the palm tree. A veiled weeping woman also represents the humiliated nation.28 Here, additionally, the important proclamation “Judaea Capta”—“Judea is captured”—is employed to guide the literate viewer. The Type 2 Judean of the coin of Plate 10.3 otherwise does not have the proclamation “Judaea Capta” found elsewhere on the victory coinage: the action of the kneeling man below the Roman standard is meant then to be a recognisable visual proclamation that would mean that the written text is unnecessary. It would also mean that people would recognize—or somehow know—that the man represented is not a Parthian, but rather a Judean, or else the propagandistic purpose itself would go awry. There was no great victory over Parthians during the Flavian dynasty. What Vespasian and Titus could therefore represent is someone who was Parthian-like, but not Parthian. He was recognisably a Judean. But how would his image indicate a Judean, without any accompanying words or distinctive motifs like a palm tree? In my view, there is an attempt here to define the kneeling figure by using an idea of Judean priestly dress. It is not easily recognized by us as such because we ourselves have to imagine this dress on the basis of descriptions, and often   Mattingly and Carson, Coins of the Roman Empire in the British Museum, 1696.   Gergel, “Costume as Geographic Indicator,” 195. 28   Davina C. Lopez, “Before Your Very Eyes: Roman Imperial Ideology, Gender Constructs and Paul’s Inter-Nationalism,” in Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourses, eds Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele (Leiden: Society of Biblical Literature, Brill, 2007), 123. 26 27

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these are highly orientalizing and perhaps not necessarily much more accurate than the Berne portrayal of Josephus. The portrayals of priests, Levites and the High Priest found in western art, in biblical illustrations, and in contemporary films invariably have the priests clad in quite loose, white, flowing robes, and their priestly pants are hidden beneath the long outer garments. However, the clothing of the Type 2 Judean does bear a strong resemblance to the priestly clothing as described in detail by Josephus: the man is wearing a kind of cap and Parthian-like pants.29 The clothing is close fitting. Curiously, similar dress to that shown here is worn by Samaritan priests, a cult parallel to that of Judea, in the Samaritan sacred compound of Mount Gerizim. Both cults based themselves on the prescriptions of the books of Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. Samaritans to this day, in their own sacrifices on Mount Gerizim, wear shirts or tight-fitting tops and pants that go to below the knee (Plate 10.5).30 The Type 2 Judean man of the Judaea Capta coinage must have represented a Roman understanding of what a Judean looked like, based on the items of attire worn distinctively. It is like depicting a Scotsman in a kilt. Romans had recently had a remarkable fashion show of Judeans, in fact, when they were forced to participate in the victory parade in Rome. Josephus describes how in this procession there were captives dressed in diverse garments (War 7: 138): Besides these, you could not help but see that the throng of captives was not unadorned, but the variety of the garments, and the beauty of these, hid from sight the suffering of their bodies.

Since the clothing of priests is described by Josephus as beautiful (kalōs), and was the most exotic a Roman would see, that might account for this being identified as typifying “Judean” dress. Typifying is not typical: the Type 2 coins cannot be said to show typical Judean men, since they did not wear pants/breeches as a rule. We know this because in none of the whole items of clothing discovered at

  In the Sabratha cuirass, Gergel sees a beardless youth with shoulder-length hair, with naked torso, wearing long pants. It appears to me that the image is of a pleading youth, leaning back on a rock, but I cannot see pants. The torso does not seem to me to be partly naked. The figure would be wearing a short chiton under the sagum depicted. He seems to be a young, weaponless soldier about to be slain; see “Costume as Geographic Indicator,” 197 and Fig. 12.7. 30   See also Reinhard Pummer, The Samaritans (Leiden: Brill, 1987), Pl XXXIII. 29

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Masada or the desert caves can any pants (breeches) be found.31 The coins would then be aiming to identify what is distinctive about Judean priestly appearance, which was also “Parthian-like”: Judean priestly dress provided a visual link with Rome’s enemies. Reading this Type 2 Judean man as a priest, we would need to assume that the sash is portrayed as a kind of scarf. It should be tied over the chest, but it is here undone, crossing the front of the neck and hanging out from the back, tied at the end. Even if a tight top is possibly shown on some of the coins, I suspect actually that the chiton is absent, so that the pants can be emphasized: the distinctive priestly attire. In addition, a priest without his chiton would be one partially stripped, in the same way that the Type 1 Judean is semi-naked and thus humiliated. This representation of a shamed and bound priest of the Jerusalem temple bowing the knee to the Roman trophy would serve as Roman propaganda against the Jews as a whole. Roman coin designers used then both standard tropes of iconography to signal a particular message, and adapted them to make explicit certain features and messages as instruments of imperial propaganda. Such images work on two levels: of first impressions that send out a resounding message about what should be thought on a particular subject, and second impressions gained only by closer scrutiny of the coin. Concluding Thoughts In this exploration of the Berne Josephus, we have seen why the priestly clothing of the Josephus figure has not been identified hitherto. This image relies on the Latin text of the Berne codex itself, rendering Josephus, Antiquities 3: 7: 1–3 (151–8). It is hard for us to identify priestly clothing in this image, since it was not represented by Judeans in figurative art from the time it was worn, but was only described, most importantly in biblical literature. Just like the ninth

  Hero Granger-Taylor (pers. comm.). Her important catalogue of the Masada textiles will be published as Volume IX in the Masada Final Reports series. For preliminary observations on the collection from the site, see Avigail Sheffer and Hero GrangerTaylor, “Textiles from Masada: A Preliminary Selection,” in Masada IV: The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965, Final Reports, ed. William G. Dever ( Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society/The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1994), 149–264. It should be noted that Judean priestly dress is unlikely to be found in archaeological sites, since it was worn (and stored) only in the Jerusalem temple. 31

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century artist who composed an image of Josephus, we ourselves may not imagine it accurately. In examining the Type 2 Judean man found in Judaea Capta coinage, it is clear that this figure wears a cap on his head, pants/breeches and a flowing scarf of some kind knotted at the back. He is probably without a tunic, and is shown humiliated and forced to bow the knee to the imperial trophy. The clothing on coins is schematic, variable and not completely accurate. Yet I have proposed that it must have been drawn from an idea of a Judean that had to be recognisable in Rome, most likely as a result of captive Judeans who were forced to march in the imperial triumph in 70 CE.32 Hitherto, this depiction on coinage has not been recognized as priestly dress, most likely because we ourselves have had to imagine this dress, and we do not necessarily visualize it correctly. However, the clothing of the coin bears a striking resemblance to traditional Samaritan priestly dress, as conserved to this day. This study questions how we imagine clothing, on the basis of texts, when the clothing can only be understood by analogies and translations that may be imperfect. As we read these texts about ancient dress, we imagine clothing in a way that makes sense to us in the present. While we may be perplexed by the way that the Berne Josephus manuscript artist could depict Josephus the priest in such outlandish clothing, do our own imaginings bring us any closer to real priestly dress? In the end, we must challenge ourselves to come up with more accurate imagining. I hope to have begun the conversation and proposed one way forward to creating better depictions of the clothing worn by Judean priests.

32   This image could well have sent out a message that Judeans were more Parthian than Roman. The resistance of Judea in the Revolt became all the more explicable given the uniform of their “Parthian-like” priesthood.

Part 6 Dress and Material Realities

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Chapter 11

Putting on the Perfect Man: Clothing and Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip Carly Daniel-Hughes Not only will they be unable to detain the perfect man (prwme n_teleios), but they will not be able to see him, for if they see him, they will detain him. There is no other way for a person to acquire this quality except by putting on the perfect light (eimH n_f+Y hiwwf m_pteleois n_ouoein) [and] he too becoming perfect light. Gospel of Philip 76.22–91

Introduction Anthropologist Terence Turner famously stated that dress is a “social skin … the necessary medium through which we communicate our social status, attitudes, desires, beliefs, and ideals (in short, our identities) to others … it also to a large extent constitutes those identities, in ways to which we are compelled to conform ….”2 Dress is a language about the body that is at once individual and communal. It is potentially rich with meaning and its (repeated) performance can render those meanings authentic both to others and to ourselves. An early Christian text, the Gospel of Philip attests to the symbolic potential of dress in this regard. The gospel does not advise Christians about their mundane clothing by participating in the anti-adornment rhetoric that we find in much early Christian literature. In fact, it has little concrete information about the dress and grooming habits of ancient Christians. Instead, it in we find metaphorical deployments of dress, more specifically clothing imagery. In the context of second- and third-century debates about the fate of the human body in the afterlife, the gospel employs clothing imagery as part of its rhetorical tactics.   I rely on the translation and critical edition of the Coptic of this text by Wesley Isenberg throughout, “The Gospel of Philip,” in The Coptic Gnostic Library. Vol. 1, ed. Bentley Layton (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1989), 144–215. 2   Terence Turner, “The Social Skin,” reprint in Reading the Social Body, eds Catherine Borroughs and Jeffrey D. Ehrenreich (Des Moines: University of Iowa Press, 1993), 16. 1

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This imagery draws its rhetorical power from the ritual practices in which early Christians were engaged, notably the initiatory sacraments of baptism, chrism, and eucharist. At the same time, the gospel harnesses that power to persuade Christians to conform to the vision of salvation at the gospel’s heart. The Gospel of Philip exhorts its readers to “don heavenly garments,” to “wear the light,” and to “put on the living man,” or “put on the perfect man.”3 The audience is told to strip off the “garment of skin,”4 and that Christ is authentic clothing and that he wears the name of the Father.5 They are informed that the powers that bring death and destruction cannot “detain” those who have been clothed in “perfect light.”6 God and Christ are presented as clothing dyers whose dyes never fade.7 In his recent monograph, Images of Rebirth, Hugo Lundhaug notes that “garment imagery” is not only common in this gospel, it is also deeply connected to its soteriology.8 For Lundhaug, the gospel uses clothing imagery (alongside a series of other metaphors) to persuade readers that through the sacramental rites of baptism, chrismation, and eucharist they become deified, wholly Christ-like. Building on Lundhaug’s analysis, I show how clothing imagery works rhetorically to prepare readers for this ritual experience. The potency of this somatic imagery, I argue, could shape readers’ ritual performance, and their reflections on it, with dramatic implications for their self-understanding. Ultimately, my analysis of the Gospel of Philip reveals how dress figured symbolically into debates about early Christian fate and more especially, how it could be used to connect a particular theological vision to ritual practices in that context. The Gospel of Philip: Preliminary Considerations Part of the Nag Hammadi library, the Gospel of Philip was likely written in Greek and composed in the second or third century CE.9 Yet it is preserved in one fourth-century Coptic manuscript, the third tractate in the Nag Hammadi Codex II. It has been assigned to the school of Valentinus, a Christian teacher  See Gos. Phil. 57.20–21, 58.15–17, and 76.22–9.   Gos. Phil. 66.19–20. 5   Gos. Phil. 54.5–9. 6   Gos. Phil. 70.5–10. 7  See Gos. Phil. 61.14–20. 8   Hugo Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the Gospel of Philip and the Exegesis on the Soul (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2010), 253–4. 9   Isenberg, “Introduction to The Gospel of Philip,” in the Coptic Gnostic Library, 134–5. 3 4

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from Rome, and it is commonly read as evidence of Valentinian ritual practice.10 In my discussion, however, I largely bracket discussions about the gospel’s connection to other Valentinian writings, focusing instead on the internal logic of this gospel, and the connection between its vision of the sacraments and its view of salvation.11 However, at the conclusion of this chapter, I make some modest suggestions about the pedagogical role this gospel might have played in early Christian initiation, which could have included initiation in Valentinian circles as well. Comprised of various literary genres, the Gospel of Philip contains narrative dialogue, dominical sayings, aphorisms, and biblical exegesis. Rhetorically it is notable for its use of metaphor, wordplay, and paradox or inversion. Given its loose structure, scholars have pondered whether behind this collection is the work of a singular compiler, though it likely underwent redactions over time. A poetic text, the Gospel of Philip has been called a sayings gospel, a set of sermon notes, or a collection, a kind of florilegia commenting on sacramental practice that lacks a coherent structure.12 Despite questions regarding the Gospel of Philip’s genre and composition, its theological perspective remains consistent throughout.13 The idea that the Christian can become like Christ—what we might call a soteriology of deification—animates the whole of this treatise.14 In fact, Louis Painchaud has argued that the Gospel of Philip’s elusive style and   At issue is that the gospel does not neatly correspond to other Valentinian materials, and in fact, shares much in common with “proto-orthodox” texts. For a consideration of the Valentinian characteristics of this gospel, see Einar Thomassen, “How Valentinian is The Gospel of Philip?” in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years, eds John D. Turner and Anne McGuire (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1995), 251–79. For a treatment of the Gospel of Philip as Valentinian ritual, see Risto Uro, “Gnostic Rituals from a Cognitive Perspective,” in Explaining Christian Origins and Early Judaism: Contributions from Cognitive and Social Science, eds Petri Luomanen, Ilkka Pyysiäinen, and Risto Uro (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2007), 117–19 and Risto Uro, “The Bridal Chamber and Other Mysteries: Ritual System and Ritual Transmission in the Valentinian Movement,” in Sacred Marriages: The Divine Human Sexual Metaphor from Sumer to Early Christianity, eds Martti Nissinen and Risto Uro (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008), 457–86. 11   For a discussion of various approaches to the text with regard to its Valentinian character, see Uro, “Gnostic Rituals,” 118–19. For another recent treatment of the gospel’s dating and provenance as well as its Valentinian character, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 349–74. 12   For a discussion of the various perspectives on the genre of the gospel, see Martha Lee Turner, “On the Coherence of the Gospel According to Philip,” in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years, 223–50. 13   See also Thomassen, “How Valentinian,” 253. 14   On Christology, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, esp. 344–5. 10

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heavily repetitive discourse work didactically to communicate this vision. Where its rhetoric appears “enigmatic” and “chaotic,” the gospel exhibits an underlying rhetorical structure based on catchwords and inclusions. Its language is steeped in biblical passages, imagery, and motifs, placed together in ways that read these inter-texts in light of its soteriology of deification.15 Thus readers would encounter this text’s discourse, likely multiple times, and thereby generate richer “webs of signification” within it.16 Repeated engagement with this text would enable readers to come to a deeper understanding of its vision of salvation by penetrating its allusions, thereby facilitating more connections within its imagery.17 We should imagine a dynamic relationship between the text and its readers—one that depended on the material and ritual practices in which its readers were engaged. Indeed, the Gospel of Philip is notable for its repeated references to various sacraments: baptism, eucharist, and the elusive “bridal chamber.” Scholars have concluded that this text circulated within a community occupied with these sacramental rituals. We find somatic metaphors throughout the gospel that recite the bodily experiences entailed in readers’ own ritual practices, notably eating, drinking, and of course, dressing and undressing.18 These somatic metaphors, I will suggest, rely on the ancient Greek and Roman idea that bodily comportment indicates identity. Together they aim to condition readers’ sacramental experiences so that they experience the “deific” vision that dominates the gospel.

  Louis Painchaud, “La composition de l’Evangelie selon Philippe (NH II, 3): une analyse rhétorique,” Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 35 (1996): 35–66. See also Régine Charron and Louis Painchaud, “‘God is a Dyer’: The Background and Significance of a Puzzling Motif in the Coptic Gospel According to Philip (CG II, 3),” Le Muséon 114 (2001): 43 n.6. 16  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 165. 17   Painchaud, “La Composition,” 65; Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 346. 18   In his study Images of Rebirth, Hugo Lundhaug employs cognitive poetics to draw out the connections between the gospel’s use of metaphor and the conceptual patterns underlying it. Lundhaug’s approach also takes seriously the “embodied character” of cognition, and thus, he likewise addresses the ritual context in which this text was employed. My analysis relies on his insights about the gospel’s poetic structures. In particular, I am indebted to his interpretation of its soteriological vision. I frame my analysis of the ritual content of this gospel, however, on insights from practice theory and not cognitive poetics. 15

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Soteriology and Sacraments in the Gospel of Philip As Jorunn Buckley and Deirdre Good have noted, the Gospel of Philip holds a view that we find in other early Christian writings: a sacrament, or in Greek a mysterion, is the means by which Christians symbolically participate in the salvation made available by Christ’s birth, death, and resurrection.19 For this gospel, as we will see, illuminating a proper understanding of those events, and thus of sacramental practices attached to them, is a major point of concern. Speaking about the need for such practices, the Gospel of Philip exhorts: “Truth (talHqeia) did not come into the world naked but it came in types and images” (Gos. Phil. 67.9–11). The sacraments are symbols, but not ones that are empty or devoid of meaning; in fact they are the very means by which a believer has access to truth itself.20 The Gospel of Philip reflects on baptism and chrismation in this way: “It is by means of water and fire that everything is purified, the visible by the visible, the hidden by the hidden” (Gos. Phil. 57.24–6). Elaine Pagels nicely summarizes the exalted view of the sacraments in this text: “Philip repeatedly says that one who participates in sacraments ‘receives’ divine reality … The author takes for granted that baptism, chrism, and eucharist effect transformation ….”21 While the Gospel of Philip suggests that the sacraments are potent for believers who partake of them, it is less explicit about the precise character of the sacraments that it has in view. This ambiguity is particularly apparent in the following statement: “The Lord [did] everything in a mystery (oumustHrion): a baptism (oubaptisma) and a chrismation (ouCrisma) and a eucharist (oueuCaristia) and a redemption (ouswte) and a bridal chamber (ounumPwn)” (Gos. Phil. 67.27–30). Some scholars have enumerated the five elements listed here as differing sacramental rites, ascending to the rite of bridal chamber.22 Yet a close analysis of the Gospel of Philip frustrates this interpretation.   Jorunn Jacobsen Buckley and Deirdre J. Good, “Sacramental Language and the Verbs of Generating, Creating, and Begetting in the Gospel of Philip,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 5 (1997): 3. 20   See also Gos. Phil. 61.20–27 and the discussion below. 21   Elaine Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years, 289; see also A.H.C. van Eijk, “The Gospel of Philip and Clement of Alexandria: Gnostic and Ecclesiastical Theology on the Resurrection and the Eucharist,” Vigiliae Christianae 25 (1971): 100. 22   For instance, Hans Martin Schenke, Das Philippus-Evangelium (Nag HammadiCodex II,3): neu herausgegeben, übersetzt und erklärt (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1997), 382. Eric Segelberg, “The Coptic-Gnostic Gospel According to Philip and its Sacramental System,” Numen 7 (1960): 191; and David Tripp, “The ‘Sacramental System’ of the Gospel of Philip,” in Studia Patristica 17, ed. E. Livingstone (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1982), 251–60. 19

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These elements are commonly linked together, indicating overlap rather than separation between them.23 For instance, we read: “Redemption is the ‘holy of the holy.’ ‘The holy of the holies’ is the bridal chamber. Baptism includes the resurrection [and the] redemption; the redemption (takes place) in the bridal chamber” (Gos. Phil. 69.24–7). In another passage, which I will consider in greater detail later, we find eucharist and baptism aligned as the means by which a believer obtains “the perfect man” or “living man”: “The cup of prayer contains water and wine … When we drink we shall receive for ourselves the perfect man (pteleios n_rwme). The living water is a body. It is necessary that we put on the living man (prwme etonh)” (Gos. Phil. 75.14–22). Similar statements throughout the treatise suggest that baptism and chrismation, together with eucharist, can be understood as the “mysteries” revealed by Christ.24 The Gospel of Philip repeatedly equates these practices with others, namely prayer and ritual kissing. Conflating these acts is part of the gospel’s rhetorical strategy, which points to the broader sacramental perspective of the gospel: these rites corporately effect the believer’s identification with Christ and their effect should be understood in terms of “redemption” and the “bridal chamber.”25 Buckley and Good point out that the Gospel of Philip’s sacramental theology is based on the notion that sacraments join and unite “formerly disparate elements.”26 The gospel, for instance, explains that the division between male and female brought death and destruction, and so these elements must be reunited through Christ: “If the woman had not separated from the man, she would not die with the man. His separation became the beginning of death. Because of this, Christ came to repair the separation which was from the beginning and again unite the two …” (Gos. Phil. 70.13–16).27 Union, or the resolution of opposites, commonly indicates life and salvation in this text. Christ’s ministry is likewise described as a revelation of this “union.” Earlier in the Gospel of Philip Christ himself proclaims: “I came to unite them in the place […] through types” (Gos. Phil. 67.35–6). Thus Hugo Lundhaug has helpfully argued that marital imagery (most keenly expressed in the “bridal chamber”) defines the effects of   Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” 287; Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 325; and Michael Williams, “Realized Eschatology in the Gospel of Philip,” Restoration Quarterly 14 (1971): 13. 24   On the kiss, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 157. 25  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 333. 26   Buckley and Good, “Sacramental Language,” 12. 27  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 217; see also Jorunn Buckley, “‘The Holy Spirit’ is a Double Name: Holy Spirit, Mary, and Sophia in the Gospel of Philip,” in Images of the Feminine in Gnosticism, 2nd ed., ed. Karen L. King (Harrisburg: Trinity Press, 2000), 211–27. 23

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sacramental practice, rather than pointing to a separate ritual, or understanding of sexual communion, as has been suggested.28 This imagery enables readers to understand the sacraments of baptism, chrismation, and eucharist as the means by which individuals wedded to Christ are united totally with him and become recipients of eternal life.29 It seems likely, then, that the gospel envisions an initiatory ritual—an event that would have lasting impact on the religious status of those undergoing these rites. The connection between Christ’s own earthly ministry and the character of these ritual sacraments sustains the whole of the Gospel of Philip. When considering the need for a Christian to undergo baptism and chrismation, the Gospel draws a link to Christ’s baptism in the Jordan. Because Christ was born and anointed twice, it explains, believers ought be born and anointed a second time.30 Regarding Jesus’ baptism we read: “Jesus appeared […] in the Jordan … he who [was begotten] before everything was begotten anew. He [who was] once [anointed] was anointed anew. He who was redeemed in turn redeemed [others]” (Gos. Phil. 70.34–71.4). Building on a host of inter-texts, notably the Gospel of John, the Gospel of Philip imagines Jesus’ baptism in the Jordan as a second birth, when he acquired his true flesh, the logos, from his Father, which united with the Holy Spirit, his virgin mother: “the father of everything united with a virgin who came down, and a fire shone through him on that day. He appeared in the great bridal chamber. Therefore his body came into being on that very day” (Gos. Phil. 71.5–9).31 For these reasons, marital imagery not only describes the ritual practices of this text, in which disparate elements are joined—life/death, male/ female, human/divine—it also refers to Christ’s own body where the logos and spirit are brought into harmony.32 This Christology is central to the Gospel of Philip’s understanding of the transformative effects of ritual practice for the individual Christian as well. Tight connections are repeatedly drawn between the meaning of Christ’s own baptism 28   For instance, April DeConick, “The Great Mystery of Marriage: Sex and Conception in Ancient Valentinian Traditions,” Vigiliae Christianae 57 (2003): 307–42. 29   Risto Uro, among others, has argued that the “bridal chamber” was “a characteristic feature” of Valentinian “theological and ritual parlance,” but he also notes that this language appears in other early Christian texts as well; see for instance, “Gnostic Rituals,” 123–4 and “The Bridal Chamber,” 470–75. 30   Buckley and Good, “Sacramental Language,” 16. 31   On Christ’s double-birth, see also Buckley, “‘The Holy Spirit’ is a Double Name”; cf. Gos. Phil. 71.19–24. 32   Here the gospel uses Paul’s language of communion, koinonia. See Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 182–92, 316–24 and 335. He notes that the “bridal chamber” also has an eschatological component, describing kingdom.

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and that of his believers.33 “We are born again by means of the Holy Spirit, but we are begotten by Christ in the two. We are anointed by Spirit. When we were begotten, we were joined,” the gospel exclaims (Gos. Phil. 69.4–8).34 According to the Gospel of Philip, in baptismal ritual Christians are reborn, just as Christ was in that same event, stating: “It is from water and fire (ebol h_n oumoou m_n oukwht) that the soul and the spirit (tTuCH m_n pp_n_a) come into being. It is from water and fire and light that the son of the bridal chamber (came into being)” (Gos. Phil. 67.3–6). 35 Here the reader is told that “water and fire,” which likely refer to baptism and chrismation,36 are the means by which they obtain their “soul and spirit.” They are also reminded that in his baptism Jesus was born the “son of the bridal chamber,” which refers again to the union of spirit and logos in his person. In this way the Gospel of Philip insists that a Christian obtains identity with Christ ritually—that is, in the sacraments.37 Garment Imagery and the Sacraments Ultimately the sacraments, just as the events in Christ’s ministry to which they are tied (that is, his birth, crucifixion, and resurrection) are invariably connected to one another and clothing imagery is one of the ways that the Gospel of Philip establishes the link between them. For instance, we read: The cup of prayer contains wine and water … And it is full of the holy spirit and it belongs to the wholly perfect man (pteleios tHrf r_rwme). When we drink this, we shall receive for ourselves the perfect man (m_pteleois r_rwme). The living water is a body. It is necessary that we put on the living man (m_prwme etonh). Therefore when he is about to go down into the water, he unclothes himself, in order that he may put on the living man (yye etr_nY m_prwme) (Gos. Phil. 75.14–26).

  See Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 345. Christ’s baptism, and resurrection to which it is connected, is only one element of his ministry emphasized in the text, others include his crucifixion and transfiguration. 34  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 206. 35  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 302. 36   For a discussion of water and fire, see R. McLachlan Wilson, The Gospel of Philip: Translated from the Coptic Text, with an Introduction and Commentary (London: A.R. Mowbray, 1962), 90–91; also see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 326–9. 37   See van Eijk, “The Gospel of Philip and Clement of Alexandria,” 100. 33

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As I have noted, the gospel’s rhetoric builds up a series of significations so that the descriptors “perfect” and “living man” align with other references in the text to Christ and indicate the efficacy of sacramental practice.38 While I highlight this passage, I also presume that its meaning would be enhanced for readers who attended to these catchwords as well as other references to eucharist and baptism that appear throughout the gospel. Here a series of biblical inter-texts informs the first part of this passage, including 1 Cor. 10: 16: “The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not sharing in the blood of Christ?” “Wine and water” is a reference to Jesus’ crucifixion in the gospel of John.39 The Pauline baptismal language of being clothed “in a new man” dominates the second half of the passage, just as it often informs the sartorial language throughout the gospel.40 Here, therefore, readers are told that eucharist and baptism are the means by which the perfect or living man is obtained. Comparing the baptismal waters to a body accentuates this idea, suggesting that what is acquired, or “put on,” in the baptismal waters is Christ himself.41 The Gospel of Philip’s use of somatic language, of which the garment imagery is a part, draws its logic from contemporaneous ancient moral discourses that connected bodily experiences to ethical formation. Common in this period was the notion that soul and body were intimately linked and could shape each other profoundly.42 For this reason, Greek and Roman moralizing philosophical and rhetorical texts often emphasized that bodily practices reflect as well as constitute a person’s subjectivity.43 Greek writers of physiognomic literature promoted the notion that the outer appearance, including minute physical details, could be scrutinized to discern a person’s inner character.44 Roman moralists maintained that virtue was revealed in certain corporeal signs, for example shame with the   See, for instance, Gos. Phil. 60.6.   Also to the crucifixion event in John 19: 34, which states: “Instead one of the soldiers pierces his side with a spear, and at once blood and water came out.” 40  Wilson, The Gospel of Philip, 162. 41   The language also highlights the need for chrismation as “spirit,” since the goal is to obtain Christ’s flesh and blood; see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 240. 42   See Teresa Shaw, The Burden of the Flesh: Fasting and Sexuality in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Augsburg Press, 1998), 27–78. 43   See Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-Presentation and Society (New York: Routledge, 2008), 31; also Anthony Corbeill, “Dining Deviants in Roman Political Invective,” in Roman Sexualities, eds Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn Skinner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 118. 44   See, for instance, the discussion of physiognomy, gender, and virtue by Maud Gleason, “The Semiotics of Gender: Physiognomy and Self-Fashioning in the Second Century,” in The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, eds David 38 39

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ruddy blush of the cheeks and a downward glance.45 Clothing, too, was marked as an important indicator of moral and social standing. The Roman toga, and its female equivalent, the stola, a gap sleeved tunic, for instance, were idealized as raiment suited only to male citizens and their wives. So tight was the connection between clothing and moral subjectivity that Roman authors commonly used dress as “literary short hand” to indicate it. A stolatus, or “a stola-clad woman,” Kelly Olson notes, could simply refer to a woman of high moral standing, one who was sexually chaste. Likewise, terms indicating improper sartorial performance, such as “the state of being ‘loosely belted’” (discinctus) could indicate depravity, specifically, “having an effeminate lifestyle.”46 In the same way, philosophers debated how embodied practices, notably dietary regimes influenced a person’s intellect, enhancing or detracting from his or her philosophical training. Those who ate heavy and dense foods would become themselves weighed down, while light and dry foods might balance their constitution.47 This broader cultural context sheds light on the connection between eating and drinking in the passage above. It suggests that these practices confirm the identification with the object of that action: Just as one becomes what one wears, “the living man,” one becomes what one drinks and eats, “the perfect man.”48 Elsewhere in the gospel, Jesus is compared to food, bread that is from heaven (for instance Gos. Phil. 55.7–22), building on the notion that a person is associated with the object of his or her senses. Thus at another point in the gospel, we find a reference to sight.49 Here the Gospel of Philip states that one becomes what one sees: “You saw the spirit, you became spirit. You saw Christ, you became Christ” (Gos. Phil. 61.30–31).50 Together these somatic metaphors indicate that the sacraments render the hidden visible; they are “seen” in the world, and ultimately communicate transcendent reality for Christians who M. Halperin, John J. Winkler, and Froma I. Zeitlin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 389–415. 45   Shadi Bartsch, The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), esp. 118; also Carlin Barton, “Being in the Eyes: Shame and Sight in Ancient Rome,” in The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body, ed. David Frederick (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 2002), 221. 46   See Corbeill, “Dining Deviants,” in Roman Sexualities, 118. 47   See Shaw, The Burden of the Flesh, 53–64. 48   On food imagery, see Hugo Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 269–72. 49   Smell, however, does not appear, but the gospel states that the oil of anointing is fragrant; see Gos. Phil. 78.1–3. 50  See Gos. Phil. 62.30–31. On dress, see van Eijk, “The Gospel of Philip and Clement of Alexandria,” 103. I do not agree with his view that salvation is “gnostic,” implying a return to the pleroma, but instead, I concur with his point that salvation confirms identity with Christ.

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partake of them.51 The gospel’s somatic references, specifically drinking, eating, and dressing and undressing, corporately advance the soteriological vision of the text in which sacraments are presented as vehicles for identification with Christ. Their rhetorical power, however, relies not only on contemporaneous moral discourse, but also (as I explain in detail below) on the citation of bodily practices entailed in the rituals of eucharist and baptism themselves. Garment imagery also serves as part of the polemical strategy of this text and corrects alternative views of the effects of the sacraments as well as illustrates the proper form of sacramental practice. Against those who would disparage the importance of chrismation in favor of baptism alone, for example, we read: “… it is from the word ‘chrism’ that we have been called ‘Christians’” (Gos. Phil. 74.14–15).52 Here clothing links baptism and chrism as producing a similar effect for those who undertake them. The Gospel of Philip commonly speaks of the former in terms of “light,” “spirit,” and the acquisition of a special “name,” Christ. Readers are exhorted to wear “light,” or even the “perfect light,” just as in relation to baptismal ritual, they are told, “put on the perfect man.” The emphasis demonstrates that these two rites share equally in conferring transformation on an initiate. In other telling passage, we find garment imagery connecting baptism to eucharist in ways that reflect debates over human salvation among Christians in the second and third centuries. In this passage, we see clearly how the Gospel of Philip conditions it readers to ascribe particular meanings to the sacraments, and corrects their potential contrary visions of the resurrection, stating: “Flesh [and blood] shall not inherit the kingdom [of God]” (1 Cor. 15: 50). What is that which will not inherit? This which is on us. But what is this, too, which will inherit? It is that which belongs to Jesus and his blood. Because of this he said, “He who shall not eat my flesh and drink my blood has not life in him” ( John 6: 54) What is it? His flesh is the word, and his blood is the holy spirit. He who has received these has food and he has drink and clothing ( John 6: 55) (pentahji naei ountef troPH auw ountaf sw hi b_sw) (Gos. Phil. 56.34–57.9).53

At issue in the beginning of this passage is the precise nature of the resurrection, whether in fact the fleshly body will rise, or only the soul. It is not insignificant   On eating metaphors see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 269–72.   On chrism, see Uro, “Gnostic Rituals,” 122. 53   While the Gospel of Philip does not quote John, the words “food and drink” are closely connected to the passage, 6: 55, which reads: “… for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink.” 51

52

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that the gospel cites as its proof-text 1 Cor. 15: 50, a passage that lay at the center of second and third century debates over the character of the resurrected body.54 Christian writers held a variety of views about the resurrection, arguing that it entailed a spiritual or star-like body, that the soul alone would rise up, or that the fleshly body would rise, improved with spirit. These ancient Christians asserted that their views reflected the apostle Paul’s enigmatic formulation in 1 Corinthians 15. The Gospel of Philip is no different. When disparaging Christians who insist on the resurrection of the fleshly body, the Gospel of Philip states: “Some are afraid lest they rise naked. Because of this they wish to rise in the flesh, and [they] do not know that it is those who wear the [flesh] who are naked. [It is] those who […] to unclothe themselves who are not naked” (Gos. Phil. 56.25–35). Here the gospel criticizes those Christians who are said to misunderstand the resurrection; they worry that they will rise “naked.” This passage refers to the Adam and Eve story in which after eating the forbidden fruit, they are alarmed at their own nudity, only to be provided by God with “garments of skin” (Gen. 3: 7 and 3: 21). Near the end of this section, we hear echoes of the “garments of skin” given by God to Adam and Eve, once ousted from Eden (Gen. 3: 21). However, the Gospel of Philip lays claim to the enigmatic language of 1 Corinthians 15: 50: “flesh and blood shall not inherit the kingdom.” Reading Paul with an inter-text from John, notes Lundhaug, the gospel suggests that initiates receive Jesus’ flesh and blood, which is they are told the “word and spirit.” It is these elements that will endure55—these elements that they acquire through the sacraments. Thus, the passage distinguishes between mundane “flesh and blood” and Christ’s “flesh and blood,” once again by reciting Genesis 3: 21: “In this world those who put on garments are better than the garments. In the kingdom of heaven the garments are better than those who have put them on” (Gos. Phil. 57.19–24).

54   For a discussion of the physiological characteristics of the resurrection body, particularly as it relates to hairiness, see Kristi Upson-Saia’s chapter in this volume. For debates about the resurrected body in the early Christian period, see Caroline Walker Bynum, Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), 72–88. 55   See van Eijk, “The Gospel of Philip and Clement of Alexandria,” 96. The gospel strongly insists upon the formulation of “resurrection in the flesh,” see Gos. Phil. 57.9–19. Yet when describing the resurrection it is logos (it seems Christ’s soul) and spirit that rise, not material flesh, leading to the conclusion that the soul-infused with spirit endures. Lundhaug suggests that the “flesh” language in the gospel reflects creedal language; see Images of Rebirth, 238–40 and 381–5.

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Thus the Gospel of Philip’s view that human salvation implies a radical identification with Christ, an identification made possible through the transformative power of the sacraments. In this passage, clothing imagery functions to consolidate the sacraments of eucharist and baptism.56 A citation of John 6: 55 facilitates the notion that through the eucharist, signified as the body and blood of Christ, an initiate gains “food and clothing.” In another passage the gospel describes the resurrection in terms of undressing: “when we strip off the flesh, we may be found in rest …” (Gos. Phil. 66.19–20). This language, I will suggest below, also echoes baptismal practice.57 At this point I want to stress that clothing language equates eucharist to the resurrection, claiming that by virtue of the eucharistic rite, a Christian will exchange the material body for better raiment: Christ himself. In this way, garment imagery associates each rite, baptism, chrism, and eucharist with its particular view of Christian fate, and also suggests that the transformative effect of sacramental practice entails the entire complement of these rites.58 Garment Imagery and Ritual Performance We have seen that garment imagery serves multiple, related purposes in the Gospel of Philip’s rhetoric: First, it captures the gospel’s deific vision based on the broader cultural notion that dress confers identity with its object. Second, it connects the rites of baptism with others, eucharist and chrismation most especially. In both respects, the gospel assigns a particular interpretation to these rites in an attempt to condition its readers’ understanding of them. In fact, I am suggesting that this strategy would be compelling because the Gospel of Philip also references the elements of the ritual performance with which its readers would have participated. The Gospel of Philip assumes rather than elaborates upon the specific details of sacramental practice (where it takes place, in what order, who is present during the ritual, and so on). It requires readers to draw connections to and inferences about them through careful engagement with its poetic language. The gospel enables us to reconstruct a general outline of the sacramental rituals it has in view, which generally reflect currents found in other Christian texts from the

 Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 233.  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 241. 58  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 252–3. 56 57

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second century.59 For instance, a recurring image of God and Christ as “dyers” provides some clues about baptism. We read: “… his [God’s] dyes are immortal, they become immortal by means of his colors. Now God dips what he dips in water” (Gos. Phil. 61.19–20). David Tripp reads this passage as a reference to full immersion in water, perhaps in a baptismal pool.60 This view seems likely in light of passages that speak of “going down” into the water.61 Other passages, Hugo Lundhaug points out, make it likely that chrismation occurred in proximity to baptism, even while the candidate remained in the pool.62 References to unction in the text, notably the reference to “fire,” suggest that chrismation also included heated oil, as well as the recitation of the name of the trinity over the candidate.63 Most importantly, the language of being naked versus being properly clothed appears throughout the gospel,64 and indicates that disrobing and acquiring new clothing was an important feature of the sacramental ritual.65 Altogether, we can conclude that the sacraments included not only baptismal immersion and chrismation, but also a ritual divesting and vesting before and after immersion.66 Given the consistent link made between eucharist and baptism throughout the gospel, it seems likely that initiates also partook of bread and wine as a part of a corporate rite.67 Throughout, we have seen that the gospel utilizes images drawn from bodily practices, such as eating, drinking, smelling, and seeing, and most centrally for my argument, stripping and dressing. This imagery derives its meaning from the sacraments in which initiates consumed food and wine, stepped into baptismal pools, had fragrant unction placed on their heads, heard Christ’s name uttered   Uro, “Bridal Chamber,” 465.   We might gain an additional insight into sacramental practices envisioned in the gospel. As Painchaud and Charron have noted what is said to confer immortality in this case are the “dyes” placed in the water; see “‘God is a Dyer.’” Given the repeated connection between baptism and chrismation in the gospel, it may be, as Lundhaug has argued, that water and dye indicate the importance of two rites; see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 256–7. 61  See Gos. Phil. 64.22–5 and 77. 9–11. 62  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 328. 63   See for instance Gos. Phil. 67.19–21 and 72.30–35; also the discussion in Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” 282. 64   For instance, Gos. Phil. 75.20–25, discussed above . 65   See Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 327; also Tripp, “Sacramental System,” 257 for a discussion of baptism more generally. 66   Scholars have variously argued that it fits patterns known from Syria and Egypt, suggesting, at least, that the gospel circulated in these regions; for the various opinions; see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 357–74. 67  Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth, 330. 59 60

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above them, and acquired new clothing. The Gospel of Philip, in other words, links the meaning of the ritual to the form of the ritual itself. For example, by signifying stripping as the rejection of the material flesh, and acquisition of the baptismal robes as obtaining Christ, the gospel consolidates the action of the ritual with its desired effect. Yet the gospel’s rhetoric operates with a complex semiotics, as we have also seen, so that it also persuades readers to ascribe this deific vision to baptism as well as the other rites. In this way, the Gospel of Philip’s garment imagery solidifies the link between its Christo-mimetic vision of salvation and the whole set of rites its readers would undertake. At the same time, its rhetoric undercuts the viability of alternative views on salvation and the sacraments—views that occupied Christian debates about the resurrection of the body in the second and third centuries.68 Having traced the gospel’s use of clothing imagery, then, could we go farther and consider how its rhetoric might have made its vision of salvation “real” for initiates in their sacramental performance? Here my suggestion borrows from a branch of ritual studies, called practice theory. This approach to ritual emphasizes what ritual does, its effect. It maintains that ritual is productive of cultural patterns and social structures, rather than simply reflective of them.69 Practice theory, in this way, asks how ritual confirms or reshapes particular kinds of identity, group cohesion, or hierarchies among people as well as divine agents.70 Key to this approach is the role of the body in producing such effects for ritual participants. Practice theory relies on the sociology of practice developed by Pierre Bourdieu whose particular use of the concept habitus focuses on the attitudes and values of a community acquired through every day activities.71 Key for Bourdieu is that the “socially informed body” is the means by which such dispositions are instilled in members of a community. In his words bodily

68   For a discussion of how early Christians variously read Paul to envision their view of resurrection, see Outi Lehtipuu, “’Flesh and Blood Cannot Inherit the Kingdom of God’: The Transformation of the Flesh in Early Christian Debates Concerning the Resurrection,” in Metamorphoses: Resurrection, Body and Transformative Practices in Early Christianity, eds Turid Karlsen Seim and Jorunn Økland (Berlin; New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 147–68. 69   Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 76–7; see also her earlier study, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). 70  Bell, Ritual, 82. 71   See Pierre Bourdieu, An Outline of a Theory of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 72–95.

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practice enables “mental and corporeal schemata of perception, appreciation, action” to be inculcated by individuals.72 Catherine Bell has taken Bourdieu’s insights to ritual considering it “as a form of cultural practice.” Bell, likewise, considers how the bodies “of ritually knowledgeable agents” produce the effects of ritual.73 For Bell the body is the site of ritual action, or the locus in which cosmological schemes, such as sacred/ profane and human/divine, or social ones, for example priest/lay person and male/female, are confirmed for ritual agents. “The body,” states Bell, “‘mediates’ all action: it is the medium for the internalization and reproduction of social values and for the simultaneous constitution of both the self and the world of social relations.”74 At the same time, she suggests, ritual performance can be the way in which such schemes are reconfigured, and played off against each other.75 Bell’s insights have important implications for thinking about the sacramental practice envisioned by the Gospel of Philip. We can imagine eating, drinking, vesting and divesting the body, in other words, as ritual actions that at once recite and reproduce various schemes—in this case, human/divine—on the bodies of initiates. At the same time these ritual actions offer a mechanism for reconfiguring that scheme, and in so doing, generating a new mode of being for ritual participants—in this case, one in which human and divine are equated, in which Christians become associated with Christ. Putting this insight together with my analysis of clothing imagery in the Gospel of Philip, we might conclude that this text was designed to have this experiential impact on its readers. Given the Gospel of Philip’s similitude to broader liturgical practices within the second and third centuries,76 it seems likely that it played a role in preparing some Christians for sacramental initiation. Indeed, we know that early Christians commonly would undergo a period of preparation (perhaps even for a few years) before partaking in the sacraments of baptism and eucharist.77 Justin Martyr tells us that initiates could be readied for the sacraments in various ways: through

72   Pierre Bourdieu and Loïc J.D. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 16. 73  Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, 80. 74  Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, 97. 75  Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, 98–9 and 106–7. 76   As noted by a number of scholars who have analyzed the sacraments in this text; see, for example, Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” 282–3 and Uro, “Gnostic Rituals,” 121. They point out that the gospel imagines sacramental practices shared by the Didache, Justin Martyr, and the Apostolic Tradition, more below. 77   According to the Apostolic Tradition 17 this period could last for three years.

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scriptural study, prayer and fasting, or listening to sermons.78 Everett Ferguson has noted that the same would have been true in Valentinian circles.79 For instance, the Excerpts of Theodotus (Valentinian teachings preserved by Clement of Alexandria) asserts that baptism is always accompanied by instruction about the meaning of this initiatory ritual. We read: “But it is not only the washing that is liberating, but the knowledge of who we were, and what we have become, where we were or where we were placed, whither we hasten, from what we are redeemed, what birth is and what rebirth” (Exc. Theod. 78).80 In other words, an initiate would go through a period of instruction about theological matters in order to enhance the transformative power of the sacraments for her.81 We can imagine that the Gospel of Philip filled this pedagogical function for its audience as well. It prepared them for baptism, chrism, and eucharist, likely complementing other modes of “encoding” religious knowledge.82 In this way, the gospel’s clothing imagery could enhance the sacramental experience for those who had immersed themselves in its poetics. Ultimately, the Gospel of Philip poises its readers to actualize its deific vision for themselves to become “… no longer a Christian, but a Christ” (Gos. Phil. 67.26–7).

  See Justin Martyr’s First Apology 61 and 65–7.   Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 289. Risto Uro suggests that Valentinian instruction in mythic systems and “deeper mysteries” could take several years; see “Gnostic Rituals,” 129. 80   From the Gnostic Society Library on-line edition of Robert Pierce Casey, The Excerpta ex Theodoto of Clement of Alexandria (Studies and Documents 1; London: Christophers, 1934), http://www.gnosis.org/library/excr.htm. 81   On the power of baptism as sanctifying and protecting from evil and the “principalities of the world,” see for instance, Exc. Theod. 77 and 81–2. The Gospel of Philip likewise holds the notion that baptism, undertaken correctly, protects against malicious powers who attempt to thwart the efficacy of this rite; see Pagels, “Ritual in the Gospel of Philip,” 284. 82   For instance, the Excerpts suggest that this pre-baptismal catechesis would be complemented by practices, fasting, prayer, including kneeling and raising hands; see Exc. Theod. 84. Risto Uro likewise suggests that the gospel was used to prepare initiates for their ritual experience. However, he also maintains that this text fits Whitehouse’s imagistic mode of religiosity, and would likely enable variegated responses on the part of initiates. I am suggesting that the gospel would support the notion that the sacrament confers identity with Christ. At the same time, I imagine that initiates would experience this truth at different levels of depth, depending on their familiarity with the text; see “Gnostic Rituals,” 130. 78 79

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Chapter 12

The Paradoxical Pearl: Signifying the Pearl East and West1 Alicia J. Batten Introduction An important dimension of the study of material culture is the fact that a single object, depending upon its context, can possess multiple meanings.2 This observation applies to dress, for a garment or piece of jewelry derives its significance based upon a variety of factors, including its provenance, value, design, who is wearing it, where, when, and how it is worn. In addition, dress does not speak for itself or furnish a “true and universal meaning”3 that is interpreted in the same manner by all who look at it. Rather, dress can please, amuse, agitate or confuse, precisely because the intention of the wearer may be at odds with the interpretation and response of the viewer(s). These comments are pertinent when one considers that small orb, the pearl. Ancient Christians reflect a range of attitudes when they refer to this gem. What is particularly notable is to what extent the pearl emerges as a significant symbol in Eastern Christian texts, while Western writings attempt to regulate the wearing of pearls, and do not employ it metaphorically—at least, not as often—as those in the East. Some texts reflect an appreciation for the precious dimension of pearls, such as the Gospel of Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount which includes the saying attributed to Jesus, “Do not cast pearls before swine” (7: 6). In other Christian writings associated with the East, the

  Special thanks to my co-editors and to Terry Rothwell for constructive criticism at various stages of this chapter’s development. 2   As Ellen Swift has indicated, “the [c]onsumption of an object depends upon its value … [and] [t]his value is not an intrinsic quality, but something given to the object” (“Transformations in meaning: amber and glass beads across the Roman frontier,” Proceedings of the Twelth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, eds Gillian Carr, Ellen Swift, and Jake Weeks [Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2003], 55). 3   Marta Trzebiatowska, “Habit Does Not a Nun Make? Religious Dress in the Everyday Lives of Polish Catholic Nuns,” Journal of Contemporary Religion 25 (2010): 56. 1

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pearl serves as a christological title, such as in the Acts of John,4 or it informs key theological images, as we will see. However, authors located in the West do not generally approve of pearls. For example, Tertullian exhorts women not to wear pearls or other jewels,5 and nowhere does he refer to the pearl in a positive manner. Western texts associate the pearl not with theological value, but with luxury, foreignness and immorality generally, and at certain points there were regulations as to who could wear them. When it comes to the pearl, there appears to be an East-West divide. In order to understand why such differences exist, this chapter briefly surveys some of the material and literary evidence for pearls in antiquity. It also examines aspects of the pearl trade, which was a significant operation throughout the ancient world. I argue that pearls embodied both economic capital and what Pierre Bourdieu terms “symbolic capital.” The pecuniary significance of pearls underlies their symbolic value, whether it is positive or negative.6 Assessments and uses of pearls are therefore determined partially by the fact that material and economic characteristics were linked to ideological and theological imports. The critique of effeminacy, and worries about “Eastern” influences, in some specific contexts, constitute some of the values that pearls connoted in the West, but the perceived role of pearls in the economic life and culture of the city or region cannot be ignored. Sensitivities to the financial importance of these stones, whether real or alleged, their importance in local and regional flourishing or decline, and in the everyday practices and dispositions of people (habitus),7 as well as their possession as valuable forms of wealth and power, assist in explaining why opinions about them, and their symbolic meanings, vary. Evidence for Pearls The archaeological record for pearls dates as far back as the sixh millennium BCE in the Gulf region,8 and finds from burial grounds from the Neolithic   Acts John 109 (AAAp II.1. 207–8).  Tertullian, Cult. fem. 1.6 (PL 1. 1425). Tertullian sounds a little bit like Pliny the Elder, who complains about pearls as overly luxurious and extravagant (Nat. 37.15–17). 6   Pierre Bourdieu, The Logic of Practice, trans. Richard Nice (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990). 7  Bourdieu, The Logic, 52–65. 8   The oldest pearl discovered to date is from 5300 BCE in modern day Kuwait. A reed boat covered in barnacles was also found at the site, providing evidence that pearl fishing, which became central to the region’s economy until the early twentieth century, 4 5

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age are evidence that they were part of that jewelry tradition. Reports of large quantities of oyster shells suggest that the molluscs were gathered in bulk,9 thereby indicating that the pearls were not chance finds when foraging for food; rather, there was actual pearl fishing.10 Despite this very ancient evidence for fisheries, archeologist Robert Parker has pointed out that the finds remain rare from the fourth to second millennia BCE, but then we see an upsurge in pearl discoveries from the first millennium BCE until the sixth century CE. To date, crafted pearl jewelry has been found from the Classical and Hellenistic periods, but a large increase in ornamental pearls emerges in the first century CE. We know from sources such as Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, that there were important pearl fisheries in the Persian Gulf, or what he calls the “Red Sea,” and in India, during this time (Nat. 9.56). The increase in finds from this era is in part because Rome had become firmly established in the trade of luxury goods from the Indian Ocean and from Arabia. Pliny and others inform us that pearls were extremely popular forms of adornment in Rome (Nat. 9.123). We have some beautiful extant specimens of pearl jewelry from the Roman imperial period from throughout the Empire;11 and inscriptional evidence indicates that pearl jewelers—margaritarii—were concentrated on the Sacra Via.12 Of note is the fact that most of the craftsmen of this pearl jewelry, some of whom had become quite wealthy, bear Greek freedmen names possibly indicating that either they came to Rome as slaves from the East, where the making of pearl jewelry had long thrived, or were the descendants of Eastern slaves.13 extended back to that period. See Andrew Lawler, “The Pearl Trade,” Archaeology (March/ April 2012): 48, and Vincent Charpentier, Carl S. Phillips, and Sophie Méry, “Pearl Fishing in the Ancient World,” Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 23 (2012): 1–6. 9   See Joan Oates, Thomas E. Davidson, Diana Kamilli, and Hugh McKerrel, “Seafaring Merchants of Ur?” Antiquity 51 (1977): 233. 10   Robert A. Carter, “The History and Prehistory of Pearling in the Persian Gulf,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 48 (2005): 162–3. 11   Some examples of pearl earrings are included in the collection of Roman art in the Musée Louvre, Paris (BJ 428–9), and of parts of pendants in the British Museum, London, UK (GR 1872 6.4.1014). The Israel Antiquities Authority found a beautiful pearl earring in 2008 at an excavation in Jerusalem which they think dates to the Roman period. For pearl jewelry from Pompeii and Herculaneum housed at the museum of Naples, see Rodolfo Siviero, Gli ori e le amber del museo nazionale di Napoli (Florence: Sansoni, 1954). 12   See CIL VI.29544–9. These inscriptions and others have been discussed in an early study by Herman Gummerus, “Die römische Industrie. Wirtschaftsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen, I: Das Goldschmied-Juweliergewerke,” Klio 14 (1915): 129–89. 13   On the jewelers in the Sacra Via, see Martin R.P. McGuire, “Epigraphical Evidence for Social Charity in the Roman West,” American Journal of Philology 67 (1946): 147–9.

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In the East, especially Persia and Syria, pearls were worn by women and men. The Sassanian dynasty, which defeated the Parthians in the early third century CE and thus controlled the large sections of Arabia and the Persian Gulf, has left considerable artistic evidence for pearl adornments. For example, there is a silver head of the fourth-century king Shapur II which displays a pearl head band and huge pearl earrings, and a late sixth-century silver plate representing a subsequent king resplendent in a pearl tiara and pearl earrings.14 We can surmise that the wealthy in Roman Egypt prized pearls given the archeological finds of pearl jewelry and the regular depiction of pearl earrings and necklaces on women in mummy portraits as evident in Plate 12.1.15 Yet it is noteworthy that pearls do not appear in Egypt prior to the Roman period.16 Although little Syrian jewelry has survived from the first few centuries of the Common Era, funerary busts from the city of Palmyra reflect the use of pearls. Here, fibulae were sometimes edged with the stones, and crotalia earrings, which consisted of a cross-bar with several pearls attached by means of little rings,17 can been seen on extant portrait busts of women.18 Moreover, a dress practice consistently portrayed in these busts is a necklace worn at the base of the neck made out of pearls or perhaps some other bead.19 Pearls were also sewn into embroidered garments of wealthy Palmyrene men and women during the first few centuries CE as evident from the busts.20 This custom probably influenced the development of pearl-encrusted vestments that would later appear in eastern Byzantine ecclesiastical garments.21 Byzantine Christian royalty prized pearls as reflected by the mosaics from the churches of Ravenna depicting the sixth-century emperor Justinian, his consort, Theodora, and her court. The mosaics of Sant Apollinaire and San Vitale portray Justinian with a pearl-studded crown, a fibula consisting of a large   Robert A. Carter, Sea of Pearls. Seven Thousand Years of the Industry that Shaped the Gulf (London: Arabian Publishing, 2012), 24. 15   See also, Paul Roberts, Mummy Portraits from Roman Egypt (London: British Museum Press, 2008). 16   John D. Cooney, “Portraits from Roman Egypt,” Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art 59 (1972): 55. 17   Crotalia are also discussed by Pliny (Nat. 9.114). 18   Dorothy Mackay, “The Jewellery of Palmyra and Its Significance,” Iraq 11 (1949): 172. 19   Mackay, “The Jewellery,” 173. 20   For more discussion of the “oriental” influences on pearl motifs on Palmyrene clothing, see Henri Seyrig¸ “Palmyra and the East,” Journal of Roman Studies 40 (1950): 2–3. 21   Mackay, “The Jewellery,” 184. According to Mackey (184, n.4), there is a collection of such beautiful Byzantine vestments at the Armenian Convent of St James, Jerusalem, that is occasionally available for viewing. 14

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stone surrounded by pearls from which three large pearls hang, and short pearl pendilia (see Plate 4.1). At the San Vitale church, Theodora is magnificent in pearls; they decorate her crown, and form the two pendilia of hanging pearls that cascade from it, reminiscent of styles in Persia, Central Asia and some Roman royal practices.22 Pearls also drape her neck and shoulders. Her female attendants display pearl earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. Justinian and Theodora clearly stand out, however, particularly by their pearl fibulae and pendilia which were markers of imperial authority and status.23 In addition to this rich material evidence for the pearl’s value in the East, we find positive symbolic uses of the pearl. The panels of the wooden doors of the early fifth-century church of Santa Sabina in Rome, which offer one of the earliest artistic depictions of the crucifixion, are thought not to have been originally built for this church,24 and reflect many eastern Christian motifs. In particular, one panel portrays Christ holding what appears to be a large pearl, which in Christian centers such as Alexandria, and throughout Syria and in Mesopotamia, came variously to symbolize Christ, the human Soul, the host, the apostles, prophets, monks, and/or catechumens.25 Even when we find such symbolic meanings represented by the pearl in the West, they are so rare that some scholars conclude that the artists were influenced by or originated in the East. For example, in attempting to understand the motifs and background of the Santa Sabina doors, Richard Delbrueck has concluded that they reflect a Greco-Mesopotamian style; nothing comparable exists in the Western Empire from that period. In Delbrueck’s view, the image supports the notion that the artist was influenced by “Eastern Syria and Mesopotamia, where alone at that time the pearl was a highly significant symbol.”26   Vanessa Rousseau, “Emblem of an Empire: The Development of the Byzantine Empress’s Crown,” Al-Masāq 16 (2004): 13. 23   Ann M. Stout, “Jewelry as a Symbol of Status in the Roman Empire,” in The World of Roman Costume, eds Judith Lynn Sebesta and Larissa Bonfante (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 86. 24   The doors appear to have been cut down to size in order to fit the marble portal of the church, leading scholars to conclude that they were originally built for another structure either in Rome or elsewhere. See Richard Delbrueck, “Notes on the Wooden Doors of Santa Sabina,” The Art Bulletin 34 (1952): 139. 25   For a list of references to different meanings of the pearl in ancient Christian literature, see Delbrueck, “Notes,” 146. 26   Delbrueck, “Notes,” 143. For further bibliography on pearl symbolism in the East, see Paul-Hubert Poirier, L’Hymne de la Perle des Actes de Thomas (Homo Religiosus 8; Louvain-la-Neuve: L’Université Catholique, 1981), 418. 22

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The Pearl Trade Aristotle’s successor Theophrastus, whose interests ranged from biology to metaphysics, provides the earliest extant and explicit reference to the pearl as a μαργαρίτης. He says that they come from India and the “Red Sea” (again, meaning the Persian Gulf ).27 The author of The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, a first-century sea-faring narrative, describes various pearl fisheries in the Gulf and India.28 Of note is that fact that this anonymous merchant, an Egyptian, states in the Periplus that convicts do the pearl diving at a location in India (59.2); a testimony to the arduous nature of the work. For this writer, pearls are a precious trade commodity that were harvested and furnished livelihoods in India and Arabia, and subsequently shipped both to the East and West. Pearls were also fished in the actual Red Sea.29 There are first-century inscriptions from the Eastern Desert of Egypt consisting of dedications of a shrine to the god Pan by a freedman who worked for the supervisor of the mines of emerald, peridot and pearls (which are obviously not mined), and of all the mines and quarries of Egypt. These inscriptions support the claim that pearls from the Red Sea supplemented the Indian and Persian Gulf imports to Rome.30 While such pearls could be sold at the same prices in Rome, they cost the importers less because they did not have to travel as great a distance. East-West trade in pearls had emerged after the conquests of Alexander the Great. His victories in the East opened up new possibilities for goods to travel,31 and Quintus Curtius’ History of Alexander specifies that the general was aware  Theophrastus, On Stones 36, trans. Earle R. Caley and John F.C. Richards (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1956). 28   The Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, trans. G.W.B. Huntingford (London: Hakluyt Society, 1980). The unknown author of this first century work only uses μαργαρίτης once (56.24). Otherwise, he uses πινίκος (35.27; 36.10; 61.19; 63.5) to refer to the pearl. 29   See John Thorley, “The Development of Trade between the Roman Empire and the East under Augustus,” Greece & Rome 16 (1969): 220–21. 30   For example, SEG XX. 670. For a considered discussion of these inscriptions, Katia Schörle, “Pearls, Power and Profit: Mercantile Networks and Economic Considerations of the Pearl Trade in the Roman Empire,” in A Tale of Two Worlds: A Comparative Perspective on Indo-Mediterranean Commerce (I–XVII c), eds Marco Maiuro and Frederico De Romanis; Leiden: Brill (forthcoming). Special thanks to Katia Schörle for allowing me to consult a preprint of her essay. 31   See Veronica Bucciantini, “Margaritai. Perle d’Oriente nella storiografia alessandrina,” in Die Schätze der Erdre—Natürliche Ressourcen in der antiken Welt. Stuttgarter Kolloquium zur Historischen Geographie des Altertums 10, 2008, eds Eckart Olshausen and Vera Sauer (Geographica Historia 28; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012), 67–74. 27

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of the great wealth that awaited him if he conquered India, for “the region was considered rich, not only in gold, but also in gems and pearls, and was highly developed rather for luxury than for magnificence.”32 By the first century, therefore, the pearl trade was flourishing, as evident from accounts such as the Periplus, whose author indicates that the gems were a very rich resource for which some regions were famed. Pearls entered Rome via Egypt and Syria, as Alexandria and Antioch were the centers of the Eastern pearl trade.33 In addition, Palmyra, a caravan town, had a presence in India and Bahrain,34 the latter which was particularly famous for pearls.35 Inscriptions testify to merchants honoring their benefactors upon return to Palmyra from fruitful caravan trips, and silks and pearls would have been amongst the caravan merchandise.36 The city often voted the highest honors to those who assisted with the caravans as such missions were in the public interest, profiting a wide variety of people.37 Given these benefits, the objects traded such as pearls, even if they were not originally harvested in the immediate vicinity of Palmyra, would have been held in high esteem. As already indicated, there is plenty of evidence for a great appetite for pearls in these Eastern regions, whether the pearls were real or fake. The “faux pearl” industry enabled the poorer levels of society to emulate the wealthy,38 and its emergence indicates to what degree pearls were socially significant, especially in Roman Egypt, where various papyri with pearl-making recipes have been discovered. Pearls may also have been more accessible to a greater variety of people in regions such as Egypt and Syria, as again, they were more local and there were fewer customs and transactions costs required to obtain them.39 The pearl trade contributed to the overall prosperity of communities in these places, which were of closer proximity to pearl fisheries, and given the range   Quintus Curtius, Hist. Alex. 8.5.3, trans. John C. Rolfe (LCL 369: 273).   McGuire, “Epigraphical Evidence,” 149. 34   See Gary K. Young, Rome’s Eastern Trade: International Commerce and Imperial Policy. 31BC–AD305 (London: Routledge, 2008), 123–68. On Bahrain and pearls see Pliny (Nat. 6.148). 35   See Pliny, Nat. 6.148. 36   See Michal Gawlikowski, “Palmyra as a Trading Centre,” Iraq 56 (1994): 28, who documents the inscriptional evidence. 37   Gawlikowski, “Palmyra,” 31. 38   For instructions on how to manufacture and maintain fake pearls, one can consult the Stockholm papyrus, which dates from approximately 300 CE. See Earle R. Caley, “The Stockholm Papyrus: An English Translation with Brief Notes,” Journal of Chemical Education 4, 8 (1926): 979–1002. 39   See Schörle, “Pearls, Power and Profit,” forthcoming. 32 33

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of examples of pearls in Egyptian and Syrian funerary portraits and busts, it is possible that a larger proportion of these populations owned and wore real or fake pearls. Certainly these Eastern peoples would be inclined to think of pearls in a favourable manner. By the first century, Rome was firmly established as a center of the pearl trade. It is hard to know exactly what the prices of pearls were, but they were very expensive, and the import business brought considerable profits to wealthy Romans. Graffiti and inscriptions attest to certain prominent families, such as the Calpurnii, as deeply involved with the pearl trade, using their freedman and slaves to make arrangements and accompany the goods as they made their way west.40 Pliny does not hide the fact that he fears what the pearl trade is doing to Roman economic health. He complains that the luxury imports are draining the public treasury, costing the Empire 100 million sesterces a year,41 although there is no evidence that this trade was actually causing Rome to fall into economic jeopardy. Pliny and others do not offer much comment about trade routes or practices; nonetheless, they express worry about Rome’s finances, and how economic weakness could threaten the Empire’s overall identity.42 It is difficult to know to what extent Christian communities were involved in pearl fishing in the first 200 years of the Common Era, but by the fifth and sixth centuries, there is clear evidence for it. Christians were present in the Persian Gulf, and one group in particular was based at Rishahr, a port and pearl market on the Bushir peninsula which was also the seat of the Metropolitan of Fars who had authority over the bishops on the Arabian islands and shores.43 In the sixth century, the Chronicle of Seert testifies to a Christian, Ezekiel, being sent pearl fishing with other divers, by a Persian king. Ezekiel had a successful expedition and eventually rose to prominence in the Eastern Church.44 Church records indicate that there were sixth-century Christian pearl divers. At one point church leaders had to provide counsel as to whether Christian pearl divers could or should dive on Sundays. Clearly, some had no choice if they were enslaved or employed by   See Schörle, “Pearls, Power, and Profit,” forthcoming.   Nat. 12.41.84. 42   On excessive spending as a threat to Roman masculinity, see Anthony Corbeill, Controlling Laughter. Political Humor in the Late Roman Republic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 128–9. On concerns about Roman identity more generally, see Catharine Edwards, The Politics of Immorality in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 43  Carter, Sea of Pearls, 23. 44   Carter (Sea of Pearls, 24) cites Ephrem-Isa Yousif (Les chroniqueurs syriaques [Paris: L’Harmattan, 2002] 320), for Ezekiel’s mission. 40 41

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non-Christians, while others seem to have wanted to dive on the day of rest.45 Regardless, this is evidence that pearl fishing provided significant employment for Christians in the East; a phenomenon that is lacking in the West. Despite various moralists’ criticisms of those who wore pearls (to be discussed below), the continued thriving business in these jewels indicates that few merchants and consumers listened to the moralists’ complaints. Yet as we will see, the popularity of pearls in the West does not translate into their use as significant symbols or theological metaphors in the same way that it does in the East. It is at this symbolic level, then, that the moralists have perhaps had an influence, or expressed shared values, insofar as their unease with these luxury goods was echoed by Western Christian authors who had related concerns. Signifying Pearls in the East As discussed earlier, there is plenty of evidence that residents throughout the Eastern part of the Roman Empire wore pearls, whether real or fake. Pearls were not only aesthetically beautiful, their fishing and trade contributed to general prosperity, and therefore it is not surprising to find that pearls embodied considerable symbolic capital for we witness them functioning in Eastern Christian texts as very positive theological metaphors. We saw in the introduction to this chapter that the Gospel of Matthew counsels not to throw pearls before swine (7: 6). Later the gospel compares the kingdom of heaven to a merchant who sells all of his possessions for a pearl of great price (13: 46), a parable that is shared by the Gospel of Thomas (GThom 76).46 These metaphors would not work if the readers or hearers of the texts were not aware of how prized and costly the stones were. The “precious pearl” image continues on in various documents, such as the “Hymn of the Pearl” found in the Acts of Thomas. This story appears to be based on the Parable of the Prodigal Son and the Pearl of Great Price parable   Carter (Sea of Pearls, 24) cites canon XIX found in Jean-Baptiste Chabot, Synodicon orientale, ou recueil de synodes Nestoriens (Paris: Académie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres, 1902), 448. 46   The provenance of the Gospel of Matthew is disputed, but many have argued for Syria, especially Antioch. Likewise, some posit Syria as the likely provenance of the Gospel of Thomas, but given the discovery of a Coptic version of the gospel at Nag Hammadi, it is clear that this gospel must have resonated with some Egyptian Christians. For a critical edition of the Gospel of Thomas, see Marvin Meyer, The Gospel of Thomas. The Hidden Sayings of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper, 1992). 45

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but reinterprets them. Here, a young prince is sent by his parents in the East to Egypt in search of a pearl of great price, which is hidden and guarded by a serpent. His parents take his splendid robe but promise that when he returns with the pearl, he would receive back the robe and inherit the kingdom with his brother. According to Edward Moore, the story illustrates, among other things, humanity’s “general lack of fulfillment with material wealth.”47 Thus a precious material object, a pearl, comes to represent something immaterial and is employed in a text that stresses true wealth as the wisdom and recognition that one has emerged from God.48 Likewise, the Acts of Peter and the 12 Apostles operates on the assumption that pearls are treasures. Here, Jesus appears as a pearl merchant on an island called “Habitation” in the middle of the sea, to which the disciples journey. While the poor flock to the merchant, just to catch a glimpse of the pearl, the rich only watch from their houses, sceptical as to whether the merchant actually has any of the gems. Jesus then asks the poor to come to his city, not only so that he can reveal his pearl, but give it to them for nothing, and at this, the poor rejoice. He never offers such an invitation to the rich.49 The economic value of the pearl thus contributes to its symbolic capital. In the “Hymn of the Pearl,” the pearl has been lost but must be recovered in order for the prince to dress again in his robe. While the robe may symbolise immortality, the pearl is understood to signify knowledge as it enables the young man to know how to proceed.50 Such knowledge is precious. The pearl represents another priceless item in the Acts of Peter and the 12 Apostles. The tale emphasizes themes of renunciation, distrust of the world, and the importance of withstanding trials. Here the imagery of an exquisite pearl may represent salvation which is freely offered to the poor, but not to the rich.51 Although the story of the pearl merchant may be an allegorical tale that was only later woven together with the rest of the Acts, the present version is clearly comfortable 47   Edward Moore, “Wealth, Poverty, and the Value of the Person. Some Notes on the Hymn of the Pearl in Its Early Christian Context,” in Wealth and Poverty in Early Church and Society, ed. Susan Holman (Holy Cross Studies in Patristic Theology and History; Grand Rapids: Baker Orthodox Press, 2008), 58. 48   Moore, “Wealth,” 58. We do not know the precise provenance of the Hymn, which may have been added to the Acts of Thomas at a later stage, but again, Syria has been posited. 49   Acts Pet. 12 Apos. 4 (Nag Hammadi Codices V.2–5 and VI with Papyrus Berolinensis 8502.1 and 4 [NHS 11], edited by Douglas M. Parrott. Leiden: Brill, 1979), 210–13. 50   Acts Thom. 111 (AAAp II.2. 222–3). 51   See Antoine Guillaumont, “De nouveaux Actes apocryphes: les Actes de Pierre et des Douze Apôtres.” Revue de l’histoire des religions 196 (1979): 145–6.

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combining pearl imagery with a critique of the rich and concomitant care for the poor. The pearl, an expensive item, is employed to underscore the value of something immaterial: eternal life. Using the imagery of the pearl effectively inverts the worldly emphasis placed upon material riches such that true wealth—true salvation—is to be found in renouncing such worldliness. In addition to biblical texts such as the Pearl of Great Price parable, some of the pearl symbolism employed by Eastern Christian writers is informed by earlier mythology. For example, there existed a belief that pearls were made when dewdrops fell upon the open oyster shells while heavenly light, from the moon and the stars, illumined them; or, by a bolt of lightning which hit the shells. Pearls were associated with fertility and the beginning of life and powdered pearls were ingested both as aphrodisiacs and to induce pregnancy.52 Moreover, the goddess Aphrodite, who was in some Eastern contexts known as the lady of the pearls, was thought to have been born in a shell, like a pearl.53 This mythology contributed to the association of the pearl with Mary and the Incarnation. The tradition of Mary wearing pearls in her ears or giving birth to the “pearl” finds wide support in Eastern texts, appearing in the writings of Ephrem the Syrian, Proclus of Constantinople, and the sixth-century Syrianborn poet, Romanos. In his collection of Hymns of the Pearl which form part of his Hymns on Faith, Ephrem examines the pearl and reflects that “[y]our mother is a virgin of the sea since it did not wed her. Into its bosom she fell though it did not know her.”54 These words may presume an analogy that just as the pearl was formed by lightning striking the shell, so Christ was conceived without Mary having sexual intercourse. In an earlier hymn, Ephrem states that the pearl “became Mary, for I saw there His pure conception”55 and he develops the notion of Christ as a pearl throughout these hymns.56 Proclus, somewhat similar to Ephrem, observes that only Mary was entrusted with the treasury of   Nicholas Constas, Proclus of Constantinople and the Cult of the Virgin in Late Antiquity. Homilies 1–5, Texts and Translations (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 66; Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2003), 293. 53   Nadia Ibrahim Fredrikson, “La perle, entre l’océan et le ciel. Origines et évolution d’un symbole chrétien,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 220 (2003): 286. 54   Hymns of Faith LXXXII.2 (CSCO 155 scr. syr. 74. 214). I am using a translation of these hymns by Edward G. Matthews, Jr, “St. Ephrem, Madrāšȇ On Faith, 81–85. Hymns of the Pearl, I–V,” St Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 38 (1994): 61. 55   Hymns of Faith LXXXI.4 (CSCO 155 scr. syr. 74. 212; Matthews, 58). 56   For example, in Hymns of Faith LXXXII.11 (CSCO 155 scr. syr. 74. 215; Matthews, 63), Ephrem says that “[y]our nature is like a silent lamb in its meekness. If one were to pierce it, take it and hang it from the ear, it would send out all its rays, as on Golgotha, even more abundantly upon those who gaze upon it.” 52

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the pearl,57 while Romanos speaks of Mary’s pearl-studded earrings,58 which may refer to a local Syrian tradition whereby Christian women wore pearl earrings as symbols of the Incarnation.59 In the East, positive associations with pearls are widespread, even among those who criticize women for wearing them. Clement of Alexandria compares the pearl, born out of the shell, to the Logos of God, while at the same time he criticizes women for adorning themselves in pearls and other jewelry.60 Such censure is in part motivated by biblical texts such as 1 Timothy 2: 9, which exhort women not to don pearls, gold or costly raiment. Moreover, it is notable that Ephrem appears to view pearl earrings positively! In one of his Hymns he speaks of the Word in the ear, “while you, O pearl, are on the outside. Let her who is intent on you become wise by you.”61 As a type of adornment the pearl is not attacked but valued as a symbol which reminds the Christian woman of Christ and teaches her the precious Word of Truth. Part of the reason for this valuing of the pearl as a positive symbol for Eastern Christian writers lies in the fact, I would argue, that pearls were important to the welfare of some Eastern communities, whether they were directly involved in the harvesting of pearls, or were receiving benefits from the pearl trade. Pearls were part of the habitus of these people, much more so than in the West, and as such, they were valued not only as beautiful gems, but became, in some literary contexts,62 powerful metaphors for central theological concepts. Signifying Pearls in the West As already indicated, various writers in Rome have disparaging remarks to make about pearls and the degree to which wealthy Romans were attached to them. There are a variety of reasons for such disapproval. First, pearls did not originate in Rome but had to be imported from Eastern regions. They figure in what Grant  Proclus, Hom. 2.12 in Constas, Proclus of Constantinople, 191.   Romanos, IX.12 (SC 110.2.32) as cited in Constas, Proclus of Constantinople, 291. 59   See Constas, Proclus of Constantinople, 291. Origen (In Matt. 10.8 [PG 13.654]) also imagines Christ as the pearl, who is above the Law and the writings. 60   Paed. II.12 (PG 8. 540). 61   Hymns of Faith LXXXIII.10 (CSCO 155 scr. syr. 74. 217; Matthews, 65). 62   Pearls were important in Eastern Christian iconography, as we have seen with the panel of the Santa Sabina doors. A pearl will sometimes feature in a shell above the head of Christ in Eastern Christian ivory dyptychs, which again reflects the association of the pearl with the Incarnation (see Carter, Sea of Pearls, 23). 57 58

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Parker has argued is an “orientalist” attitude by Romans towards the East. The association of the import of nonessential self-indulgent items such as pearls was an ingredient in the overall negative characterization of Asia, Arabia and Egypt. For Parker, the commodities from the East, including pearls, silks, spices, perfumes, and exotic animals, serve to construct a mental map; a generalization in which all kinds of “foreign” regions and people get lumped together as both consumers and providers of luxury goods. It was trade, and all of the associations that went along with it, that contributed significantly to how the East was imagined. In these ancient Roman writers’ minds, the import of Eastern goods had significantly weakened Rome, both economically and morally, whether this was true or false. Thus, as Parker points out, the story about “Cleopatra’s supposed drinking of the expensive pearl is an eminent case of conspicuous consumption from Egypt”63 and it was retold in Rome, regardless of its authenticity, as it both fascinated but also perfectly served to reinforce stereotypes about the East and one of its greediest and despised queens.64 Pliny indicates that it was the conquests of Asia that jeopardized the morality of Rome because through such victories Romans learned to love opulence (Nat. 33.149). Leaders from the East, especially from India, are repeatedly characterized as overly indulgent and effeminate. Quintus Curtius describes the luxury of Indian kings, who are borne about in litters adorned on all sides with pearls (Hist. Alex. 8.9.24). The kings of India veil their bodies, have gems dangling from their ears, their feet are bathed in perfumes and they comb their hair more often than they cut it (Hist. Alex. 8.22). It was from the East and their pearl-adorned kings, therefore, that Rome developed a taste for luxury, and this thirst for foreign delicacies and rarities was perceived to be “affecting the balance of the state’s finances.”65 These cravings for luxury were also considered to be an assault on the earth itself. Although oysters reside among rocks, and have seadogs in attendance, they are not protected, says Pliny, from women’s ears (Hist. 9.111). This argument is connected to a general concern about how the land and seas are ravaged in order to satisfy human craving for goods, whether it is through mining or other forms of industry. Such reaping of the earth and waters causes warfare as people   Grant Parker, “Ex Oriente Luxuria: Indian Commodities and Roman Experience,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 45 (2002): 87. 64   The story is retold in about 400 CE by Macrobius, Sat. 3.17.15. 65   Ria Berg, “Wearing wealth: mundus muliebris and ornatus as status markers for women in imperial Rome,” in Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, eds Päivi Setälä, Ria Berg, Riikka Hälikkä, Minerva Keltanen, Janne Pölönen, and Ville Vuolanto (Acta Instituti Romani Finlandiae 25; Rome: Institutum Romanum, 2002), 56. 63

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voraciously seek to obtain the most benefits that they can, even resorting to bloodshed in order to satisfy their wants (Nat. 2.63). Pliny disapproves of lavish displays of pearls not only because they are so costly (he reports that pearls are the most expensive of gems; see Nat. 9.54), but because such behavior contributes to what he perceives to be effeminacy among some of Rome’s rich men. Here, he joins other Roman writers, such as the elder Cato, Varro, Martial, Juvenal and Horace, who lament what they judge to be the softness and effeminacy of many Romans.66 “A chorus” of first century writers condemn the pearl as a symbol of extravagance, as “feminine folly.”67 Pliny writes scathingly of Pompey, who after returning from a military triumph in the East in 61 BCE, puts on a great public display, replete with 33 pearl crowns and a portrait of himself rendered in pearls (Nat. 37.14). Compared with Pompey’s display, Pliny states that there has never been such a harmful extravagance (Nat. 37.18).68 These moralists are nostalgic, longing for the days of simple food, hard work, and an appreciation for the rustic beauty of nature;69 the latter characteristics mark the true Roman and not the softness associated with pearls and other expensive indulgences. Denigration of the pearl as representative of the East and as effeminate are not insincere, for they underscore the anxiety some Romans possessed about Roman identity. Kristi Upson-Saia has paid particular attention to how “foreignness and femininity” formed the substance of Roman invective by moralists,70 and their accusations of luxury and immorality, including the wearing of pearls, must be interpreted in such a context. For example, Petronius makes fun of the fact that pearls are used by wives to flirt with other men (Sat. 55.6.9), Seneca sniffs in disgust at Gaius Caesar forcing an aged senator to kiss his left foot, covered as it was with a slipper decorated with gold and pearls (De Ben. 2.12), while   On detecting effeminates in antiquity, see Maud Gleason, “The Semiotics of Gender: Physiognomy and Self-Fashioning in the Second Century,” in The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, eds David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler, and Froma I. Zeitlin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 389–415. 67   Robin Arthur Donkin, Beyond Price. Pearls and Pearl Fishing: Origins to the Age of Discoveries (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1998), 90. 68   Later, Julius Caesar dedicated a breastplate made of pearls to Venus (probably an attempt to outdo Pompey’s lavish display), in order to demonstrate a victory over the sea, which had produced them. However, Caesar did not have a pearl portrait made of himself. 69   See Susan Fleiss Lowenstein, “Urban Images of Roman Authors,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 8, 1 (1965): 110–23, for a discussion of the urban/rural divide amongst Roman authors. 70   Kristi Upson-Saia, Early Christian Dress. Gender, Virtue and Authority (Routledge Studies in Ancient History 3; New York, London: Routledge, 2011), 15–18. 66

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Martial derisively mocks a certain Gellia, who swears not by the words of the gods or goddesses, but by her pearls, which she loves more than her two sons (Ep. 8.81). But these moral concerns are always bound to the monetary worth of pearls. At one point Pliny devotes several lines to describing Lollia Paulina, a consort of Gaius, who arrived at an ordinary banquet, smothered in pearls and emeralds, the total cost of which he deems to be 40 million sesterces. Pliny is disgusted by her display of wealth, and assesses it to be the final outcome of her grandfather Marcus Lollius’ dishonorable plundering of the East (Nat. 9.58). Not only was Lollia overdressed, she was wearing jewels that she had inherited; they had not been bestowed by an emperor or a gift of her husband. She, like some other wealthy Roman women, was in charge of her own economic capital. The pearls are not understood to be benefitting Romans as a collective, but rich Romans, including some elite Roman women, which does not sit well with Pliny and other moralists. Yet pearls remained popular, especially among women.71 In 46 BCE Caesar had legislated unmarried women and childless women under 45 years old from wearing them. Caesar wanted to limit the use of luxury items by rich families, and thus a woman could only wear pearls if she had had three children.72 This policy was continued by Augustus. Pearls were so expensive that rich families had “pearl keepers” to look after them, and freedwomen were not allowed to wear them in plain sight. Apparently a freedwoman, Scantilla, wore some in a box around her neck. Brides, however, were permitted to wear pearls as the stones could represent their future role as mothers.73 Thus pearls clearly maintained their significance as symbols of status and wealth, especially for women, such that the legislators could use them to encourage people to reproduce, even when the legislators themselves, such as Augustus, disdained of such luxury.74 Limits as to who could wear pearls would continue into the Christian era, when the fifth

71   Pliny calls the pearl a woman’s lictor (Nat. 9.46). On the common association of women with adornment in antiquity, see the chapters by Naftali S. Cohn and Erin K. Vearncombe in this volume. 72   See Berg, “Wearing Wealth,” 36. 73   See Christiane Kunst, “Ornamenta Uxoria: Badge of Rank or Jewellery of Roman Wives?” The Medieval History Journal 8 (2005): 137–8. 74   Apparently the reason why Augustus dedicated some pearls that had belonged to Cleapatra to Venus was that he did not think that any Roman woman should wear them, and he wanted to the public to remember the greed and audacity of an Eastern queen. See Maureen B. Flory, “Pearls for Venus,” Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 37 (1988): 503.

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century Latin Church leader Leo I proscribed individuals from wearing pearls as they were the privilege of royalty.75 Legislation and public dedications involving pearls reveal that Romans also appreciated the symbolic value of pearls. This value was intimately connected to their financial worth, and the mythology about the origins of pearls would have played a role in their use as symbols of fertility and maternity. But the associations with the East, luxury and effeminacy rendered the pearl suspect in many writers’ eyes. Furthermore, if we recall Pliny’s outrage at Lollia Paulina, it was not only the fact that she was overdressed, but, presumably, that she was displaying her own independent wealth as she had inherited the pearls from her predecessors; they were not the property of her husband. Pearls (in addition to other forms of wealth) were dangerous, as they could be used to exhibit status and power. When we turn to early Christian texts, we see writers joining their “pagan” neighbours in criticizing women who wear pearls, as well as a notable absence of positive pearl imagery, in contrast to the East. As Delbrueck comments, in “the countries west of Alexandria and Constantinople, we find but mere traces of pearl symbolism.”76 Rather, Christian writers echo the concerns of the moralists when it comes to people wearing pearls (as does the occasional Eastern writer, such as Clement of Alexandria). The New Testament references that most parallel the Roman critiques of pearls as luxury items and symbols of greed appear in 1 Timothy 2: 9 and Revelation 17–18.77 In 1 Timothy, the author seeks to prevent women in the churches from wearing items that clearly, in the imaginations of Roman and early Christian moralists, were symbols of luxury and, quite possibly, of the East. It could be that the women wanted to wear such things in order to demonstrate their economic status,78 but as far as the author of 1 Timothy was concerned, these are inappropriate, consistent as he is with Roman values of how a modest matron should dress. Pearls appear on the Whore of Babylon in Revelation, arrayed in purple and scarlet, covered in gold and jewels and pearls and holding a golden cup full of abominations and impurities of her fornications (17: 4). Clearly this is not a complimentary image, picturing her as giddy from drinking the blood of saints, but in certain ways it recalls some of the descriptions of the Eastern kings that we saw in Quintus Curtius. The pearls function as one of the ingredients for  Constas, Proclus of Constantinople, 292.   Delbrueck, “Notes on the Wooden Doors,” 142. 77   The provenance of both texts is disputed. 78   See Alicia J. Batten, ““Neither Gold nor Braided Hair” (1 Tim 2: 9; 1 Pet 3: 3): Adornment, Gender and Honour in Antiquity,” New Testament Studies 55 (2009): 484–501. 75 76

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illustrating her insatiable greed and corruption. Such an image would certainly scare off women who were contemplating wearing pearls or other expensive jewels and garments. Moreover, Revelation 18: 11 refers to the merchants of the earth who weep for Babylon because no one buys their (Eastern) goods, including gold, silver, jewels, pearls, fine linen, purple, silk and scarlet, cinnamon, spice, incense and slaves (Revelation 18: 11–17). Revelation thus not only condemns Babylon (generally presumed to be code for Rome), which is gendered as a woman, but the trade in luxury goods in which it is engaged. Interestingly, the gold, jewels, and even pearls that Revelation condemns show up in the heavenly city in Chapter 21. This city is the bride; and its foundations are adorned with jewels (21: 19), its street is paved with gold (21: 21) and all twelve gates are pearls, each gate made of a single enormous pearl (21: 21). For this author, pearls and other gems, when they are not being worn by someone, can function quite positively in order to illustrate grandeur and glory in the heavenly realm.79 In Carthage, Tertullian and Cyprian maintain strict attitudes against pearls and other forms of adornment in their comments about women’s dress.80 Tertullian is famous for his teachings about veiling virgins and women’s clothing in general, and he is adamant that women should not wear pearls or jewels; one reason being that such adornment will give no room for the broadsword should these women face execution and potential martyrdom.81 Cyprian employs 1 Timothy 2 in making arguments against women wearing jewelry.82 He censures some lapsed Christian women who are caring for others as penance because they continue to wear gems and pearls.83 But at one point, while commenting upon Matthew 13: 45–46, Cyprian compares the pearl to eternal life.84 Would he have done so if the verse in Matthew did not use pearl symbolism? When Jerome writes of India, he claims that pearls as well as other gemstones serve to foster female display.85 His criticism of pearls continues when the pearl is associated 79   This imagery may be derived from rabbinic traditions, building as they do on interpretations of the “gates of jewels” in Isaiah 54: 12b. See Robert M. Royalty, Jr, The Streets of Heaven. The Ideology of Wealth in the Apocalypse of John (Macon: Mercer University Press, 1998), 228. 80   See Alicia J. Batten, “Carthaginian Critiques of Adornment,” Journal of Early Christian History 22 (2011): 3–21. 81  Tertullian, Cult. fem. 2.13 (PL 1.1447). 82  Cyprian, Hab. virg. 8 (PL 4.447). 83   Laps. 30 (PL 4.490). 84   Eleem.7 (PL 4.607–8). 85   Ep. 125.3 (PL 22.1074); see Parker, “Ex Oriente,” 47.

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with the real female human being, but in another context Jerome compares the word of God to a pearl,86 thus emphasizing how precious, rare, and beautiful it is. While there are some exceptions, generally the pearl did not take root as a significant theological cipher in the Western Christian imagination as it did in the East. Comparable to some of the “pagan” counterparts, Christians will sometimes reference the pearl in order to denigrate and moralize against people, particularly women. Moreover, Christian leaders in the West had no interest in effeminacy87or in portraying members of the church as indulgent and luxurious. The public appetite for pearls was clearly very strong, yet this desire did not translate into a rich and positive use of pearl imagery in theological writings. Conclusion Key ingredients in forming culture and tradition are the material values of objects and their roles in the daily lives of people. The pearl, as we have seen, was harvested throughout the Eastern seas of Arabia, India and Egypt in antiquity, and the evidence indicates that it was prized for both its aesthetic beauty and economic worth. Pearl fishing and trading directly contributed to the prosperity of many Eastern communities. Such valuing of pearls translated into their metaphorical use by Christians in a variety of texts including those that critique wealth. In the West, although the desire for pearls is strong, there existed considerable apprehension about how the import, desire for, and display of pearls was jeopardizing the Roman identity given the pearl’s association with luxury and the East. These worries did not prevent people from obtaining pearls, but they appear to have been shared, in some ways, by Western Christians who, unlike their Eastern counterparts, tended to warn Christians away from wearing pearls and who modulated the fecund use of pearl symbolism so prevalent in the East.

  Ep. 22.8 (PL 22.399).   See the chapter by Maria Doerfler in this volume.

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Index Acts of John 234 Acts of Paul and Thecla 11, 37n1, 99–116, 170n70 Acts of Peter and the 12 Apostles 242 Acts of Thomas 241–2 adornment 4, 8, 11, 13, 15, 17, 21–36, 72, 118, 122, 124–9, 133, 152n49, 170, 198, 235–6, 244, 247–9; see also ornamentation; ornatus Alexandria 237, 239, 248 Ambrose (bishop of Milan) 8, 39–51, 132–3 angels or angelic 38, 99, 110n49, 138, 140–41, 143–4, 147, 150–52, 156–7, 159–60, 161, 164, 165, 166, 168–9, 170, 192–3 Antioch 182, 187, 239, 241n46 Aphrahat (of Syria) 163n32 Aphrodite 126, 146–9, 243 Apophthegmata Patrum 165, 167, 168, 169n66 Arabia 26, 44, 235–6, 238, 240, 245, 250 Aristotle and Ps. Aristotle 48, 103, 105, 172, 238 Arsenius (abba) 165, 168–9 artificial 9, 16, 119, 239–40 artistic representations of dress 2, 3, 13, 17–18, 171–2, 177–8, 189–93, 237, 244n62 coins Plate 10.2, Plate 10.3, Plate 10.4, 13–14, 195, 207–11, 212 frescos Plate 5.1, Plate 8.1, Plate 8.2, 108–9, 171 illuminated manuscripts Plate 10.1, 13, 175n75, 195–8, 212

mosaics Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 9.4, 3n6, 78–9, 193, 195–6, 236 portraiture and portrait statues Plate 5.2, Plate 9.1, Plate 12.1, 3n5, 106–12, 113n60, 176, 178, 179, 190, 191, 192, 193, 208, 236 sarcophagi Plate 9.2, Plate 9.3, 111n55, 179, 190–92 asceticism and ascetic dress 10, 37, 50, 55–73, 81, 133, 155–72, 176, 179, 183, 187, 188, 189, 237; see also monasticism and monastic dress Assyria or Assyrian 117–18, 121–3, 130, 134 Athens 113, 115, 182, 183 Augustine (bishop of Hippo) 39, 46–7, 50–51, 83n27, 125n10, 163n33, 178n13, 183 Augustus (emperor) Plate 10.4, 3n5, 101–2, 199, 208, 247 authority 3, 5, 8, 10, 11, 13n26, 23, 29, 33–5, 58–61, 63–5, 66, 68, 70–71, 77, 80, 83–7, 89, 90–92, 93–6, 100, 107, 116, 177, 181, 184–6, 187, 188, 192, 194, 237, 240 baldness 11, 99, 102–3, 106–7, 109–11; see also hair bandy legged 99, 110 baptism and baptismal garments 50, 79, 143n19, 151n44, 176, 191, 192, 193, 216, 218, 219–22, 223–7, 228, 230–31 barbarians or barbarian dress 3n8, 43–5, 48, 50–51, 85, 86, 89, 179, 197, 208–9; see also foreigners or foreign dress

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Barthes, Roland 13, 176, 180nn26–7, 181nn33–5, 190 Batten, Alicia J. 5n13, 6n13, 248n78, 249n80 beard 42, 106, 109, 111, 115, 157, 158, 165, 168, 170n68, 171n74, 177, 186, 187–9, 190, 197, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210n29; see also hair beast 41, 158, 161, 163n32, 164, 165–9 Bell, Catherine 22n4, 56, 229nn69–70, 230 Berg, Ria 245n65, 247n72 Berne Josephus manuscript Plate 10.1, 195–8, 200, 210–12 Besa (abbot) 57, 65, 70–73 Bethulia 117, 121, 123, 129, 130n23, 134 Bible: Hebrew Bible or Old Testament 13, 24n8, 29–31, 30n23, 36, 39, 40, 46–7, 50, 59, 62, 63, 80, 137, 142n15, 144n22, 151n44, 162, 171–2n74, 196, 198–9, 226 King James Version 199–200 New Testament 1, 40n7, 45, 62, 102, 104, 108, 114, 133, 144n22, 151nn44–5, 156n4, 162, 221, 223, 226–7, 233, 241, 243–4, 248–9 Septuagint 117nn1–2, 198, 199, 201, 202 Vulgate 80, 199 biblical interpretation 46–7, 58–61, 62–3, 158, 162, 170, 198–200, 218 bishops or bishops’ dress Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, 51, 75–96, 240; see also clerics or clerical dress body: bodily practice 8, 14, 58, 119, 218, 219, 222–3, 224–5, 228, 230 physical body 15, 50, 88, 110n49, 118–20, 122–30, 134, 150, 157, 158, 160–61, 164–5, 166n51, 168, 199, 213, 223, 225, 227 resurrected body 12, 158, 161–3, 169, 170, 215, 225–6, 227, 229 social body 7–8, 21–36, 37–51, 69, 229

Bonfante, Larissa 3n7, 4n9, 10n20, 79n12, 208n21, 237n23 Bourdieu, Pierre 14, 55n2, 180n27, 229–30, 234 Brakke, David 37n1, 58n12, 60n24, 61n25, 61n27 brow (unibrow, furrowed brow, knitted brow, eyebrows) 99–116, 142, 150, 165 Brown, Peter 156n4, 158n9, 168, 189n82, 192n92 Butler, Judith 8n16, 22n3, 49n40 Bynum, Caroline Walker 38n4, 162n31, 226n54 Byzantine 80, 86n35, 236–7 Carthage 249 Cassian, John 57, 58n12, 61–5, 66, 67, 72 Castelli, Elizabeth 37n1, 56n4 Cato (the elder) 124, 246 Cato (the younger) 44 Chaereas and Callirhoe 12, 138–9, 144–9, 152–3 character 9, 18, 42, 77, 81–2, 88, 101, 105, 114, 129, 133, 145, 223, 245–6 character type 3–4n8, 10–11, 99–116, 117–34, 145–53 chiton Plate 9.4, 17n34, 40, 42, 64n35, 65, 72n66, 78, 109, 140, 177, 178, 190, 193, 198–9, 201n11, 202, 203, 204–5, 210n39, 211, 212, 224; see also tunic Chrysostom, Dio 177, 179n19, 180nn29–31, 184n52, 185n56, 187, 188n77 Chrysostom, John 40n7, 151n44, 172, 182, 187–8 church Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 8.1, Plate 8.2, 18, 42, 66n41, 68, 70, 78, 87, 89, 91, 94, 96, 112, 141n14, 151n44, 166, n50, 236–7, 240, 248, 250 Claudianus Mamertus 189

Index Clement (of Alexandria) 39–40n7, 41, 42n20, 43n21, 44, 101, 132n29, 170n68, 183n47, 231, 244, 248 Clement, First 117n1, 120, 132n29 Clementine Homilies 178 Cleopatra (pharaoh) 245 clerics or clerical dress Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 10.5, 13–14, 42, 46–7, 51, 75–96, 81, 88, 195–214, 240; see also bishops or bishop’s dress; priests or priestly dress cloak Plate 4.2, Plate 9.4, 17n34, 50n42, 75–96, 175–6, 178, 179, 183–5, 187–9, 190, 192, 199, 201, 203, 208, 210n29; see also himation; pallium; sagum; tribōn Cohn, Naftali 23n6, 35n33, 36n36, 247n71 coins Plate 10.2, Plate 10.3, Plate 10.4, 13–14, 195, 207–11, 212 community: communal identity 2, 3, 4, 7–8, 9, 10–11, 14, 21–36, 48, 60, 65, 67–8, 71, 131n25, 176 communal relations 9 communal values 7–8, 10–11, 14, 18, 65, 229 conversion 47n36, 85, 138–40, 143, 153 Corbeill, Anthony 223n43, 224n46, 240n42 cosmetics 15, 17, 21, 24, 27–9, 35n33, 119, 126–7, 129, 132–3, 185, 189; see also make-up costume 1–2, 15–17, 115, 187 cross-dressing 8, 11n22, 37–51 cultus 88, 124–6, 129, 133, 157–8, 170 Cynics 114n63, 178n15, 179–82, 185, 188 Cyprian (of Carthage) 133, 249 Damasus (pope) 188 Daniel (abba) 168 Daniel-Hughes, Carly 6n13, 8n16, 50n42, 177n6, 185n54 Davis, Stephen J. 37n1, 56, 71, 72nn67–8 Dead Sea Scrolls 27

287

Democritus (philosopher) 161–2 demons 58–62, 65, 71–2, 160, 166, 171n74 desert 12, 35n33, 63, 157–68, 170, 171n73, 211, 238 Diogenes (the Cynic) 106, 179, 181, 182–3, 186 Diogenes Laertius 106, 178n15, 179n18, 181n38 Douglas, Mary 22, 36, 155, 242 draping 2, 77, 78–9, 89, 90, 109, 175 dress: ascetic or monastic dress 10, 37, 38n4, 50, 51, 55–73, 80–81, 133, 155–72, 176, 178–9, 183, 184n49, 187, 188, 189, 237 barbarians’ dress 3n8, 43–5, 48, 50–51, 85, 86, 89, 179, 197, 208–9 clerical dress Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 10.5, 13–14, 42, 46–7, 51, 75–96, 81, 88, 195–214, 240 dress performativity or performance 6, 8, 13, 14, 49n40, 117–34, 156n3, 224, 227–31 effeminate dress 38n4, 39–47, 50, 224, 234, 244–50 foreign dress 8, 13–14, 40, 43–5, 47, 48, 49, 85, 86, 113, 186, 203, 208–9, 210, 234, 244–5, 246 philosophers’ dress 11, 13, 78n9, 99–116, 175–94 religious affiliation and dress 21–36, 137–53, 182–9 Dura Europos synagogue 195 economics 2, 5, 6, 119, 180, 233–50 effeminacy 38n4, 39–47, 50, 224, 234, 244–50; see also femininity Egypt or Egyptian Plate 8.1, Plate 12.1, 5n10, 12, 31, 57–73, 139, 145, 150, 155–69, 171n73, 228n66, 236, 238–42, 245, 250 Eicher, Joanne B. 1n1, 7n14, 9n19, 15nn30–31, 152n49 Elijah (prophet) 62, 80, 160, 172n74

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Elisha (prophet) 62, 80 embroidery 65, 71–3, 122, 198n6, 236 Enoch 144, 160, 163n32 environment 15, 158, 172 Ephrem (the Syrian) 151n44, 163n32; 243–4 Epictetus (philosopher) 182 Epicureans 161n26, 178 epiphanic 138, 144–9, 151, 153 Evagrius of Pontus 57–62, 65–6 fashion 1n1, 9, 15–17, 78, 96, 106, 133, 176, 177, 180, 184, 186–7, 189–93 femininity 8, 11, 41, 42n20, 119–20, 121n5, 125–8, 130–31, 133, 170–71, 199, 244–50; see also effeminacy Flügel, John Carl 9, 12 foreigners or foreign dress 8, 13–14, 40, 43–5, 47, 48, 49, 85, 86, 113, 186, 203, 208–9, 210, 234, 244–5, 246; see also barbarians or barbarian dress frescos Plate 5.1, Plate 8.1, Plate 8.2, 108–9, 171 Gaul 57, 61–5, 81, 87, 164, 189 gender 2, 3n5, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 23n6, 37–51, 102, 119–20, 121n5, 124–8, 130–31, 133, 156n3, 166n50, 170–71, 177n6, 178, 180, 181, 199, 223n44, 244–50; see also femininity; masculinity gender identity 102, 119 gender performance 119, 120, 128, 134 gifting garments of clothing 9–10, 83–7, 90–93 Gleason, Maud 41n15, 42n18, 181n32, 223n44, 246n66 gold or golden 25, 26, 30, 34, 78, 88, 122, 126, 132, 139, 140, 141, 142n16, 146, 150, 192, 193, 206, 239, 244, 246, 248, 249 Gospel of Philip 14, 215–31 Gospel of Thomas 241

Gregory (the Great) 75–96 Gregory (of Nazianzus) 182, 185–6, 188–9, 192–3 habitus 14, 42n18, 81–2, 179, 229, 234, 244 hair Plate 8.1, Plate 8.2, 6n13, 12, 17, 23n6, 25–7, 28n15, 30–31, 38n4, 41, 42, 44, 101, 103, 106, 109, 110, 111, 115, 119, 122–3, 125–6, 129, 140, 141n14, 142, 146n30, 150, 155–72, 177–8, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 193, 196, 197, 205, 206, 207, 208–9, 210, 245; see also baldness; beard Harlow, Mary 4n9, 11n23, 17n35, 79n12 Harvey, Susan Ashbrook 37n1, 170, 171n2 headwear 23n6, 24–6, 30, 39–40n7, 59, 64n35, 139–40, 141–2, 150–51, 170, 196, 197, 198–9, 201–2, 203, 205–6, 208, 212, 236–7, 246, 249 heaven 12, 80, 140–41, 156n4, 159–60, 162n29, 163, 164–5, 169, 216, 224, 226, 241, 243, 249; see also paradise Hebrew Bible or Old Testament 13, 24n8, 29–31, 30n23, 36, 39, 40, 46–7, 50, 59, 62, 63, 80, 137, 142n15, 144n22, 151n44, 162, 171–2n74, 196, 198–9, 226 hierarchy 22, 36, 124, 131n25 Hilarion (anchorite) 158, 184n49 himation 17n34, 175, 178, 199, 201, 203, 207–8, 210n29; see also pallium Hollander, Anne 9n18, 16n32 Holofernes (general) 11, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123, 128, 129, 130, 132n29, 134 Homer or Homeric 126, 145, 146, 148, 164, 183n47 Horace (poet) 127, 246 humility 75–7, 89–90, 92, 95–6, 132n29 Hymns of the Pearl (Ephrem the Syrian) 243–4

Index illuminated manuscripts Plate 10.1, 13, 175n75, 195–8, 212 India or Indian 164, 235, 238, 239, 240, 245, 249, 250 inscriptions 125n8, 235, 238, 239, 240 Israel or Israelite 1n1, 21n2, 23, 33, 35–6, 39n6, 118, 121, 122, 123, 130, 131n25, 133, 162, 172n74, 191 Jensen, Robin M. Plate 9.2, 109, 192n94, 193n98 Jerome (ascetic and theologian) 37n3, 63, 110, 132, 158n7, 162, 183, 199, 249–50 Jerusalem 29, 33, 34, 35, 57, 58, 137n2, 235n11; see also Temple, Judean/ Jerusalem Jesus Christ 1, 23, 59, 61, 71, 75, 79, 101n9, 133, 156n4, 162, 188, 191, 192, 193, 193n98, 216, 217, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 233, 237, 242, 243, 244 jewelry Plate 12.1, 3n5, 4n10, 15, 17, 21, 24–5, 26, 27, 30, 34–5, 122, 126, 129, 132, 133, 140n10, 142n16, 148, 150, 233–50 jewels or gems 14, 17, 123, 127, 132n26, 140, 233–50 John (of Jerusalem) 162 John (of Ravenna) 75–96 Joseph and Aseneth 12, 137–53 Josephus, Titus Flavius Plate 10.1, 13, 27, 195–212 Jubilees 27 Judea Capta coinage Plate 10.2, Plate 10.3, 207–12 Judith (book of ) 11, 117–34, 140n10 Julian (emperor) 43, 180, 187 Julius Caesar (emperor) 246n68 Justin Martyr 180n30, 183n47, 184, 191, 193n103, 230, 231n78 Justinian (emperor) Plate 4.1, 3n5, 78, 93, 236–7 Juvenal (poet) 246

289

King James Bible 199–200 Krawiec, Rebecca 6n13, 55n2, 58n14, 59n17, 60n20, 62n30, 63n32, 64n33, 66n39, 67n42, 68n46, 69nn49–50, 69nn52–3, 77n7, 80n16, 177n6, 178n14 Lactantius 186–7 legislation, dress 21–36, 37, 247–8 Leo I (pope) 248 lineage: apostolic 77, 85, 89 monastic 58–61, 63–4, 66, 70 papal 80 Livy (historian) 124 Llewellyn-Jones, Lloyd 4n9, 11n23, 15n28 Lucian (of Samosata) 106, 115, 180n31, 187, 193n102 luminosity 12, 79, 137–9, 165–9; see also radiance; white luxuria 8, 14, 40–47, 49, 127, 130, 245–7, 248–9, 250 Macarius (of Rome) 164–5 make-up 15, 17, 27–9, 119, 126–7, 129, 132–3; see also cosmetics Malherbe, Abraham 101–2, 105, 108, 182n40 manufacturing, dress 2, 9, 16–17, 55, 65–73, 239; see also production, dress Mark (of Athens) Plate 8.2, 159–61, 168, 169 Martial (poet) 246, 247 Mary (of Egypt) 171n73 Mary (Magdalene) 172 Mary (mother of Jesus) 72n66, 243–4 masculinity 8, 37–51, 102, 120, 126, 127n14, 130–31, 170, 177n6, 178, 181, 240n42 Maximus (Cynic, priest) 185–6, 188–9, 192–3 Maximus (metropolitan of Salona) 90–91 Mesopotamia 164, 171n74, 237 Milan 44, 45, 50, 89

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Miller, Patricia Cox 64n34, 157, 158n9, 167n57 Mishnah 8, 21–36 monasticism and monastic dress 10, 37n1, 38n4, 51, 55–73, 80, 81, 155–72, 178, 179, 183, 184n49, 187, 188, 189, 237; see also asceticism and ascetic dress mosaics Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 9.4, 3n6, 78–9, 193, 195–6, 236 nakedness or nudity 15, 30, 41, 44, 122, 171n74, 198, 200, 207–8, 209, 210n29, 211, 219, 226, 228 nature or the natural 9, 35n33, 38, 40, 42, 45–9, 166, 172, 181, 185, 246 New Testament 1, 40n7, 45, 62, 102, 104, 108, 114, 133, 144n22, 151nn44–5, 156n4, 162, 221, 223, 226–7, 233, 241, 243–4, 248–9 obedience 77, 89–92, 96 Odyssey 146, 164 Olson, Kelly 4n9, 10n20, 12n24, 17n34, 17n36, 28n18, 29n21, 34nn31–2, 124n7, 125, 127n15, 156n3, 223n43, 224 Onnophrius (anchorite) Plate 8.1, 166–7, 169 Or (abba) 73n69, 165 ordination 82–3, 95 Origen (theologian) 39, 244n59 ornamentation 2, 9, 11, 15, 21–36, 42, 43, 78, 88, 118, 122, 124–9, 133, 139, 141, 150, 152n49, 191, 235–6, 244, 247–9; see also adornment; ornatus ornatus 81n22, 118, 122, 124–9, 133, 150, 152n49, 168, 169n65, 235–6, 244, 245n65, 247–9; see also adornment; ornamentation Ovid (poet) 125n10, 128, 147 paideia 13, 107, 179, 182–94 Palestine 23, 73, 164

pallium Plate 4.2, Plate 9.4, 17n34, 50n42, 75–96, 175–6, 178, 179, 183–5, 187–9, 190, 192, 199, 201, 203, 208, 210n29; see also cloak; himation pallium (bishop’s) 75–96; see also bishops or bishop’s dress; clerics or clerical dress Palmyra 236, 239 Pambo (abba) 165 Paphnutius (anchorite) 166–7, 169 paradise 142, 151n44, 152, 160, 165; see also heaven Passover Plate 10.5, 28 Paul (apostle) Plate 5.1, 11, 37, 45, 62, 99–116, 162, 221n32, 223, 226, 229n68 pearl Plate 12.1, 14, 127, 132, 233–50 Pelagius I (pope) 81, 84n28, 86n39 performativity or performance, dress 6, 8, 13, 14, 49n40, 117–34, 156n3, 224, 227–31 Periplus of the Erythraean Sea 238, 239 Persia or Persian 3n5, 43, 146, 149, 164, 199, 203, 208, 236, 237, 240 Persian Gulf 235, 236, 238, 240 Peter (apostle) 62, 77, 81–2, 85–7, 89, 92 Petronius (courtier) 246 Philo (of Alexandria) 27, 57n10 philosophy or philosopher 1n1, 11, 13, 41, 42, 43, 50, 77, 78n9, 99–116, 127, 132n26, 161, 162, 172, 175–94, 224; see also dress, philosopher’s dress Philostratus (sophist) 101 physiognomy 11, 99, 100–104, 105n29, 111, 170n68, 223 Plato 48, 110n49, 110n51, 112n59, 113nn60–61, 114n63, 161, 162, 177–8, 180n28, 188, 189 Plautus (playwright) 128 Pliny (the elder) 234n5, 235, 236n17, 239nn34–5, 240, 245–7, 248 Plutarch (philosopher) 126

Index politics or political 1, 5, 47, 48, 87n47, 116, 117, 127n14, 175, 179, 185, 186, 189 Pompey 246 Porphyry (philosopher) 179n24, 183n47, 187n66 portraiture and portrait statues Plate 5.2, Plate 9.1, Plate 12.1, 3n5, 106–12, 113n60, 176, 178, 179, 190, 191, 192, 193, 208, 236 power 5, 8, 21, 23, 29, 33–4, 36, 47, 60n21, 80–83, 86, 87, 91, 93–6, 104, 112, 118, 119–20, 124, 125n11, 126–34, 146n30, 179, 187, 234, 248; see also status priests or priestly dress Plate 10.5, 13–14, 46–7, 79, 81, 88, 195–214; see also clerics or clerical dress Proclus (of Constantinople) 243, 244n57 production, dress 2, 9, 16–17, 55, 65–73, 239; see also manufacturing, dress Propertius (poet) 127 prostitute 11, 37, 127, 248 purity or impurity 26n12, 29n20, 59, 66n41, 68, 79, 133, 192, 200 Quintus Curtius 238, 239, 245, 248 Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel 33, 35–6 rabbis 8, 21–36, 249n79 Rabbi Eliezer 28 Rabbi Judah the Nasi 26, 28 radiance 12, 137–9, 141, 143–53, 158, 159, 161, 165–9, 170; see also luminosity; white Ravenna Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, Plate 9.4, 3n5, 75–96, 193, 236 Red Sea 235, 238 resurrection 79, 158, 161–3, 219, 220, 222, 225, 226, 227, 229; see also body, resurrected body Richlin, Amy 17n37, 29n21, 127n15

291

ritual 1, 8, 10, 14, 29, 30, 32, 33–5, 46, 56, 67, 72n68, 82, 83, 125n10, 143, 151n44, 172, 182, 194, 215–31 Roach, Mary Ellen 1n1, 9n19, 152n49 Romanitas 8, 37–51 Romanos (hymnographer of Syria) 243, 244 Rome Plate 5.1, Plate 9.2, 75–96, 108, 166n50, 190, 192, 210, 211, 212, 217, 208, 235–49 Sabbath 24–9, 32 sackcloth 62–3, 121–2, 140 sagum 207–9, 210n29; see also cloak San Agnese fuori le mura (Rome) 78 San Apollinare (Classe) 78 San Vitale (Ravenna) Plate 4.1, Plate 4.2, 78, 236, 237 Santa Sabina (Rome) 237, 244n62 sarcophagi Plate 9.2, Plate 9.3, 111n55, 179, 190–92 Sebesta, Judith Lynn 3n7, 4n9, 10n20, 79n12, 208n21, 237n23 Seneca and Ps. Seneca 41, 42, 108, 110, 127, 132n26, 246 Septuagint 117nn1–2, 198, 199, 201, 202 Serapion 159–61, 168, 169 sexuality 11, 21, 29–34, 116n69 sexual activity 103, 129–31, 155–6, 221, 224, 243 sexual attraction 8, 21, 29–32, 33–5, 133, 170 sexual desire 155, 170 sexual deviancy 46, 111n54, 127 sexual status 119, 156 Shenoute (abbot) 57, 65–71 Shumka, Leslie 4n9, 17n37, 125n8, 125n10, 126 Sidonius Apollonaris 189 silk 17, 239, 245, 249 Silvanus (abba) 165 silver Plate 10.3, Plate 10.4, 140, 207n19, 236, 249

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simplicity 44, 63, 95, 178, 180, 186, 189, 246 Sisoes (abba) 165, 169n66 Socrates Plate 5.2, Plate 9.1, 100, 106, 108, 110, 111–14, 115, 177–9, 180, 184, 186 sotah 29–32, 34, 35n34 status 2, 4, 6, 9, 10, 12, 14, 15, 17, 34, 35n33, 43n22, 48, 55, 56, 64n34, 69n49, 77, 79, 85, 87, 88, 91, 96, 104, 119, 121, 125, 126, 127, 130, 133, 134, 137–53, 155–72, 193, 206, 215, 221, 237, 247–8; see also power; sexuality, sexual status; wealth status change 4, 12, 14, 38, 56, 80–81, 133, 137–53, 155–72; see also transformation Stoics 43n22, 178, 181–2 stola 47n35, 200, 224 Suetonius (historian) 101, 199 Sulpicius Severus 164 Swift, Ellen 4n10, 17n34, 233n2 symbolism of dress 1, 2, 9, 10, 13, 14, 15, 42n20, 51, 55–7, 58–61, 64, 67–8, 72–3, 77–8, 79, 80–93, 96, 143, 155, 172n74, 184, 215, 216, 233–50 Syncletica (ascetic) 170, 171n72 Syria or Syrian 151n44, 164, 168n59, 228n66, 236, 237, 239, 240, 241n46, 242n48, 243, 244 Talmud (Babylonian) 28nn18–19, 34 Temple, Judean/Jerusalem 25, 29, 32, 34, 35, 36n36, 137n2, 195, 197, 198, 203, 206, 211 Tertullian (of Carthage) 39n7, 50, 132, 162, 163n32, 175–6, 179n20, 184–5, 188, 189, 192, 234, 249 Thecla (ascetic) Plate 5.1, 11, 37, 99–116, 170n70 Theodora (empress) 80, 236–7 Theophrastus (philosopher) 238 Titus (emperor) Plate 10.3, 207–8, 209

toga 42, 49, 50, 51, 175–6, 224 Tosefta 26n12, 30–31, 35 trade 14, 234, 235, 238–41, 244, 245, 249 transformation 12, 38, 55, 81, 137–53, 155–72, 225; see also status change tribōn Plate 9.1, Plate 9.2, 13, 78n9, 175–94; see also pallium tunic Plate 9.4, 17n34, 40, 42, 64n35, 65, 72n66, 78, 109, 140, 177, 178, 190, 193, 198–9, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 210n39, 211, 212, 224; see also chiton Upson-Saia, Kristi 6n13, 8n16, 29n21, 37n1, 56n9, 133, 158n8, 162n31, 170n69, 177n6, 246 Valentinus (theologian) 216–17 values 7–8, 10, 14, 15, 18, 55–6, 64, 65, 77–8, 124, 178–9, 183, 191, 229–30, 234, 241, 248 Varro, Marcus Terentius 246 veiling 26, 40n7, 50, 139, 141, 142, 150, 187, 207, 209, 245, 249 Vespasian (emperor) Plate 10.2, Plate 10.3, 207, 209 vice 43–5, 48–9, 58–9, 61, 69, 96, 103, 110n49, 111, 113, 118, 126, 127, 171n72, 185, 245–7, 249 virtue 12, 38, 38n3, 40n7, 43–5, 48, 51, 58, 77, 79, 82–3, 88, 89–90, 101–3, 110n49, 116, 118, 130, 132, 133, 145, 159, 183, 189, 223, 242–3 Vulgate 80, 199 wealth 4, 6, 8, 9, 12, 14, 15, 16, 34–5, 38n4, 40–47, 49, 126, 127, 130, 187, 234–6, 239–40, 242–50; see also status white: see also luminosity; radiance white clothing 30, 33–5, 50, 77, 78, 79, 88, 96, 139, 140, 141n14, 148, 150, 192–3, 210 white hair 158, 165, 168–9, 171n73 white make-up 27, 28n15, 29n20, 127

Index widow 117–18, 119, 121–2, 123, 130–34 Wyke, Maria 4n9, 17n37, 29n21, 124n6, 128n18 Xenophon (historian, philosopher) 48n38, 113, 148n36, 184n50

293

Zanker, Paul 100n4, 106–7, 111n56, 115n68, 177n6, 178n12, 178nn15–16, 179n17, 179nn21–3, 190n87