Early Christianity in Alexandria: From its Beginnings to the Late Second Century 1009449559, 9781009449557

Table of contents :
01.0_pp_i_ii_iii_iv_v_Early_Christianity_in_Alexandria
04.0_pp_v_vi_Dedication
05.0_pp_vii_viii_Contents
06.0_pp_ix_x_Tables
07.0_pp_xi_xii_Acknowledgments
08.0_pp_xiii_xiv_Note_on_the_Text
09.0_pp_xv_xvi_Abbreviations
10.0_pp_1_20_Introduction
11.0_pp_21_88_Beginnings
11.1_pp_23_32_Foreshadowings
11.2_pp_33_39_The_Jesus_Movement_Enters_Alexandria
11.3_pp_40_54_Apollos
11.4_pp_55_65_Factors_Motivating_Gentile_Recruitment
11.5_pp_66_88_Crafting_a_Christian_Identity
12.0_pp_89_180_Early_Christian_Teachers_and_Movements_in_Alexandria
12.1_pp_91_106_The_Earliest_Alexandrian_Theologians
12.2_pp_107_120_Eugnostus_and_the_Wisdom_of_Jesus_Christ
12.3_pp_121_137_Julius_Cassianus_and_Alexandrian_Ascetic_Culture
12.4_pp_138_149_Valentinian_and_Marcionite_Currents
12.5_pp_150_167_The_Naassene_Preacher
12.6_pp_168_180_Conclusion
13.0_pp_181_220_Bibliography
14.0_pp_221_223_Index

Citation preview

Early Christianity in Alexandria Alexandria was the epicenter of Hellenic learning in the ancient Mediterranean world, yet little is known about how Christianity arrived and developed in the city during the late first and early second century ce. In this volume, M. David Litwa employs underused data from the Nag Hammadi codices and early Christian writings to open up new vistas on the creative theologians who invented Christianities in Alexandria prior to Origen and the catechetical school of the third century. With clarity and precision, he traces the surprising theological continuities that connect Philo and later figures, including Basilides, Carpocrates, Prodicus, and Julius Cassianus, among others. Litwa demonstrates how the earliest followers of Jesus navigated Jewish theology and tradition, while simultaneously rejecting many Jewish customs and identity markers before and after the Diaspora Revolt. His book shows how Christianity in Alexandria developed distinctive traits and seeded the world with ideas that still resonate today. M. David Litwa cowrites and coedits the journal New Testament Abstracts at Boston College. He is the author of many books, ­including The Evil Creator (2021) and Found Christianities (2022).

Early Christianity in Alexandria From its Beginnings to the Late Second Century

M. DAVID LITWA Boston College

Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge CB2 8EA, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, NY 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, VIC 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 103 Penang Road, #05–06/07, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore 238467 Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781009449557 DOI: 10.1017/9781009449571 © M. David Litwa 2024 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press & Assessment. First published 2024 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library A Cataloging-in-Publication data record for this book is available from the Library of Congress ISBN 978-1-009-44955-7 Hardback Digital typeface ALPHABETUM developed by Juan-José Marcos. Freely supplied by the author for this book. Cambridge University Press & Assessment has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For David T. Runia friend and mentor

Contents

List of Tables page ix Acknowledgments xi Note on the Text xiii List of Abbreviations xv Introduction: Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria pa rt i  

1 2 3 4 5

begi n n i ngs

Foreshadowings: Philo of Alexandria The Jesus Movement Enters Alexandria Apollos: The Earliest Known Alexandrian Follower of Jesus Factors Motivating Gentile Recruitment Crafting a Christian Identity: Barnabas and the Two Peters pa rt i i  

1 23 33 40 55 66

ea r ly ch r ist i a n t each ers

a n d mov em en ts i n a lex a n dr i a

6 The Earliest Alexandrian Theologians: Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus 91 7 Eugnostus and the Wisdom of Jesus Christ 107 8 Julius Cassianus and Alexandrian Ascetic Culture 121 9 Valentinian and Marcionite Currents 138 10 The Naassene Preacher 150 Conclusion: The “Great Church” and the Many Schools of Alexandria 168 Bibliography 181 Index 221 vii

Tables

0.1 Proposed Alexandrian texts page 18 10.1 Attis and Christ 153

ix

Acknowledgments

Through the years, many scholars have provided helpful comments on these chapters. Here I would like to kindly acknowledge the help of Paula Fredriksen, David Runia, David Jorgensen, Christopher Matthews, Bed Edsall, Michael Theophilus, Matt Novenson, Stephen Carlson, Devin White, Kylie Crabbe, Grant Adamson, and Tuomas Rasimus. My apologies to any I may have missed. You all have my sincere gratitude.

xi

Note on the Text

All translations in this book, unless otherwise noted, are mine. Although it is common practice to italicize “apocryphal” works to distinguish them from “canonical” texts, I have chosen to italicize all ancient book titles. Nag Hammadi texts are followed by parentheses (e.g., II,1) indicating the codex and number of the treatise among the Nag Hammadi codices.

xiii

Abbreviations

Abbreviations of ancient texts and modern works in this volume follow the SBL Handbook of Style, 2nd ed. (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014). Other abbreviations are as follows. AAH  Against All Heresies = Adversus Omnes Haereses by “Pseudo-Tertullian” AH Against Heresies by Irenaeus of Lyons BG Berlin Gnostic Codex CH Corpus Hermeticum CPJ Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum DGWE  Dictionary of Gnosis and Western Esotericism, ed. Wouter Hanegraaff Exegesis Exegesis of the Soul HE Historia Ecclesiastica by Eusebius of Caesarea LCL Loeb Classical Library NHC Nag Hammadi Codex Or. Oration(s) PG Patrologiae Cursus Completus. Series Graeca Ref. Refutation of All Heresies, ed. M. David Litwa SH Stobaean Hermetica SHA Historia Augusta Testimony Testimony of Truth Thomas Gospel of Thomas

xv

Introduction Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

A gloom seems to billow like a fog over the earliest Alexandrian church history, and scholars have but rarely espied more than a candle light glistening over the deep. The dictum of Adolf von Harnack is often on historians’ lips: “The worst gap in our knowledge of early church history is our almost total ignorance of the history of Christianity in Alexandria and Egypt … up until 180 ad.”1 Other scholars offer somewhat rueful restatements: “The obscurity that veils the early history of the Church in Egypt … does not lift until the beginning of the third century”;2 “there are only the sketchiest indications of the presence of Christianity in Alexandria before the last years of the second century”;3 “we hear next to nothing of an Alexandrian Christian community until the end of the second century.”4 1

2 3 4

Harnack, The Mission and Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries, trans. James Moffatt, 2 vols. (London: Williams & Norgate, 1908), 2.158 (“Die empfindlichste Lücke in unserem Wissen von der ältesten Kirchengeschichte ist unsere fast vollständige Unkenntnis der Geschichte des Christentums in Alexandria und Ägypten … bis zum Jahre c. 180”). Colin Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt (London: Oxford University Press, 1979), 1. Roger S. Bagnall, ed., Roman Egypt: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 152. Martin Ritter, “Das frühchristliche Alexandrien im Spannungsfeld zwischen Judenchristentum, ‘Frühkatholizismus’ und Gnosis – zur Ortsbestimmung clementischalexandrinischer Theologie,” in Charisma und Caritas: Aufsätze zur Geschichte der Alten Kirche (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 117–138 at 125: “Gleichwohl ist bis zum Ende des zweiten Jahrhunderts so gut wie nichts von einer alexandrinischen Christengemeinde zur hören” (emphasis in original). Cf. also Malcolm Choat, Jitse Dijkstra, Christopher Haas, and William Tabbernee, “The World of the Nile,” in Early Christianity in Contexts: An Exploration across Cultures and Continents, ed. William Tabbernee (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2014), 181–222 at 207.

1

2

Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

For some historians, the history of Christianity in Alexandria does not genuinely begin until the rise of Demetrius as bishop in 189 ce.5 In a widely cited history, Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski refers to “the sudden emergence of an Alexandrian Christian community, sprung up overnight” in the Severan period (late second–early third century ce).6 Problematically, this observation all too easily bypasses Christian figures like Basilides, Isidore, Carpocrates, Epiphanes, Marcellina, Valentinus, Julius Cassianus, Prodicus, and other Christian thinkers in early to midsecond-century Alexandria. Perhaps all this is to be expected. Experts in patristics have traditionally focused on those figures that were received as “orthodox” by the father of church history, Eusebius of Caesarea (263–339 ce). Eusebius focused on Pantaenus, Clement, Demetrius, and Origen as his religious forbearers in Alexandria. This book, by contrast, focuses on the Christian texts and figures that have been, until recently, shunted into the category of “apocryphal,” “gnostic,” and “heretical.” The focus, in other words, is on figures whom Eusebius did not recognize as fathers of his Christian group in the early fourth century ce. To be sure, the frequent lament that we lack sources for Alexandrian Christianity prior to 180 ce is justified to a certain degree. In my estimation, however, the darkness is often overdrawn. Samuel Rubenson, for example, remarks that “there is almost no information in any sources about Christianity in Alexandria until the end of the second century A.D.”7 In fact, there are considerable sources indicating Alexandrian Christian figures and movements prior to 200. Some of these sources, such as the Apocalypse of Peter and the Epistle of Barnabas, have been known for a long time. Others, such as the Letter of Eugnostus, have more recently appeared from the Nag Hammadi codices. Naturally, one can dispute whether these works are Alexandrian, but one cannot dispute, I think, the relevance of Alexandrian works from the likes of 5

6 7

Stephen J. Davis, for instance, leaps from “Saint Mark to Demetrius” in The Early Coptic Papacy: The Egyptian Church and Its Leadership in Late Antiquity (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2004), 1–20. A similar leap occurs in Lois M. Farag, “The Early Christian Period (42–642): The Spread and Defense of the Christian Faith under Roman Rule,” in The Coptic Christian Heritage: History, Faith and Culture, ed. Lois M. Farag (London: Routledge, 2014), 23–38. Joseph Modrzejewski, The Jews of Egypt from Ramses II to Emperor Trajan, trans. Robert Cornman (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 227. Samuel Rubenson, “From School to Patriarchate: Aspects on the Christianisation of Alexandria,” in Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot, ed. George Hinge and Jens A. Krasilnikoff (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2009), 144–157 at 145.



Bauer and His Critics

3

Basilides, Carpocrates, Epiphanes, and Julius Cassianus. Of course, the works of such figures exist in fragments and polemical summaries – but when combined and critically sifted, the data are substantial and worthy of more scholarly attention.

Bauer and His Critics Every scholar of early Christianity knows Walter Bauer’s theory about the predominance of “gnostic” forms of Christianity in first- and secondcentury Egypt. Bauer’s influential paradigm continues to inform research till this day.8 A fairly current statement by the seasoned patrologist Manlio Simonetti basically confirms Bauer’s view. Simonetti writes: The sparse evidence we have [for earliest Christianity in Alexandria] does allow us to hypothesize a virtually absolute cultural dominance of the gnostics for a good part of the 2nd c., especially of those who professed more philosophically elaborate doctrines and were also the most Christianized (Basilides, Valentinus and his disciples); this is not surprising if we consider how the culturally syncretistic tendencies of the gnostics harmonized with the intellectual vivacity of cultured Alexandria and the different influences at work there (Greek philosophical doctrines, Hellenized Judaism, Eastern religions, apocalyptic literature). Gnosticism presented itself as a kind of superior knowledge with respect to that of the ordinary Christian and thus took hold, esp. among the more cultured and intellectually ambitious of Christian society who were also those of higher social status.9

Simonetti’s remarks are astute. Since his time, however, many scholars have – rightly, in my view – jettisoned the macro-category “Gnosticism.”10 They do so for many reasons. Labeling Valentinus, Basilides, and other teachers “G/gnostics” obscures their more patent Christian identity. “Gnosticism” has in the past been viewed as a religion in its own right, 8

It appears prominently in works like Bart Ehrman, Lost Christianities: The Battles for Scripture and the Faiths We Never Knew (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 9 Manlio Simonetti, “Alexandria,” in Encyclopedia of Ancient Christianity, Volume 1, A–E, ed. Angelo di Berardino (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2014), 78–81 at 79. According to Birger Pearson, “Christian Gnosticism, in various manifestations, was the dominant form of Christianity in Alexandria until the last quarter of the second century, particularly during the last decade” (“Earliest Christianity in Egypt,” in The World of Early Egyptian Christianity: Language, Literature, and Social Context: Essays in Honor of David W. Johnson, ed. James E. Goehring and Janet A. Timbie [Washington, DC: CUA Press, 2007], 97–112 at 111). 10 Michael Williams, Rethinking “Gnosticism”: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); Karen L. King, What Is Gnosticism? (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2003).

4

Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

distinct from both early Judaism and Christianity.11 “Gnostic” became a heresiological label for a great variety of groups with a whole panoply of characteristics (dualism, anticosmism, an evil creator, the notion of a divine spark, and so on).12 It is almost impossible to control which characteristics filter into the larger category of “Gnosticism,” despite the fact that some scholars have tried to offer more nuanced definitions of the phenomenon.13 Recent studies have convincingly shown that figures such as Basilides, Valentinus, and Carpocrates were not “gnostic” since they do not match the predetermined and often negatively colored features of “Gnosticism.”14 While Bauer’s paradigm must be redrawn, his advances need not be discarded. Recently, Bauer’s notions of “doctrinal pluriformity” in Alexandria and the prominence of “individual teachers” has been dismissed as a “neatly drawn conspiracy theory.”15 To be sure, one could overly emphasize the idea that later theologians wanted to drown the voices of early Alexandrian theologians who did not conform to later ideals. At the same time, I do not find anything conspiratorial about the claim that the earliest known Christian theologians in Alexandria – indeed, the earliest known speculative theologians anywhere – were Valentinus, Basilides, and Carpocrates, all of whom are dated by Clement to the reign of Hadrian (117–138 ce).16 Prodicus apparently appeared somewhat

11

12 13

14

15

16

Hans Jonas, The Gnostic Religion: The Message of the Alien God and the Beginnings of Christianity, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 1963); Gilles Quispel, Gnosis als Weltreligion: Die Bedeutung der Gnosis in der Antike, 3rd ed. (Bern: Origo, 1995); Birger Pearson, “Gnosticism as a Religion,” in Gnosticism and Christianity in Roman and Coptic Egypt (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 201–223. Ugo Bianchi, ed., Le Origini dello Gnosticismo: Colloquio di Messina 13–18 Aprile 1966 (Leiden: Brill, 1967). Christoph Markschies, Gnosis: An Introduction (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 16–17; April D. DeConick, “Crafting Gnosis: Gnostic Spirituality in the Ancient New Age,” in Gnosticism, Platonism and the Late Ancient World: Essays in Honour of John D. Turner, ed. Kevin Corrigan and Tuomas Rasimus, NHMS 82 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 287–305. Christoph Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus? Untersuchungen zur valentinianischen Gnosis mit einem Kommentar zu den Fragmenten Valentins, WUNT 65 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992); Winrich A. Löhr, Basilides und seine Schule: Eine Studie zur Theologie- und Kirchengeschichte des zweiten Jahrhunderts, WUNT 83 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996); M. David Litwa, Carpocrates, Marcellina and Epiphanes: Three Early Christian Teachers of Alexandria and Rome (London: Routledge, 2022). Tabbernee, et al., “World of the Nile,” 207. See further Thomas Robinson, The Bauer Thesis Examined: The Geography of Heresy in the Early Christian Church (Lewiston: Mellen, 1988). Clement, Strom. 7.17.106.4–7.17.107.1.



Bauer and His Critics

5

later, as did Julius Cassianus, Isidore (Basilides’s son), Marcellina, and Epiphanes (the lst two being disciples of Carpocrates). So the question still looms: Was Bauer on the right track when he discussed earliest Christianity in Alexandria? The only way to answer this question is to do something not often done these days – to engage directly with Bauer’s work, Orthodoxy and Heresy. When one takes a fresh look at his chapter on Egypt, there is a mix of both surprise and dismay. Bauer began by lamenting the darkness obscuring earliest Alexandrian Christianity. Yet he barely mentioned Basilides, Carpocrates, Isidore, Julius Cassianus, and other known Alexandrian theologians.17 Instead, he turned to Eusebius. Some of Bauer’s remarks on this score have become famous (for instance, that the names of Eusebius’s Alexandrian bishops are, until 189 ce, “a mere echo and a puff of smoke”).18 Generally speaking, however, statements about the “deathly silence” of earliest Alexandrian church history were already hackneyed and do not take us very far.19 Bauer tried to eliminate sources for reconstructing earliest Alexandrian Christianity. He rightly rejected as spurious the letter of Hadrian to Servianus as quoted by “Flavius Vopiscus” in the fourth-century Historia Augusta.20 Surprisingly, Bauer attempted to discard the Epistle of Barnabas – not because it was not Alexandrian, but because it was not (or is not) “orthodox.” Today, his arguments in this regard seem particularly weak: Barnabas “seems docetic” and its Christology contains nothing “anti-heretical.”21 The first claim is incorrect and the latter is one of Bauer’s (in)famous arguments from silence. 17 18

19 20

21

Walter Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity, ed. Robert A. Kraft and Gerhard Krodel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971), 48–49. A century ago Andreas Heckel tried to show numerical patterns in the lists of Alexandrian bishops (Die Kirche von Ägypten: Ihre Anfänge, ihre Organisation und ihre Entwicklung bis zur Zeit des Nicänum [Strasbourg: J.S.Ed. Heitz, 1918], 13–43). The Suda (1.4695) says that the Alexandrian novel writer Achilles “Statius” (aka “Tatius”) became a Christian bishop (ἐπίσκοπος) – a development that would interrupt the neat list of bishops (re)produced by Eusebius. Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy 45. SHA, Vita Saturnini 8. See further Alessandro Galimberti, “The pseudo-Hadrianic Epistle in the Historia Augusta and Hadrian’s Religious Policy,” in Hadrian and the Christians, ed. Marco Rizzi (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 111–120; Francesco Massa, “Devotees of Serapis and Christ? A Literary Representation of Religious Cohabitations in the 4th Cent.,” in Beyond Conflicts: Cultural and Religious Cohabitations in Alexandria and Egypt between the First and the Sixth Century CE, ed. Luca Arcari, STAC 103 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 263–282. Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy 47–48.

6

Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

Another of Bauer’s arguments is better known, yet no less problematic: Since the Gospel According to the Egyptians arose in Egypt, and since it is “heretical,” earliest Egyptian Christianity must also have been heretical.22 At present, one winces to see a person of Bauer’s intellectual stature make such a simplistic and value-laden argument. Yet it gets worse: The Gospel of the Hebrews – which has “nothing to do” with the Gospel of the Hebrews mentioned by Jerome and Epiphanius – must have been written by “Jewish Christians of Alexandria.”23 This means, according to Bauer, that the Gospel According to the Egyptians was written by Gentile Christians, who also were also “gnostic.” Today, these arguments appear erroneous because they are based on wrong assumptions: First, that we can separate, in a vast cosmopolis like Alexandria, a distinct Jewish and Gentile Christian mindset; and second, that we can speak of a concrete division between “orthodoxy” and “heresy” in this period. Bauer of course knew that these “two types of Christianity were not yet at all clearly differentiated from each other,” but he still used “orthodoxy” and “heresy” as his main analytical categories.24 As most scholars today acknowledge, the use of these – essentially religious – categories are anachronistically applied to first- and secondcentury forms of Christianity. If we abandon the “orthodoxy vs. heresy” binary, we can begin to evaluate the accuracy of Bauer’s smaller claims. To my mind, for instance, Bauer was basically correct that orthodox Christians of the fourth century ce and beyond wanted (selectively) to forget certain figures in earliest Alexandrian Christianity or to categorize them as something other than Christian.

Eusebius Take, for instance, Eusebius. Eusebius had many aims in writing his Ecclesiastical History. One of these was to define those whom he considered to be Christians – to relate their story, and to disqualify certain competitors as “savage wolves” (Acts 20:29).25 Sometimes Eusebius mentioned these perceived competitors – people such as Simon of Samaria, Basilides, Marcion, and Carpocrates. Yet there are several – and 22 23 24 25

Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy 50. Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy 51–52. Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy 59. Eusebius, HE 1.1.1.



Eusebius

7

several distinctly Alexandrian – figures whom Eusebius did not mention at all. One will look in vain, for instance, for Isidore (son of Basilides), Epiphanes (son of Carpocrates), Marcellina (disciple of Carpocrates), Prodicus, and Julius Cassianus.26 It is also significant that Eusebius omitted Ptolemy and Heracleon (disciples of Valentinus), who seem to have spent time in Alexandria. All these figures are missing – despite the fact that Eusebius knew them from his reading of Irenaeus and Clement. When Eusebius did not have data for earliest Alexandrian Christianity, he chose to report his own party’s late and unreliable foundation legend. According to Eusebius, Mark the evangelist was the first missionary and bishop of Alexandria, a legend that was not apparently known to two of the most famous Alexandrian theologians, Clement and Origen. Both of these theologians – despite their voluminous literary remains – never mentioned it. (Nor, significantly, did Irenaeus or the mid-third-century Alexandrian bishop Dionysius.) Eusebius cited no specific source for his legend, transmitting only a vague report led by “they say” (φασίν):27 They say that this Mark was the first dispatched to Egypt to preach the gospel which he had composed, and that he was the first to found churches at Alexandria itself. In that place such a vast multitude of men and women who believed came together at the first attempt in such a philosophic and serious discipline that Philo decided to inscribe their studies, meetings, banquets, and their whole mode of life.28

Eusebius here referred to Philo of Alexandria’s Contemplative Life, which described a Jewish ascetic group in the mid–first century (the “Therapeutae”).29 No contemporary historian, to my knowledge, 26 27

28 29

Eusebius may refer to Julius Cassianus as a chronographer in HE 6.13.7, but he did not seem to recognize him as the one attacked by Clement in Strom. 3.13.91–95. Melissa (formerly Philip) Sellew noted the problem: “Eusebius’s typical use of the verb φασί seems to be to report traditions for which he has no clear written authority … it would be more precise to say that Eusebius normally cites a tradition with the verb φασί when repeating oral legends” (“Eusebius and the Gospels,” in Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism, ed. Harold Attridge and Gohei Hata [Leiden: Brill, 1992], 110–138 at 117). Ilaria L. E. Ramelli argues that since Eusebius did not mention the Alexandria connection in Dem. Ev. 3.5.89–95, the report about Mark in Alexandria must have come from Clement (“The Birth of the Rome-Alexandria Connection: The Early Sources on Mark and Philo and the Petrine Tradition,” SPhA 23 [2011]: 69–95 at 77–78). This is neither a necessary nor a plausible deduction. Eusebius, HE 2.16.1–2. See further David M. Hay, “Foils for the Therapeutae: References to Other Texts and Persons in Philo’s De Vita Contemplativa,” in Neotestamentica et Philonica: Studies in Honor of Peder Borgen, ed. David Aune, Torrey Seland, and Jarl Henning Ulrichsen (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 330–348; Mary Ann Beavis, “Philo’s Therapeutai: Philosopher’s

8

Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

believes that the Therapeutae – despite the insistence of Eusebius – were Christians. Some scholars doubt the very existence of the Therapeutae.30 The claim connected to it – that Mark came to Alexandria – can be firmly traced no earlier than Eusebius.31 Other fourth-century sources were unfamiliar with this foundation legend, for example the author of the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies.32 Eusebius’s (sub)apostolic founding of Alexandria may reflect developments in his own time. If we examine his Chronicle, we note that by 42 ce, Eusebius had Peter installed as first bishop of Rome. The very next year, Peter’s “interpreter,” Mark, announced his gospel in Alexandria (43 ce). This was one year before the first bishop of Antioch, Evodius, was installed in that city.33 Thus we have an implicit episcopal ranking of the churches in Eusebius’s day: first Rome, then Alexandria – who receives Peter’s “son” Mark (1 Pet 5:13) – then Antioch. In terms of chronology, 43 ce seems a bit late for the debut of the Jesus movement(s) in Alexandria. If Acts 2:10 presents a plausible scenario (people from “Egypt” hear Peter on Pentecost), then Jews on pilgrimage from Egypt to Jerusalem should have brought back lore about Jesus to Egypt between 30 and 35 ce – assuming the date of Jesus’s death to be around 30 ce.34

30

31

32 33

34

Dream or Utopian Construction,” JSP 14.1 (2004): 30–42; Joan E. Taylor, Jewish Women Philosophers of First-Century Alexandria: Philo’s Therapeutae Reconsidered (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). On Eusebius’s reception of the Therapeutae, see David T. Runia, Philo in Early Christian Literature: A Survey (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 216–222; Sabrina Inowlocki, “Eusebius of Caesarea’s Interpretatio Christiana of Philo’s De vita contemplativa,” HTR 97:3 (2004): 305–328; Joan E. Taylor and David M. Hay, Philo of Alexandria on the Contemplative Life: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, PACS 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 45–51. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, “Philo’s De Vita Contemplativa as a Philosopher’s Dream,” JSJ 30:1 (1999): 40–64; cf. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Unreliable Witnesses: Religion, Gender, and History in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 57–116. The evidence of Clement’s Letter to Theodore reputedly discovered by Morton Smith in 1958 must be bracketed because the letter is a suspected forgery of the fourth or twentieth century. See Litwa, Carpocrates 163–200; Geoffrey S. Smith and Brent C. Landau, The Secret Gospel of Mark: A Controversial Scholar, a Scandalous Gospel of Jesus, and the Fierce Debate over Its Authenticity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2023). Ps.-Clement, Hom. 1.8.3–1.14.7. Rudolf Helm, ed., Eusebius Werke Siebenter Band – Die Chronik des Hieronymus: Hieronymi Chronicon (Berlin: Akademie, 1956), 179. The Armenian version presents the date of Mark’s arrival as 41 ce (A. Schöne, ed. Eusebi Chronicorum canonum quae supersunt [Berlin: Weidmann, 1866]). Rainer Riesner, Paul’s Early Period: Chronology, Mission Strategy, Theology, trans. Doug Stott (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 52–58.



Eusebius

9

One suspects that the Mark legend is a countertradition crafted to oppose the assertion that Glaucias came to Alexandria and taught Basilides, the first known speculative Christian theologian of Alexandria.35 Both Glaucias and Mark were said not only to be disciples of Peter; they were both named his “interpreter.”36 Accordingly, both were thought to be (sub)apostolic missionaries to Alexandria. The Glaucias tradition is attested by Clement who ascribed the datum to Basilides himself. Clement wrote more than a century before Eusebius. Basilides, by Eusebius’s own reckoning, was Hadrianic (117–138 ce). Obviously we are gazing into the mirror of reception; there is no reliable evidence that “apostolic” missionaries came to Alexandria at all. The push to make Alexandria an apostolic foundation can be traced to the early second century ce. The author of Acts strove hard to find apostolic founders for many areas: Peter and John for Samaria (Acts 8), Peter for Joppa and Caesarea (Acts 10), Paul for Ephesus, Corinth, and Rome (Acts 18–19, 28). If he could have found an apostolic founder for Alexandria, presumably he would have. The fact is, the author of Acts shows almost no interest in Alexandria (see Chapter 2). In light of these problems, it is intriguing to hear a modern historian such as Birger Pearson observe that “Eusebius’s instinct [in HE 2.17.2] is correct … when he stresses that the ‘apostolic men’ in Alexandria during Philo’s time were ‘of Hebrew origin and thus still preserved most of the ancient customs in a strictly Jewish manner.’” Pearson added some cautionary remarks, affirming, as is customary, the lack of secure data. In the end, however, he still concluded that “there can hardly be any question that the earliest missionaries to Alexandria were Jews coming from Jerusalem and that the earliest Christian converts were Jews.”37 35

36

37

Clement, Strom. 7.17.106.4. See the comments of Löhr, Basilides 19–23. In his Chronicle, Eusebius had Basilides “sojourn” (commoratur) in Alexandria in 132 ce (Helm, Chronik 201). This does not mean that Basilides only appeared at this date. Γλαυκίαν … τὸν Πέτρου ἑρμηνέα (Basilides in Clement, Strom. 7.17.106.4). Μάρκος μὲν ἑρμενευτὴς Πέτρου (Papias in Eusebius, HE 3.39.15). Löhr considers the Mark-asinterpreter tradition earlier than the Glaucias-as-interpreter tradition because the former comes from Papias (“Christliche ‘Gnostiker’ in Alexandria im zweiten Jahrhundert,” in Alexandria, ed, Tobias Georges, Felix Albrecht, and Reinhard Feldmeier [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013], 413–433 at 420). But Basilideans would not have tried to compete with the Papian tradition, since Papias never placed Mark in Alexandria. I disagree with Bentley Layton (“The Significance of Basilides in Ancient Christian Thought,” Representations 28 [1989]: 135–151 at 146) that Glaucias was τὸν Πέτρου ἑρμηνέα because he interpreted 1 Peter. Birger Pearson, “Christians and Jews in First-Century Alexandria,” in Gnosticism and Christianity 82–99 at 88. Cf. Ramelli, “Rome–Alexandria Connection,” 78–79. Despite

10

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In fact, we can question both points on the grounds that Pearson himself stated: There is simply no reliable evidence. The tradition that “Mark,” a Jerusalemite Jew (Acts 12:12), came to Alexandria and ­converted those who became the Therapeutae is, for all we know, miles away from the truth. The Egyptians mentioned in Acts 2:10 were not missionaries, they are not called Alexandrians, and they may, after immigrating, have been permanent residents in Jerusalem (Acts 2:5).38 So why would a scholar such as Pearson follow Eusebius’s fourth-century “instinct”? The answer, it seems, is the work that Pearson cites: the 1979 study of Colin H. Roberts, Manuscript, Society and Belief. In this short work, Roberts argued, against Bauer, that Valentinus and Basilides must have been part of a larger context of “orthodox” Christian teachers – even though there is no early second-century evidence for those later recognized as “orthodox” until Pantaenus about 180 ce.39 Roberts further argued that there are no “Gnostic papyri” during the first two centuries, with the exception of an Oxyrhynchus fragment from the Gospel of Thomas.40 (Third-century fragments of the Gospel of Mary and the Wisdom of Jesus Christ are extant, among several other Christian gospels.)41 In my view, it is wrong to call Robert’s point “a powerful argument” against Bauer’s view for several reasons.42 First of all, “Gnostic” (which

38

39 40

41

42

refinements, Pearson’s thesis has remained consistent over the years. See his “Earliest Christianity in Egypt: Some Observations,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity, ed. Birger Pearson and James E. Goehring (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986), 132–160; Birger Pearson, “Gnosticism in Early Egyptian Christianity,” in Gnosticism, Judaism and Egyptian Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 194–214; Birger Pearson, “Cracking a Conundrum: Christian Origins in Egypt,” Studia Theologica 57 (2003): 61–75. Similar views are put forward by Attila Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina: Évolution sociale et institutionnelle du christianisme alexandrin (IIe et IIIe siècles) (Bern: Peter Lang, 2001), 49–53. The list of peoples in Acts 2:7–11 seems originally to have identified major Jewish communities in the Diaspora. For its function, see J. A. Brinkman, “The Literary Background of the ‘Catalogue of Nations’ (Acts 2,9–11),” CBQ 25 (1963): 418–427; A. J. M. Wedderburn, “Traditions and Redaction in Acts 2.1–13,” JSNT 55 (1994): 27–54; G. Gilbert, “The List of Nations in Acts 2: Roman Propaganda and the Lukan Response,” in JBL 121 (2002): 497–529. Roberts, Manuscript 50–51. Roberts, Manuscript 51–52; Lincoln H. Blumell and Thomas A. Wayment, ed. Christian Oxyrhynchus: Texts, Documents, and Sources (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2015), 238–241. See further Joseph van Haelst, Catalogue des Papyrus littéraires juifs et chrétiens (Paris: Sorbonne, 1976), 99–220; Cornelia Römer, “Manichaeism and Gnosticism in the Papyri,” in The Oxford Handbook of Papyrology, ed. Roger S. Bagnall (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 623–643 at 626–632. Pace David Brakke, “The East (2): Egypt and Palestine,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 344–363 at 347.



Eusebius

11

Roberts capitalized) is a problematic category. Probably no persons and almost certainly no papyri can be stably labeled “Gnostic,” since virtually all the criteria for determining what is “Gnostic” are contested. Second, the papyrological evidence is unevenly preserved and not representative of Alexandria or of Egypt as a whole. We simply do not know what early Christians were reading in second-century Alexandria because the papyrological evidence for this city has virtually disappeared. Third, if only literature later deemed canonical survived, that would not prove that the literature was “gnostic” or “orthodox,” because Christians of all sorts used this literature.43 It was the interpretation of books such as Genesis and John that matters for Roberts’s observations, not the texts themselves.44 Second-century readers of the Gospel of Thomas would not have called themselves “unorthodox.” And figures later claimed for “orthodoxy” – such as Clement – might have selectively approved the material from the Gospel of Thomas just as he did with the Gospel According to the Egyptians.45 (As is widely known, Thomas overlaps considerably with Synoptic material, widely considered authoritative by Clement’s time.) Incidentally, a similar point applies to the well-known discovery of a fragment of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies (P.Oxy 405), which has long been dated to the late second or early third century ce.46 Roberts dated this papyrus to the late second century, famously remarking that “Irenaeus’ treatise Adversus Haereses … reached Oxyrhynchus not long after the ink was dry on the author’s manuscript.”47 Roberts took the papyrus to be evidence of “the orthodox reaction against Gnosticism.”48 His interpretation is often repeated.49 Problematically, Roberts had no sure knowledge about who was using Irenaeus’s manuscript and for what purpose. Perhaps this papyrus was

43

44

45 46 47 48 49

Roberts later admitted this point: “the strength of Gnosticism cannot be simply estimated by the ratio of specifically Gnostic books to others, and the striking number of texts both of the Fourth Gospel and of Genesis may well reflect the strength of Gnosticism” (Manuscript 60). Gerhard Luttikhuizen, Gnostic Revisions of Genesis Stories and Early Jesus Traditions (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Tuomas Rasimus, ed., The Legacy of John: Second-Century Reception of the Fourth Gospel (Leiden: Brill 2009); Juan Chapa, “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Gospel of John in Egypt,” VC 64 (2010): 327–352. Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.2–3.13.93.3. Blumell and Wayment, Christian Oxyrhynchus 287–290. Roberts, Manuscript 53. Roberts, Manuscript 53. Tabbernee, for instance, claims that “[t]he interest in heterodox interpretations of Christianity is confirmed by a page from Irenaeus’s Adversus haereses (L[euven]

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in Rome during the late second century and only came to Egypt in the third (or later). Or perhaps the readers of this papyrus did not in fact support Irenaeus’s point of view and they read Against Heresies in order to refute it. The point is that we cannot make the error of inferring from a material artifact something about the religious mindset of its users. We do not actually know which Christians used the papyri dating from the second and third centuries, and thus we are not in a position to judge their affiliation.50 It should, finally, be noted that the earliest Christian papyri in Egypt date from the late second century. No Christian papyri, to my knowledge, reliably dates to the late first or even to the early second century ce – the crucial time for Christian origins in Alexandria. P52 (PRyl. 3.45752), the famous fragment of John 19, is not an exception,51 as Brent Nongbri has shown.52 It is unwise, then, to make any firm conclusions about the nature of earliest Christianity and/or Christians in Alexandria from the surviving papyri. Robert’s argument based on the nomina sacra in the papyri also falls short of cogency. The papyrologist was already skating on thin ice when he opined that the nomina sacra derived from the Jerusalem church – a church that Roberts imagined as a center of translocal Christian authority by about 50 ce.53 In this case, Roberts seems to have assumed the idealistic history of Acts. Yet the apologetic history of

50

51

52

53

D[atabase] of A[ncient] B[ooks] 2459 [II/III]), being read in Oxyrhynchus within decades of its composition in Gaul” (“World of the Nile” 190). See also Theodore Hall Patrick, Traditional Egyptian Christianity: A History of the Coptic Orthodox Church (Greensboro: Fisher Park Press, 1996), 4. See further Roger S. Bagnall, Early Christian Books in Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009); AnneMarie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord: Early Christians and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008); Brent Nongbri, God’s Library: The Archaeology of Early Christian Manuscripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019). Pace Wilfred C. Griggs, Early Egyptian Christianity from Its Origins to 451 ce (Leiden: Brill, 1990), 25–26; Simon C. Mimouni, “À la recherche de la communauté chrétienne d’Alexandrie aux I-II siècles,” in Origeniana Octava: Origen and the Alexandrian Tradition, ed. L. Perrone (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2003), 137–164 at 145. Brent Nongbri, “The Use and Abuse of P52: Papyrological Pitfalls in the Dating of the Fourth Gospel,” HTR 98:1 (2005): 23–48; Nongbri, “Paleography, Precision and Publicity: Further Thoughts on Ryl. III.457 (P52),” NTS 66 (2020): 471–499; Pasquale Orsini and Willy Clarysse, “Early New Testament Manuscripts and Their Dates: A Critique of Theological Paleography,” Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 88:4 (2012): 443–474. Roberts, Manuscript 44–46.

Eusebius



13

Acts, which could be as late as the mid–second century, cannot be used as evidence that the nomina sacra developed in a Christian scriptorium of Jerusalem.54 Still, Roberts concluded that since the nomina sacra appear in the earliest Christian papyri (found in Egypt), they prove the connection of the Egyptian church(es) to the Judeo-Christian church in Jerusalem. This hypothetical connection, based on a shaky and speculative theory – even if granted – can only tell us about the late second century when the earliest surviving nomina appear. The nomina sacra confirm nothing about Alexandrian Christianity in the first and early second centuries ce. Perhaps it should also be mentioned that, although Roberts’s arguments have often been invoked to refute Bauer, Roberts himself did not view matters this way. Naturally, Roberts disagreed with Bauer insofar as he took him to be saying that, up until about 150 ce, the Alexandrian church was solely or, as Roberts puts it, “essentially Gnostic.” (Bauer in fact acknowledged diversity as can be seen in his argument about two different communities using the Gospel According to the Hebrews and the Gospel According to the Egyptians.) Yet Roberts himself observed that “down to the middle of the second century or beyond … Gnosticism was undoubtedly very influential.”55 He later noted that “for much of the second century it [the Alexandrian church] was a church with no strong central authority and little organization; one of the directions in which it developed was certainly Gnosticism, but a Gnosticism not initially separated from the rest of the Church.”56 These comments retain validity but are problematically formulated. Roberts presupposed a binary between “Gnosticism” and “the Church,” which, according to him, were ideologically – but not sociologically – separate. This false binary is exactly what invalidates many of Roberts’s other arguments. For example, Roberts claimed the nomina sacra for “orthodoxy” on the grounds that they include “Old Testament terms such as Israel and David.”57 Roberts assumed that “Gnostics” rejected the Old Testament and would not have sacralized these terms. His inference is based on an overgeneralization, namely “Gnostic” hostility to the Old Testament. If Roberts had studied actual texts that he classified as “Gnostic,” he would have seen, in many cases, extensive engagement 54 55 56 57

See nn. 59–60. Roberts, Manuscript 43. Roberts, Manuscript 71. Roberts, Manuscript 43.

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with the Old Testament as scripture (among the Valentinians, Julius Cassianus, and the Naassenes, for instance). According to Roberts, “Gnostics” used the nomina sacra, but they did not invent them. Yet I see no reason why a scribe in the circle of Valentinus, working about 125 ce, could not have invented some of the nomina sacra – including the abbreviations for “Israel” and “Jerusalem.”58 Early Christians, of course, had all manner of theories about “the true Israel” and the “Jerusalem above.” In fact, one can turn Roberts’s argument on its head: Perhaps a Valentinian or a student of Eugnostus sacralized the term ἄνθρωπος (“human”), because he or she considered ἄνθρωπος to be a divine entity (the famous “God-Human”).59 Or perhaps a Valentinian created the abbreviation for μήτηρ out of reverence for Mother Wisdom. If so, later “orthodox” scribes would have, in these cases, accepted “gnostic” nomina sacra, not the reverse. In the end, however, we do better simply to jettison a dualism between “gnostic” and “orthodox.”60 To be fair, Roberts was a careful scholar and a fine papyrologist. It should be pointed out, however, that when he ventured into the thickets of earliest Alexandrian Christian history, his inferences were not reliable. Accordingly, when later historians – most of whom are not experts in papyrology – almost uniformly appeal to and accept Roberts’s inferences without much interrogation, there is cause for concern.61

58 59

60

61

For the Valentinian use of Israel and Jerusalem, see Clement, Exc. 56.5; Apoc. Paul (V,2) 18.5, 18 (the latter line reconstructed). Roberts knew of the “Gnostic usage” of ἄνθρωπος, but he vouched for an “orthodox” derivation from “Jesus as Son of Man” (Manuscript 40). Roberts’s theory has been undermined by Christopher Tuckett, “‘Nomina Sacra’: Yes and No?,” in The Biblical Canons, ed. J. M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 431–458 at 451–452. Larry W. Hurtado’s treatment of the nomina sacra continues in the speculative and theological vein of Roberts (The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006], 95–134). See further S. D. Charlesworth, “Consensus Standardization in the Systematic Approach to ‘Nomina Sacra’ in Second- and ThirdCentury Gospel Manuscripts,” Aegyptus 86 (2006): 37–68; Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord 57–80; Kristin de Troyer, “The Pronunciation of the Name of God with Some Notes regarding Nomina Sacra,” in Gott Nennen: Gottes Namen und Gott als Name, ed. Ingold U. Dalferth and Phillip Stoellger (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 143–172. Many scholars have appealed to Roberts against Bauer, e.g., Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina 61; Mimouni, “À la recherche,” 148; Patrick, Traditional Egyptian Christianity 3; James Carleton Paget, Jews, Christians, and Jewish Christians in Antiquity (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 137, n.89; Löhr, “Christliche ‘Gnostiker,’” 413; Michael Kok, Gospel on the Margins (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 168; Benjamin Schliesser, “Jewish Beginnings,” in Alexandria: Hub of the Hellenistic World, ed. Benjamin Schliesser et al. (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2021), 390–391.



Theses and Roadmap

15

Theses and Roadmap Now that we have set the scholarly scene, it is time to relate the plan of this book. This is not a history of Alexandria as such. Those interested in the broader history of Alexandria – its economy, topography, archaeology, cults, coins (and so on) – can peruse a cornucopia of recent books.62 This is a work on earliest Christianity in Alexandria. By no means does it attempt to resurrect Bauer’s paradigm. As already seen, it rejects any simplistic binary between “Gnostic” and “orthodox” groups of Jesus’s followers in Alexandria. These are later categories mostly imposed on the figures discussed here. In actuality, both types of figures were part of a larger and more complex web of entangled discourses and identities that cannot be simply pried apart. I propose that Christianity in Alexandria, if we call it that, appealed to Gentile populations in Alexandria from a fairly early period (the mid to late first century ce). There were of course Christians in Alexandria who remained Jews both in terms of their ethnic descent and religious practice. In the wake of the Diaspora Revolt (115– 117 ce), however, the majority of Alexandrian Christians were multiethnic and not committed to the practice of distinctly Jewish customs (e.g., circumcision, food laws, and Sabbath observance). Third, Alexandrian Christian theology developed a distinctive character. Instead of emphasizing a crucified messiah, Alexandrian Christian theologians underscored themes that intersected with (mainly Platonic and Jewish) theological tendencies, including an idea of a transcendent God distinct from creative agencies, the manifestation of God as a primal Human (theandry), the transmigration of souls, the rejection of

62

E.g., J. G. Milne, Catalogue of Alexandrian Coins (New York: Sanford J. Durst, 1982); J. Paul Getty Museum, Alexandria and Alexandrianism: Papers Delivered at a Symposium Organized by the J. Paul Getty Museum and the Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities and Held at the Museum April 22–25, 1993 (Malibu: J. Paul Getty Museum, 1996); Jean-Yves Empereur, Alexandria Rediscovered (New York George Braziller, 1998); Roger S. Bagnall and Dominic W. Rathbone, ed., Egypt from Alexander to the Early Christians: An Archaeological and Historical Guide (Los Angeles: Paul J. Getty Museum, 2004); Edward J. Watts, City and School in Late Antique Athens and Alexandria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); Judith McKenzie, The Architecture of Alexandria and Egypt c. 300 BC to AD 700 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007); Stefan Pfeiffer, Der römische Kaiser und das Land am Nil: Kaiserverehrung und Kaiserkult in Alexandria und Ägypten von Augustus bis Caracalla (30 v. Chr–217 n. Chr.) (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2010); Thomas Landvatter, “Contact Points: Alexandria a Hellenistic Capital of Egypt,” in Beyond the Nile: Egypt and the Classical World, ed. Jeffrey Spier, Timothy Potts and Sara E. Cole (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2018), 128–134.

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corruptible flesh, and the deification of the mind. Although there was still no dogmatic unity in Alexandrian theology, theologians of a similar Platonizing bent could lay claim to Christian identity by viewing Jesus as the sage who putatively revealed or transmitted such teachings. This book is divided into two parts. Part I primarily lays out the case for my second thesis (that early Christianity in Alexandria moved relatively swiftly to recruit Gentile populations). Part II largely focuses on the third thesis, regarding the distinctive kind of Alexandrian Christian thought that emerged especially after the Diaspora Revolt. Thesis one is argued, implicitly and explicitly, throughout the book. In sum: Christian groups in second-century Alexandria cannot be easily separated from each other whether theologically or sociologically. Instead, a variety of independent teachers competed for attention and followers with no single circle of believers attaining clear (numerical or cultural) dominance.

The Nature of the Evidence This volume is primarily based on two sets of data: (1) data from or based on figures that are more or less securely accepted as originating in Alexandria (for instance, Apollos, Basilides, and Julius Cassianus); and (2) data from texts that are arguably, but not certainly, Alexandrian. In the whole scheme of things, data from set (1) will normally trump data from set (2). Nevertheless, I have chosen to include data from set (2) since I believe that, without it, a full history of earliest Christianity in Alexandria cannot be written. Yet since the data in set (2) depend on arguments about provenance, this topic requires some discussion. Determining provenance is more of an art than a science, but it is an art with rules and method. In this book, there is no pontification on the origins of any text, only hypotheses – for most of the data only allow for hypotheses. Scholarly hypotheses, however, are not like shooting an arrow in the night. The historian is charged to make the best of hypotheses by offering the most probable interpretations of reliable evidence. Even a superficial dip into scholarly literature will show that there are dozens of texts that scholars, at various times and in manifold ways, have claimed for Alexandria. Some of these claims are based on solid evidence along with reasonable interpretations of it, while some – perhaps even many – are not. In some cases, such as the Letter of Diognetus, there is simply insufficient evidence, in my view, to determine provenance. In



The Nature of the Evidence

17

other cases, such as the Gospel According to the Hebrews, the longstanding case for an Alexandrian provenance is surprisingly weak.63 For a limited range of texts, such as Barnabas, the hypothesis of an Alexandrian provenance, in my judgment, is strong. In this book, I focus only on texts that I consider to be in the latter category. In each case, I endeavor, to the best of my ability, to argue the case for an Alexandrian provenance not cursorily but at length, carefully explaining my rationale and not leaning on a presumed consensus. It will be useful to list some of the Christian texts claimed to have been written in second-century Egypt or Alexandria. (The proposed date ranges, of course, both precede and go beyond the second century since datings are rarely precise.) The list is not exhaustive, and I exclude books with a likely terminus a quo in the third century (such as the Teachings of Silvanus and the Origin of the World).64 I cite only the most recently scholarly support of a text’s Alexandrian provenance, and only when a scholar actually makes an argument about provenance. (All too often, an Alexandrian provenance is stated without argument.65) In Table 0.1, I highlight in bold those texts for which I believe a strong case has been made. The reader must peruse the following chapters to see my arguments.66 At this stage, I simply emphasize that – regardless of the strength of my 63

64

65

66

Jörg Frey claims that the Gospel According to the Hebrews was written by “Jewish Christians” in Alexandria (“Die Fragmente des Hebräerevangeliums,” in Antike christliche Apokryphen in deutscher Übersetzung I/1, 593–606 at 598 [with bibliography on 593]). Yet as Andrew Gregory points out, the earliest references to this gospel (by Papias and Hegesippus) do not suggest an Alexandrian provenance (The Gospel According to the Hebrews and the Gospel of the Ebionites, OECGT [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017], 55–56). Internal to the Gospel According to the Hebrews there is little that would suggest an Alexandrian origin. Matthew Twigg has recently argued for an Alexandrian origin of the Apocalypse of Paul and the Gospel of Philip, both of which he dates to the third century. See his The Valentinian Temple: Visions, Revelations, and the Nag Hammadi Apocalypse of Paul (London: Routledge, 2022), 207–208. See the survey of Markus Lang, “Das frühe Ägyptische Christentum: Quellenlage. Forschungslage und-perspektiven,” in Das Ägyptische Christentum im 2. Jahrhundert, ed. Wilhelm Pratscher, Markus Öhler, and Markus Lang (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2008), 9–44. Strong arguments have also been made, in my view, for the following Jewish texts as written in Alexandria: the work of Artapanus, the Letter of Aristeas, the Wisdom of Solomon, Joseph and Asenath, and 2 Enoch. See further C. Böttrich, Das slavische Henochbuch (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995); James H. Charlesworth, The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, 2 vols. (Garden City: Doubleday, 1985), 2.7–34, 889–904; David Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979); Patricia D. Ahearne-Kroll, Asenath of Egypt: The Composition of a Jewish Narrative (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2020), 187–242.

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Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria Table 0.1  Proposed Alexandrian texts

Texts Jude Letter of Barnabas 2 Peter Preaching of Peter Apocalypse of Peter Gospel According to the Egyptians Concept of Our Great Power Exegesis of the Soul Gospel of Thomas 2 Clement Authoritative Teaching Second Treatise of Great Seth Sentences of Sextus Testimony of Truth Eugnostus Gospel of Truth Apocryphon of John Acts of John Protoevangelium of James Coptic Apocalypse of Peter (NHC VII,3) 1

Scholarly support 1

John J. Gunther Claire Rothschild2 Wolfgang Grünstäudl3; Jörg Frey4 Wolfgang Grünstäudl5 Wolfgang Grünstäudl6 Hans-Josef Klauck7; Silke Petersen8; Christoph Markschies9 Francis E. Williams10 Madeleine Scopello11 Ian Phillip Brown12 Wilhelm Pratscher13 Roelof van den Broek14 Gregory Riley15; Louis Painchaud16 Walter Wilson17 Birger Pearson18; Klaus Koschorke19 Anne Pasquier20 Piotr Ashwin-Siejkowski21 Karen King22; Birger Pearson23 Eric Junod and Jean-Daniel Kaestli24 Jan Bremmer25 Wolfgang Grünstäudl26

Approximate date 90–150 ce 97–135 ce 100–200 ce 100–150 ce 120–150 ce 100–160 ce 100–200 ce 100–200 ce 100–140 ce 140–160 ce 160–200 ce 150–200 ce 150–200 ce 150–200 ce 100–200 ce 140–170 ce 170–230 ce 150–200 ce 180–190 ce 190–300 ce

John J. Gunther, “The Alexandrian Epistle of Jude,” NTS 30 (1984): 549–562. 2 Clare K. Rothschild, “Ethiopianising the Devil: ὁ μέλας in Barnabas 4,” NTS 65 (2019): 223–245. 3 Wolfgang Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus: Studien zum historischen und theologischen Ort des zweiten Petrusbriefes, WUNT 2/353 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 184–296. 4 Jörg Frey, “Second Peter in New Perspective,” in 2 Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter: Towards a New Perspective – Radboud Prestige Lectures by Jörg Frey, ed. Jörg Frey, Matthijs den Dulk and Jan G. van der Watt (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 7–74. 5 Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 90–96. 6 Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 97–143. 7 Hans-Josef Klauck, Apocryphal Gospels: An Introduction (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 55. 8 Silke Petersen, Zerstört die Werke der Weiblichkeit: Maria Magdalena, Salome und andere Jüngerinnen Jesu in christlich-gnostischen Schriften (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 79.



The Nature of the Evidence

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9 Markschies, “Das Evangelium nach den Ägyptern,” in Antike christliche Apokryphen I/1, 661–682 at 679. 10 Francis E. Williams, Mental Perception: A Commentary on NHC VI,4 – The Concept of Our Great Power, NHMS 51 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), lxii–lxiv. 11 Madeleine Scopello, L’Exégèse de l’âme. Nag Hammadi Codex (II,6): Introduction, Traduction et Commentaire, NHS 25 (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 100. 12 Brown, “Where Indeed was the Gospel of Thomas Written? Thomas in Alexandria,” JBL 138:2 (2019): 451–472. 13 Wilhelm Pratscher, “Der zweite Clemensbrief als Dokument des ägyptischen Christentums,” in Das ägyptische Christentum im. 2. Jahrhundert 81–100; Christopher Tuckett lists other scholars who propose an Egyptian provenance for 2 Clement (2 Clement: Introduction, Text and Commentary, Oxford Apostolic Fathers [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012], 61, n.10). Tuckett himself, however, seems agnostic (“1 and 2 Clement,” in Texts in Contexts: Essays on Dating and Contextualising Writings from the Second and Early Third Centuries, ed. T. Nicklas, J. Schröter, and J. Verheyden (Leuven: Peeters, 2021), 51–72). 14 Van den Broek, “The Authentikos Logos: A New Document of Christian Platonism,” in Studies in Gnosticism and Alexandrian Christianity, NHMS 39 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 206–234. 15 Riley, “Second Treatise of the Great Seth,” in Nag Hammadi Codex VII, ed. Birger A. Pearson, NHMS 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 129–200 at 142–143. 16 Painchaud, La deuxième Traité du Grand Seth (NHC VII,2) (Laval: University of Laval, 1982), 5–7. Painchaud places this text in the early third century. 17 Walter T. Wilson, The Sentences of Sextus (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2012), 11. 18 Pearson, Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X 117–118. 19 Klaus Koschorke, Die Polemik der Gnostiker gegen das kirchliche Christentum, NHS 12 (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 109. 20 Anne Pasquier, Eugnoste, Lettre sur le dieu transcendant (NH III,3 et V,1): Commentaire (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 205–212. 21 Ashwin-Siejkowski, Valentinus’ Legacy and Polyphony of Voices (London: Routledge, 2022), 61–79. 22 Karen L. King, The Secret Revelation of John (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 9–17. 23 Birger Pearson, Gnosticism and Christianity in Roman and Coptic Egypt (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 63. 24 Junod and Kaestli, Acta Iohannis. Textus Alii-Commentarius, Indices, Corpus Christianorum Series Apocryphorum 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1983), 692–700. Their arguments are opposed by Pieter J. Lalleman, The Acts of John: A Two-Stage Initiation into Johannine Gnosticism (Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 256–260. István Czachesz (“Eroticism and Epistemology in the Apocryphal Acts of John,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 60 [2006]: 59–72) argues for a second edition in Alexandria at the beginning of the third century ce. 25 Jan Bremmer, “The Author, Date and Provenance of the Protoevangelium of James,” The Protoevangelium of James, ed. Jan Bremmer et al., Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha 16 (Leuven: Peeters, 2020), 49–70. 26 Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 168–171.

or anyone else’s arguments – positing a text’s Alexandrian provenance remains a hypothesis. Thus many of my historical conclusions, though fortified with arguments of various kinds, remain hypothetical. As time moves forward, new data or new interpretations of the data will result in new evaluations. Nonetheless, my overall picture of earliest

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Rethinking Earliest Christianity in Alexandria

Christianity in Alexandria does not depend on the Alexandrian provenance of any single text or even several of the texts highlighted. It rests on a foundation of data derived from known or commonly accepted Alexandrian figures. In the future, I welcome new studies of earliest Alexandrian Christianity based on new and better evidence, or on fresh perspectives on old evidence. The wheel of scholarship is vast, and it will grind on.

Part I BEGINNINGS

1 Foreshadowings Philo of Alexandria

Introduction In the Introduction, I pointed out six theological tendencies that flourished in early to mid-second-century Alexandria. Alexandrian Christian theologians, adapting themes and techniques from Hellenized Jewish thought, emphasized universalizing themes that intersected with (mainly Platonic and Pythagorean) philosophical tendencies, including the idea of a wholly transcendent God, distinct creative agencies, theandry, the transmigration of souls, the rejection of corruptible flesh, and the deification of the mind. This chapter explores our richest example of Hellenized Jewish thought in Alexandria, namely the works of Philo. Philo is by no means representative of all Jews in Alexandria. At the same time, due to the extent of his surviving work, his education, and his era (early first century ce), he provides the best window into Alexandrian Jewish intellectual culture before the advent of the Jesus movement(s). It pays dividends, then, to begin with him to see if he can help to specify the intellectual trends that would appear in Christian sources after him. In Chapter 3, I explore what Philo tells us about Jewish social history in Alexandria.1 1

Recent introductions to Philo’s life and thought include Adam Kamesar, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Philo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Philo of Alexandria: A Thinker in the Jewish Diaspora, Studies in Philo of Alexandria 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Maren R. Niehoff, Philo of Alexandria: An Intellectual Biography (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018).

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Life and Work Philo belonged to a tiny minority. He was a wealthy aristocrat, and his wealth may have been in the family for generations. His brother, Alexander (called “the Alabarch”), was a tax official who loaned money to kings and plated nine gates of the Jerusalem temple with gold.2 Although Philo never spoke of it, it is likely that he owned incomeproducing estates as well as household slaves. Whether or not Philo was a citizen of Alexandria, he obtained an education as if he was one. Money went a long way in this department, paving the way not only for Philo’s encyclical studies (geometry, music, astronomy, grammar) but also for the heights of philosophical learning.3 Possibly Philo set up a kind of school in his home where he trained students, not just in any philosophy, but in the distinctly Jewish philosophy that claimed Moses for its master.4 The Alexandrian’s teaching was duly calibrated for different audiences. He wrote three commentary series: (1) an allegorical series focusing on a detailed exegesis of Genesis, (2) a question-and-answer series focusing on exegetical problems in Genesis and Exodus, and (3) an expository series focusing on the creation story, the Mosaic law, and the lives of the Hebrew patriarchs. On top of all this, he wrote several in-depth philosophical tractates. Philo was familiar with every Hellenistic philosophy and melded elements from Neo-Pythagoreanism, Platonism, and Stoicism to create a mosaic of Mosaic philosophy.5 Plato was Philo’s most revered and most influential philosopher. At the same time, Philo did not comment on the works of Plato but on those of Moses. To outsiders, the Pentateuch seemed a rough-hewn block of myths and laws, but for Philo, these pages 2 3

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Josephus, J.W. 5.205; Ant. 18.159; 20.100. Philo, Cong. 1–19. See further Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Erkki Koskenniemi, Greek Writers and Philosophers in Philo and Josephus: A Study of their Secular Education and Educational Ideas, Studies in Philo of Alexandria 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 21–151. Gregory E. Sterling, “‘The School of Sacred Laws’: The Social Setting of Philo’s Treatises,” VC 53 (1999) 148–164; Sterling, “The School of Moses in Alexandria: An Attempt to Reconstruct the School of Philo,” in Second Temple Jewish “Paideia” in Context, ed. G. Boccaccini and J. Zurawski, BZNW 228 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017), 141–166. Gregory E. Sterling, “‘The Jewish Philosophy’: Reading Moses via Hellenistic Philosophy according to Philo,” in Reading Philo: A Handbook to Philo of Alexandria, ed. Torrey Seland (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014), 129–156; David Runia, “The Rehabilitation of the Jackdaw: Philo of Alexandria and Ancient Philosophy,” in Greek and Roman Philosophy 100 BC–200 AD, ed. Robert W. Sharples and Richard Sorabji, 2 vols. (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 2007), 2.483–502.



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contained the deepest of sacred mysteries. It was Philo’s mission as a writer to smooth out the problems in scripture and – for an initiated audience – to reveal the deeper mysteries of Mosaic lore.6 On the face of it, Philo’s methods foreshadow developments in later rabbinic literature.7 He constantly compared scripture with scripture – often multiple scriptures – before circling back to his main text. Unlike the rabbis, however, Philo’s mind was suffused with the categories and characters of Platonic philosophy (the Forms, the Logos, the intelligible world, the passions, the virtues). Philo would admit that the surface meaning of his sacred text contained problems and improbabilities (God walking in the garden, a boat holding every kind of animal, Moses killing an Egyptian, and so on). But understanding the literal meaning of the text was not the end goal. What the text meant in a higher sense was known only to the initiates endowed with advanced knowledge – in short, to allegorical readers. Philo indefatigably allegorized; at the same time, he was careful to maintain Jewish practices. The Sabbath was a symbol of nonaction on the part of creation, but it was also a time when Jews did not light fires, plow soil, carry loads, demand deposits, or recover loans.8 Circumcision symbolized the slicing away of the passions, but Philo also believed that actual foreskins should be removed from male Jewish babies.9 The animals forbidden in the Torah were symbols of vices, but they were still off Philo’s actual menu.10 The Jewish temple was a symbol of the cosmos, and the true temple was the mind.11 Nevertheless, Philo went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem and stood in awe of the physical edifice.12 Toward the end of his life, Philo was wrenched away from scholarly seclusion and selected to lead a five-man embassy to the emperor after a horrible pogrom (August 38 ce). He sailed to Rome and likely stayed 6

Philo, Fug. 85. See further Naomi G. Cohen, “The Mystery Terminology in Philo,” in Philo und das Neue Testament: Wechselseitige Wahrnehmungen. I. Internationales Symposium zum Corpus Judaeo-Hellenisticum 1.–4. Mai 2003, Eisenach/Jena, ed. Roland Deines and Karl-Wilhelm Niebuhr, WUNT 172 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 173–188. 7 See further David Winston, “Philo and Rabbinic Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo 231–254. 8 Philo, Migr. 91; Mos. 2.21–22; Spec. 2.66–67. 9 Philo, Migr. 92; QG 3.49. See further John M. G. Barclay, “Paul and Philo on Circumcision: Romans 2.25–9 in Social and Cultural Context,” NTS 44 (1998): 536–556. 10 Philo, Spec. 4.100–125. 11 Philo, Somn. 2.250–251; cf. Spec 1.66. 12 Philo, Prov. 2.64; cf. Legat. 191, 194, 198, 216–217; Spec. 1.71–73. See further Ellen Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought: Israel, Jews, and Proselytes (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996); Maren Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, TSAJ 86 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001).

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there until 41 ce. While he waited for an interview with the emperor – who was assassinated in early 41 ce – Philo probably wrote his political tractates Against Flaccus and the initial sections of his Embassy to Gaius. While it is true that Philo’s outlook became explicitly political at this stage, his intellectual stance probably did not undergo a revolutionary change from Platonism to Roman Stoicism. Nor is it safe to say that Philo wrote his entire expository series and philosophical works in Rome.13 When Philo perished is unknown, but if he was unable to finish his “palinode” attached to his Embassy, this would suggest a death not too far into the reign of Claudius (41–54 ce).14

Select Teachings Following contemporary currents in Platonism, Philo supported a transcendent God: a God transcending even his Neo-Pythagorean and Platonic counterparts. God was “superior to the Good, purer than the One, and more primordial than the Monad.”15 Human reason “cannot attain to God, who is totally untouchable and unattainable,” nor is nature a clear mirror for knowing the divine essence.16 Philo confessed God’s oneness as his most sacred creed; but God’s unity was complex.17 In human perception, at least, the Godhead was refracted in various ways. The ultimate and unknowable God was “the Existent” (ὁ ὢν or τὸ ὄν).18 Since this ultimate deity was Being itself, Philo did not think that a human could share the nature of the Existent. The Existent is the primal God, the ultimate father of the Universe.19 He may not have directly made the structures made of matter, but he was still the creator. 13 14 15 16

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Pace Niehoff, Intellectual Biography 3–8. See further Daniel R. Schwartz, “Philo, His Family, and His Times,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo 9–31. Philo, Contempl. 2; cf. Praem. 40. Philo, Post. 14, 167–169; Cong. 105. See further David T. Runia, “The Beginnings of the End: Philo of Alexandria and Hellenistic Theology,” in Traditions of Theology: Studies in Hellenistic Theology, Its Background and Aftermath, ed. D. Frede and A. Laks (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 308–312; Mauro Bonazzi, “Towards Transcendence: Philo and the Renewal of Platonism in the Early Imperial Age,” in Philo of Alexandria and Post Aristotelian Philosophy, ed. Francesca Alesse (Leiden: Brill, 2008); Deirdre Carabine, The Unknown God: Negative Theology in the Platonic Tradition – Plato to Eriugena (Leuven: Peeters, 1995), 51–102. Philo, Opif. 171; Virt. 214; Leg. 3.82. See further Paula Fredriksen, “Philo, Herod, Paul and the Many Gods of Ancient Jewish ‘Monotheism,’” HTR 115 (2022): 23–45. E.g., Philo, Abr. 121. Philo, Mos. 2.205.



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The Existent became known on the level of the Logos, which can be thought of as God’s Mind, an intelligible being who represents the fullness of divinity as far as it can be known to human minds.20 Philo could call the Logos a “second God,” but he was not a being independent of God.21 Below the Logos are the Existent’s two “Powers,” namely the “Beneficent” and “Ruling” Powers (whom Philo named “God” and “Lord,” respectively).22 The stars, including sun and moon, for Philo, were divine on some level.23 Under these cosmic divinities were the “heroes” and “daimones” of the Greeks whom Philo called “angels” in accordance with his scriptures.24 To a certain extent, even humans could participate in divinity at its lower levels. The Existent could not come into contact with limitless and chaotic matter. Instead, the Existent used bodiless potencies to shape boundless matter.25 The chief of these Powers was the Logos, the active cause of creation.26 The Logos was the chief instrument by which God made the world.27 He (or it) contained the model of all creations,28 made the four elements distinct, and carved out the shapes of animals and plants.29

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25 26 27 28 29

For God the Logos as pure creative Intellect, see Philo, Opif. 8; Fug. 10; Her. 236. Philo, QG 2.62. Cf. Leg. 3.207–208; Somn. 1.229–230. Philo, Abr. 119–122. See further Ellen Birnbaum and John Dillon, Philo of Alexandria On the Life of Abraham: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, PACS 6 (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 270–272. Prov. 2.50. Philo called the stars “(sensible) gods” (Opif. 27; Spec. 1.19; Aet. 46, 112; QG 1.42, 4.157) and often attributes to them a divine nature (Opif. 84, 143–144; Gig. 8; Prov. 2.50; QG 4.188). See further Alan Scott, Origen and the Life of the Stars: A History of an Idea (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 69–75; David T. Runia, “Worshipping the Visible Gods: Conflict and Accommodation in Hellenism, Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity,” in Empsychoi Logoi – Religious Innovations in Antiquity: Studies in Honour of Pieter Willem van der Horst, ed. Alberdina Houtman, et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 47–64. Philo, Gig. 6; Somn. 1.140–141. Angels qualify as “sacred and divine natures” (ἱεραὶ καὶ θεῖαι φύσεις) (Abr. 115). See further M. David Litwa, Posthuman Transformation in Ancient Mediterranean Thought: Becoming Angels and Demons (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 74–93. Philo, Spec. leg. 1.47, 329. Philo, Opif. 27. Philo, Leg. 3.96; Cher. 125–127. Philo, Leg. 3.96. Philo, Her. 140. On the levels of deity in Philo, see further David Winston, “Philo’s Conception of the Divine Nature,” in Neoplatonism and Jewish Thought, ed. Lenn E. Goodman (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 21–23; Ronald Cox, By the Same Word: Creation and Salvation in Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity, BZNW 145 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007), 87–140; Roberto Radice, “Philo’s Theology and Theory of Creation,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo, 124–145 at 128–129.

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The Existent is utterly unlike humanity.30 That is why the model for humanity is the derived divinity of the Logos.31 Philo identified the human made in God’s image and likeness (Gen 1:26) with an ideal or form (ἰδέα τις).32 The archetype for this form was the “intelligible and incorporeal” Logos.33 The relationship implies that the Logos is the model for the human mind, a mind which Philo called the “true human” within.34 Philo named the Logos, “the iconic Human” (ὁ κατ’ εἰκόνα ἄνθρωπος, based on Gen 1:26) and “God’s Human” (ἄνθρωπον θεοῦ, based on Gen 42:11).35 He considered the Logos to be the source and father of humans. The notion of transmigration in Philo is contested since he only employed its language in passing. In one passage of his Allegorical Commentary, for instance, Philo noted that disembodied souls close to earth descend to be bound in mortal bodies. When these souls live their lives and then exit their flesh, some of them long for the “familiar and accustomed ways of mortal life” and “hurry back again” (παλινδρομοῦσιν αὖθις) to the body.36 Παλινδρομέω in Philo almost always indicated a movement from bodiless back to bodily things, including the passions.37 In another passage of the Allegorical Commentary, Philo argued that humans do not possess anything, even their own souls. Humans are entities that, after death, join with other bodiless entities and “hasten to 30 31

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35 36 37

Philo, Deus 53; QG 1.55; 2.54; 2.62; Leg. 2.1. See further R. A. Baer, Philo’s Use of the Categories Male and Female (Leiden: Brill, 1970), 19. For the distinction between primal and derived deity, see David T. Runia, “God and Man in Philo of Alexandria,” JTS 39:1 (1988): 48–75; M. David Litwa, “The Deification of Moses in Philo of Alexandria,” SPhA 26 (2014): 1–27, at 7–9. Philo, Aet. 134. David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria on the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses: Introduction, Translation and Commentary, PACS 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 323. Cf. T. H. Tobin, The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1983), 126; Jens Holzhausen, Der Mythos vom Menschen im hellenistischen Ägypten: Eine Studie zum ‘Poimandres’ (=CH 1), zu Valentin und dem gnostischen Mythos (Bodenheim: Athenäum Hain Hanstein, 1994), 104–106. Philo, Opif. 146, cf. QG 1.4; Leg. 3.96. Philo, Her. 231. Cf. Fug. 68–72; Det. 22–23; Plant. 42; QG 1.94. The “single Mind” (ἕνα [νοῦν]) who governs the universe who also serves as the archetype of the human mind (ὡς ἄν ἀρχέτυπον) is probably the Logos (Opif. 69). Cf. “the truly incorporeal Being,” described as the model for humanity (QG 2.56). See further Tobin, Creation, 57–76; T. K. Heckel, Der Innere Mensch: Die paulinische Verarbeitung eines platonischen Motivs (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 42–75. Philo, Conf. 146–147; 40–41. On the development of these traditions, see Tobin, Creation 108–134. Philo, Somn. 1.137–139. Sami Yli-Karjanmaa, Reincarnation in Philo of Alexandria, Studia Philonica Monographs 7 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 129–150 (here: 140), 251–254.



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rebirth” (εἰς παλιγγενεσίαν). In context, only flawed souls are reborn and – since they have already died – must be reborn in bodies.38 In a text from the Questions and Answers series, Philo commented on Exodus 24:12, when God called Moses to ascend Mount Sinai and “be there.” The ascent to Mount Sinai was taken to be an ascent to heaven meant for stable minds divorced from flesh. Some souls, however, instead of floating up on an eagle’s wings, “settled downward again” (αὐτίκα ὑπενόστησαν), dragged to the extremes of “Tartarus.”39 The imagery is pulled from Plato’s Phaedrus, which depicts the soul as a chariot sometimes dragged down by the horse of unsteady desire. The “true Tartarus” is the earthly body and the “flames of desire.”40 In short, souls dragged to Tartarus are probably reincarnated to live again on earth.41 In these passages, Philo may have appealed to preexisting traditions, but to suppose he was not committed to transmigration depends on what we mean by “commitment.”42 Transmigration was not, admittedly, “an essential component of how scripture should be interpreted on the fate of the soul after (and also before) death.”43 At the same time, Philo could still believe in transmigration even if it was not seen as essential or an essentially scriptural doctrine.44 In my view, Philo thought very seriously about what traditions he passed on. He would not have written what he did if he did not on some level accept a notion of transmigration. My sense is that transmigration was a common notion among Alexandrian Platonists – including other Alexandrian Jewish Platonists. Evidently Philo was not overly concerned about criticism from other philosophers, since there was no official position on transmigration at the time, even in the Jewish community. As a Platonist, Philo was committed to the idea that the soul or mind was superior to the fleshly body. Yet Philo also expressed at least rhetorical disdain for the coat of skin that he wore. He called the mortal body a “baneful corpse,”45 the soul’s grave,46 a foul prison,47 wicked by nature, a 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Philo, Cher. 114 with Yli-Karjanmaa, Reincarnation 150–167. Philo, QE 2.40. Philo, QG 4.234. Yli-Karjanmaa, Reincarnation 180, 185. Yli-Karjanmaa’s appeal to Philo, frag. 7.3 (Harris) as a text supporting transmigration (186–211) is unconvincing. David T. Runia, “Is Philo Committed to the Doctrine of Reincarnation?” SPhA 31 (2019): 107–125. Runia, “Is Philo Committed,” 115. Runia, “Is Philo Committed,” 114. Philo, Leg. 1.108; cf. Migr. 2; Somn. 2.237. Philo, Deus 150; Migr. 16. Philo, Leg. 3.42; Ebr. 101; Migr. 9.

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plotter against the soul,48 and the “dwelling place of endless calamities.”49 The image of God within humankind was not something based on the internal and external form of mortal bodies (arms, legs, brain, speech, the feeling of love, and so on). Rather, the divine image is “embodied” only in the bodiless mind.50 At death, the flesh is – or at least should be – definitively shed as the soul soars to higher spheres. Philo illustrated how, for instance, at the close of Moses’s life, his flesh whirled away and only his divinized mind ascended to God as if it were a beam of sunlight.51 On the topic of Moses’s deification, Philo did not mince words: the lawgiver was “no longer human but a god.”52 He was “divinized,” “changed into the divine,” and became “truly divine.”53 God “appointed” Moses “as god.”54 To be sure, Moses was not deemed a god in his own right; he was granted the name and authority of God by divine decree (Exod 7:1).55 Philonic deification recognized the nothingness of humanity and never fostered tyrannical arrogance or a sense of entitlement. Deification was the process of becoming an entirely bodiless and purified mind (“noetification”). Such minds did not haunt the earth but stayed forever next to God in immaterial realms. In principle, at least, the fate of Moses was open to all. Philo wrote that “by the grace of God, it’s reasonable for a mortal to participate in deathlessness.”56 But grace was in part built into nature. Philo called the human mind a fragment of the Logos.57 Thus simply by virtue of being human (that is, having mind and rationality), one already has a share in divine reality. The human mind is at least partially constituted by divine breath or spirit (πνεῦμα) breathed into the first human being.58 Philo rooted this view in Genesis 2:7 (God “breathed into his [the first human’s] face breath of life”).59 For Philo, the medium of πνεῦμα was the Logos. 48 49 50

51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Philo, Leg. 3.71; cf. Spec. 3.1–6. Philo, Conf. 177. Philo, Opif. 69. See further G. H. van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity, WUNT 232 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 57–62. Philo, Mos. 2.288; cf. Virt. 76. Philo, Prob. 43–44 (οὐκετ’ ἄνθρωπον ἀλλα θεόν). Philo, QE 2.40, 29. Philo, Sac. 9–10. Prob. 44; Mos. 1.158–159; Somn. 2.189; Det. 162. Philo, Aet. 46. Philo, Opif. 146. Philo, Opif. 135. See further Runia, On the Creation, 326–327. In the majority of cases, Philo made no distinction between πνόη and πνεῦμα when exegeting Gen 2:7.



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All human beings have a reflection, fragment, or ray of the shining Logos within them.60 Since the Logos is God – or God in relation to the world – Philo could say that God breathed into Adam a portion “of his own deity” (τῆς ἰδίου θειότητος).61 Consequently, the human mind is “a fragment of that divine and blessed soul” – evidently referring to the Logos – and so the human soul is a “divine fragment” (ἀπόσπασμα θεῖον).62 Humans became divine by participation in the divine. As true Being, Philo’s primal God is divine in and of itself. Other divine beings, by contrast, need to participate in the divinity of the Existent to gain the name θεός. In Philo’s thought, there were both shareable and unshareable attributes of divinity. Absolute Being and eternality are unshareable qualities enjoyed by the Existent alone, whereas immortality and ruling power can be shared. A human could become divine by participating in these shareable divine qualities among which Philo added other attributes such as repose, passionlessness, and immutability.63

Philonic Practice We know that Philo was a Jew and practiced the precepts of the Jewish law, but what he did on a daily basis is unknown. If Philo the urban dweller was not – or perhaps could not – be rigorously ascetic, he still lauded ascetic communities such as the Essenes and Therapeutae.64 These communities practiced celibacy, abstention from food, and withdrawal from society. They were pictured as communities of study, of spiritual and social equality, and of worship, prayer, and singing. Their banquets were contrasted with the feasts of decadent luxury Philo was accustomed to in both Alexandria and Rome. The people of these communities lived entirely the life of the mind, as if their bodies had already worn away. Even if Philo’s descriptions of these communities are not entirely accurate, they at least represent his own ideal. Some sort of bodily discipline

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Philo, Opif. 146. Philo, Det. 86. Philo, Det. 90; cf. QG 1.50–51. At one point, Philo draws a distinction between the earthly mind (νοῦς γεωδής) and the divine spirit (Leg. 1.32). This divine spirit evidently becomes a higher νοῦς that is unmixed with body. Van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology 181–199; Tikhon Alexander Pino, “An Essence– Energy Distinction in Philo as the Basis for the Language of Deification,” JTS 68.2 (2017): 551–571. Philo, Contempl. (entire) with Taylor and Hay, Philo of Alexandria on the Contemplative Life.

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is the natural outcome of Philo’s theology.65 If the true human – the human made in the image of the Logos – is the mind, then that is what one lives for. The mortal body is an appendage – and often an annoying one. It should be regimented and deprived until it is wholly obedient to mind. What matters is study and meditation, and such activities can only be practiced without bodily distractions and social entanglements. Philo was probably married, but he wrote as if he was not. He longed for the peaceful life of his country estate(s) even though he apparently spent most of his time in the hustle and bustle of the city. He likely practiced a moderate asceticism, restricting food intake and refraining from sex after his children were born. His practice and appreciation of ascetic currents would resonate with later Christian ascetic movements in Alexandria (Chapter 8).

Conclusion On our scale of Alexandrian theological tendencies, Philo scores a perfect six. He upheld a transcendent God (the Existent), distinguished creative powers from the Existent (the Logos and unnamed auxiliaries), upheld a manifestation of God (the Logos) as the archetypal Human, endorsed a tradition of transmigration, rejected the corruptible flesh as unworthy of salvation, and proposed the deification of the mind. As we shall see, these six theological features will later appear among Christian theologians at Alexandria. The overlap shows, first of all, that there was no strong break between Jewish and Christian theology in Alexandria during the first and second centuries ce (despite any setbacks Alexandrian Jews suffered during this time). Christians upheld Jesus as the messiah and came to identify him as the Logos, but these affirmations did not dictate the nature of their theology as a whole. Alexandria in the first and second centuries ce was vibrant and intellectually diverse. At the same time, there seems to have been a fairly distinctive intellectual climate or set of intellectual (largely Platonizing and Pythagoreanizing) tendencies there. Whether or not the earliest Christians of Alexandria read Philo, they shared a theological climate he belonged to, which helps to explain why they posited similar tenets and manifested like tendencies.

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David M. Hay, “Philo’s Anthropology, the Spiritual Regimen of the Therapeutae, and a Possible Connection with Corinth,” in Philo und das Neue Testament 127–142.

2 The Jesus Movement Enters Alexandria

Introduction The earliest followers of Jesus were Jews, and Alexandria was no exception to this rule.1 Alexandrian votaries of Jesus were probably Jewish both in the sense of having a Judean ancestry and adhering to the practices typical of ancient Judaism (for instance, circumcision, food laws, and Sabbath observance).2 Religion spreads through networks; and if the first Christians were Jews, then the message(s) of Jesus would have initially spread through Jewish networks of communication in Alexandria and elsewhere. In terms of size, the Jewish community in Alexandria was second only to the one in Palestine, and it was probably well networked with Palestine through trade relations, immigration, and family connections. It should be kept in mind, however, that Jewish networks were not hermetically sealed off from larger, non-Jewish ones. In a multiethnic 1

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Controversy continues over whether to translate ’Ιουδαῖος by “Jew” or “Judean.” See Shaye Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 69–106; Steve Mason “Jews, Judeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History,” JSJ 38 (2007): 457–512; Lawrence M. Wills, “Jew, Judean, Judaism in the Ancient Period: An Alternative Argument,” Journal of Ancient Judaism 7:2 (2016): 169–193; Annette Y. Reed, JewishChristianity and the History of Judaism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 474–488. Since “Judean” carries a geopolitical nuance, it is best to refer to Alexandrian “Jews” (many of whom would have called themselves “Alexandrians” [CPJ §151; Philo, Flacc. 46; cf. Legat. 281–282]). This issue is distinct from whether Jews in Alexandria considered themselves to be Alexandrian citizens. Paula Fredriksen, When Christians Were Jews: The First Generation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018); Schliesser, “Jewish Beginnings,” in Alexandria: Hub 371.

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metropolis such as Alexandria, Jews would have rubbed shoulders with the majority populations on a daily basis. They traded with Gentiles, learned with them in the various academies, exercised with them, sat with them in the theaters and the racecourse, sailed with them on ships, farmed with them, and had them as slaves as well as masters.3 Philo claims that many Gentiles participated in the annual Jewish festival at Pharos and he boasted that Jewish customs “attract and win the attention of all barbarians and Greeks, dwellers on the mainland and islands, nations of the east and west, Europe and Asia, the whole inhabited world.”4 If we accept that earliest Christianity in Alexandria was Jewish, we can still reasonably ask how long Jesus devotees in Alexandria remained Jewish in terms of their religious practices. It is a worthwhile question, since some scholars make the additional and bolder claim that the devotees of Jesus in Alexandria remained Jewish (in terms of practice and apparently lineage) until about 117 ce – and thus suffered the terrible Roman reprisals against the Alexandrian Jewish community at this time.5 Is this additional hypothesis justified? Let’s examine the evidence.6

The Arrival of Jesus Movement(s) in Alexandria In a recent article, we are told that there is “growing support to see Alexandrian Christianity spawning from the missionary activity of

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4 5

6

See further Stewart Moore, Jewish Ethnic Identity and Relations in Hellenistic Egypt: With Walls of Iron? (Leiden: Brill, 2015); Marjorie Venit, “Alexandria,” in Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt 103–121; Georges, et al., ed., Alexandria; David Frankfurter, Christianizing Egypt: Syncretism and Local Worlds in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018), esp. 1–33. Philo, Mos. 2.20, 41–42. Schliesser, “Jewish Beginnings,” in Alexandria: Hub 396–397. Similar views are put forward by Ritter, “Das frühchristliche Alexandrien,” 129; Modrzejewski, Jews of Egypt 228. Cf. Mimouni, “À la recherche de la communauté chrétienne d’Alexandrie,” 160. The view goes back at least as far as H. I. Bell, Cults and Creeds in Graeco-Roman Egypt: Being the Forwood Lectures for 1952 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1953), 79. It is worth noting at the outset that Jews were multiethnic before Jesus arrived on the scene. See Cynthia M. Baker, “‘From Every Nation under Heaven’: Jewish Ethnicities in the Greco-Roman World,” in Prejudice and Christian Beginnings: Investigating Race, Gender, and Ethnicity in Early Christian Studies (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009), 79–100. See also Anders Runesson, “Particularistic Judaism and Universalistic Christianity? Some Critical Remarks on Terminology and Theology,” Studia Theologica 45:1 (2000): 55–75.



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Palestinian Jewish Christians, who first evangelized the hellenized Jews in Alexandria.”7 This view is often repeated.8 Unfortunately, we do not actually know if it was missionaries who brought the message, and if they came from Palestine. We also need to be wary of the potential assumption that Jews in Alexandria were more “hellenized” than their Palestinian counterparts.9 I sense that these theories involving Palestinian missionaries have – however subtly – been influenced by the ideal model found in Acts. Here the mother church in Jerusalem sends forth her apostolic sons to seed the world with the gospel message (Acts 1:8). Oddly, the author of Acts never discussed Alexandria, but scholars have long extrapolated that missionaries from Jerusalem came to the Egyptian metropolis. Strictly speaking, however, such extrapolation is dubious since the author of Acts was probably not recording what moderns would consider history, but a foundation legend.10 He either had no information on the spread of “the Way” in Egypt, or for some reason, chose not to report it. Accordingly, the devotees of Jesus could have in part come from Jerusalem, but they need not have.11 After all, the evangelists themselves do not even agree that Jesus’s disciples had their base in Jerusalem. The

7

Darlene L. Brooks Hedstrom, “Archaeology of Early Christianity in Egypt,” The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, ed. David K. Pettegrew, William R. Caraher, and Thomas W. Davis (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2019), 665–684. 8 See Albertus F. J. Klijn, “Jewish Christianity in Egypt,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity 114–175; Roelof van den Broek, “Jewish and Platonic Speculations in Early Alexandrian Theology: Eugnostos, Philo, Valentinus, and Origen,” in Studies in Gnosticism 117–130; Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus? 320–322; Pearson, “Christians and Jews in First-Century Alexandria,” in Christians among Jews and Gentiles: Essays in Honor of Krister Stendahl on His Sixty-Fifth Birthday, ed. George W. Nickelsburg and George W. MacRae (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 206–216; Ronald E. Heine, Origen: Scholarship in the Service of the Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 27–29, 45–46. 9 See further Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “Alexandrian Judaism: Rethinking a Problematic Cultural Category,” in Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot 115–43. 10 Loveday Alexander, “The Acts of the Apostles as an Apologetic Text,” in Apologetics in the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews, and Christians, ed. Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman, and Simon Price (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 15–45; Dennis E. Smith, “What Do We Really Know about the Jerusalem Church? Christian Origins in Jerusalem according to Acts and Paul,” in Redescribing Christian Origins, ed. Ron Cameron and Merrill P. Miller (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2004), 237–252; Luther H. Martin, “History, Historiography and Christian Origins: The Jerusalem Community,” in ibid., 263–273. 11 Pace Griggs, Early Egyptian Christianity 3–5, 15–17.

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gospels of Mark (16:1–8), Matthew (28), and John (21) indicate that Jesus’s disciples returned to Galilee, the site of Jesus’s post-mortem appearances. At the very least, Acts simplifies history into an ideal model: Christian evangelists spread from Jerusalem, evangelizing the Jews first in their synagogues. Only when rejected did they turn to Gentiles. How much of this two-step model corresponds to historical reality? Like a successful meme on the internet, nothing prevented the varied lore about Jesus from spreading quickly to all manner of persons, especially in large and cosmopolitan cities such as Alexandria. If we imagine the message(s) about Jesus as coming first to Jews, there is no reason it could not have simultaneously spread to other peoples in the city, which would include Macedonians, Syrians, Egyptians, Africans, Arabs, and Indians, among other groups.12 Importantly, the recruitment of Gentiles was not necessarily based on a message underscoring an executed messiah (Paul’s emphasis) but on the coming of God’s child to produce wonders and bestow wisdom among all nations. No longer is it sufficient to credit the early spread of Christianity to a set of intrepid (male) apostles or shadowy subapostolic figures such as Mark and Barnabas (the subjects of later novels and legends).13 In the welter of human events, early devotees of Jesus could have come to Alexandria through any number of social actors. Christoph Auffarth distinguishes at least four: (1) “traders who traded religious goods among their merchandise, (2) migrants who brought their own religions and culture in their backpack,” (3) “experts,” which I take to mean skilled workers, and (4) “individual religious entrepreneurs” who sold oracles, dream interpretations, cures, spells, astrological knowledge, and their exegetical expertise on authoritative books (including the Septuagint).14 12 13

14

Dio Chrysostom, Or. 32.40. Wolfgang Reinbold, Propaganda und Mission im ältesten Christentum: Eine Untersuchung zu den Modalitäten der Ausbreitung der frühen Kirche (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000). The tradition that Barnabas came to Alexandria ­(Ps.-Clement, Homilies 1.8.3–1.14.7) probably derives from the attribution of the Letter of Barnabas to Barnabas the Cypriote. The idea that Mark was a disciple of Peter likely derives from 1 Pet 5:13. Mark’s journey to Egypt may derive from the idea that “Babylon” in 1 Pet 5:13 refers to an ancient fortress near modern Cairo. Christoph Auffarth, “With the Grain Came the Gods from the Orient to Rome: The Example of Serapis and Some Systematic Reflections,” in Religions and Trade: Religious Formation, Transformation and Cross-cultural Exchange between East and West, ed. Volker Rabens and Peter Wick (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 34–41 at 38. See also Sarah E. Rollens, “Rethinking the Early Christian Mission,” in The Gospels and Their Receptions: Festschrift Joseph Verheyden, ed. Henk Jan de Jonge, Mark Grundeken, John Kloppenborg, and Christopher Tuckett (Leuven: Peeters, 2022), 557–578.



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Paul best fits class (4). Yet I suspect that class (4) agents who came to Alexandria were rarer than those in the other groups. Skilled workers, for instance, would include doctors, orators, and tradespeople of all types, along with soldiers. We can add businesspeople of all types, traded slaves, and unskilled immigrants who sought for a better life. We know that Jesus movements spread to places such as Caesarea, Antioch, Cyprus, and Asia Minor fairly early (the 40s ce). Accordingly, social actors in these regions could have come to Alexandria for any number of ordinary reasons and spread the word about Jesus. New networks need not have been formed. The message could spread along preestablished trade networks and personal relationships that had already been formed for the purposes of business, politics, and immigration.15 At a minimum, we need to consider all possibilities for the spread of the Jesus movement(s) to Alexandria, not refurbish data from Acts and Eusebius.16 Recently, it has been asked why Paul “skipped” Alexandria in his missionary journeys.17 Nonetheless, one can query, “did he?” Or are we led to think so because we assume the heroic vision of Paul in Acts and 1 Clement? The latter letter reports that Paul “taught the whole world righteousness” (5:7). I suppose we could also ask why Paul “skipped” Persia, North Africa, and India as well. But the truth is, he did not. Paul was human, and he could not feasibly go everywhere in the known world.18 One can concur that exegetical explanations for Paul avoiding Alexandria fall short. Paul’s authentic letters never neatly distinguish Gentiles as children of Japheth and Ham, with Paul’s mission reserved for Japhet (the “Greeks”).19 There were, at any rate, plenty of Greeks in the land of Ham, in particular Alexandria. Thus we are not sure whether Paul decided not to sail to Alexandria, since to make such a decision 15

16

17 18 19

See further Irad Malkin, A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) 4–64; Anna Collar, Religious Networks in the Roman Empire: The Spread of New Ideas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 5–78; Richard S. Ascough, “Redescribing the Thessalonians’ ‘Mission’ in Light of Graeco-Roman Associations,” NTS 60 (2014): 61–82. Burton L. Mack, “On Redescribing Christian Origins,” in Theory and Method in the Study of Religion: Twenty-Five Years On, ed. Aaron W. Hughes (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 177–199. Schliesser, “Why Did Paul Skip Alexandria? Paul’s Missionary Strategy and the Rise of Christianity in Alexandria,” NTS 67:2 (2021): 260–283. Schliesser selectively reads Acts as a historical report (“Why Did Paul Skip Alexandria?” 273). Pace James Scott, Paul and the Nations: The Old Testament and Jewish Background of Paul’s Mission to the Nations with Special Reference to the Destination of Galatians, WUNT 84 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 216–218.

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assumes that Paul had the time and energy to do so. Yet if Paul was “an old man” by the time he was writing Philemon (v.9), perhaps he lacked the ability. Another explanation is simpler and compatible: Paul knew that Alexandria had already been covered and he did not wish to build on another’s foundation (Rom 15:20). Apollos built on Paul’s foundation in Corinth; Paul was not going to return the “favor” by debuting in Apollos’s hometown. Even if Paul’s avoidance of Alexandria was strategic, we need not believe that Paul considered it a “Jewish city.”20 Alexandria was arguably the center of Hellenistic culture in the east. As the crow flies, Alexandria is still well over 300 miles (or about 500  km) away from Jerusalem. Going through Egypt’s interior would have lengthened the journey. There is no solid evidence that Paul considered any part of Egypt to belong to a Jewish mission. In the case of first-century Alexandria, the Jews were plentiful, but they did not dominate the city. Although many Jews were wealthy, educated, and highly integrated into the social and political fabric of Alexandria, most were not, in the Roman era, considered citizens. The fact is, proselytizing agents similar to Paul (who doubled as a skilled worker) may have traveled to Alexandria from a variety of locations including Palestine, Syria, Greece, or Italy. We gather helpful information about travel from ORBIS (the Stanford Geospatial Network Model of the Roman World). These data – a simulation reporting average travel times in antiquity – indicate that travel between various places and Alexandria was relatively swift and cheap, regardless of the time of year. In large part, this was because most of the journey could be taken by sea. The cheapest journey from Caesarea Maritima to Alexandria (779 km or 484 miles) in summer took 6.1 days. Traveling in the spring reduced that figure to just over five days. Since one did not have to travel far using a pack animal or wagon, the price of the trip was manageable even for those of more middling means.21 (Here it is interesting that Achilles Tatius, a second-century novelist who depicted two lovers sailing from Beirut, has them driven by storm very swiftly to the coast of Egypt.)22

20 21

22

Schliesser, “Why Did Paul Skip Alexandria?” 283. According to ORBIS (https://orbis.stanford.edu/), traveling by donkey or wagon took about 0.61 denarii for every kilogram of wheat consumed. This was the price of travel in high summer. In winter, that figure reduced to 0.53 denarii per kilogram. Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 2.31; 3.1–5.



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If one started from Jerusalem (which demanded inland travel to a coastal city such as Caesarea or Joppa), the travel time to Alexandria increased to 7.6 days in high summer and 6.8 days in January, with an average price of 0.82 denarii per kilo of wheat if traveling by donkey. (Traveling by carriage increased the price significantly.) Travel from Antioch to Alexandria was not significantly longer, since one could sail the open sea with Cyprus as a stopover: 7.3 days in winter, 7.8 days in summer. From Ephesus it was only four or five days to Alexandria by sea in good weather, from Corinth about seven days, and from Rome about fourteen. In sum, people, goods, and ideas could travel from coastal Palestine, Syria, western Asia Minor, and southern Greece to Alexandria in little more than a week. Shipping to and from Rome and Alexandria was regular due to the grain trade.23 Devotees of Jesus in these areas could have come to Alexandria at any time between 30 and 50 ce. Such data indicate that we do not exactly know how the earliest followers of Jesus came to Alexandria. They could have come from Syria, Rome, Asia Minor, or elsewhere. Based on the evidence of Apollos (Chapter 3), combined with what we know of ancient travel routes and trade networks, we can reasonably surmise that they came to Alexandria as early – if not earlier – than they came to Antioch (by the 30s and early 40s ce). A few devotees of Jesus might have come as religious recruiters, yet most were probably more run-of-the-mill social actors embedded in preestablished trade, travel, and social networks, spreading various reports and stories about Jesus as they engaged in daily conversation.

23

For travel to and inside Egypt, see further Lionel Casson, Travel in the Ancient World (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1994), 257–261; Colin Adams, “‘There and Back Again’: Getting Around in Roman Egypt,” in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire, ed. Colin Adams and Ray Laurence (London: Routledge, 2001), 138–166. For socioeconomic contact between Jerusalem and Alexandria, see Henry A. Green, The Economic and Social Origins of Gnosticism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 131–153.

3 Apollos The Earliest Known Alexandrian Follower of Jesus

Introduction It would be tempting to dismiss Apollos as another Alexandrian shadow and puff of smoke. Despite all the problems about reconstructing his life, however, Apollos can still tell us something about earliest Alexandrian Christianity both socially and theologically. Apollos, it should be noted, is remembered chiefly by those who wanted to tame him, or at least subordinate him to the more famous writer who was, by the second century ce, widely accepted as an authoritative author, namely Paul of Tarsus. Two millennia later, any smoldering flames of competition between the Tarsian and the Alexandrian have long died away. My task is not to second the existing (canonized) rhetoric of Paul and the intellectual traditions that honor him, but to present a fuller and more balanced profile of Apollos the eloquent, yet unsung apostle.1 1

On disciplined mirror-reading, see John M. G. Barclay, “Mirror Reading a Polemical Letter: Galatians as a Test Case,” JSNT 31 (1987): 73–93; Timothy A. Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom, Stoic Philosophy, and the Ancient Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 65–68. Speculative reconstructions of Apollos and his theology typically begin with Acts or treat it as a source on par with or as the framework for 1 Cor. See, for instance, Simon Pétrement, A Separate God: The Christian Origins of Gnosticism, trans. Carol Harrison (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1990), 265–288; Pier Franco Beatrice, “Apollos of Alexandria and the Origins of the JewishChristian Baptist Encratism,” ANRW 26/2, ed. Wolfgang Haase (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995), 1232–1275. The monograph on Apollos by Patrick J. Hartin (Apollos: Paul’s Partner or Rival [Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2009]) uncritically follows Acts and uses questionable (and in some cases outdated) sociological models. The best scholarly treatments are Wehnert, “Apollos” in Alexandria 403–412; Samuel Vollenweider, “Apollos of Alexandria: Portrait of an Unknown,” in Alexandria: Hub 325–344.

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Name and Origins

41

Admittedly, we do not know where Apollos first encountered lore about Jesus. At least two manuscripts of Acts have Apollos taught the Christian message (called “the Way” or in another variant, “the teaching”) “in his homeland,” namely Alexandria (18:25).2 If this reading was a later extrapolation by a particular editor or scribe, I agree with Bruce Metzger that it was a reasonable one.3 According to Acts, Apollos came to Ephesus as a baptized Christian leader who accurately knew the lore about Jesus. He must have become well informed somewhere. To claim that Apollos lived in Palestine as a disciple of John the Baptist throws us into the realm of speculation (a Palestinian sojourn goes unmentioned in any ancient source).4 The idea that Apollos was taught “the Way” outside of Alexandria is not supported by any text. According to Acts 18:26, Paul’s disciples corrected Apollos, but they did not initiate his instruction in “the Way.” That is to say, Apollos learned some form of Jesus lore prior to coming to Ephesus – even if what Apollos learned was not Pauline. In my view, there is no compelling reason to doubt that Apollos received Christian instruction “in his homeland,” before spreading his message about Jesus in cities such as Ephesus and Corinth.

Name and Origins Whether intentionally or not, certain data about people are transmitted by their names. “Apollos” is generally taken to be a short form of the Greek name “Apollonius.” In fact, one biblical manuscript (Codex Bezae) presents Apollos as “Apollonius” in Acts 18:24.5 Apollos thus 2 3

4

5

Codex Bezae (D) and the so-called Gigas liber (gig), a thirteenth-century Latin MS in Stockholm. Metzger (Textual Commentary on the Greek new Testament 413) observed: “The Western addition (D itgig) of ἐν τῇ πατρίδι after κατηχημένος … implies that Christianity had reached Alexandria by about A.D. 50. Whether the statement of the Western reviser depends upon personal knowledge or is based on inference, the implication of the statement no doubt accords with historical fact.” See further Claire Clivaz, “Reading Luke-Acts in Second-Century Alexandria: From Clement to the Shadow of Apollos,” in Engaging Early Christian History 209–222 at 219–222. Reidar Hvalvik, “Named Jewish Believers Connected with the Pauline Mission,” in Jewish Believers in Jesus: The Early Centuries, ed. Oskar Skarsaune and Reidar Hvalvik (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2007), 155–178 at 158. Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger, The Message of Acts in Codex Bezae: A Comparison with the Alexandrian Tradition, Volume 4, Acts 18.24–28.31 (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 17–31; Elisabetta Abate, “Spuren der religiösen Identität der ephesischen Juden,” in Ephesos: Die antike Metropole im Spannungsfeld von Religion und Bildung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 205–220 at 213.

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shared a name with his younger contemporary Apollonius of Tyana, a Pythagorean traveler and holy man who flourished in the late first century ce. Apollos’s name was also redolent of Apollo, the Greek god associated with music, dance, and youthful beauty. The Egyptian “translation” of Apollo was Horus, divine son of Isis and Osiris. Traditionally, Roman Pharaohs were thought to be incarnations of Horus, whose sacred animal was the hawk. (Here we can compare the name “Origen,” Ὠρι-γένης, which means “Horus-born.”) Thus from the name “Apollos,” ancient people could call up different resonances from both Hellenic and Egyptian lore. To my knowledge, “Apollos” was not a distinctive or common Jewish name; though of course a Jew could have it. The datum that Apollos came from Alexandria comes from Acts 18:24. Alexandria was the queen of cities in the eastern Mediterranean. By noting Apollos’s Alexandrian pedigree, the author of Acts effectively paid Apollos a compliment. This compliment is significant since the same author subsequently subordinated Apollos to Paul – a man of a much less famous city, Tarsus in Cilicia (in what is now southeastern Turkey). In the context of Acts 18:24, Apollos is even subordinated to Aquila, Paul’s coworker from Pontus (north central Turkey). The area of Pontus had little claim to fame, and at the time was viewed as a cultural backwater.6 If the author of Acts had a tendency to downplay Apollos’s influence, while at the same time highlighting his noble origins, there is probably no reason to doubt his noble (Alexandrian) origins.

Apollos in 1

corinthians

The author of Acts wrote about Apollos at least a generation or more after Apollos’s ministry.7 The only source of information about Apollos 6

Matthias den Dulk, “Aquila and Apollos: Acts 18 in Light of Ancient Ethnic Stereotypes,” JBL 139:1 (2020): 177–189. 7 According to Andrew Gregory, there is no evidence to prove the use of Acts until after 150 ce (The Reception of Luke and Acts in the Period before Irenaeus: Looking for Luke in the Second Century [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003], 353). Both J. C. O’Neill (The Theology of Acts in its Historical Setting, 2nd ed. [London: SPCK, 1970], 1–43) and Richard Pervo (Dating Acts between the Evangelists and the Apologists [Santa Rosa: Polebridge, 2006], 333, 343) prefer a date between 115 and 130 ce. A slightly later date is supported by arguments that contextualize a redacted Luke-Acts as a response to Marcion (John T. Townsend, “The Date of Luke-Acts,” in Luke-Acts: New Perspectives from the Society of Biblical Literature Seminar, ed. Charles H. Talbert [New York: Crossroad, 1984], 47–62; Joseph B. Tyson, Marcion and Luke-Acts: A Defining Struggle [Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2006], 50–120; William O. Walker,



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that is contemporary with him is Paul’s letter now called 1 Corinthians (mainly 1:12; 3:4–6, 22; 4:6; 16:12).8 Scholarship is rather split on how to interpret Paul’s relationship with Apollos. There are basically irenic scholarly readings that emphasize their fraternity and cooperation.9 Other scholars, however, detect underlying conflicts and tensions between them.10 Although I acknowledge the merits of the first position, I believe that the data support the latter view. In brief – despite certain courtesies paid to Apollos – Paul seems to have been in subtle competition with him, intent on countering his influence in order to regain undisputed leadership in the Corinthian assembly.11 To be sure, Paul and Apollos were ostensibly on the same side. Both men were independent, freelance experts and recruiters trying to promote a message about Jesus. In so doing, however, they also promoted themselves as leaders and intellectuals in a competitive marketplace of ideas. Intent on maximizing his own impact, Paul was reticent to describe Apollos’s distinctive contributions to the intellectual and spiritual life of the Corinthians. Paul also refrained from detailing Apollos’s actual role as leader in the Corinthian assembly.

“The Portrayal of Aquila and Priscilla in Acts: The Question of Sources,” NTS 54 [2008]: 479–495; Matthias Klinghardt, The Oldest Gospel and the Formation of the Canonical Gospels, 2 vols. [Leuven: Peeters, 2021]). 8 For possible evidence from 2 Cor, see Francis Watson, Paul, Judaism and the Gentiles: Beyond the New Perspective, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 152–156. See also Margaret Y. MacDonald, “The Shifting Centre: Ideology and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians,” in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church, ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 273–294 at 279–284. 9 Paul Trebilco, Early Christians in Ephesus from Paul to Ignatius, WUNT 166 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 67–69; Corin Mihaila, The Paul–Apollos Relationship and Paul’s Stance toward Greco-Roman Rhetoric: An Exegetical and Socio-historical Study of 1 Cor 1–4 (London: Bloomsbury, 2009); Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom 202–204; Devin L. White, Teacher of the Nations: Ancient Educational Traditions and Paul’s Argument in 1 Corinthians 1–4, BZNW 227 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017), 161–170; Vollenweider, “Apollos of Alexandria,” 338–340. 10 Niels Hyldahl, “The Corinthian ‘Parties,’ and the Corinthian Crisis,” Studia Theologica 45:1 (1991): 19–32; Beatrice, “Apollos of Alexandria,” 1248; Donald P. Ker, “Paul and Apollos – Colleagues or Rivals?” JSNT 77 (2000): 75–97; L. L. Welborn, Paul, the Fool of Christ: A Study of 1 Corinthians 1–4 in the Comic-Philosophic Tradition (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 102–109. 11 Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “Rhetorical Situation and Historical Reconstruction in 1 Corinthians,” in Christianity at Corinth 145–160 at 156–157; Charles A. Wanamaker, “A Rhetoric of Power: Ideology and 1 Corinthians 1–4,” in Paul and the Corinthians: Studies in a Community in Conflict: Essays in Honour of Margaret Thrall, ed. Trevor J. Burke and J. Keith Elliott (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 115–138.

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Attempts to see Apollos or his theology at work apart from the places in 1 Corinthians where he is actually named are speculative. Initially, then, I focus on 1 Corinthians, and in particular chapters 1–4. In these chapters, Paul depicts the Corinthians as riven into four factions (1 Cor 1:12) – those of Paul, those of Apollos, those of Cephas, and those of Christ. It is doubtful, however, that any Corinthian devotees of Jesus would have confirmed Paul’s divisions entirely. The activity and identity of “Cephas,” for instance, are beset with looming question marks. (“Cephas” may or may not be identical to Peter and he may or may not have come to Corinth.12) The fact that the four parties named in 1 Corinthians 1:12 reduce to two in 3:4 indicate that the only two prominent factions – if indeed they can be called such – were centered on Paul and Apollos. Paul’s actual target of criticism was not just an abstract sophistical culture or mentality.13 Traveling orators known for the art of persuasion and performance (“sophists”) were indeed an important part of eastern Mediterranean culture, but in recognizing this background, one should not lose sight of Paul’s concrete situation. The Tarsian repeatedly named a person – Apollos – whose expertise in Greek rhetoric and wisdom proved to be in contrast with Paul’s putatively more unsophisticated oral presentation. Paul himself, as has been well established, was hardly bereft of Greek rhetoric and wisdom. Nevertheless, Apollos was, it seems, part of a higher cultural tier. He was from a famous cultural and educational center, and his talents made him seem more qualified and proficient – at least to some Corinthians. In subtle ways, however, Paul managed to undermine the effect of Apollos’s rhetorical proficiency. Initially, Paul crafted a binary between abstract qualities, qualities that he subtly associated with Apollos and himself, namely wisdom and foolishness. Reading between the lines, one senses that Apollos represented the “wisdom of speech” (σοφίᾳ λόγου, 1:17), otherwise known as the “wisdom in speeches” or “discourses” (σοφίας λόγοις, 2:13). Paul then reversed the valence of the two binaries, portraying what is foolish to Greeks as divine wisdom, while labeling “Greek” wisdom (or education more broadly) as “worldly” (1:20; 3:19). 12 13

The speculations of Michael Goulder (Paul and the Competing Mission at Corinth [Peabody: Hendrickson, 2001]) are to be avoided. Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists: Alexandrian and Corinthian Responses to a Julio-Claudian Movement, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002); Winter, After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 31–43.



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Paul tried to ground his views in texts from Jewish scripture. In citing these scriptures, Paul had a shrewd way of alluding to his actual target. He quoted a verse he never used elsewhere in his surviving writings: “I will destroy (ἀπολλῶ) the wisdom of the wise” (1 Cor 1:19). Ostensibly this is a quote from Isaiah 24:19. Yet in the Greek version, it is hard to miss the critique of Apollos (Ἀπολλῶς) when Paul cited a scripture that begins with the ἀπολλῶ (“I will destroy”).14 Apollos, if we grasp the innuendo, represents the “Greek” wisdom of the wise that God will destroy. Those who follow Apollos are οἱ ἀπολλύμενοι – the “Apollonized” people who are also in the process of being lost. A man as wise as Apollos and his votaries would not have missed the innuendo.15 To say that Paul’s critique was only aimed at the devotees of Apollos, as opposed to Apollos himself, seems too generous.16 It is the name of Apollos that Paul invokes, and his alone. When he penned 1 Corinthians 2–4, Paul was apparently not overly threatened by Apollos. Thus he shifted to less oppositional rhetoric. Indeed, he used images that seem conciliatory. He depicted himself and Apollos as co-workers in Corinth. At the same time, Paul was careful to portray himself as the superior or supervisor in the relationship. For example, Paul depicted both himself and Apollos as farmers and builders. Paul, however, is the one who planted and laid the foundation as a “wise architect,” whereas Apollos only watered and built on the foundation like a common day laborer. The quality of Paul’s foundation and architectural plan is never thrown into doubt, though the quality of the house’s building materials (among them wood, hay, and stubble) is thrown into question (1 Cor 3:5–17). This was a game of one-upmanship: It was Paul who laid the foundation and Apollos who built on it. Another strategic metaphor Paul used is that of the pedagogue and the father. Apollos, Paul admitted, may be one of “ten thousand” Corinthian pedagogues, but Paul positioned himself as the single “father” of his Corinthian “children” (1 Cor 4:14–16). This is perhaps the most striking 14

15

16

Welborn points out the established connection between Apollo and ἀπόλλυμι (“to destroy”), citing David E. Aune, Revelation 6–16, WBC 52B (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998), 535. He also highlights Paul’s other use of paronomasia in Phlm 10–11. Joop F. M. Smit also sees an allusion to the followers of Apollos in Paul’s ἀπολλύμενοι of 1 Cor 1:18 (“‘What Is Apollos? What Is Paul?’ In Search for the Coherence of First Corinthians 1:10–4:21,” NovT 44:3 [2002]: 231–251 at 243). Pace Trebilco, Early Christians in Ephesus 116; Mihaila, The Paul–Apollos Relationship 186–189.

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contrast in implied status, because the father in Greco-Roman culture was the main authority who ruled the household, whereas the pedagogue was often a slave, an instructor cum chaperone taking orders from the father.17 Reading the implications of Paul’s metaphor, Apollos could only give the Corinthians what a slave could give to children (elementary instruction). When it came to the children’s education, the Corinthians – not to mention Apollos – would know that the pedagogue always obeys (or should obey) the father. The only other surviving instance of Paul’s pedagogue metaphor is when Paul called the Mosaic law “a pedagogue to lead us to Christ.” This lawpedagogue is, significantly, removed when “faith” (the favored response to Paul’s message) comes (Gal 3:24–25). Implicitly, then, Apollos’s message would have been rightly superseded by Paul’s teaching. Paul’s pedagogue metaphor in 1 Corinthians is creative because it is not outright pejorative, though it implies that Apollos was subordinate to Paul, just as the Mosaic law was putatively superseded by Paul’s gospel (cf. 2 Cor 3:1–14). To be sure, Paul would later call Apollos a “brother” (1 Cor 16:12). Interestingly, however, when Paul tried to direct the action of his “brother,” Apollos refused. Paul “pleaded” or “exhorted” Apollos “many times” for him to travel to Corinth (16:12). The frequency, or perhaps intensity, of Paul’s request is telling. Paul may have covertly wanted Apollos out of Ephesus, where Paul himself was working. In this scenario, Apollos did not feel the need to obey Paul; he felt no need to submit, because he was not Paul’s subordinate or part of his ministry team.18 Evidently, Apollos had good reasons to remain in Ephesus. Paul wanted Apollos to travel “with the brothers” (1 Cor 16:12) – by which he apparently meant Timothy and other members of Paul’s team (4:17). Traveling with Paul’s staunch supporters would effectively mitigate Apollos’s influence in Corinth, and Apollos was probably aware of this. When Apollos himself came to Corinth, it would be at a time of his own choosing (ὅταν εὐκαιρήσῃ, 16:12). Assuming that much of Paul’s polemic in 1 Corinthians 1–4 (and possibly elsewhere in the Corinthian epistles) is subtly directed at Apollos and his party, what can we tell about Apollos’s theological emphases? Whatever Apollos emphasized, it seems, it was not a messiah bleeding and dying on a cross. Paul implied, with some exaggeration, that his 17

18

Herodotus, Hist. 8.75; Ps.-Plato, Alcibiades I.122b; Plutarch, Amic. mult. 94c. See further Norman H. Young, “Paidagogos: The Social Setting of a Pauline Metaphor,” NovT 29:2 (1987): 150–176. Ker, “Paul and Apollos,” 95.



Apollos in 1 Corinthians

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message of the cross seemed foolish to the learned people of Apollos’s party (1 Cor 1:18). So what exactly did Apollos say? Apparently, the Alexandrian brought a message of wisdom to Corinth, a wisdom which Paul associated with “the world” and Hellenic culture (1 Cor 1:20–22). The image of Christ for Apollos was evidently one of Wisdom and Power. Christ opened up the eschatological promises of wisdom, power, and glory for God’s elect (1 Cor 4:10). Apollos’s wisdom was revealed by Spirit (1 Cor 2:10). Accordingly, Apollos probably considered his wisdom higher than this world and its rulers. It was a wisdom summed up in the phrases “the mystery of God” and “the depths of God” (1 Cor 2:1, 10). Paul agreed with Apollos that this divine wisdom could not be discerned by people unliberated by Spirit (1 Cor 2:14). The Spirit was an agent of cosmic and intellectual renewal, bestowing the “mind of Christ” (1 Cor 2:16). People intellectually liberated by Spirit became full, spiritually rich, and able to reign over their mortal bodies and this world (1 Cor 4:8). According to Apollos, those bodies would be left behind, since “flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God” (1 Cor 15:50). Christ as Logos showed the way. The Logos was the true Human, the model Human who preexisted every human being. The model Human was ideal, a being of pure spirit without flesh. This being became the model for the earthly Adam – a being of soul later coated with a garment of flesh. Christ took on flesh for a time, but after his resurrection, he returned to his heavenly identity as life-giving spirit. Christ as life-giving spirit became the model for resurrected humans. There is no resurrection of the flesh for the one conformed to the heavenly Human. Paul felt the need to correct Apollos, perhaps without fully understanding his theology. Paul urged that the Human of spirit did not precede the human of soul (Adam). The first human was immediately formed from soil. Later, the “second” Human (Christ) came from heaven (1 Cor 15:46–47). Redeemed humans would indeed conform to the heavenly Christ by bearing his image after the resurrection (1 Cor 15:48–49). But actual bodies would be raised like flowers from the ground. Admittedly, these bodies would not be fleshly. They would be redeemed, spiritual bodies shining with the glory of the stars (15:42–44). Paul would probably have made the same arguments against Philo. It was Philo who distinguished the Logos as the model Human. Philo further clarified that the first human in the image of the Logos was an ideal entity, not the Adam of flesh.19 It was Philo who believed that the true 19

Philo, Opif. 134–137; Leg. 1.31–32; 2.4–5; QG 1.4–22.

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human within was the mind, and that this mind alone would be liberated when it came time for humans to shed their coats of skin. In the case of Moses, we see clearly that there was no fleshly resurrection. The lawgiver ascended to heaven as pure mind (νοῦς), bright like the sun.20 This liberation from the flesh to become pure mind was a form of obtaining deathlessness and power, and thus deification.21 The question of whether Apollos was influenced by Philo has been steadily raised in scholarship.22 Positing direct influence is possible but unnecessary. If Apollos was trained in distinctly Alexandrian wisdom, then he participated in the same theological climate as Philo and encountered similar traditions, including the notion of God, or a manifestation of God, as a primal Human, the rejection of the corruptible flesh, and deification by becoming spirit or mind. These Alexandrian theological themes collided head-on with Pauline emphases (a slaughtered messiah and the raising of corpses) and incited the apostle’s ire against the Apolline party at Corinth.

Results What can one infer about Apollos, based on the data of 1 Corinthians? He seems to have been a freelance teacher of basically equal status to Paul. He may even have considered himself of greater status than the Tarsian, given that he was better educated and rhetorically more proficient (the latter point indirectly conceded by Paul, 1 Cor 2:1–5; 2 Cor 10:10). Apollos’s education seems to have been broadly Hellenic, for it is “the Greeks,” Paul said, who seek after the kind of wisdom associated with Apollos (1 Cor 1:22). Apollos’s learning also involved proficiency in Jewish scripture, for it was these scriptures that Paul, in turn, wielded against him (1 Cor 1:19, 31). 20 21 22

Philo, Mos. 2.288. Litwa, “Deification of Moses,” 14–27. Richard A. Horsley, “Wisdom of Word and Words of Wisdom in Corinth,” CBQ 39:2 (1977): 224–239, esp. 232–236; J. A. Davis, Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 1 Corinthians 1:18–3:20 against the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco-Roman Period (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984); Birger A. Pearson, The Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology in 1 Corinthians: A Study in the Theology of the Corinthian Opponents of Paul and Its Relation to Gnosticism (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1973), 15–21; Gerhard Sellin, Der Streit um die Auferstehung der Toten: Eine religionsgeschichtliche und exegetische Untersuchung von 1 Korinther 15 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 137–171; Gerhard Sellin, “Einflüsse philonischer Logos-Theologie in Korinth: Weisheit und Apostelparteien (1Kor 1-4),” in Philo und das Neue Testament 165–172; Dieter Zeller, “Philonische Logos-Theologie im Hintergrund des Konflikts von 1Kor 1–4?” in ibid., 155–164; Folker Siegert, “Philo and the New Testament,” in Cambridge Companion to Philo at 175–209 at 190.



Apollos in Acts

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Apollos had probably emphasized those passages in Hebrew scripture that supported the pursuit of wisdom (often lauded, for instance, in the book of Proverbs: “blessed is the person who has found wisdom” [3:19; cf. 14:33]). In response, Paul selected from his quiver a set of passages that threw human wisdom into doubt (Isa 29:14; Jer 23:18, LXX). From what we can tell, Apollos came to Corinth after Paul and apart from Paul’s directives. In Corinth, Apollos assumed a kind of leadership over some of Paul’s converts, and he may have made recruits of his own. Apparently Apollos encouraged the group to attain a higher level of spiritual and intellectual maturity (1 Cor 3:1–3), a maturity that involved the promise of royal power and honor (4:8; 4:10). Apollos may have accepted payment or donations for his sermons and/or leadership – otherwise Paul would not have contrasted his presumed self-maintenance (4:12). Conceivably, however, Apollos may not have needed money. He may have been supported by an Alexandrian assembly. Alternatively, if Apollos was from a good Alexandrian family and could afford to travel, he was probably affluent.23 As an educated freelance expert in religious lore, Apollos was a wellrecognized type of agent in the ancient Mediterranean.24 He may not have conceived of Paul as a competitor, but it seems fair to conclude that Paul nurtured an (often tacit) rivalry with Apollos. That rivalry may have had less to do with conflicting theologies than with conflicting personalities, educational attainments, and leadership styles. At the same time, Paul suggested theological tensions by saying that he represented a theology of Christ crucified (1 Cor 1:23) in contrast to Apollos’s message of wisdom bestowed by Jesus. Apollos encouraged Corinthian Christians to view themselves as wise, strong, and (spiritually) rich. He valued education and Greek learning and rhetorical proficiency as a sign of endowment by the Spirit. He won a devoted following in Corinth and rivaled Paul’s influence there, probably for a considerable time.

Apollos in

acts

The book of Acts was written at least a generation after Paul. I do not consider the author of Acts to have been the apostle’s travel companion. 23 24

Wayne A. Meeks, First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul, 2nd ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 61. Heidi Wendt, At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016).

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The anonymous author never claimed to have known Paul or Apollos personally, nor any of their followers. Instead, this author reinforced a tendency established by Paul himself: He depicted Apollos as Paul’s subordinate. Thanks in large part to Acts, later Christians would sing Paul’s praises while Apollos would become only a minor character in the palace of Christian memory. By the time Acts was written, Paul had secured authoritative status as an apostle, though Paul evidently assumed that Apollos was an apostle as well (1 Cor 4:9).25 Acts also follows a tendency characteristic of the second-century church, one that sees the first generation of Christianity as a kind of golden age, a time in which conflicts, if they occurred, were mostly smoothed over, sometimes by church councils (Acts 15). The author of Acts wholeheartedly supported an ideology of ecclesial unity, promoting a particular vision of apostolic Christianity, a vision that became dominant in late second-century Rome. The two apostles most promoted in Acts – Peter and Paul – came to be honored, in fact, as the twin founders of the Roman church. Simply put, Acts is a history of the early church shaped by a particular Pauline school of thought. The author of Acts, in my opinion, used a Pauline letter collection (including 1 Corinthians).26 Nevertheless, he refrained from citing Paul’s letters in order to give the impression that he was a contemporary and companion of Paul. (His use of the first-person plural in Acts 16:10–17; 20:5–15; 21:1–18; 27:1–37; 28:1–16 is a welldocumented rhetorical technique.27) If the author of Acts knew Josephus, then Acts is a fairly late document, with a terminus a quo of about 96 ce.28 Using 1 Corinthians as a touchstone, one can both confirm and question certain elements of Apollos’s portrait in Acts. For instance, the statement in Acts that Apollos was λόγιος (Acts 18:24), which can mean both “educated” and “eloquent,” is confirmed by 1 Corinthians. Apollos propounded a version of Christian wisdom and was a capable speaker. We also have no reason to deny that Apollos was “powerful in the [Hebrew]

25 26

27 28

Andrew Wilson, “Apostle Apollos?” JETS 56:2 (2013): 325–335. Walker reasonably shows how the author of Acts made use of 1 Corinthians in order to depict Apollos (“The Portrayal of Aquila and Priscilla,” 487). Pervo cites ninety-eight examples wherein the author of Acts adapts language from Pauline epistles (Dating Acts 51–148). William Campbell, We Passages in the Acts of the Apostles: The Narrator as Narrative Character (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2007). Pervo, Dating Acts 149–200; Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament, 2nd ed. (Peabody: Hendrickson, 2003), esp. 292.



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scriptures” (18:24). Paul’s battle against Apollos was in part over the interpretation of these scriptures on the topic of wisdom, higher teachings (“mysteries”), and spiritual maturity. The author of Acts’s statement that Apollos was Jewish (Ἰουδαῖος δέ τις Ἀπολλῶς) should not, in my view, be uncritically accepted (Acts 18:24). It may have been the author’s own extrapolation. Who would have been educated in Jewish scripture, after all, apart from a person of Jewish heritage? Paul referred to his opponents as “Hebrews” (2 Cor 11:22), and the author of Acts may have assumed that here he referred, at least in part, to Apollos. Josep Rius-Camps and Jenny Read-Heimerdinger propose that Apollos was a proselyte, since he is also called “an Alexandrian by race” (Ἀλεξανδρεὺς τῷ γένει, Acts 18:24; cf. 18:2).29 In a minimalist reading, this remark indicates that Apollos was from Alexandria. Yet it could also mean that Apollos was of Hellenic or even Egyptian heritage, an idea partially supported by Apollos’s name (indicative of Horus).30 Elsewhere in Acts the dative phrase τῷ γένει is an ethnic qualifier, such as when Barnabas is called “a Cyprian by race” (Κύπριος τῷ γένει). Aquila, for his part, was a man of Pontic origins (Ποντικὸν τῷ γένει, Acts 18:2).31 Perhaps the author of Acts discovered the tradition that Apollos was “Alexandrian by race” but added the datum that he was “a certain Jew.” Despite Apollos’s appearance in synagogues (a datum only reported in Acts) he apparently felt no need to attach himself to Jewish communities, since he was in the business of creating and nurturing newly founded assemblies characterized by devotion to Jesus. These assemblies were institutionally distinct from synagogues, as we see in Corinth. The author of Acts portrayed Apollos as deficient in his understanding of “the Way.” Apollos, we are told, “only knew the baptism of John” (Acts 18:25). This remark seems to be in tension with the previous clause where Apollos accurately (ἀκριβῶς) taught “the matters concerning Jesus.” Jesus, as is generally acknowledged, came after John the Baptist. If Apollos accurately taught about Jesus, he evidently knew more than the baptismal message of John. Moreover, if Apollos only knew the baptism of John, he would only have known a baptism that did not convey the spirit (Acts 19:1–7). But Apollos was “boiling in spirit” (ζέων τῷ 29 30

31

Rius-Camps and Read-Heimerdinger, Message of Acts 24–25. Epiphanius said of Origen, τῷ γένει μὲν Αἰγύπτιος, ἐν Ἀλεξανδρείᾳ δὲ ἐσχηκὼς τὴν οἴκησιν (Pan. 64.1.2). Jerome said of Philo that he was natione Alexandrinus (“Alexandrian by region of birth”) (Vir. Ill. 11). Macarius of Egypt was also τῷ γένει Ἀλεξανδρεύς (Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiastica 3.14.1). Cf. Mark 7:26: Συροφοινίκισσα τῷ γένει.

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πνεύματι, 18:25). This was evidently the Holy Spirit, since Aquila and Priscilla felt no need to rebaptize Apollos (contrast Acts 19:6).32 Finally, if Apollos only knew the baptism of John, he would probably not have envisioned a mission beyond Palestine. The fact that Apollos was spreading the message of Jesus to predominantly Gentile cities indicates that he had a wider vision. Having noted these issues with Acts’s presentation of Apollos, one is in a better position to compare what we find in 1 Corinthians. Although the datum would have been useful to him, Paul in 1 Corinthians did not state that Apollos’s understanding of Christianity was deficient. If Apollos’s knowledge was lacking, he would be one of those “infants in Christ” (1 Cor 3:1). Yet Paul conceded that Apollos was a teacher of those “infants.” The uninformed Apollos of Acts seems unlikely, moreover, given his role as an educated and rhetorically proficient intellectual in Corinth. Whatever teaching Apollos brought to Ephesus and Corinth, it was evidently something more – not less – than what Paul introduced. It is likely, then, that the historical Apollos did not need supplementary information about Jesus from members of Paul’s team. We do better to affirm the other datum of Acts: that Apollos had “accurate” knowledge about Jesus, even if Apollos’s portrayal of Jesus conflicted with Paul’s crucified messiah.33 If Apollos competed with Paul for leadership in the Corinthian assembly (as seems evident from 1 Cor 1:12; 4:6–7, 14–16), then having Apollos be corrected by Paul’s associates (Acts 18:26) was a subtle way to promote Paul and Paul’s gospel at Apollos’s expense. According to Acts, Paul and Apollos were not even allowed to minister in Ephesus at the same time – a point that, as we gather from 1 Corinthians, is historically false. Yet by describing events in this way, the author of Acts ensured that any subtle threat Apollos posed to Paul was effectively 32

33

Ulrich Busse, “Apollos: ein Geist-licher im Lernprozess (Apg 18,24-28),” in Mysterium Regni-Mysterium Verbi, Scritti in onore di mons. Vittorio Fusco (Bologna: EDB, 2001), 517–525 at 525–527. The attempt to make Apollos a follower of John the Baptist can be traced back to the author of Acts. The author of Acts implicitly portrayed Apollos as the leader of a small (twelve-person) conventicle in Ephesus who had only received the baptism of John (Acts 19:3–7). When Paul came to Ephesus after Apollos, he discovered this group and rebaptized them. In this way, the author of Acts ensured that Paul was viewed as the founder of Christianity in Ephesus, despite the fact that Apollos preceded him in this city (this despite Acts 18:19). For a different view, see Vollenweider, “Apollos of Alexandria,” 331–333, 340–344. See further Michael Wolter, “Apollos und die ephesinischen Johannesjünger (Act ­18.24–19.7),” ZNW 78 (1987): 49–73.



Apollos’s Significance for Alexandria

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hushed. Readers of Acts who were unfamiliar with 1 Corinthians would not suppose that there was any rivalry between Paul and Apollos at all.

Apollos’s Significance for Alexandria Having sketched the earliest reception of Apollos, I turn to the second main question: What can Apollos tell us about the earliest Jesus movement(s) in Alexandria? Admittedly, all we can know comes by a process of inference and educated guesswork. Assuming that Apollos was trained in his hometown, this would indicate that Alexandria was a place of Christian teaching by about 50 ce. If Alexandria was a place of Christian teaching by this time, then presumably Christianity had been introduced at least a decade or so earlier. In this respect, Alexandria would have been analogous to Antioch, another major city in relative proximity to Palestine and a center of early recruitment to the Jesus movement(s) among both Jews and Gentiles. Assuming the basic accuracy of this picture, why did Apollos leave Alexandria to go to Ephesus and Corinth? That is to say, if the fields were ripe for harvest in Egypt, why sail the high seas? Evidently Christian conventicles in Alexandria were already well established and – since Apollos identified with Greek culture – he may have felt more connected to the heartlands of Hellenic learning (Greece and Asia Minor) than he did to the Egyptian hinterlands. Perhaps Apollos shared Philo’s loathing for native Egyptian culture.34 In the end, we do not know why Apollos traveled north from Alexandria. What we do know is that, presumably around 50 ce, he traveled to Asia Minor and Greece to spread a message about Jesus and to form new and independent assemblies. Did Apollos himself travel independently or with ecclesial support? Again, we do not know. But if the latter, then we might infer that the Alexandrian Christian network was large and developed enough to support – or at least send off – its own literate experts overseas. Apollos traveled to Ephesus and Corinth (and perhaps elsewhere) with a version of the gospel he developed in Alexandria. This gospel emphasized wisdom, gnosis, perfection, and spiritual mysteries.35 It may

34 35

J. K. Pearce, The Land of the Body: Studies in Philo’s Representation of Egypt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). See, e.g., 1 Cor 2:1, 6–7; 4:1; 8:1; 15:51. This kind of language reappears in Col and Eph. See the survey of T. J. Lang, Mystery and the Making of a Christian Historical Consciousness: From Paul to the Second Century (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 31–117.

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have included sapiential traditions about the creation of humanity.36 Specifically, it portrayed God’s Logos, identified with Christ, as a primeval and archetypal Human divorced from flesh. It rejected the resurrection of the flesh and supported the deification of the mind – three Philonic emphases. Apollos’s Alexandrian training would explain why his message resonated with Philonic lore. Apollos and Philo belonged to a common philosophical culture. In sum, Apollos was a gifted Alexandrian devotee of Jesus, a recruiter confident enough to move out of Alexandria (at some point) to “colonize” major cities such as Ephesus and Corinth with his version of the gospel. I have rejected the datum from Acts that Apollos only knew John’s baptism (itself a somewhat unclear remark). Apollos’s expertise in Jewish scripture suggests, but does not demand, his Jewish ethnicity. Apollos was “an Alexandrian by race,” which means that he could have been Gentile. In this case, he would have become an expert in Jewish scripture after his integration into “the Way.” There is no evidence – even if we accepted all the data in Acts – that Apollos felt a special attraction to Palestine. Instead, he traveled as a missionary to Gentiledominated areas (Ephesus and Corinth) and ministered in what seemed to have been predominantly Gentile groups. One might then extrapolate that Apollos’s own Christian sponsors in Alexandria had already accepted non-Jews into their community and wished to promote further recruitment among Gentiles further afield. Accordingly, the Christian assemblies in mid-first-century Alexandria would have resembled the mixed Gentile and Jewish assemblies contemporaneously forming in Antioch, Cyprus, and Asia Minor.

36

Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Wisdom among the Perfect’: Creation Traditions in Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity,” NovT 37:4 (1995): 355–384 at 383.

4 Factors Motivating Gentile Recruitment

Introduction The traditions of Apollos, in my view, provide evidence that the Jesus movement(s) entered Alexandria early – by at least 40 ce (though probably earlier) – and swiftly appealed to educated persons in the city whether Jews or proselytes. The fact that Apollos left Alexandria to proselytize predominately Gentile populations in Ephesus and Corinth leads one to infer that the Jesus movement had spread to Gentiles already in Alexandria and that, by about 50 ce, Alexandrians with expertise in Jewish scripture saw the opportunity to spread the message still further afield among Gentiles in Greece and Asia Minor. To be sure, my interpretation clashes with scholars who assert that between about 35 and 117 ce, Christians in Alexandria remained entirely within the Jewish fold. For instance, Simon C. Mimouni has proposed that no “Greeks” entered the Christian community of Alexandria prior to 117 ce, because up until that time virtually all Christians were of Jewish descent and the “Greeks” of Alexandria were “Judeophobic.”1 Although I readily admit that Judeophobia raged in Alexandria,2 the idea that all “Greeks” were Judeophobic between 35 and 117 seems simplistic, especially in light of studies by Erich Gruen showing the intense 1 2

Simon C. Mimouni, “À la recherche de la communauté chrétienne,” in Origeniana Octava 137–164 at 162. Schäfer, Judeophobia: Attitudes toward the Jews in the Ancient World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), esp. 136–160.

55

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intercultural interaction between Jews and Gentiles in Alexandria before and during this period.3 We do not know whether Alexandrian Christianity between 35 and 117 was Jewish in terms of religious practice and lineage, because we have no reliable data. One can agree that virtually all followers of Jesus were Jews between about 30 and 35 ce. Yet we can also imagine a scenario in which the earliest votaries of Jesus in Alexandria were motivated to expand quickly to Gentile populations with the result that the earliest devotees of Jesus in Alexandria were of mixed cultural and ethnic heritage from an early point. Early Christianity swiftly spread to non-Jewish persons in places such as Caesarea, Samaria, and Antioch. Something of a trend took hold: the Jesus movements, when they spread to Gentile-dominated cities, attracted members of the majority population, some of whom may already have been attached to the synagogues as patrons and attendees.4 Despite the narrative of Acts, the early recruitment of Gentiles did not require apostolic validation, church councils, or transmission through official channels. Thus we can imagine a scenario in which a Syrian businessman from Caesarea sympathized with the Jesus movement(s) around 40 ce and on his next business venture to Alexandria reported what he believed to his Egyptian associates there. These associates then spread the message further through familial and commercial networks. In short, even if earliest Christianity in Alexandria began entirely as a Jewish movement, little demands that it remained solely Jewish until 117.5 Mimouni’s thesis about a solely Jewish Christianity until 117 can in fact be turned on its head: The very tension between Jewish residents and Greek citizens of Alexandria between 35 and 117 explains why there was motivation for Jesus followers to recruit Gentiles and Gentile members of the cultural elite (Alexandrian citizens of various ethnic backgrounds). These very tensions, in other words, were factors distinctive to Alexandria motivating the recruitment of Gentile populations. 3

4 5

Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); Gruen, Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 54–83; Gruen, The Construct of Identity in Hellenistic Judaism: Essays on Early Jewish Literature and History (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016), esp. 313–332. Jack T. Sanders, “Did Early Christianity Succeed Because of Jewish Conversions?” Social Compass 46:4 (1999) 493–505. Annick Martin rightly saw some recruitment among cultivated Greeks of the early period (“Aux origines de l’Alexandrie chrétienne: Topographie, liturgie, institutions,” in Origeniana Octava, 105–120 at 109).



The First Pogrom

57

Let’s review the evidence.6 During the first eighty years of Christianity in Egypt, at least three major events shaped the attitude of Alexandrians toward Jews in the city. They were: 1. The disturbance from 38 to 41 ce 2. The massacre of Jews in 66 ce 3. The Jewish uprising in Libya, Egypt, and Cyprus from 115 to 117 ce.7

The First Pogrom I begin with the disturbance in 38 ce, a disturbance that has been called “the first pogrom.”8 The trouble, we learn, did not actually start in 38 ce. Sandra Gambetti has used papyri to reconstruct a “precedent” for the disturbance in 35–36 ce.9 Her arguments are noteworthy but dogged by the lacunose and fictionalized nature of her sources. Certainly the Jewish-Egyptian animosity, according to Philo, went back further than 35. He claimed that Egyptians in Alexandria cherished an “ancient and, in a sense, innate enmity towards the Jews.”10 Philo added (speaking in the character of an Egyptian) that anti-Jewish slander was nurtured and taught to Egyptians from the cradle.11 But blaming Egyptians was a bit of a smokescreen. The immediate problem, it seems, was that many elite Alexandrians could not stomach the fact that the emperor Gaius – a lover of Alexandria and of his own divinity – had crowned a Jew king (Agrippa I) while leaving Alexandria without so much as a city council.12 6

The following section adapts and expands material in Litwa, Carpocrates 205–208. For surveys of Jewish history in Alexandria between 38 and 117 ce, see E. Mary Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian (Leiden: Brill, 1976) 230–250; 364–368, 389–412; Modrzejewski, Jews of Egypt 161–230; John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 48–81; Christopher Haas, Alexandria in Late Antiquity: Topography and Social Conflict (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 94–103; Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina 30–34; Gottfried Schimanowski, Juden und Nichtjuden in Alexandrien: Koexistenz und Konflikte biz zum Pogrom unter Trajan (117 n. Chr) (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2006), 140–210; Paget, Jews, Christians, and Jewish Christians 126–136. 8 Pieter Willem van der Horst, Philo’s Flaccus: The First Pogrom (Leiden: Brill, 2003), iii. Jan Bremmer discusses the accuracy of the term “pogrom” (“The First Pogrom? Religious Violence in Alexandria in 38 ce,” in Alexandria: Hub 245–260). 9 Gambetti, The Alexandrian Riots of 38 C.E. and the Persecution of the Jews: A Historical Reconstruction (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 87–136. 10 Philo, Flacc.29; cf. 3 Macc 4:1. 11 Philo, Legat. 170. 12 Philo, Flacc. 25–43. 7

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Scholars have discussed several other rationales for the violence that broke out in 38 ce, including: (1) Jews as scapegoats for supporting the Romans when they took over Egypt, (2) native Alexandrian xenophobia, (3) religious tensions concerning the imperial cult, and (4) social tensions due to the Jewish appeal for equal rights (citizenship rights, which included the ability to avoid taxes levied against the broader Egyptian population). These reasons can be combined, of course, to form a cumulative case. For my purposes, I do not need to favor any single explanation for the conflict. Instead, I simply focus on the details of Philo’s report. This report probably includes a fair bit of yellow journalism, but it is the only full account that survives. In the late summer of 38 ce, Philo reported at least ten setbacks suffered by Jews in Alexandria: 1. The seizure of Jewish homes and personal property 2. Setting up imperial statues/portraits in the synagogues 3. Ghettoization (the restriction of Jewish residents to a quarter of the city) 4. The flagellation of thirty-eight Jewish elders 5. Jewish women tortured for not eating pork 6. A government-sponsored search of Jewish houses 7. The cessation of Jewish businesses 8. Mob lynching of Jews in the marketplace (burning, crucifixion, and dragging, with no burial of the victims) 9. The withholding of the Jewish decree honoring the emperor 10. The governor’s decree calling the Jews “foreigners”13 These attacks made it clear that the majority of Jews were not citizens of Alexandria and threw into question whether they had any civic rights in the city at all. These setbacks must have been shocking for Alexandrian Jews who considered the city their homeland. Josephus wrote that the Jewish nation in Alexandria was “humiliated” (τεταπεινωμένον) and terribly abused (δεινῶς ὑβρισμένον).14 In the wake of the attacks in 38 ce, Jewish

13

14

Werner Bergmann and Christhard Hoffmann examine the motives of the conflict (“Kalkül oder Massenwahn? Eine soziologische Interpretation der antijüdischen Unruhen in Alexandria 38 n.Chr,” in Antisemitismus und jüdischen Geschichte: FS Herbert A. Strauss [Berlin. Wissenschaftlicher Autoren Verlag, 1987], 15–46). Van der Horst (Philo’s Flaccus 152–186) offers a commentary on Philo’s views. Per Bilde gives an overview and genre analysis in “Philo as a Polemist and a Political Apologist: An Investigation of His Two Historical Treatises against Flaccus and the Embassy to Gaius,” in Alexandria: A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot 97–114. Josephus, Ant. 19.278.



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bankers lost their loans, Jewish farmers could not till the soil, shippers and merchants could not sail the seas, and artisans could not sell their wares.15 Matters may have stood thus for quite some time (the Jewish embassy to the emperor Gaius was not heard in Rome until two years later in 40 ce). A letter written by a Greek merchant to a friend in Alexandria in 41 ce has a warning to avoid Jewish creditors: “like everybody else, you too beware of the Jews.”16 One has the sense that Alexandrian Jews were socially and economically isolated over a considerable period.17 When the emperor Caligula was assassinated in January of 41 ce, Alexandrian Jews were emboldened and “immediately took up arms.”18 They called in comrades from Syria, Palestine, and the Egyptian countryside.19 There was some kind of Jewish-led skirmish within the city, leading to what the emperor Claudius called a “war” (πόλεμος) against the Jews.20 This war only fully ceased, it seems, with Claudius’s decree on 10 November 41 ce. In this decree, Claudius allowed Alexandrian Jews to practice their ancestral customs. Yet Jewish hopes for obtaining citizenship were dashed. Flaccus, the governor, had referred to the Jews as “foreigners.” Claudius reaffirmed their migrant status: Alexandrian Jews lived “in a city not their own.”21 The emperor threatened insurgent Jews in no uncertain terms that if they continued the disruptions, he would proceed against them with military force – as if fighting “a global plague.”22

The Massacre in 66 ce It might be tempting to suppose that in the fifteen years between 41 and 66 ce, relations improved between Jews in Alexandria and the majority populations. Perhaps in some respects they did. Yet in his Jewish War, Josephus wrote that “civil conflict” (στάσις) against the Jews was “constant” (ἀεί) and despite the punishment of perpetrators by Roman officials, the discord intensified (στάσις … παρωξύνετο).23

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Philo, Flaccus 57. CPJ §152. See further Katherine Blouin, Le conflit judèo-Alexandrin de 38–41: L’Identité juive à l’épreuve (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2005). Josephus, Ant. 19.278. CPJ §153.96–97. CPJ §153.73–74. CPJ §153.95. CPJ §153.100. Josephus, J.W. 2.487–489; cf. C. Ap. 2.70.

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Physical violence broke out again in 66 ce when certain Jews entered the amphitheater where citizens gathered to discuss an embassy. Members of the assembly not only rose to defame these Jews as enemies and spies, they ordered their immediate arrest. The Jews who were present fled. Some may have been killed on the spot. Three of them were arrested and ordered to be burned alive. The “whole Jewish populace” (πᾶν τὸ Ἰουδαϊκόν) in Alexandria rose to their defense, heaving stones and waving torches.24 The governor Tiberius Julius Alexander, himself of Jewish descent, initially sent ambassadors to the Jewish leadership. When these were rebuffed, Tiberius released the full force of two legions plus auxiliaries against the Jewish quarter (indicating, incidentally, that the Jews had continued to be ghettoized in the intervening time). These soldiers had freedom to kill, pillage, and burn Jewish homes in the city. Josephus reported that 50,000 Jews were killed in this event.25 This number is justly doubted.26 It should be kept in mind, however, that Josephus was more inclined to inflate numbers when it came to the Jews’ advantage (such as how many enemies were slaughtered in the conquest of Canaan). He may not have exaggerated too much when it came to the Jews’ military embarrassment.27 Josephus added that between 70 and 73 ce, sicarii (“dagger men”) from Palestine fled to Alexandria attempting to motivate rebellion, assassinating Jews who opposed them. These sicarii – more than 600 men, as we are told – were rounded up and tortured to death.28 In brief, just as the earliest Jesus movements were gestating in Alexandria, political events turned sour for the Jews. Its effects – social, economic, and psychological – must have been severe, only compounded when the Jews learned that their most sacred temple was destroyed in 70 ce. The Romans added insult to injury when they charged all Jews 24 25 26

27 28

Josephus, J.W. 2.492. Josephus, J.W. 2.497. David Dawson, Allegorical Readers and Cultural Revision in Ancient Alexandria (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 173; Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina: 33; Steve Mason, Judean War 2: Translation and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 356. In a speech later in his Jewish War, Josephus reported the number of fatalities in Alexandria as 60,000 (J.W. 7.369). Josephus, J.W. 7.409–419; see further Stefan Pfeiffer, “The Alexandrian Jews and their Agon for Affiliation: The Conflict of the Years 38-41 ad,” in Strangers and Poor People: Changing Patterns of Inclusion and Exclusion in Europe and the Mediterranean World from Classical Antiquity to the Present Day, ed. Andreas Gestrich, Lutz Raphael, and Herbert Uerlings (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2009), 113–133.



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in their domains a reparations tax purposed for the rebuilding of a Roman temple to Jupiter (the fiscus Iudaicus).29 Alexandrian leaders insulted the Jews by petitioning Vespasian to remove any remaining civic rights of Jews in their city.30 The emperor refused. Nevertheless, he ordered the closure and dismantling of the Jewish temple in Leontopolis (73  ce). Jews no longer had any place to sacrifice animals according to their law.

The Diaspora Revolt “It is only on the assumption,” wrote John Barclay, “of prolonged and profound alienation between Jews and non-Jews that we can explain the ferocity of the Jewish uprising in 116–117 ce.”31 As the Emperor Trajan was at the peak of military success in Mesopotamia, the Jews of North Africa revolted about 115 ce. Taking over several cities of Cyrene, a renegade army marched east toward Alexandria. When the Jewish revolutionaries were repulsed from the city, a mob of angry Gentiles turned on their Jewish neighbors. Meanwhile, the repelled Jewish army from Cyrene wreaked havoc in Middle Egypt until the emperor Trajan sent a top general, Marcius Turbo, with crack troops who proceeded to mow down the Jews in Egypt (116–117 ce).32 Scholars generally agree that the result of these combined attacks was devastating to Jews in Alexandria.33 “The synagogues were destroyed, the Jewish court ceased to function, and Jewish land was easily confiscated because the Jews themselves were gone. Indeed, Alexandrian Jews nearly vanished from the historical record.”34 29 30 31 32

33 34

Josephus, J.W. 7.218; Dio Cassius, Roman History 65.7.2. See further Marius Heemstra, Fiscus Iudaicus and the Parting of the Ways (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). Josephus, Ant. 12.121. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean 78. Eusebius, HE 4.2–3; Dio Cassius, Roman History 68.32; 69.8; Appian, Civil Wars 2.13.90; t. Sukkah 5.1.55b. See further Miriam Pucci Ben Zeev, Diaspora Judaism in Turmoil 116–117 ce: Ancient Sources and Modern Insights (Leuven: Peeters. 2005); Allen Kerkeslager, “The Jews in Egypt and Cyrenaica, 66–c. 235ce,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, Volume 4, The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period, ed. Steven T. Katz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 53–92; Anna Maria Schwemer, “Zum Abbruch des jüdischen Lebens in Alexandria: Der Aufstand in der Diaspora unter Trajan (115–117),” in Alexandria, ed. Georges et al., 381–399; William Horbury, The Jewish War under Trajan and Hadrian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). CPJ 1.92–93; Pearson, Gnosticism and Christianity 83; Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina 82. Dawson, Allegorical Readers 174.

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The “nearly” is important, because there is evidence of a remnant of Jews in Alexandria after the revolt.35 They experienced decimation, not genocide. At the same time, we can speak of the Jews’ near total loss of cultural and political capital in Alexandria (and elsewhere in Egypt). There was no full recovery of Jewish communities there until sometime in the third century ce.36 In the words of Roger Bagnall: “There is no way of estimating the extent of the slaughter and enslavement inflicted on the Jewish community by the Roman authorities, but it was decisive and permanent.”37

Conclusion To sum up: The evidence of Jewish conflict in Alexandria – the pogrom in 38 ce, the massacre in 66 ce, and the decimation under Trajan in 117 ce – must be taken into account when we speculate about the identity and expansion of the earliest followers of Jesus in Alexandria.38 If we are looking backward from 38 ce, one can agree with Gruen that the pogrom under Gaius was an aberration.39 Yet looking forward in time, hostility grew and there was more than one catastrophe that affected Alexandrian Jews. Although Jews in Alexandria mustered considerable social and cultural capital before the reign of Gaius – when Christian recruitment probably began – their political, cultural, and monetary capital began to decline at various rates during the following eighty years. To be sure, not everything went badly for Alexandrian Jews between 38–117 ce. Some Jews, for instance, may have considered it a political 35

36

37 38

39

Horbury, Jewish War 215–235; Livia Capponi, “Hadrian in Jerusalem and Alexandria in 117,” Athenaeum 98 (2010): 489–501; Tal Ilan, “The Jewish Community in Egypt before and after 117 ce in Light of Old and New Papyri,” in Jewish and Christian Communal Identities in the Roman World, ed. Yair Furstenberg (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 203–224. According to Eldon Epp, the papyrus evidence documents a recovery of Judaism in Oxyrhynchus in the latter part of the third century ce (“The Jews and the Jewish Community in Oxyrhynchus: Socio-Religious Background for the New Testament Papyri,” in New Testament Manuscripts: Their Texts and Their World, ed. Thomas J. Kraus and Tobias Nicklas [Leiden: Brill, 2006], 13–52 at 48–49). Roger S. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 276. Katelijn Vandorpe, “Identity,” in The Oxford Handbook of Roman Egypt, ed. Christina Riggs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 260–276; Andrew Harker, “The Jews in Roman Egypt: Trials and Rebellions,” in ibid., 277–287. Gruen, Diaspora 54–83.



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victory that one of their own sons, Tiberius Julius, became governor of Egypt in 66 – at least until he unleashed the Roman legions against them.40 There were also several decades of relatively peaceful, if sometimes strained, interaction between Alexandrian Jews and the larger population of the city between 41–60 and 75–115 ce. Nevertheless, during this entire period it seems reasonable to suppose that some local Greeks, Egyptians, and Romans considered Jews – including Alexandrian Jews – to be a fractious and even seditious people. Josephus wrote that Vespasian himself “felt suspicious of the ceaseless revolutionizing of the Jews.”41 Under these circumstances, many followers of Jesus in Alexandria may still have cherished their Jewish practices. Many if not most of them could have been of Jewish lineage. At the same time, these early disciples had, if only for the sake of their own survival, an interest in expanding their social networks, and in particular their status-bridging social capital.42 The author of the Epistle of Barnabas (Chapter 5) imagined that he spoke at least in part to social elites (τοὺς ὑπερέχοντας, 21:2; cf. Rom 13:1; 1 Pet 2:13); some of these elites owned slaves (Barn. 19:7). Other Christians indicated that they wanted to appeal to such elites – men at least represented by the centurion Cornelius in Acts 10, by the proconsul Sergius Paulus in Acts 13, and by the Asiarchs in Acts 19:31. Access to these elites came through appealing to local Gentiles in power – those with access to the gymnasium (with all its trappings of intellectual respectability) and the civic courts, as well as political networks that offered patronage and protection. In Alexandria between 38 and 117 ce, the only people who could possess this kind of capital were Roman and Alexandrian citizens, who were typically people of mixed (largely Macedonian, Greek, and sometimes Egyptian) heritage.43

40

41 42

43

Gottfried Schimanowski, “Die jüdische Integration in die Oberschicht Alexandriens und die angebliche Apostasie des Tiberius Julius Alexander,” in Jewish Identity in the GrecoRoman World, ed. Jörg Frey, et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 126–135. Josephus J.W. 7.421; cf. CPJ 2 §156c; Pervo, Dating Acts 369. Robert Wuthnow, “Religious Involvement and Status-Bridging Social Capital,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 41:4 (2002): 669–684. On social capital more generally, see Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson (New York: Greenwood Press, 1986), 241–260. See further John S. Kloppenborg, “The Attraction of Roman Elite to the Christian Movement,” in Talking God in Society: Multidisciplinary (Re)constructions of Ancient (Con)texts – Festschrift Peter Lampe, ed. Ute E. Eisen and Heidrun E. Mader (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2020), 263–280.

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One can hypothesize, then, that the significant decrease in Jewish social and cultural capital between 38 and 117 ce meant that small pockets of the earliest Christians in Alexandria, at least, would have wanted to distance themselves from a (solely) Jewish identity. They would have sought to avoid the stigma of seditiousness which would have reduced the social capital of the earliest followers of Jesus at a time when they strove most to maximize it. We gather that in urban centers such as Caesarea and Antioch at the time, Gentile recruitment to the Jesus movements was growing apace. In those cities, we are also aware of tensions between Jewish and Gentile populations, especially between 60 and 73 ce.44 During this time, disassociation from Jews of decreasing social capital and association with Gentiles of stable or increasing social capital may have fostered the growth of the Jesus movements among the majority (non-Jewish) populations. There was, in short, a recruitment advantage for presenting the Jesus movement as distinct from Jewish practices and institutions. Even for those devotees of Jesus who identified as Jewish by genetic and cultural heritage, they found that it was socially advantageous to present their movement as theologically and organizationally distinct from the Judaism practiced in synagogues in their cities. To be clear, this is not an argument for a clear-cut “parting of the ways” between religious Jews and Christians in Alexandria or elsewhere.45 There are many ways to define a “parting,” after all, many motives for it, and many situations blurring religious boundaries.46 Here I speak of parting only in the sense that, probably by the late first century ce, 44 45

46

See, e.g., Josephus, J.W. 7.46–53 with discussion by Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean 256–258. Adam H. Becker and Annette Yoshiko Reed, The Ways that Never Parted: Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007); Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Ways that Parted: Jews, Christians, and Jewish-Christians ca. 100–150 ce,” in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries: The Interbellum, ed. Joshua Schwartz and Peter J. Tomson (Leiden: Brill. 2018), 307–333; Lori Baron, Jill Hicks-Keaton and Matthew Theissen, ed., The Ways that Often Parted: Essays in Honor of Joel Marcus (Atlanta: SBL Press. 2018); Heemstra, Fiscus Iudaicus. Simon C. Mimouni and Bernard Pouderon, ed., La croisée des chemins revisité: Quand l’Église’ et la “Synagogue” se sont-elles distinguées? (Paris: Cerf, 2012); Tobias Nicklas, “Parting of the Ways? Probleme eines Konzepts,” in Juden, Christen, Heiden? Religiöse Inklusion und Exklusion in Kleinasien bis Decius, ed. Stefan Alkier and Hartmut Leppin, WUNT 400 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 21–42; Timothy A. Gabrielson, “Parting of the Ways or Rival Siblings? A Review and Analysis of Metaphors for the Separation of Jews and Christians in Antiquity,” Currents in Biblical Research 19:2 (2021): 178–204.

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some devotees of Jesus began to form separate networks with differences in leadership, organization, and liturgical practices.47 This growing institutional division did not mean that there was any cessation of social and intellectual interaction between Jews and followers of Jesus in Alexandria. Rather, Jews and Jesus devotees continued to dialogue and overlap even as they slowly came to recognize themselves as belonging to different networks. In short, my hypothesis is that between about 41 and 115 ce, pockets of Jesus devotees in Alexandria began distinguishing themselves from Jews by creating separate meetings with practices indicating a distinct group mentality and ritual life. They did so as they continued to use and appropriate Jewish interpretive techniques, organizational structures, liturgical forms, and so on. In this way, early followers of Jesus used the tools and resources of Judaism even as they began to disassociate from distinctive Jewish practices such as Sabbath keeping, food laws, and circumcision. In Chapter 5, I further ground this hypothesis by exploring how three Alexandrian theologians crafted a distinctly Christian identity which selectively appropriated the cultural capital and heritage of the Jews.

47

Cohen, “Ways that Parted,” 232.

5 Crafting a Christian Identity Barnabas and the Two Peters

Introduction In Chapter 4, I hypothesized that some Alexandrian Christians by the late first and early second century – including those of Jewish ethnicity – discovered that it was socially advantageous to present their movement(s) as theologically and organizationally distinct from Jewish religious organizations. Supporting evidence for this distinction are three documents widely recognized as written in Alexandria or Egypt more broadly: the Epistle of Barnabas, the Preaching of Peter, and the Apocalypse of Peter.

The

epistle of barnabas

The Epistle of Barnabas (henceforth Barnabas) is an anonymous letter written in the early second century ce and later ascribed to Barnabas as known from Acts and the Pauline letters (Gal 2:13; 1 Cor 9:6).1 According to Acts, Barnabas was a Cyprian Jew who helped to spearhead 1

For introductions to Barnabas, see L. W. Barnard, “The ‘Epistle of Barnabas’ and Its Contemporary Setting,” ANRW II.27.11, ed. Wolfgang Haase (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1992), 59–206; Janni Loman, “The Letter of Barnabas in Early Second-Century Egypt,” in The Wisdom of Egypt: Jewish, Early Christian, and Gnostic Essays in Honour of Gerhard P. Luttikhuizen (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 247–265; James Carleton Paget, “The Epistle of Barnabas,” in The Writings of the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Paul Foster (London: Bloomsbury, 2007), 72–80; Ferdinand R. Prostmeier, “Der Barnabasbrief,” in Die Apostolischen Väter: Eine Einleitung, ed. Wilhelm Pratscher (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 39–58; David Lincicum, “The Epistle of Barnabas,” in Oxford Bibliographies Online for Biblical Studies, www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/​document/​obo-9780195393361/ obo-9780195393361-0249.xml (accessed 7 January 2022).

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the mission to the Gentiles. He took control over the mission to Cyprus after a heated argument with his former partner, Paul (Acts 15:38–40).2 The actual author of Barnabas is unknown. He never claimed to be Barnabas and it is widely agreed, for reasons discussed later, that he was writing after 70 ce when the historical Barnabas was probably dead. Data about the author must be gathered from the text itself. He was probably of Gentile abstraction (16:7). He was not an outsider but likely belonged to the group to which he wrote (1:8; 4:6). He may have been away from his group because he was a traveling instructor, a kind of freelance religious expert.3 He mentioned no official church position (such as presbyter or deacon), and he resisted the title “teacher” (1:8; 4:9).4 He presented himself, rather, as proficient in Jewish law and prophecy, a man who could provide “perfect gnosis” (1:5) by reading Jewish scripture in light of the narrative of Jesus’s life and death.5 Rhetorically, he portrayed himself as the humble servant of his audience (mere “scum,” in 4:9); yet he also claimed to be endowed with special insight (9:9) and to know the future (17:2). He expected his readers be amazed by the insights he conveyed, “[f]or the one who longs to be saved looks not to the person (speaking) but to the one who dwells and speaks in that person, being struck by the fact that no one has ever heard these words before” (16:10). In its current form, Barnabas is a letter, but it may have started life as a sermon or treatise. It has four main parts: (1) an epistolary preface (chapter 1), (2) a central body (chapters 2–17) largely delegitimating Jewish customs via readings of Jewish scripture, (3) a distinct lesson showing “the way of light” and “the way of darkness” (chapters 18–21), and (4) a conclusion (chapter 21).6 2

3 4 5

6

See further Bernd Kollmann, Joseph Barnabas: His Life and Legacy (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2004); Markus Öhler, Barnabas: Der Mann in der Mitte (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2005); Tobias Nicklas, “Barnabas Remembered: Apokryphe Barnabastexte und die Kirche Zyperns,” in Religion als Imagination, ed. L. Seehausen et al. (Leipzig: EVA, 2020), 167–188. See Didache 11–12 and Wendt, Temple Gates. Ulrich Neymeyr, Die christlichen Lehrer im zweiten Jahrhundert: Ihre Lehrtätigkeit, ihr Selbstverständnis, und ihre Geschichte, VCSup 4 (Leiden: Brill, 1989), 169–180. Γνῶσις is used ten times in the epistle (1:5; 2:3; 5:4; 6:9; 9:8; 10:10; 13:7; 18:1; 19:1; 21:5). For discussion of this and related terms, see James Carleton Paget, The Epistle of Barnabas: Outlook and Background (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 46–48; Reidar Hvalvik, The Struggle for Scripture and Covenant: The Purpose of the Epistle of Barnabas and Jewish-Christian Competition in the Second Century, WUNT 2/82 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 1996), 82–86; Clare K. Rothschild, New Essays on the Apostolic Fathers (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 203–207. On the literary form of Barnabas, see Hvalvik, Struggle 66–81, 158–165.

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Although most scholars have opted for an Alexandrian origin of the letter, a few have suggested Syria and even Asia Minor.7 I support an Alexandrian provenance for the following reasons. (1) The first writers to mention Barnabas were Alexandrians, namely Clement and Origen.8 Barnabas is also quoted in the mid-second-century Alexandrian work preserved in the Berlin Coptic Book.9 This reception suggests that the earliest knowledge of and access to the letter was in Alexandria. Clement felt the need to explain that Barnabas was an apostle (though most considered him subapostolic).10 Apparently, Clement wanted to augment the authority of a letter not widely known outside his region.11 (2) “Barnabas” displays techniques of allegorical reading that have significant precedents in Philo and continuations in Clement and Origen.12 To be sure, allegorical reading was widespread among Christian intellectuals in antiquity. Alexandrian theologians such as Philo and Origen, however, cultivated allegorical techniques programmatically and duly became famous for it. (3) “Barnabas” mentioned that “all the priests of the idols” are circumcised (9:6). We know from other sources that Egyptian priests were circumcised.13 The fact that “Barnabas” could simply mention “priests” 7

P. Prigent, Épitre de Barnabé, SC 172 (Paris: Cerf, 1971), 22–24 (Syro-Palestine); Klaus Wengst, Tradition und Theologie des Barnabasbriefes (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1971), 114– 118; Wengst, Didache (Apostellehre); Barnabasbrief; Zweiter Klemensbrief; Schrift an Diognet (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), 117–118 (Asia Minor). The competing views are set forth at length in Hvalvik, Struggle 35–41; Carleton Paget, Epistle 30–42; Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief 111–134. 8 Clement, Strom. 2.6.31.2; 2.7.35.5; 2.20.116.3–4; 5.10.63.2–5; Origen, Cels. 1.63; cf. Princ. 3.2.4 (citing Barnabas 18:1). See further Annewies van den Hoek, “Clement and Origen,” in Origeniana Sexta: Origène et la Bible/Origen and the Bible, ed. Gilles Dorival and Alain le Boulluec (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1995), 93–113 at 96–97. 9 Hans-Martin Schenke, “Der Barnabasbrief in der Berliner ‘Koptischen Buch’ (P. Berol. 20915),” in Der Same Seths (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 911–934. For the full text, see Gesine Schenke Robinson, ed., Das Berliner “Koptische Buch” (P20915): Eine wiederhergestellte frühchristliche-theologische Abhandlung, CSCO 611 (Leuven: Peeters, 2004). See further Hans-Gebhard Bethge, “The Berlin ‘Coptic Book’ and Its New Testament Quotations,” in The Process of Authority: The Dynamics of Transmission and Reception of Canonical Texts, ed. Jan Dušek and Jan Roskovec (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016), 301–317. 10 This remains the case despite Acts 14:14. 11 See further Paget, Epistle 244–251; Prostmeier, Barnabasbrief 34–48. 12 José Pablo Martín, “L’interpretazione allegorica nella lettura di Barnaba e nel Giudaismo Alessandrino,” Studi Storici Religiosi 6 (1982): 173–184; Dawson, Allegorical Readers. 13 Tebtynis Papyri t. II 1907 no. 293: Δεῖν αὐτὸν περιτμηθῆναι διὰ τὸ μὴ δύνασθαι τὰς ἱερουργίας ἐκτελεῖν εἰ μὴ τοὺτο γενήσεται (“He must be circumcised since he cannot perform the



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indicates that he was in Egypt, where his readers assumed that he referred to Egyptian priests. In the same context, the author remarked, “[w]hy, even the Egyptians are circumcised!” This way of referring to “the Egyptians” was typical of an educated writer who wanted to refer to the majority population in Egypt.14 Barnabas understood his remark to be common knowledge – a knowledge that would have been most common in Egypt. (4) Clare K. Rothschild adds another argument for Barnabas’s Egyptian provenance.15 She points out that the reference to “the Black one” (4:9) communicates an anti-Ethiopian bias or stereotype characteristic of an urbane writer in Egypt.16 “The Black one” is called an “evil ruler” in 4:13, able to eject believers from God’s kingdom. In 20:1, “the Black one” is called “crooked” and “cursed” and is associated with vices such as murder, robbery, pride, and malice. Philo translated the name “Nimrod” as “Ethiopian,” based on the observation that Nimrod represents “the impious man” who “fights against and makes war on heavenly things” (QG 2.82). Didymus of Alexandria – partially based on Barnabas – identified the devil as black and called Ethiopians the devil’s children. Hence we know that this kind of stereotyping was familiar to Christians in Alexandria.17 (5) Historians gather that between 90 and 115 ce, Jews hoped for the temple and its sacrifices to be restored. The Jewish author of 2 Baruch (late first or early second century ce) wrote: “after a short time, Zion will be rebuilt again, and the offerings will be restored, and the priests will again

14 15 16

17

sacred services if this does not happen”). See further F. Jonckheere, “La circonsion des anciens Egyptiens,” Centaurus 1 (1951): 212–234. Cf. Artapanus in Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.27.10; Diodorus of Sicily, Bibl. Hist. 1.55.4–5; Justin, Dial. 28.4. Philo, QG 3.47–48; Spec. 1.2; Josephus, C. Ap. 2.141. See further Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity 45–74; Pearce, Land of the Body esp. 46–68. Rothschild, “Ethiopianising the Devil,” 223–245. Cf. Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Clitophon 3.9.2. See also David Brakke, “Ethiopian Demons: Male Sexuality, the Black-Skinned Other, and the Monastic Self,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 10.3/4 (2001): 501–535; Gay L. Byron, Symbolic Blackness and Ethnic Difference in Early Christian Literature (London: Routledge, 2002), 37–38, 44–45. Rothschild cites Didymus’s interpretation of Zeph 2:12 (“you also, O Ethiopians, shall be killed by the sword”): “How is it that they became ‘Ethiopians,’ those who are wounded by the good so that they might die to impiety? Is it not because they have been born from the devil and want to perform his desires? For it is said concerning him that he is black because of the dark ignorance and evil attaching [to him], as is made clear in the Book of Repentance called the Shepherd and in the Epistle of Barnabas” (“Ethiopianising,” 236).

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return to their ministry. And the nations will again come to honor it.”18 An Egyptian writer posing as the Sibyl spoke of a man from heaven who would make “a holy temple, exceedingly beautiful in its fair shrine.”19 That the restoration of the temple and its sacrifices was the hope of Jews in Alexandria is confirmed by Rabbinic sources. Pappus (or Papias) and Lulianus were Jewish brothers from Alexandria.20 They were evidently rich financiers. They encouraged the rebuilding of the temple and provided aid for pilgrims traveling to Palestine.21 According to Genesis Rabbah: In the days of Joshua b. Hananiah [i.e., the early second century ce], the [Roman] State, ordered the Temple to be rebuilt. Pappus and Lulianus set tables [i.e., banking facilities] from Acco as far as Antioch [along the Syrian coastline] and provided those who came up from the Exile with all their needs [a variant adds: they supplied gold and silver]. Thereupon Samaritans went and warned [the Emperor]: ‘Be it known now unto the king that if this rebellious city be built and the walls finished, they will not pay tribute, impost or toll.’22

We do not know the details behind this story. Apparently, Jewish leadership had effectively lobbied the imperial court for the restoration of their temple and had received an encouraging response. This event could have plausibly occurred any time after the Flavian dynasty (who destroyed the temple) but before Roman–Jewish relations soured in 115 ce. This reasoning gives a plausible date range between 97 and 114 ce (during the reigns of Nerva and Trajan). The “Samaritans” in the story are likely fictional stand-ins for political opponents, though it may well have been that the rebuilding of the Jewish temple would spell the end of Rome’s Jewish tax (the fiscus Iudaicus).23 For whatever reason, the plans for rebuilding were jettisoned and – in the aftermath – Pappus and Lulianus were executed. We do not know 18 19 20

21

22 23

2 Bar 68:5–6 (trans. A. F. J. Klijn in OTP 1.644); cf. 2 Bar 32:2–4. Sib. Or. 5.422–423 (trans. J. J. Collins in OTP 1.403). For authorship, see Collins, OTP 1.390–391. Their Alexandrian provenance is known from Sifra, Behuqqotay Perek 5: “Pappos son of Judah and Lulianus the Alexandrian his companion” (‫)פפוס בן יהודה ולולייניס אלכסנדרי וחבריו‬. The fact that they were brothers is indicated in y. Sanh. 3:5 (quoted in note 24). W. Horbury, “Pappus and Lulianus in Jewish Resistance to Rome,” in Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century: Proceedings of the 6th EAJS Congress. Toledo, July 1998, Volume 1, Biblical, Rabbinical, and Medieval Studies, ed. Judit Targarona Borrás and Angel Sáenz-Badillos, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill 1999), 1.289–295; Horbury, Jewish War Under Trajan 264–269. Genesis Rabbah 64.10, translated in H. Freedman and M. Simon, Midrash Rabbah (London: Soncino, 1939), 2.579–580, modified. See further Menahem Mor, The Second Jewish Revolt: The Bar Kokhba War, 132–136 ce (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 363–384.



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why. The implication may be that they encouraged Jews to send the temple tax and stop paying the Jewish tax to Rome.24 Whatever exactly they did, Rome viewed their actions as treasonous. Zealous for the rebuilding of the temple, these Alexandrians were prepared to commit what was thought to be a capital crime.25 How does the story of Pappus and Lulianus relate to Barnabas? Barnabas’s initial warning is against the need to practice literal sacrifices. Sacrifice is spiritual, a matter of the heart (2:4–10). “Barnabas” would not have needed to hammer home this point unless some of his readers expected sacrifices to be restarted in the near future at a physical temple in Jerusalem.26 Thanks to the efforts of Pappus and Lulianus, we know that this expectation – along with financial support – for a restored temple was specifically Alexandrian. According to “Barnabas,” God does not have a house built with hands. Even if the Romans or their agents rebuilt the Jewish temple – and “Barnabas” expected that they would (16:3) – it would mean nothing. The only relevant temple is the one being built in human hearts (16:6–10).27 This discussion assumes that “Barnabas” wrote in a context in which his group interacted with a significant Jewish community. Date and Literary Form The author was writing after the destruction of the Jewish temple in 70 ce (16:4) at a time when Jews still hoped for its rebuilding.28 Likely this was a time before 115, when, as we saw in Chapter 4, a far-reaching 24

25

26 27

28

y. Sanh. 3:5 in Jacob Neusner, ed., The Talmud of the Land of Israel: An Academic Commentary on the Second, Third, and Fourth Divisions XXIII Yerushalmi Tractate Sanhedrin (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 84 (“there is the case of Papus and Lulianos his brother to whom they gave water in a colored glass flask, and they did not accept it from them.’ [Yannai] said: they do not have in mind to force the Jews to commit apostasy but solely to pay taxes” (trans. Neusner, modified)). Mekhilta, Tractate Nezikin LXI:II.4c–f in W. David Nelson, ed., Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yoḥai (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2006), 278–279. Other accounts of the death of Lulianus and Pappus can be found in Sifra Emor Perek 9.5; b. Ta‘an 18b (I. Epstein, ed. The Babylonian Talmud Seder Mo‘ed [London: Soncino, 1938], 89–90). The temple in Leontopolis had been destroyed probably a quarter century before Barnabas was written. On the rebuilding of the temple, see John J. Gunther, “The Epistle of Barnabas and the Final Rebuilding of the Temple,” JSJ 7:2 (1976): 143–151; Philippe Henne, “Barnabé, le Temple et les Pagano-chrétiens,” RB 103:2 (1996): 257–276; Sheppard, “Letter.” Paget rightly rejects a reference to a purely spiritual temple in Barn 16:1–5 on exegetical and grammatical grounds (Epistle 19–22, 66–68).

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Jewish revolt erupted in Cyrene (North Africa), spread to Egypt and Cyprus, and poisoned Roman–Jewish relations for at least a generation. A likely reference to the book of 4 Ezra 5:5 occurs in Barnabas 12:1 (“when blood drips from wood”). Since 4 Ezra was written around 100 ce (4 Ezra 3:1),29 a range between 100 and 115 ce is a reasonable estimation for Barnabas’s date.30 Some scholars propose to date Barnabas late in Hadrian’s reign (between 128 and 135 ce).31 The problem with this theory is that Hadrian never planned for the rebuilding of a distinctly Jewish temple as opposed to a temple of Jupiter.32 Hadrian may have imagined that he was providing the Jews with benefaction, since he assumed that Yahweh (the Judean deity) was a form of Jupiter.33 As it turned out, most Jews were far from pleased with Hadrian’s “benefaction,” which in part stimulated the Bar Kokhba revolt.34 Social History I turn to what Barnabas can tell us about at least one wing of the Jesus movement in Alexandria on the eve of the Diaspora Revolt. It is important – especially in this early period – not to essentialize “Judaism” and 29

30 31

32

33

34

Michael E. Stone dates 4 Ezra to the reign of Domitian on the basis of the political references in 4 Ezra 11–12 (A Commentary on the Fourth Book of Ezra, Hermeneia [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990], 10). The reference to 4 Ezra excludes the Nervan dating proposed by P. Richardson and M. Shukster, “Barnabas, Nerva, and the Yavnean Rabbis,” JTS 34 (1983): 31–55. Hvalvik, Struggle 18–23; James N. Rhodes, The Epistle of Barnabas and the Deuteronomic Tradition: Polemics, Paraenesis, and the Legacy of the Golden-Calf Incident (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 71–87; Anthony Sheppard, “The Letter of Barnabas and the Jerusalem Temple,” JSJ 48 (2017): 531–550. Hadrian’s early visit to Jerusalem, as proposed by Capponi (“Hadrian in Jerusalem”), has been undercut by Renan Baker, “Epiphanius ‘On Weights and Measures’ §14: Hadrian’s Journey to the East and the Rebuilding of Jerusalem,” ZPE 182 (2012): 157– 176. Epiphanius indicates that Hadrian did not wish to rebuild the Jewish temple on the temple mount. Instead, Hadrian planned to build a temple to Jupiter in what would become a Roman colony at the site of Jerusalem. See further George H. van Kooten, “Moses/Musaeus/Mochos and His God Yahweh, Iao, and Sabaoth, Seen from a Graeco-Roman Perspective,” and Robert M. van den Berg, “Does It Matter to Call God Zeus? Origen Contra Celsum 1.24–25 Against the Greek Intellectuals on Divine Names,” in The Revelation of the Name YHWH to Moses: Perspectives from Judaism, the Pagan Graeco-Roman World, and Early Christianity, ed. George H. van Kooten (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 107–138, 169–186. Dio Cassius, Roman History 69.12.1–2. See further Smallwood, The Jews under Roman Rule 432–436; Peter Schäfer, The History of the Jews in the Greco-Roman World (London: Routledge, 2003), 145–148; Martin Goodman, Rome and Jerusalem: The



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“Christianity.” At the same time, one can duly recognize when a writer uses rhetoric to try to distinguish one social formation from another. “Barnabas” never referred to “Christians” or “Jews.” He does, however, regularly separate out two groups who are referred to as “us” and “them” (2:9–10; 3:1–3, 6; 4:6–8, 14; 5:2; 7:5; 8:7; 9:1–4; 10:12; 13:1–6; 14:1, 4–5).35 “Barnabas” also distinguished between “those people” who lost their covenant (4:6; 10:12), namely “Israel” (5:2), and his group of “called” believers in Jesus (4:13) on their way to perfection (6:19). His group practiced a distinctive rite, baptism, which local Jews rejected (11:1).36 His group was circumcised in the heart, the only place where Barnabas thought it mattered (13:7). His group gathered on the eighth day (Sunday), as opposed to the seventh (the Sabbath on Saturday) (15:9). His group showed little interest in the rebuilding of a physical temple, which only “poor and deluded souls” hoped for (15:1).37 In brief: Barnabas’s “us” refers to a particular segment of Jesus devotees, while “them” refers to practicing Jews and perhaps to Christians (whether of Judean or Gentile heritage) who practiced Jewish customs.38 These Jewish customs included fasting, physical circumcision, keeping kosher, honoring the Sabbath on Saturday, and expecting the rebuilding

35 36

37

38

Clash of Ancient Civilizations (London: Penguin, 2007), 485–488; Paget, Epistle 22–30; Giovanni Battista Bazzana, “The Bar Kokhba Revolt and Hadrian’s Religious Policy,” in Hadrian and the Christians, 85–110. Hvalvik, Struggle 113, 137–140; Michael Kok, “The True Covenant People: Ethnic Reasoning in the Epistle of Barnabas,” SR 40:1 (2011): 81–97. See further Dietrich-Alex Koch, “Taufinterpretationen bei Ignatius und im Barnabasbrief,” in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism: Late Antiquity, Early Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. David Hellholm (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), esp., 832–848; Everett Ferguson, “Christian and Jewish Baptism according to the Epistle of Barnabas,” in The Early Church at Work and Worship, Volume 2 (Eugene: Cascade, 2014), 52–67. It may also be significant that, according to Barnabas (5:13), Jesus is killed by “synagogues (συναγωγαί) of evildoers.” J. Christopher Edwards notes that whereas the use of συναγωγή is neutral in Ps 21:17 (LXX) it is “used negatively by the author as a reference to the Jewish identity of Jesus’ assailants. The author identifies his own group as part of the ἐκκλησία (6.16; 7.11)” (The Gospel According to the Epistle of Barnabas: Jesus Traditions in an Early Christian Polemic [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019], 25). Michele Murray, Playing a Jewish Game: Gentile Christian Judaizing in the First and Second Centuries ce (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2004), esp. 43–59. Paget rightly criticized Rothschild’s view that “Barnabas” only criticized internal (Christian) opponents (“The Epistle of Barnabas, Jews and Christians,” in Jews and Christians – Parting Ways in the First Two Centuries ce? Reflections on the Gains and Losses of a Model, ed. Jens Schröter, Benjamin A. Edsall, and Joseph Verheyden, BZNW 253 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2021], 217–248 at 228–236). See also James Carleton Paget, “Barnabas and the Outsiders: Jews and Their World in the Epistle of Barnabas,” in Early

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of a physical temple. Barnabas rejected all of these practices and expectations and encouraged his hearers to do so as well.39 One can conclude that the author of Barnabas saw his group of Jesus devotees as distinct by choice from the practices and institutions of local Jews.40 One should not, of course, confuse Barnabas’s ideal with reality. The letter would not need to have been written if there was not some attraction among his group for Jewish practices. The writer of Barnabas felt the need to convince his audience that the practices of Judaism were not the way of true “gnosis.” Indeed, Barnabas portrayed Jewish customs and interpretations as the way of disobedience and darkness.41 But “Barnabas’s” ideal could not have been too far from reality. This author had every expectation of being heard. He showed no animosity to internal opponents who disagreed with him. He presumed that his teaching would bring joy to his listeners (1:8). He was giving them “gnosis,” which he expected to be gratefully received. He never openly acknowledged ideological opponents among his addressees.42 By itself, then, Barnabas indicates that at least one circle of Jesus votaries in Alexandria – many of whom were Gentiles (13:7; 16:7) – could view themselves not only as distinct but in competition with local Jews as well as with Jesus devotees who practiced Jewish customs. To be sure,

39

40

41

42

Christian Communities between Ideal and Reality, ed. M. Grundeken and J. Verheyden, WUNT 342 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 179–180. On the rejection of Jewish practices and the larger question of anti-Judaism, see S. Lowy, “The Confutation of Judaism in the Epistle of Barnabas,” JJS 11 (1960): 1–33; William Horbury, “Jewish-Christian Relations in Barnabas and Justin Martyr,” in Jews and Christians: The Parting of the Ways A.D. 70 to 135, ed. James D. G. Dunn (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), 315–336; Stephen G. Wilson, Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70–170 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 127–142, 224–234; Simon Claude Mimouni, Early Judaeo-Christianity: Historical Essays (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 205; Paget, Epistle 51–66; Hvalvik, Struggle 216–330; Tobias Nicklas, Jews and Christians? Second Century “Christian” Perspectives on the “Parting of the Ways” (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 67–74, 177–182; Joseph R. Dodson, “Rejection and Redemption in the Wisdom of Solomon and the Letter of Barnabas,” CBQ 80:1 (2018): 45–61. Pace Dodson, who concludes, “Barnabas’s response gives evidence that – at least with respect to his audience in Alexandria – Christianity had not yet emerged as ‘a fully independent system of belief and practice, self-defined in its theology, its ritual practice’” (“Rejection and Redemption,” 60, quoting Becker and Reed, Ways that Never Parted 4). Hvalvik, Struggle 141–144. A corrective is offered by Rhodes, Deuteronomic Tradition 196–197. See also Julien C. H. Smith, “The Epistle of Barnabas and the Two Ways of Teaching Authority,” VC 68 (2014): 465–497 at 483–484. Verheyden, “Israel’s Fate in the Apostolic Fathers: The Case of 1 Clement and the Epistle of Barnabas,” in Q in Context I: The Separation between the Just and the Unjust in Early Judaism and in the Sayings Source (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2015), 237–262 at 247.



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some people in Barnabas’s group believed that God’s covenant with the Jews persisted.43 Barnabas wanted to undermine this position, so much so that he claimed that Jews forfeited their covenant immediately after Moses received it (4:6–8)!44 Strong as this rhetoric is, it was apparently designed to convince devotees of Jesus not to perform Jewish practices. The point of such rhetoric was evidently to shape a distinctive disposition and identity in which at least some followers of Jesus practiced their own rites and norms apart from local Jewish customs and communities.45

The Preaching of Peter Further evidence for the organizational and ritual distinctions between some Christians and Jews in early second-century Alexandria is the Preaching of Peter (aka Kerygma Petri).46 The Preaching of Peter – which explicitly names “Jews” and “Christians” – survives only in fragments (mostly from Clement). Its author, like “Barnabas,” depicted himself as a literate expert in Jewish lore.47 Unlike “Barnabas” (who never claimed to be Barnabas), the author, it seems, posed as the apostle Peter. Like a trained scribe, “Peter” read Jewish scriptures as full of “parables” and “riddles” referring to the arrival, death, and raising of Jesus.48 43

44 45

46

47

48

This reading stands whether or not we accept the bicovenantal reading supported by the Latin translation (“the covenant is theirs and ours” [illorum et nostrum]), the emendation of Kraft/Prigent (“our covenant remains for us” [ἡμῶν ἡμῖν μένει]) or the simpler emendation of Rhodes (“our covenant remains” [ἡμῶν μένει]) (Deuteronomic 24–30). Codex Sinaiticus here simply reads ημων μεν (“our covenant”) while Codex Hierosolymitanus reads υμων υμιν μενει (“your covenant remains for you”). Note the more irenic interpretation of Rhodes (Deuteronomic 17, 88–180), undermined by Rothschild, New Essays 194–197. See further Hvalvik, Struggle 90–98, 149–157; Geoffrey D. Dunn, “Tertullian and Rebekah: A Re-reading of an ‘Anti-Jewish’ Argument in Early Christian Literature,” VC 52:2 (1998): 119–145 at 126–133; Ferdinand R. Prostmeier, “Antijudaismus im Rahmen christlicher Hermeneutik: Zum Streit über christliche Identität in der Alten Kirche. Notizen zum Barnabasbrief,” ZAC 6 (2002): 38–58; Murray, Playing 58–59. For introductions to the Preaching of Peter, see J. K. Elliott, ed., The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 20–24; Abraham J. Malherbe, “The Apologetic Theology of the Preaching of Peter,” Restoration Quarterly 13 (1970): 205–223; Jean-Claude Fredouille, “Le Kerygma Petrou dans le context apologétiques due IIe siècle,” in Quaerite faciem eius semper: Studien zu den geistesgeschichtlichen Beziehungen zwischen Antike und Christentum (Hamburg: Kovacˇ, 2008), 52–64; Wolfgang Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 90–97. William Rutherford, “On the Trail of the Scribal Peter: Petrine Memory, Hellenistic Mission, and the Parting of the Ways in Peter’s Preaching,” in Peter in Early Christianity, ed. Helen K. Bond and Larry W. Hurtado (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 181–195. Fragment 9 (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.15.128.1–2.

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He claimed to speak nothing beyond scripture, although his interpretations were idiosyncratic.49 Provenance The Preaching of Peter’s Alexandrian provenance is suggested by several factors – first and foremost by its reception. Valentinus’s disciple Heracleon (160s–170s ce), along with Clement (180s–200), and Origen (about 248) all quoted from this work. Each of these men all either lived in Alexandria for a time or had ties there. Another work that quotes the Preaching of Peter is the mid-second-century Alexandrian Berlin Coptic Book – which, as we saw earlier, also quoted Barnabas.50 “Peter” criticized the animal cults that were distinctive in Egypt. He claimed that his rivals worship “the things God gave to them for food, birds of the air and swimming things of the sea, animals that crawl on the earth and beasts with the cattle and four-footers of the field, weasels, mice, cats, dogs, and monkeys.”51 Cats, oxen, and baboons were indeed venerated by Egyptians as avatars of the divine.52 Criticism of the Egyptian animals cults was widespread, but the mention of these specific animals suggests local knowledge. Michel Cambe points to similarities shared by the Preaching of Peter and Sibylline Oracle 3, which has a generally accepted Egyptian provenance.53 Both Sibylline Oracle 3 and the Preaching of Peter proclaim that “God is one” and call him the “invisible,” uncontainable, immortal creator who creates “all things” by his “Logos.”54 In both documents, these “things” include mention of “crawling” and “flying” animals. There is also a critique of animal worship, with a reference to cats and shrines to corpses (that is, deified heroes). Sibylline Oracle 3 seems to have been

49

50 51 52 53 54

Fragment 10 (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.15.128.3. For comments on frags. 9–10, see Wilhelm Pratscher, “Scripture and Christology in the Preaching of Peter (Kerygma Petri),” in Studies on the Text of the New Testament and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of Michael W. Holmes, ed. Daniel Gurtner (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 555–578. Gesine Schenke Robinson, Das Berliner “Koptische Buch” 277, lines 25–36. Cf. Preaching of Peter fragment 2a (Cambe). Fragment 3a (Cambe) from Clement Strom. 6.5.39.4–6.5.40.2. See further Pearce, Land of the Body 248–308. Collins, “The Sibylline Oracles, Book 3,” in OTP 1.360. Wilhelm Pratscher, “Die Rede von Gott im Kerygma Petri und in den Ignatiusbriefen,” in Die Briefe des Ignatios von Antiochia: Motive, Strategien, Kontexte, ed. Thomas Johann Bauer and Peter von Möllendorf (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), 229–247 at 232–237.



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written in the late first century ce, judging by its political references.55 Quite possibly, the author of Preaching of Peter used a portion of this oracle to develop his argument. If so, he was likely working in Egypt where the oracle was composed. Date I support a fairly narrow date range between 100 and 115 ce for the following reasons. First, in the Preaching of Peter, local Jews are still a force to be reckoned with. This point suggests a date prior to the decimation of Jews in 117 ce. “Peter” had a fairly detailed knowledge of Jewish festivals even if his claims about how Jews celebrate these festivals is misleading. The author probably knew Luke, which was completed in its initial form in the late first or very early second century ce.56 Finally, a parallel with the Christian writer Aristides suggests that his Apology (about 125 ce 57) adapted a section from the Preaching of Peter or that both texts shared a common source.58 If the former, the Preaching of Peter was available in Athens about 125 and was thus written some years before. Treatment of the Jews “Peter” exhorted his listeners not to worship God “in the manner of the Jews.” Indeed, “those people” suppose that they alone know God, but they do not understand him. They worship angels and archangels, the month and the moon. If the moon does not appear, we are told, Jews do not celebrate the so-called “First Sabbath, nor the New Moon feast, nor the feast of Unleavened Bread, nor the Festival, nor the Great Day.”59 The fact that this writer can isolate “the Jews” as a separate and alternative group (“those people”) with different holidays and customs shows that he assumed they were already ritually and organizationally distinct from his own group of Jesus-worshipers. At the same time, members of his audience 55 56 57 58

59

J. J. Collins, “The Sibylline Oracles, Book 3 in OTP 1.354–361 at 360. The best evidence for knowledge of Luke 24:26–27 comes in fragment 9 (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.15.128.2, specifically the phrase ἔδει παθεῖν. Eusebius, HE 4.3.3. See the Syriac of Aristides, Apology 14.4 in Bernard Pouderon and Mari-Joseph Pierre, ed., Aristide: Apologie, SC 470 (Paris: Cerf, 2003), 234–235 with other parallels on 78–79. See also Michel Cambe, ed. Kerygma Petri: Textus et Commentarius, CCSA 15 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 173–174; William C. Rutherford, “Reinscribing the Jews: The Story of Aristides’ Apology 2.2–4 and 14.1b–15.2,” HTR 106:1 (2013): 61–91 at 89, n.75. Fragment 4a (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.5.41.1–3.

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must have felt some degree of attraction toward Jewish practices since the writer had to warn against them. Allegiance to Judaism was not, however, particularly strong, since the author can relatively easily dismiss their worship practices and put them on the same level as “Greek” idolatry.60 “Peter” seems to have been informed about Jewish festivals, even if his critique is misleading. “The First Sabbath,” “the Festival,” and “the Great Day” were likely local expressions for more commonly known Jewish festivals such as the New Moon, Tabernacles, and the Day of Atonement.61 “Peter” is generally correct that the Jewish festivals followed a lunar calendar, but this is a far cry from the notion that Jews worshiped the moon. “Peter’s” assertion that Jews do not celebrate their holidays on a cloudy night (when the moon does not appear) may have been correct.62 According to the Mishnah (the late second-century rabbinic codification of Jewish customs), each new month begins when the new moon becomes visible. On occasion, this may have caused a delay of the celebration of a holiday.63 In practice, however, Jews of the Diaspora probably did not excessively defer their holidays in case of cloudy nights. As observed long ago by Emil Schürer, “[a]s it was obviously known with a fair degree of accuracy when the new moon was to be expected, every effort will have been made to fix it on the correct day.”64 Noteworthy is “Peter’s” comment that Jews “worship angels and archangels,” not understanding God. It is reminiscent of what “Barnabas” says in 9:4, that an “evil angel” duped the Israelites into practicing physical circumcision – a central Jewish rite and the sign for entering God’s covenant (Gen 17). Angel worship is a fairly common charge against Jews.65 It was a way for people to acknowledge that the Jews had received some kind of divine revelation while also demoting it. Paul already indicated that angels mediated the Mosaic law 60 61 62

63 64

65

Fragment 3a (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.5.39.4–6.5.40.2. Cambe, Kerygma 249–255. See further Graham Stanton, “Aspects of Early Christian and Jewish Worship: Pliny and the Kerygma Petrou,” in Worship, Theology and Ministry in the Early Church: Essays in Honor of Ralph Philip Martin (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 84–98 at 95–96. See further Sacha Stern, Calendar and Community: A History of the Jewish Calendar, Second Century bce to Tenth Century ce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175B.C.– A.D.135), Volume 1, ed. Geza Vermes and Fergus Millar, 2nd ed. (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1973), 591. Origen, Cels. 1.26; 5.6; cf. Col 2:18. See further Loren T. Stuckenbruck, Angel Veneration and Christology: A Study in Early Judaism and in the Christology of the Apocalypse of John (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), esp. 140–149; Cambe, Kerygma 241–243.



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(Gal 3:19; cf. Acts 7:53).66 “Peter” went a step further by saying that Jews had somehow confused (or replaced) angels with God. He implied that it was angels, not God, who ordained Jewish festivals. “Peter” addressed his own supporters: Accordingly, you also preserve what you reverently and justly learned from the traditions we offered you, worshiping God through Christ in a new fashion. For we find in the scriptures just as the lord says: “Behold I set up with you a new covenant not as I set up with your fathers on Mount Horeb.” He set it up new for you. The practices of Greeks and Jews are old, but you worship him in a new fashion as Christians in a third sort of way (τρίτῳ γένει).67

Here there are three groups of people: Greeks, Jews, and a third circle with a new and “true” mode of worship.68 Anyone can become a part of this third group by worshiping in the third way. But there is a cost: One must cease to worship in “Greek” and “Jewish” ways. Practice makes a people, not territory, blood, or skin tone. Ironically, the rhetorical strategy of creating this new people is something that “Greeks” had already tried out for hundreds of years. They offered “Greekness” through language acquisition and the adoption of Greek civilization, especially Greek education. Christians – many of whom spoke Greek and valued Jewish scripture – offered a “new” identity through catechesis and the adoption of Jesus veneration. According to “Peter,” the new covenant created a new people – a people analogous to the old chosen people (“the Jews”) who received a covenant on Mount Horeb (aka Mount Sinai). As far as we know, “Peter” never explicitly said that the Sinai covenant was or is broken (unlike “Barnabas”). His claims, however, indicate that the Sinai covenant is “old” (παλαιά), probably in the sense of “worn out.” There is something wrong with the Sinaitic covenant, because it assigned festivals 66 67

68

Note also Deut 33:2–4 (LXX); Jub 1.27–29; Josephus, Ant. 15.136; 5 Ezra 2:33, 44–48. Fragment 5 (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.5.41.4–6. Cf. Diogn. 1; Mart. Pol. 3.2; 17.1; Hermas Sim. 9.17.5 (94.5). See further Judith Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 239–268, esp. 261–264; Wolfram Kinzig, Novitas Christiana: Die Idee des Fortschritts in der Alten Kirche bis Eusebius (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 141–171; David G. Horrell, “‘Race’, ‘Nation’, ‘People’: Ethnic Identity-Construction in 1 Peter 2.9,” NTS 58 (2011): 123–143. For such “ethnic reasoning” see Denise Kimber Buell, “Rethinking the Relevance of Race for Early Christian Self-definition,” HTR 94:4 (2001): 449–476; Buell, Why This New Race? Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005). Erich Gruen disputes the category (and relevance) of ethnicity in Ethnicity in the Ancient World: Did It Matter? (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2020).

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for the Jews that involved angel worship. In effect, “Peter” appropriated the Jewish idea of keeping covenant with God, even as he tried to wrest the covenant from the Jews. Even though “Peter” acknowledged that the Jews are the “fathers” of the Christians, his main aim was to inscribe difference between the two peoples – difference based on distinctive biblical interpretations and liturgical practices of his time. “Peter” recorded putative sayings of Jesus indicating a universal mission to the Gentiles. During Jesus’s time on earth, he exhorted the Jews to change their disposition and come to know God. Yet Jesus went on to urge his disciples “after twelve years” to go out and preach his message about God to the entire world, so that everyone would be without excuse.69 By the time “Peter” was writing, those twelve years had passed and the Christian mission had shifted from Jews to Gentiles. Social History We can try to reconstruct what was occurring on the ground in Alexandria when “Peter” wrote. Like a typical urban elite, “Peter” did not pay much attention to native Egyptians. His eyes were trained on the two dominant cultural forces of his locale: peoples whom he reductively called “Greeks” and “Jews.” Locally, the Jews were a significant cultural force. In part due to their well-known holidays, they proved attractive to some followers of Jesus. These Jesus votaries were mission-minded. But the mission had shifted from Jewish people to persons of various ethnic backgrounds. “Peter” provides evidence that, even before the Diaspora Revolt, some Jesus devotees had become distinct from Jews organizationally and liturgically. At the same time, they were still a tiny island in a world dominated by Hellenic culture. The critique of Hellenic worship indicates that “Peter” was writing from within the confines of a Greek city. Yet “Peter” included within Greek worship specifically Egyptian customs (animal cults) evidently practiced in a large urban center such as Alexandria. In Alexandria, groups worshiping God through Jesus confronted the majority cultures on a daily basis. Strategies of identity formation through the creation of difference were necessary for group consolidation. Teachers such as “Peter” highlighted Christian difference from both Jews and Greeks in both theology and worship practice. To strengthen group ties even more, “Peter” imagined his group as differentiated from Jews and Greeks. The Christian class was determined not by clothing, 69

Fragments 6–7 (Cambe) from Clement, Strom. 6.5.43.3; 6.6.48.1–2.



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speech, or facial features but by their worship practices and theology. God was one; yet God was worshiped in a “new way” through Christ. Although these statements seem to be in tension (how can God be one if Jesus is also worshiped?), there is little doubt that such beliefs made Christians distinctive in early second-century Alexandria.

The

apocalypse of peter

The Apocalypse of Peter was only fully preserved by Ethiopian scribes who embedded it into an even larger text concerning Clement of Rome.70 Three Greek fragments of it have also been found in Egypt. These fragments indicate that although the Ethiopic accurately reflects the structure of the Apocalypse, it is often different in detail. The Apocalypse has three main parts: (1) Jesus’s post-resurrection prediction of the final judgment on the Mount of Olives, (2) a vision of underworldly punishments, and (3) a revelation of the glorified state of the righteous on a mountain. The purpose of the text was, in the main, to warn early Christians about the end of the world and future punishment.71 Provenance The only other serious contender for the Apocalypse of Peter’s provenance is Palestine, due to its likely reference to Bar Kochba.72 Nevertheless, I favor an Alexandrian setting for the following reasons. First, the 70

71

72

Translations of Apoc. Peter can be found in Elliot, Apocryphal New Testament; Dennis D. Buchholz, Your Eyes Will Be Opened: A Study of the Greek (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1984), 157–244; and Eric J. Beck, Justice and Mercy in the Apocalypse of Peter, WUNT 427 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 66–73 (a composite text welding the Ethiopic and Greek sources). The Greek texts plus English and German translations can be found in Thomas J. Kraus and Tobias Nicklas, Das Petrusevangelium und die Petrusapokalypse: Die griechischen Fragmente mit deutscher und englischer Übersetzung, GCS NF 11 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004). See also Enrico Norelli, “Situation des Apocryphes Pétriniens,” in La fable apocryphe II (Turnhout: Brepols, 1993), 31–83. See Meghan Henning, “Hell as Heterotopia: Edification and Interpretation from Enoch to the Apocalypses of Peter and Paul,” Between Canonical and Apocryphal Texts: Processes of Reception, Rewriting, and Interpretation in Early Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Jörg Frey, Claire Clivaz, and Tobias Nicklas (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 309–332. Richard Bauckham, The Fate of the Dead: Studies on the Jewish and Christian Apocalypses, NovTSup 93 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 160–258. For a different view, see Eibert Tigchelaar, “Is the Liar Bar Kokhba? Considering the Date and Provenance of the Greek (Ethiopic) Apocalypse of Peter,” in The Apocalypse of Peter, ed. Jan Bremmer and István Czachesz (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 63–77.

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Apocalypse of Peter makes use of Orphic material for underworld punishments. This material includes certain categories for crime and the presence of scourging agents.73 The Apocalypse also presents the distinctively Orphic punishment of lying in mud (βορβορός) – with the added detail that the mud is “boiling.”74 The distinctive place where we can document significant interaction between Hellenistic Judaism and Orphism is Alexandria. Alexandria is the generally accepted provenance, for instance, for the Jewish Testament of Orpheus, which promotes a doctrine of a single deity and the deification of Moses.75 Jewish interest in Orphism and the niceties of Orphic eschatology seem to be distinctly Alexandrian. Second, the Apocalypse of Peter presents a persistent warning to Christians who slide back into the worship of other gods through cult statues.76 This warning does not fit a Palestinian context in which most Christians lived in a predominantly Jewish culture. For these Christians, the worship of non-Jewish gods through image veneration would not have been pressing. The author of the Apocalypse of Peter added that the images were in the shape of cats, lions, reptiles, and other animals.77 As noted for the Preaching of Peter, polemic against animal-shaped gods was common among ancient Mediterranean writers. Still, having to warn people not to worship such images is most indicative of an Egyptian context, where the veneration of animals and animal-shaped cult statues was avidly cultivated by the local Egyptian population.78 73

74

75

76

77 78

Jan Bremmer, “The Apocalypse of Peter as the First Christian Martyr Text: Its Date, Provenance and Relationship with 2 Peter,” in 2 Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter: Towards a New Perspective, ed. Jörg Frey, Matthijs den Dulk, and Jan G. van der Watt (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 75–98 at 86–87. The mud, however, only appears in the fragment from Akhmim, §§23, 24, 31 (Kraus and Nicklas, Petrusevangelium und die Petrusapokalypse 110.1, 4; 114.12–13). Cf. Aristophanes, Frogs 145–181, 273; Plato, Phaedo 69c; Resp. 363d. See further Jan Bremmer, Maidens, Magic, Martyrs in Early Christianity: Collected Essays I (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 282. The Testament of Orpheus was cited by the Alexandrian Jewish writer Aristobulus probably between 155 and 145 bce (Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 13.12.5). See further Christoph Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation eines orphischen Hieros Logos (Munich: Gunter Narr, 1993); Fabienne Jourdan, Poème judéo-hellénistique attribué à Orphée: Production Juive et reception chrétienne (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2010), 45–55. The deification of Moses also appears in Philo of Alexandria. See Litwa “Deification of Moses,” 1–27. Apoc. Pet. [E] 1.4; See further Paul Foster, “The Open Hell: A Study of the Apocalypse of Peter,” in The Open Mind: Essays in Honour of Christopher Rowland, ed. Jonathan Knight and Kevin Sullivan (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 80–104. Apoc. Pet. 10:5 (E) in Buchholz, Your Eyes 215. Wisd 12:24; 15:18; Ep. Aristeas 138; Sib. Or. 3.30–31; frag. 3.22, 27–30; 5.278–80; Philo, Dec. 76–80; Contempl. 8; Leg. 139, 163; cf. Test. Mos. 2:7; LAB 44.5.



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Third, the earliest reception of the Apocalypse of Peter is Alexandrian.79 The second Sibylline Oracle (lines 194–339) turns a section of the Apocalypse of Peter into hexameter poetry.80 Clement of Alexandria cited the Apocalypse of Peter (8:4, 8–10) three times in his Eclogues (41, 48–49).81 Eusebius noted that Clement viewed the Apocalypse of Peter as scriptural and that he also commented on it in his Hypotyposeis.82 Furthermore, a strong argument has also been made that the author of 2 Peter used the Apocalypse of Peter in his summary of “Peter’s” prediction of his martyrdom and his description of the final conflagration.83 The situation of 2 Peter best fits a later second-century Alexandrian context as witnessed by Clement.84 Finally, it is plausible that Lucian of Samosata adapted material from the Apocalypse of Peter to describe the punishment of the damned in his True Histories.85 The exact date of the True Histories is unknown, but experts put it late in Lucian’s career, a date that accords with his sojourn in Alexandria in the 180s or early 190s ce.86 79

80

81

82 83

84

85 86

Attila Jakab considered the mention of Apoc. Pet. in the Muratorian canon (lines 71–73) earlier than Clement, but Grünstäudl has shown that Clement’s Eclogues quotes Apoc. Pet. in the context of a larger quote from an early Psalm commentary dated to ca. 160–170 ce (“Ein apokryphes Petrusbild im Neuen Testament: Zur Konstruktion apostolischer Autorität in OffbPetr und 2 Petr,” in Between Canonical and Apocryphal Texts 289–308). Text and commentary in J. L. Lightfoot, The Sibylline Oracles with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary on the First and Second Books (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). Veronika Cˇ ernušková, “Delimitation and Context of Reference to the Apocalypse of Peter in Clement of Alexandria’s Eclogae Propheticae,” in Studia Patristica CX, ed. Markus Vinzent and Vít Hušek, Volume 7, Clement of Alexandria (Leuven: Peeters, 2021), 53–74. Eusebius, HE 6.14.1. 2 Pet 1:13–14; 3:5–13; Apoc. Pet. [E] 4–6; 14:1–4. See further Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 184–233; Jörg Frey, “Fire and Water? Apocalyptic Imagination and Hellenistic Worldview in 2 Peter,” in Sibyls, Scriptures, and Scrolls: John Collins at Seventy, ed. Joel Baden, Hindy Najman, and Eibert Tigchelaar, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 1.451–71 at 460–463. Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus 234–286; Frey “Second Peter in New Perspective,” 7–74; Bremmer, “First Christian Martyr Text: Its Date, Provenance, and Relationship with 2 Peter,” in 2 Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter: Towards a New Perspective 75–98. P. von. Möllendorf, Auf der Suche nach der verlogenen Wahrheit: Lukians Wahre Geschichten (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 427–430. Bremmer, “First Christian Martyr Text,” 89. Bremmer adds that the author of the Epistula Apostolorum used Apoc. Pet., but the Epistula was probably written in midsecond-century Asia Minor (ibid., 89–90). Bremmer adds three arguments for the Alexandrian over against a Palestinian provenance of Apoc. Pet.: (1) The author’s use of the LXX; (2) the list of crimes better fits the negative commandments in Egyptian wisdom literature, such as we find in Pseudo-Phocylides; and (3) the angelic name Tartarouchos (“keeper of Tartarus”) is attested in Egyptian texts from Oxyrhynchus

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As is typical when dating this sort of material, we can only depend on data internal to the text. Helpful here is the author’s treatment of Judaism. In contrast with Barnabas and the Preaching of Peter, the author of the Apocalypse of Peter pays no attention to Jewish practice and only little attention to Jews themselves. Jews are not among the sinners punished in hell. From what we can tell, they were no longer major players in the author’s immediate environment, a situation that fits the Alexandrian context after 117 ce. Early in the text, the author refers to “the house of Israel” as an entity seemingly separate from his own group (called a “church”).87 The “house of Israel” is symbolized by a fig tree. When it buds, the end of the world arrives. The “house of Israel” is destined to be uprooted because it bears no fruit. Specifically, the “house of Israel” denies the messiah (Jesus) and produces “falsifiers of the messiah.” In particular, it produces a “liar” who claims to be Christ. This “liar” will kill many Christians with the sword.88 It is reasonable to hypothesize that this “liar” refers to Bar Kokhba, called “Bar Koziba” (“son of a liar”) by his enemies.89 We have independent testimony that Bar Kochba killed Christians in Palestine who would not renounce Jesus as messiah.90 It also seems that Bar Kochba had messianic pretentions or at least ruled like a despot.91 It is reasonable to suppose, furthermore, that Christians writing outside of Palestine took an interest in the fate of their co-religionists during the Bar Kokhba war (132–135 ce). The author of the Apocalypse of Peter seems to have been writing toward the end of the war (about 135), when Rome had already razed many Judean towns. For a Christian looking on from a distance, the end of the world could well have seemed imminent – for they often heard of “wars and rumors of wars” in the Holy Land (Matt 24:6).

87 88 89 90 91

(SEG 38.1837) and PGM 4.2335 (Maidens 276, 283). See also Tobias Nicklas, “Jewish, Christian, Greek? The Apocalypse of Peter as a Witness of Early 2nd-Cent. Christianity in Alexandria,” in Beyond Conflicts, ed. Arcari 27–46. Apoc. Pet. [E] 1.3; 2.4. Apoc. Pet. [E] 2:8–13. Bauckham, Fate 176–194; Buchholz, Your Eyes 408–412. Justin, 1 Apol. 31.6; Eusebius, Chronicle Hadrian Year 17 (133 ce) in Die Chronik des Hieronymus, ed. Helm, 201. Peter Schäfer, “Bark Kokhba and the Rabbis,” in The Bar Kokhba War Reconsidered: New Perspectives on the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome, ed. Peter Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 1–22 at 17–19; Mor, The Second Jewish Revolt 136–145.



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At the same time, the author was not entirely focused on what he perceived to be the persecution of Christians in Palestine. Among his catalogue of sinners are found those who charge interest on loans, those who give unrighteous alms, image worshipers, parent haters, those who have samesex intercourse, people who have sex before marriage, those who commit abortion, and “sorcerers,” as well as those who simply “insulted the way of righteousness” – apparently a name for the Jesus movement.92 Even if the author adapted a preexisting catalogue of sinners, this list still shows that the author was concerned about a fairly broad array of perceived social vices. The author apparently lived in a society that he considered to be immoral, and he wanted his audience to act according to his moral standards. Social History Can we say anything more about the “Peter” who wrote this apocalypse? At the very least, the author was a literate expert in both Jewish and Hellenistic lore. He adapted a genre (the “tour of hell”) that had significant precedents in both Greek and Latin literature.93 He cited the Psalms and the book of Ezekiel, but his favorite text seems to have been 1 Enoch (notably the Book of the Watchers, as well as the story of Noah’s birth in 1 Enoch 106). He had what later became a New Testament book (the gospel later ascribed to Matthew), but he evidently did not consider it immutable. He updated Matthew’s eschatological discourse (Matt 23) and adapted his transfiguration account (Matt 17) – putting the focus on transformed believers, not on Jesus. Evidence for the use of other gospels and the Pauline letters is absent. “Peter” was familiar with afterlife punishments in Orphic lore and reimagined the (distinctly Hellenic) topography of lake “Acheron” and the “Elysian fields.”94 The author believed that the end of the world loomed and that Peter’s martyrdom in Rome had triggered the final series of end-time events. This author never imagined the practice of distinctively Jewish rites as necessary for salvation. All the same, some of his heroes were Hebrews, 92 93

94

Apoc. Pet. [A] 7:2. Pierluigi Piovanelli, “Katabáseis Orphico-Pythagoriciennes ou Tours of Hell apocalyptiques juifs? La fausse alternative posée par la typologie des péchés et des châtiments dans l’Apocalypse de Pierre,” Les Études Classiques 83 (2015): 397–414. T. J. Kraus, “Acheron und Elysion: Anmerkungen im Hinblick auf deren Verwendung auch im christlichen Kontext,” Mnemosyne 46 (2003): 145–163; Kraus, “Die griechische Petrus-Apokalypse und ihre Relation zu ausgewählten Uberlieferungsträgern apokalyptischer Stoffe,” Apocrypha 14 (2003): 73–98.

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namely Abraham, Enoch, Jacob, Elijah, and Moses. He worshiped a righteous creator and believed that angels punished people. In terms of his thought world, the author of the Apocalypse of Peter reveals a hybrid conceptuality. He lived in a place where Hellenic culture had long mixed with elements of a Jewish culture as (selectively) appropriated by Christians. At the same time, this author’s actual interaction with Jews seems fairly negligible and Judaism was no longer represented as a threat. This evidence would well fit Alexandria in the mid to late 130s ce when Jewish life was still in a shambles and the rumblings of war in Judea heightened the apocalyptic expectations of Alexandrian Christians.

Conclusion I have argued that the Epistle of Barnabas, the Preaching of Peter, and the Apocalypse of Peter were written in Egypt and probably at Alexandria. These works testify to the fact that at least some early devotees of Jesus were – or at least aimed to be – organizationally and ritually distinct from Jewish communities in Alexandria at the time (about 100–135). Accordingly, theories that view the Jesus movement(s) in early second-century Alexandria as roughly coextensive with Judaism must be questioned. For instance, Pearson claimed that the earliest Christians in Egypt would “naturally” have been regarded as Jews and would have been indistinguishable as a separate religious group.95 Modrzejewski opined that “primitive Christianity … had been annihilated [in 117 ce] along with the entire body in which it was immersed – the Jewish community of Alexandria.”96 James Carleton Paget wrote – more cautiously – that the “strange silence concerning Alexandrian Christianity … might imply that, until 115 and the outbreak of the Jewish revolt in Egypt, Christianity remained a sect within Judaism.”97 95

96 97

Pearson, “Earliest Christianity in Egypt: Some Observations,” in The Roots of Egyptian Christianity 132–160 at 134. In fairness to Pearson, he later conceived of a minority of “Christians who had become alien to the Jewish community” prior to 117 ce becoming the “mainstream” after that date (“Cracking a Conundrum,” 69). Modrzejewski, Jews of Egypt 228; cf. Mimouni, “À la recherche de la communauté chrétienne d’Alexandrie,” 160. Paget, Jews, Christians 137. Dawson presents a similar view: “Until perhaps the end of the first century or the beginning of the second, Christians in Alexandria were almost certainly indistinguishable from Jews, having not yet emerged from Judaism as a group with sufficient distinctiveness to enable them to show up in the historical record as an independent community … it was probably not until the Jewish revolt of 115–17 CE that Jews and Christians in Alexandria finally went their separate ways” (Allegorical Readers 172).



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The witness of “Barnabas” and the two “Peters” undermines these theories. Alexandrian Christians did not form a sect within Judaism prior to 115 – at least not entirely. Some Christian intellectuals in Alexandria, even if they were ethnically Jewish, rejected distinctively Jewish customs. They distinguished themselves socially and religiously from their Jewish competitors – as well as from other Christians who practiced Jewish customs. Obviously, neither “Barnabas” nor the “Peters” could sever all connections to Judaism – nor did they wish to. Jewish learning was still a way for religious entrepreneurs to gain cultural capital within their own groups. The writer of Barnabas worked hard to appropriate Jewish exegetical training and ethical distinctiveness. His group borrowed and adapted Jewish concepts such as the (spiritualized) temple, circumcision, and redemption at the end of time. “Barnabas” had a positive view of Moses and worshiped the Jewish creator. At the same time, he used Jewish scripture against local Jews to appropriate the symbolic and religious capital of Israel (election, prophecies, a future reign over the earth). Much the same can be said of “Peter,” whose treatise appropriated the “new covenant” spoken of in Jewish scripture, adopted the Jewish deity, and promoted the worship of this deity through a Jewish messiah. In short, “Barnabas” the two “Peters,” and their Christian groups, appropriated the perceived benefits of Judaism while shedding some of its ritual and political distinctives. In this respect, the “Barnabite” and “Petrine” Christians of Alexandria were not so different from the Gentile Christians of other areas in the eastern Mediterranean such as Caesarea in Palestine, Antioch in Syria, Ephesus in Asia Minor, and Corinth in Greece.98 By the early second century, Christian assemblies in these regions were increasingly becoming Gentile in composition. Even though these Gentiles jettisoned Jewish customs and identity markers, they never dismissed the Jewish heritage entirely. Instead, they selectively appropriated that heritage while distinguishing themselves from actual Jews in their cities. If Christianity was a sect within Judaism in 117 ce, presumably it would have been wiped out in the revolt. But it was not. Gentile Christian theologians – among them Basilides and Carpocrates – immediately appear in Hadrian’s reign (beginning in 117 ce). They did not appear 98

See Magnus Zetterholm, The Formation of Christianity in Antioch: A Social-Scientific Approach to the Separation between Judaism and Christianity (London: Routledge, 2003).

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out of nowhere, having somehow escaped a massive pogrom. They did not need to escape because they were not connected to the religious practice of Judaism in any salient way. It is more likely that they belonged to established Gentile Christian movements in Alexandria – the kind of movements witnessed by “Barnabas” and the two “Peters.” They still used Jewish scriptures, organizational structures, and hermeneutical techniques (duly adapted), but they showed no devotion to the Judean deity or to his Law; nor did they advertise themselves as Jews.99 Indeed, Basilidean Christians reportedly said that they were “now not Jews” (Iudaeos quidem iam non esse).100 Again, this is no argument for a simple or singular “parting of the ways” between practicing Jews and Christians in Alexandria. The late first and early second century was a time when the earliest Jesus devotees in Alexandria did not appear entirely consistent. They wanted the spiritual capital claimed by Jews (the covenant, the scriptures, the divine blessings) but not the social and economic stigmas. Christians of the early second century walked a tightrope, but “Barnabas” and the two “Peters” did not lose their balance. The successful development of a distinctly Christian social identity between 73 and 115 ce allowed Alexandrian Christianity to thrive after Jewish cultural capital and institutions in Alexandria were decimated in 117. The Jesus movements did not have to start afresh in Alexandria after the revolt. There were ecclesial formations in place that had cultivated a new generation of educated, Gentile theologians who set the pace of Christian thought in Alexandria for the next seventy years.

99

100

Van den Broek, Studies in Gnosticism 196; Pearson, “Egypt,” in The Cambridge History of Christianity, Volume 1, ed. Margaret M. Mitchell and Frances M. Young (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 331–350 at 337. Paget (Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians 138–141) argued for “continuities in outlook and perspective” between the Jewish and Christian communities in Alexandria before and after 117 ce. We can concede these continuities while still proposing a distinction in religious identity and social organization. Irenaeus, AH 1.24.6.

Part II EARLY CHRISTIAN TEACHERS AND MOVEMENTS IN ALEXANDRIA

6 The Earliest Alexandrian Theologians Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus

Introduction When Jewish life and institutions declined in Alexandria after 117 ce, devotees of Jesus were not forced to begin afresh. There was no “paganoChristian reconstruction.”1 Some – possibly even most – of the Christian groups in the city continued to function after 117. The emergence of a highly educated Christian leadership during and beyond Hadrian’s reign (117–138 ce) – in the persons of Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus – indicate that Christianity not only survived the Diaspora Revolt but thrived.2 According to what survives, these theologians showed no interest in practicing distinctively Jewish customs. They were not politically disenfranchised or, generally speaking, opposed to the wider society. In many ways, they were culturally well accommodated. They had access to the educational resources of Alexandria, as is indicated by their rhetorical proficiency and exegetical skill. They were sophisticated thinkers who wrote didactic letters, commentaries, sermons, and songs. Their educational attainments indicate at least a middling measure of wealth and social status. Unfortunately, we only possess fragments and summaries of their works. When sifted and combined, however, the evidence is substantial.3 1 2 3

Modrzejewski, Jews of Egypt 230. For the Hadrianic date, see Clement, Strom. 7.17.106.4–107.1. Strictly speaking, one cannot include Valentinus as a distinctly Alexandrian theologian, since his teaching career was mainly centered in Rome. For surveys of Alexandrian Christian teachers, see Bernard Pouderon, “‘Jewish,’ ‘Christian,’ and ‘Gnostic’ Groups in Alexandria

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In approaching this material, I prioritize the genuine fragments from Basilides and Epiphanes (son and disciple of Carpocrates) over heresiological reports.4 In the case of Prodicus and Carpocrates, we only have heresiological summaries. Yet even these can be checked for accuracy and consistency against the fragments of their fellow Alexandrians. Since my goal is to remain within the second century, I do not use later sources such as the Basilidean report in the Refutation of All Heresies, or the post-Irenaean reports on Carpocrates. I believe that some early data can be extracted from Irenaeus’s heresy catalogue, though it, too, must be fact-checked against the fragments.5

Relation to Judaism The relation of Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus to Judaism is complex. One can readily see how these theologians adapted Jewish lore and exegetical techniques. Yet they demonstrated no interest in performing Jewish rites (circumcision, Sabbath, kashrut, and so on). Prodicus and his followers only accepted an unwritten law, which presumes that they rejected the law thought to be written by Moses.6 They considered themselves to be “lords of the Sabbath.”7 Evidently, they read gospels according to which Jesus proclaimed “the son of the Human” as “lord of the Sabbath” and they claimed the same rights.8 Unlike the author of Barnabas, Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus did not seek to authorize themselves solely based on their knowledge of Jewish scriptures. The book of Genesis was a lightning rod for Christian interpretation. Yet Basilides wrote his groundbreaking twenty-four-book commentary (the Exegetica) on a Christian gospel, probably an early form of the gospel ascribed to Luke.9 Carpocrates (or his followers) cited

4 5 6 7 8 9

during the 2nd Cent.: Between Approval and Expulsion,” in Beyond Conflicts, ed. Arcari, 155–176; Löhr, “Christliche ‘Gnostiker’ in Alexandria im zweiten Jahrhundert,” 413–434; Markschies, “Christian Gnosticism and Judaism in the First Decades of the Second Century,” in Jews and Christians in the First and Second Centuries 340–354. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 13–14. Irenaeus, AH 1.23–31. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 11–12. Clement, Strom. 3.4.30.2. Clement, Strom. 3.4.30.1. Mark 2:28; Matt 12:8; Luke 6:5. Eusebius, HE 4.7.5–6; Acts of Archelaus 67.4–12. Pace James A. Kelhoffer, “Basilides’s Gospel and Exegetica (Treatises),” VC 59:2 (2005): 115–134. Heine points out that Origen used the same term, exe¯ge¯tica, to refer to the twentieth book of his Comm. Jo. 20.422 (Origen 52, n.118). See further Christoph Markschies, “Das Evangelium des Basilides,”



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a gospel that combines what is now Matthew and Luke.10 Distinctly Christian sacred texts, it seems, were becoming the focus of interpretation among Alexandrian theologians after 117 ce. One almost never finds anti-Jewish polemic in the fragments and summaries of Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus, even though this sort of polemic flourishes in Barnabas and in the Preaching of Peter. Apparently the Christian circles after 117 were not tempted to participate in Alexandrian synagogues – many of which had been destroyed anyway. Judaism was no longer, it seems, perceived as a significant threat to Christian theologians who had already carved out a distinctive identity and practice.11

The Judean Lord Perhaps the clearest sign of these theologians’ break with Judaism is their view of the Judean deity. As readers will recall from Chapter  5, “Barnabas” claimed that an “evil angel” deceitfully instructed the Israelites about fleshly circumcision (9:4). Yet in Genesis 17:1 (LXX), the being who commands circumcision is referred to as “lord” (κύριος) – and is usually identified with Yahweh.12 “Barnabas” did not call the Jewish deity an “evil angel”; but later Alexandrian theologians did begin to disassociate the Judean lord from the true and transcendent God. Basilides believed that the Judean lord was originally ignorant of the true God above him. This view emerges from his comments on Proverbs 1:7: “the fear of the lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Basilides understood the Judean deity to be the “lord” (his common title in the Septuagint). He then supplied a backstory to the proverb: the lord was struck with fear when he heard the “ministering Spirit” declare the good news about Jesus. The lord apparently did not understand who Jesus was. Yet when he was informed by the Spirit, he willingly learned about the true God and aided Jesus. Such information we learn from a fragment in Clement.13

10 11 12

13

in Markschies and Schröter, ed. Antike christliche Apokryphen 1/1.460–465; Winrich Löhr, “Editors and Commentators: Some Observations on the Craft of Second-Century Theologians,” in Pascha Nostrum Christus: Essays in Honour of Raniero Cantalamessa, ed. Pier Franco Beatrice and Bernard Pouderon (Paris: Beauchesne, 2016), 65–84. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.5. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 126–127. As late as Origen’s Comm. Jo. 1.7, we hear that believers from the Hebrews were rare in Alexandria. James Carleton Paget, “Barnabas 9:4: A Peculiar Verse on Circumcision,” VC 45 1991:242–254; Isaac T. Soon, “Satan and Circumcision: The Devil as the ἄγγελος πόνηρος in Barn 9:4,” VC 76:1 (2021): 60–72. Clement, Strom. 2.8.36.1. Cf. Ref. 7.26.1–2. See further Löhr, Basilides 61–78.

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From Irenaeus one gathers that Basilides viewed the Judean lord as a subordinate being in control of the nation of Judea, somewhat like the archangel Michael in Daniel 12:1 (compare Deut 32:8–9 LXX). At some point, this lord wanted to subject all nations to his own people, Israel. His desire for domination explains why the (angelic) rulers of other nations resisted him. This is an apparent explanation for the repeated wars against Judea and people of Judean heritage between 66 and 135 ce.14 Carpocrates’s view of Jesus – that he rejected Jewish law – also suggests misgivings about the Judean lord, the ultimate bestower of the Law.15 Carpocrates may have agreed with Paul, “Barnabas,” and the author of Acts that angels mediated (elements of) Jewish law.16 Yet Carpocrates’s theology is, in fact, the subject of a dispute: For while Irenaeus gives the impression that Carpocrates believed in angels who created the human body and hindered the human ascent to God,17 Carpocrates’s son Epiphanes referred to the creator positively as the father and maker of this universe.18 Since Carpocrates was Epiphanes’s teacher,19 one may infer that he maintained a basically positive view of the creator, even if subordinate angels in his system became renegades.20 Carpocratians also believed in the devil, widely taken to be a fallen angel.21 As for Prodicus, we have no report of him openly criticizing the creator. All we learn from Clement is that his followers considered themselves “natural children of the primal God.”22 The description of the primal God, along with Prodicus’s rejection of Jewish law, indicate that the primal God was a transcendent being not identical with the Judean lord. A review of these theologians tends to confirm Celsus’s point that Christians under the auspices of Jesus’s teaching “stand apart from the creator as an inferior being” and approach “a God whom they regard as superior,” namely the father of Jesus.23 Commentators sometimes limit this remark to Marcionites, but it applies just as well to Basilidean and Prodican Christians. 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23

Irenaeus, AH 1.24.4. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.2. Gal 3:19; Acts 7:38, 53; Barn 9:4. Cf. Jub. 1:27–2:1 (OTP). Irenaeus, AH 1.25.1. Clement, Strom. 3.2.7.1. Clement, Strom. 3.2.5.3. On the fundamental agreement of Epiphanes and Carpocrates, see Izabela Jurasz, “Carpocrate et Epiphane: Chrétiens et platoniciens radicaux,” VC 71 (2017): 134–167. See further Dale B. Martin, “When Did Angels Become Demons?” JBL 129:4 (2010): 657–677. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.5. Clement, Strom. 3.4.30.1. Origen, Cels. 5.54.



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Apostolic Authority It is significant that Basilides, Prodicus, and Carpocrates did not appeal to Jewish figures such as Adam, Seth, or Norea as heroes or models of salvation. Instead, each of these theologians – or their followers – forged a connection to an apostolic authority. Paul became a major player in Alexandrian theology. There is evidence, albeit contested, for Paul’s letter to the Alexandrians, which was perhaps a pseudepigraphon designed to include Alexandria in the Pauline orbit.24 Although Epiphanes avoided quoting scripture directly, one can hear echoes of Paul’s letters in his prose, especially from Romans 5 and 7.25 Basilides is good evidence for Petrine authority in early secondcentury Alexandria. This theologian reportedly claimed to be a disciple of Glaucias who was in turn a disciple of Peter.26 Basilides could thus claim a direct conduit to the prince of the apostles, the ascribed author of the Preaching of Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter. Basilidean teaching was evidently integrated into “Petrine discourse” in early secondcentury Alexandria.27 As for Carpocrates, we have no surviving report that he connected himself to an apostle. His disciple Marcellina, however, was linked to traditions of Mariamme (namely Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, or some fusion of Marys), Martha, and Salome.28 She probably appealed to all three women as apostolic or quasi-apostolic authorities.29 Mary also appears in the Gospel of Mary, a document probably written in Carpocrates’s lifetime. Salome, in turn, appears in the Gospel According to the Egyptians. These female disciples were evidently important among Carpocratian Christians.

24

25 26 27 28 29

The reference is found in the Muratorian Canon, whose authenticity is disputed. See Joseph Verheyden, “The Canon Muratori: A Matter of Dispute,” in The Biblical Canons, ed. J. M. Auwers and H. J. de Jonge (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 487–556; Claire K. Rothschild, The Muratorian Fragment: Text, Translation, and Commentary, STAC 132 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2022). Litwa, Carpocrates 51–52. Clement, Strom. 7.17.106.4–107.1. Tobias Nicklas, “Petrus-Diskurse in Alexandria: Eine Fortführung der Gedanken von Jörg Frey,” in 2 Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter 99–127. Origen, Cels. 5.61–62. See further H. Gregory Snyder, “She Destroyed Multitudes: Marcellina’s Group in Rome,” in Women and Knowledge in Early Christianity, ed. Tervahauta et al. 39–61; Scopello, Femme, Gnose et Manichéisme: De l’espace mythique au territoire de réel (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 219–221; Litwa, Carpocrates 139–143.

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The Witness of Celsus Evidence about Marcellinians comes again from Celsus, the secondcentury Platonist critic of Christianity. Celsus provides key evidence about early Christian diversity, so it is important to determine his provenance. Although some scholars have vouched for Rome, the general consensus is that Celsus was writing from Alexandria.30 This view is supported by his specific and first-hand knowledge of Egyptian local culture and worship customs. For instance, Celsus knew that the Egyptians “for a few coins make known their venerable lessons in the midst of marketplaces and drive daimones out of people and blow away diseases and invoke the souls of heroes, displaying expensive banquets, tables, cakes, and condiments which are non-existent.”31 He knew, furthermore, that “the Egyptians have glorious precincts and groves, majestic and beautiful entryways, astounding temples, splendid awnings all around, with rites that are solemn and secretive. But when one enters and goes inside, one sees them bowing down to cats, monkeys, crocodiles, goats, and dogs.”32 Celsus knew that the phoenix periodically visited Egypt from Arabia, bringing its deceased sire balled up in myrrh, later placing him in the precinct of the sun (at Heliopolis).33 Celsus mentioned that the people of Naucratis – a Greek colony not far from Alexandria – had recently adopted the worship of Serapis.34 Egyptians, according to Celsus, called Zeus “Amoun.”35 Celsus directly (that is, orally) learned from Dionysius, “an Egyptian musician,” that magic arts were only effective for uneducated and immoral people.36 Finally, Celsus knew the thirty-six “daimones” (the decans) in control over the human body and could even list some of their (distinctly Egyptian) names.37 This knowledge of Egypt is not absolutely unique, but it is detailed and specific. Evidently, Celsus had more than mere book learning about Egyptian culture and customs. This was the kind of knowledge one would pick up by living in Egypt, at least for a time. 30

31 32 33 34 35 36 37

Philip Alexander, “Celsus’ Judaism,” in Celsus in His World: Philosophy, Polemic and Religion in the Second Century, ed. James Carleton Paget and Simon Gathercole (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), 327–359 at 327; Horacio E. Lona, Die ‘Wahre Lehre’ des Kelsos übersetzt und erklärt (Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 56–57. Origen, Cels. 1.68. Origen, Cels. 3.17. Origen, Cels. 4.98; cf. Herodotus, Hist. 2.73; Aelian, Nat. an. 6.58. Origen, Cels. 5.34. Origen, Cels. 5.41. Origen, Cels. 6.41. Origen, Cels. 8.58.



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To this distinctive knowledge, one can add key points where Celsus overlaps with other Alexandrian authors in points of detail. Celsus’s accusation that the Jews worship angels, for instance, is also found in the Preaching of Peter.38 Celsus showed awareness of the Hermetic idea that the cosmos is God’s child.39 His attempt to relate biblical to Hellenic mythology (for instance, the tower of Babel with the story of Otus and Ephialtes as well as Noah and Deucalion) has a precedent in Philo.40 Celsus knew precise details about 1 Enoch, an authoritative text in Egypt. He noted that wicked angels were cast under the earth in chains (κολάζεσθαι δεσμοῖς ὑποβληθέντας ἐν γῇ) – a description that appears also in 2 Peter (2:4: ὁ θεὸς … σειραῖς ζόφου ταρταρώσας), which is probably Alexandrian.41 Finally, Celsus’s charge that the gospels contain myths (μύθοι)42 is echoed and seemingly answered in 2 Peter 1:16 (“we have not followed cleverly devised myths”). There is, in short, a rich vein of circumstantial evidence that Celsus was writing from Egypt and probably from a large urban center such as Alexandria.43 If Celsus was writing from Alexandria, he testifies that Judaism had made a resurgence probably by the mid–second century ce. After all, Celsus put some of his weightiest arguments into the mouth of a Jew who argued that Christians were renegades against Mosaic customs.44 Maren Niehoff has argued that Celsus constructed his “Jew” using an authentic Jewish document written in mid-second-century Alexandria.45 Although I consider her case unproven, Celsus’s knowledge of Judaism and his ability to represent the interests and mindset of an educated Jew of his time is noteworthy. He likely interacted, if not with actual Jews in conversation, then with texts that represented a Jewish point of view (such as the Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus). Niehoff asserts that Celsus lived in Alexandria, but adds that he sojour­ ned in Rome where he gained “acute awareness of Marcion’s teaching.”46 Although it is certainly possible that Celsus traveled to Rome, by his 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Origen, Cels. 1.26; 5.6. Origen, Cels. 6.47; cf. Ascl. 8; CH 9.8; 10.14. Celsus in Origen, Cels. 4.21; 4.44. Cf. Philo, Conf. 4; Praem. 23. Origen, Cels. 5.52; Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus; Frey, “Second Peter in New Perspective,” 7–74. E.g., Origen, Cels. 2.55; 4.36; 4.51. See further Lona, Die “Wahre Lehre” 56. The debate between Jesus and the Jew occurs in Origen, Cels. 1.28–2.79. Niehoff, “A Jewish Critique of Christianity from Second-Century Alexandria: Revisiting the Jew Mentioned in Contra Celsum,” JECS 21:2 (2013), 151–175. Niehoff, “Jewish Critique,” 155, n.12, citing Origen, Cels. 6.51–53, 74.

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time (the late 170s ce) Marcionite thought had most likely spread to Alexandria (see Chapter 9). The same point about Celsus’s movements applies to Marcellina. Marcellina made a move from Alexandria to Rome in the late 150s or early 160s.47 Yet Celsus need not have gone to Rome to encounter her circle. He could have known Marcellinians in Alexandria. Assuming that Celsus was familiar with Alexandria, he becomes a key source for early Christian diversity in this city. He mentioned not only Marcellinians but “Harpocratians” (apparently Carpocratians), Simonians, Helenians, and a group later known as Ophites.48 From Celsus’s point of view, Alexandrian Christians were riven into factions, although they all maintained the name “Christian.”49 He portrayed them as detesting each other, not making the least concession in their rancorous debates.50 What united them was their opposition to Judaism.51 When Celsus presented his Jewish critic of Jesus, the Jew assumed that Christians, who convince “a great number” of people, belong to an opposing party.52

Ritual Distinctiveness Basilides and Carpocrates developed distinctive worship customs and so evidently sponsored their own separate gatherings. Basilides, for instance, celebrated the anniversary of Christ’s incarnation on January 6 or 10 (there was later dispute about the exact date). On this occasion, the circle of Basilides listened to scriptural or other religious texts long into the night. At dawn, they celebrated the moment of incarnation, perhaps with song.53 Basilides was a songwriter and his group apparently hymned along with him.54 Agrippa Castor, an otherwise unknown critic of Basilides, claimed that Basilides required his initiates to maintain five years of silence before 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

54

Irenaeus, AH 1.25.6. Origen, Cels. 5.62; 6.30–40. Origen, Cels. 3.12. Origen, Cels. 5.63. Origen, Cels. 3.14. Origen, Cels. 2.46. Clement, Strom. 1.21.145.6–1.21.146.4. See further Thomas. J. Talley, The Origins of the Liturgical Year, 2nd ed. (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 1986), 119–129; Hans Förster, Die Anfänge von Weihnachten und Epiphanias: Eine Anfrage an die Entstehungshypothesen (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 57–67. Origen, Enarrations on Job 21.12 (PG 17 80a).



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learning advanced lessons.55 According to legend, this was Pythagoras’s requirement for his advanced students.56 Serious Pythagoreans could not speak a word for several years (a feat reportedly achieved by the Pythagorean Apollonius of Tyana).57 Agrippa was probably trying to depict Basilides’s group as a Pythagorean conventicle. If his data are not exact, they are probably not entirely concocted. If Basilides did in some way model his own group on traditional philosophical circles, he might have required silence prior to a higher initiation. After several years, Basilides’s students would in turn become teachers of the higher lore. This would indicate that there were levels of initiation in Basilides’s group. It seems fair to grant that Basilides required a period of discipleship in preparation for higher levels of teaching, just like other philosophical and religious groups at the time.58 There were probably levels of initiation among Carpocratians as well. Carpocratians, like most Christians, were initially baptized with water. Yet those of higher gnosis were baptized by fire and the Holy Spirit (Matt 3:11). These Christians received a brand mark on the back of their right earlobe. Thus Carpocratian initiates could recognize one other. Reportedly, Carpocratians also venerated small statues or paintings of Pythagoras, Plato, and Jesus.59 This distinctive practice suggests that Carpocratians respected and used what was considered to be Platonic and Neo-Pythagorean thought, which were prevalent philosophical streams in Alexandria. The circles of Carpocrates and Basilides were not mere philosophical salons. Their practices included religious rituals such as hymn singing, vigils, and the marking of the body after baptism. Exegesis was a philosophical discipline, but for these theologians it was also a form of rational worship. Of course, later opponents of these theologians wished

55 56

57 58

59

Eusebius, HE 4.7.5–8. See further Löhr, Basilides 6–14. Iamblichus, Pythagorean Life 72. See further Christoph Riedweg, Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching, and Influence, trans. Steven Rendall (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008), 101–102. Philostratus, Vita Ap. 1.15–16. Garth Fowden, The Egyptian Hermes: A Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 97–104; Christian H. Bull, The Tradition of Hermes: The Egyptian Priestly Figure as a Teacher of Hellenized Wisdom, RGRW 186 (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 209–370. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.6. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 143–146; Robin M. Jensen, “Visual Representations of Early Christian Teachers and of Christ as the True Philosopher,” in Christian Teachers in Second-Century Rome: Schools and Students in the Ancient City, ed. H. Gregory Snyder (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 60–83.

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to portray their groups as mere philosophical schools or sects in order to undercut their Christian identity.60 We would do better to describe their formations as religious movements designed to satisfy the needs of Alexandrian intellectuals and seekers more broadly.

Cultural Accommodation In his treatise On Justice, Epiphanes envisioned a society wherein everything was communally shared: land, food – even sexual partners.61 As it turns out, Plato, Zeno of Citium, and Diogenes the Cynic all envisioned similar societies in their various Republics (written from the fourth to third centuries bce).62 In each case, we seem to be dealing with a philosopher’s dream, a vision of society not actually implemented by any of these writers, including Epiphanes. After all, Carpocrates, Epiphanes’s father, lived in a monogamous relationship with Epiphanes’s mother Alexandreia.63 Furthermore, Marcellina – one of Carpocrates’s disciples – was never accused of supporting “free love.” (If she was morally suspect, heresiographers would have seized upon the slightest rumor.) At the same time, the fact that Epiphanes could envision an alternative society indicates that his own intellectual context allowed for free interaction with a variety of philosophical ideas (Platonic, Stoic, and Cynic). Neither Epiphanes nor Marcellina can be described as mere philosophers. The wellsprings of their imagination were biblical. Epiphanes took seriously an alternative society in which there really was “neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female” (Gal 3:28). Female leadership was exemplified and promoted by Marcellina, apparently in both Alexandria and Rome. Marcellina allegorically interpreted a saying of Jesus about paying the last penny, which she took to be a parable (Luke 12:58–59; Matt 5:25–26). For his part, Epiphanes’s communalism may have been inspired by an ideal represented in Acts. In its initial chapters,

60

61

62 63

Einar Thomassen, “Were there Valentinian Schools?” in Christian Teachers in SecondCentury Rome 32–44 at 33; Einar Thomassen, “Gnosis and Philosophy in Competition,” in Philosophia in der Konkurrenz von Schulen, Wissenschaften und Religionen, ed. Christoph Riedweg (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2017), 61–74. See further Kathy L. Gaca, Making Fornication: Eros, Ethics, and Political Reform in Greek Philosophy and Early Christianity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 273–291. Litwa, Carpocrates 65–67. Clement, Strom. 3.2.5.2.



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we learn that early Christians shared everything: “All those who believed were together and held everything in common (εἶχον ἅπαντα κοινά). … Not one of them was saying that one of their possessions was private property, but for them everything was common (ἦν αὐτοῖς ἅπαντα κοινά)” (2:44; 4:32). Early Alexandrian theologians read widely. Carpocrates adapted a passage from Plato’s Phaedrus to speak of the nature of Jesus’s preexistent soul.64 Epiphanes read about ideal societies from Stoic and Cynic authors. Basilides discoursed on Persian theology and used prophetic books ascribed to sages called Barkabbas and Barkoph.65 Prodicans used books attributed to Zoroaster.66 The use of such works indicates a cosmopolitan intellectual openness that was common in Alexandria.

Strangers and Foreigners Basilidean Christians called themselves “the election” (ἡ ἐκλογή). They considered themselves foreign from other people and naturally above this world.67 Prodicans too believed that they arrived in this world as foreigners.68 Their foreign status meant that they were not subject to human laws. They were natural children of the primal God and thus free. They followed an unwritten law and considered themselves mastered by nothing. They were mastered by nothing evidently because they had conquered their passions. As victors over their passions, they had no need of human laws to instruct them about what to do. They naturally followed the will of the primal God.69 Clement accused the Prodicans of adultery, but he could cite no actual case.70 He probably assumed that Prodicans were adulterers because they rejected the Mosaic law that forbid adultery. Yet Prodicans, as mastered by nothing, would not have needed the law of Moses to forgo adultery or any other crime. They were the noble children of a higher

64 65 66 67 68 69

70

Irenaeus, AH 1.25.1–2. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 96–98. Eusebius, HE 4.7.5–8; Clement, Strom. 6.6.53.2–5. Clement, Strom. 1.15.69.6. Clement, Strom. 4.26.165.3. Clement, Strom. 3.4.31.3. Cf. Ps.-Heraclitus, Ep. 9: “law is not something written, but a god” (νόμος ἐστὶν οὐ γράμμα, ἀλλὰ θεός)” (Attridge 82.22–23). See further J. W. Martens, One God, One Law: Philo of Alexandria on the Mosaic and Greco-Roman Law (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 1–66. Van den Broek, “Prodicus,” in DGWE 974–975.

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God, and thus by disposition they were superior to laws and the worldly powers who gave them.71

Martyrdom Basilides and Prodicus were later depicted as critics of martyrdom.72 For these thinkers, to be sure, martyrdom did not ensure that one received an unfading crown of life. Martyrdom, according to Basilides, atoned only for the martyr’s sins. Even if a martyr appeared saintly and innocent, he or she still had previous sins to account for, or at least the propensity to sin.73 Agrippa Castor accused Basilides of saying that martyrs could publicly deny their faith. But the authentic fragments show that Basilides considered martyrdom a boon for those that might otherwise suffer for their sins.74 The view that God demanded martyrdom assumed a negative picture of a bloodthirsty deity according to the Prodicans. In their view, no additional blood needed to be spilled after Christ’s death. Martyrs could not and did not save themselves or others by dying.75

Transmigration According to Basilides, the only punishment bad people receive is transmigration.76 Rivers of fire, boiling mud, and hanging by one’s genitals – as in the Apocalypse of Peter – were all excluded.77 Carpocrates, who 71 72

73

74 75 76 77

Clement, Strom. 3.4.30–33. Cf. Clement, Strom. 4.12.81–83. Ismo Dunderberg, “Early Christian Critics of Martyrdom,” in The Rise and Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries of the Common Era, ed. Clare K. Rothschild and Jens Schröter (Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck), 419–440. Pierre Nautin rejected these passages as corrupted by Clement (“Les fragments de Basilide sur la souffrance et leur interpétation par Clément d’Alexandrie et Origène,” in Mélanges des Histoire des Religions offerts a Henri-Charles Puech [Paris: University Press of France, 1973], 393–404). See also Dieter Georgi, “Das Problem des Martyriums bei Basilides: Vermeiden oder Verbergen?” in Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions, ed. Hans G. Kippenberg and Guy G. Stroumsa (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 247–264; Yves Tissot, “A propos des fragments de Basilide sur le martyr,” Revue d’histoire et de philosophie religieuses 76:1 (1996): 35–50. Eusebius, HE 4.7.5–8. Tertullian, Scorp. 15.6. Origen, Comm. Ser. 38 on Matthew = Löhr fragment 17. If one accepts Ref. 7 as from Basilides, then he did believe in an end of the world after the purification of human souls. See further Barbara Aland, “Seele, Zeit, Eschaton bei einem frühen christlichen Theologen: Basilides zwischen Paulus und Platon,” in Psyche¯Seele-Anima: Festschrift für Karin Alt (Leipzig: Teubner, 1998), 255–278 at 276–278.



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also accepted a version of transmigration, seems to have viewed this mortal life as a kind of punishment. The only Hades was earth itself, as Philo taught.78 To be sure, heresiologists depicted Carpocrates and his followers as licentious. But as Irenaeus records, Carpocrates believed in a just Jesus who conquered his passions; he also encouraged Christians to imitate this Jesus.79 If this was Carpocrates’s message, Carpocratian Christians aimed for the same virtues embodied in Jesus. Both Basilides and Carpocrates appealed to scriptures to ground their teachings. Paul wrote that he was once alive apart from law (Rom 7:9). But since Paul was born a Jew, there was technically no time for him to have escaped the obligations of Jewish law. He must therefore have been referring to a previous life.80 Carpocratians apparently pointed to John 1:21, where the Jewish leaders ask John “Are you Elijah?” Jesus’s answer in Matthew, namely that John “is Elijah,” not just a prophet like him (17:12; 11:14–15), would suggest that he had the spirit (that is, soul) of Elijah and not just Elijah’s “power” (Luke 1:17).81 The acceptance of transmigration by both Basilides and Carpocrates links them to Philo and attests a typically Alexandrian blend of biblical and Platonist lore. Despite Origen’s claim that transmigration was a secret doctrine of the Jews, it seems to have had no secure place in Jewish tradition.82 Instead, transmigration was a well-known PlatonicPythagorean idea, although many claimed that Pythagoras (and by extension, Plato), had learned the notion from Egyptian priests. Transmigration is also well represented in Hermetic literature as well, a literature that thrived in Alexandria.83 As it happens, Christian notions of transmigration seemed to have flourished only in Alexandria. Based on surviving data, no second-century Christian theologian of Italy, Asia Minor, Syria, or Greece advocated this doctrine. It would be no surprise then, as Sami Yli-Karjanmaa argues, that Clement of Alexandria accepted the doctrine as well.84 78 79 80 81 82 83 84

E.g., Philo, Her. 78; Cong. 57; Irenaeus, AH 1.25.5. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.1–2. Origen, Comm. Rom. 5.1. Contrary to what Origen says here, it is unlikely that the previous life was that of a bird or cow. See further Löhr, Basilides 212–218. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 121; Aland, “Seele, Zeit, Eschaton,” 272–276. Origen, Comm. Jo. 6.73. CH 10.7–8; SH 23–26. See further Bull, Tradition of Hermes 97–120, 154–158. Yli-Karjanmaa, “Clement of Alexandria’s Position on the Doctrine of Reincarnation and Some Comparisons with Philo,” in Studia Patristica CX: Papers Presented at the Eighteenth International Conference on Patristic Studies Held in Oxford 2019, ed. Markus Vinzent (Leuven: Peeters, 2021), 75–90.

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Basilides and Carpocrates were not slavish borrowers of Pythagorean transmigration. They adapted it, making it part of God’s system of purgatory and providence. Basilides wrote that he would say anything rather than call providence evil.85 Providence demands not just that the world make sense, but that souls in this world be allowed to improve. For both Basilides and Carpocrates, the soul came into the body to be purified.86 Purification was another way of describing moral improvement and perfection. When the soul became pure, it was released – not just from its current body – but from the whole wheel of reincarnation. In reality, however, the vast majority of human souls needed multiple embodiments to attain purity. If there was a final judgment, it occurred after the soul had the opportunity to experience various lives. Plato wrote that most good souls required ten lives to attain purity; philosophers, by contrast, could make it in three.87 Carpocrates had the theory that Jesus, due to his justice, purity, and self-mastery, obtained final release from flesh in a single lifespan.88 Other Christians were called to imitate Jesus’s one-time incarnation. Most Christians, however, would fail to attain the justice and purity of their teacher. Multiple lives were needed to collect all the necessary experience for the soul’s improvement.89 According to Carpocrates, the soul redeemed from a body became a god (that is to say, a deathless spirit being). In part this explains why Carpocrates and his wife Alexandreia paid divine honors to their son Epiphanes when he died at the age of seventeen.90 In fewer than seventeen years, Epiphanes’s soul had attained the intellectual heights. Excerpts from Epiphanes’s treatise On Justice are the only surviving fragments from any Carpocratian. This treatise is no teenage screed with “pornographic tendencies.”91 It reads, rather, like the informed meditations of a mature philosopher. According to Carpocrates and Alexandreia, at least, it was a special soul that came to roost in the body of their son. A soul purified and enlightened so quickly could rise on eagle’s wings back to the circle of the divine. If there was a final judgment for Carpocrates and Basilides, there was likely a limit to the cycle of transmigration. Souls would only have so 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Clement, Strom. 4.12.82.2. Clement, Strom. 3.3.13.2. Plato, Phaedrus 249a. Irenaeus, AH 1.25.1–2; 2.32.2. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 119–134. John 14:12; Ap. Jas. (I,2) 4.32–5.3; 6.19; 7.13–15. Clement, Strom. 3.2.5.1–2. Pace Henry Chadwick, Alexandrian Christianity 25.



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long to wander between bodies. According to Basilides, souls that did not reform may have been destroyed. For Carpocrates, it seems, every last soul, experiencing every form of life, would be redeemed.92 In short, Carpocrates is the first attested theologian to support a doctrine of universal salvation.

Conclusion Dark as the second century seems to us, the light of Alexandrian theologians shines through. Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus spoke of a transcendent and good God far above the Jewish creator and lawgiver. This lawgiver was not evil, but local and limited in his power. He was the ultimate begetter of flesh and the manager of the punitive but remedial cycle of transmigration. Basilides and Carpocrates made transmigration the tool of providence, God’s scheme for developing human virtue. Virtue was not a matter of following human laws but of defeating the wild and vitriolic emotions called passions. These passions fed on the desires of the flesh. Once the flesh was relinquished, one soared to the stars. Carpocrates developed the clearest ethics of imitating Christ, Son of Human and Lord of the Sabbath. Humans such as Epiphanes could imitate Christ in his deifying path of purifying the mind and achieving true virtue. In our chart of Alexandrian tendencies, theologians such as Basilides and Carpocrates score a five out of six. They asserted a wholly transcendent God, separate from creative agents (angels or the Judean lord, or both), a doctrine of transmigration, the rejection of corruptible flesh, and the deification of the mind. The only element lacking in the surviving fragments is the manifestation of God as an archetypal Human, but Eugnostus – as we shall see in Chapter 7 – made up for this lack. These Alexandrian tendencies were only the tip of the iceberg. The sheer breadth and complexity of Alexandrian Christian thought during this period is astounding. Alexandrian theologians treated providence, apostolic authority, martyrdom, theories of creation,93 socialism, negative theology, theories of Jesus’s incarnation, the nature of other gods, the date of Jesus’s baptism, sexual ethics, psalmody, and much more. They were the first known exegetes of distinctly Christian scriptures. They had 92 93

Irenaeus, AH 1.25.6. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 131, 219. Gerhard May, Creatio ex nihilo: The Doctrine of “Creation out of Nothing” in Early Christian Thought, trans. A. S. Worrall (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 62–84.

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their own forms of worship, their own hymns, and their own holidays. They were open to the larger Alexandrian philosophical culture (mainly Platonic and Pythagorean, but also Stoic). In the end, Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus are our best mirror for reflecting the character of Alexandrian Christianity both in the generation before and after them. These theologians, to be sure, hardly spoke for everyone. Yet understanding their thought and practice is still the best means for understanding early Alexandrian Christian theological culture. In the 130s and 140s ce, no other Christian thinker had attained the intellectual heights of a Basilides or a Carpocrates. Indeed, it would take a half century or more for Christian intellectuals in other areas to rise to their level of theological sophistication. Partly this was because Alexandrian theology itself became mobile. Theologians such as Valentinus and Marcellina traveled to Rome to export their ideas – eventually provoking strong reactions from Irenaeus and Tertullian. Regardless of their later – often negative – reception history, the earliest Alexandrian Christian theologians played a vital role in the invention of the educated Christian intellectual, an ideal that helped to increase the legitimacy of early Christians as they accrued more social and intellectual capital in time to come.

7 Eugnostus and the Wisdom of Jesus Christ

Introduction The Letter of Eugnostus has not, to my knowledge, been treated as part of early Alexandrian church history – but it should. It appears twice in the Nag Hammadi codices (codex III and V). The double appearance of this treatise, together with its first-place appearance in codex V, indicates that the treatise was viewed as important in Egypt as late as the midfourth century ce. The Wisdom of Jesus Christ – hereafter Wisdom – took over the lion’s share of Eugnostus’s material, but it did not replace it as a text.1 In fact, these treatises appear side by side in codex III. Another copy of Wisdom appears as the third treatise in the Berlin Gnostic Codex (a Coptic manuscript of the fifth century ce). In their original contexts, both Eugnostus and Wisdom were written in Greek and Greek fragments of Wisdom survive. The name “Eugnostus” is a mystery. It could be a code name for “the good knower” or “gnostic.”2 The scribe of the Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit (aka the Egyptian Gospel) took the spiritual name “Eugnostus,” though his birth name was Gongessos.3 Whether the writer of Eugnostus was called Eugnostus I leave open, though I will, for lack of an alternative, use the name to designate the author. Eugnostus’s theology probably emerged from a philosophical interpretation of Genesis, though what he discussed takes place in the eternity 1 2 3

Judith Hartenstein, “B.VI.5. Die Weisheit Jesu Christi (NHC (III,4)/BG,3),” in Antike christliche Apokryphen I/2, 1122–1136. Anne Pasquier, Eugnoste, Lettre sur le dieu transcendant (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 13. Eg. Gos. (III,2) 69.9–12.

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before the creation of the material world. Genesis was for Eugnostus an invitation to intuit the archetypal realities of the cosmos.4 His allegorical reflections on Genesis are so thorough that references to this text have all but disappeared.

God and the God-Human According to Eugnostus, there is a transcendent, unknown deity called Forefather. Below Forefather is a self-generated Father. Below the Father are three Humans, the first called “Mind,” the second called the “Adam of Light,” and the third called “Savior.” Perhaps originally the system only included the three tiers of Humans, as in the system described by Irenaeus in Against Heresies 1.30.1-3.5 In Eugnostus, the three Humans are all coupled with forms of Wisdom called Mother (or Begettress), Love, and Faith. Through these Wisdoms, the three Humans emanate offspring called angels and powers. The powers are mathematically arranged in sets of twelve and add up to 360. Eugnostus does not treat the creation of the cosmos or of earthly humans. It may, however, have served to introduce a treatise that does. That treatise is now called the Origin of the World and is preserved in Nag Hammadi Codex II,5.6

Provenance Most scholars opt for Eugnostus’s Egyptian, and specifically Alexandrian, provenance, and it is important to understand why. Appealing to vague uses of “Alexandrian Jewish traditions” is not specific enough.7 One must find firmer anchors, beginning with the manuscripts. All the surviving material remains of Eugnostus were found in Egypt. The same is true for the two Coptic manuscripts of Wisdom and its Greek fragment found 4

5 6

7

On Eugnostan hermeneutics, see René Falkenberg, “Noetic Exegesis in the Nag Hammadi Library: Eugnostos the Blessed as a Point of Departure,” in Kanon in Konstruktion und Dekonstruktion: Kanonisierungsprozesse religiöser Texte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Ein Handbuch, ed. Eve-Marie Becker and Stefan Scholze (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 502–518. Neither Celsus nor Irenaeus use the term “Ophite.” For its use in Origen, see Cels. 6.28. On Eug. and Wisd. Jes. Chr. as Ophite texts, see Rasimus, Paradise 206. Louis Painchaud, “The Literary Contacts between the Writing without Title on the Origin of the World (CG II,5 and XIII,2), and Eugnostus the Blessed (CG III,3 and V,1),” JBL 114:1 (1995): 81–101 at 82. Pace Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism 218.



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in Middle Egypt (Oxyrhynchus).8 This Greek fragment of Wisdom probably dates to the early fourth century ce, while the Nag Hammadi texts were written about a generation later. Several scholars have argued that Eugnostus’s theological scheme depends on preexisting Egyptian theogonies.9 The correspondences, in my opinion, are intriguing but not exact. Scholars advocating a precise theogonic connection are sometimes forced to reconstruct Eugnostus’s “original” theology.10 To be sure, I do not deny potential influence from Egyptian theogonies (which present an ordered system of divinities with male–female pairs, some of whom generate themselves). I do, however, doubt our ability to make precise genetic links between theological systems (such as the Ennead of Heliopolis) that lie, in some cases, centuries apart. It should be kept in mind, however, that articulations of the Hermopolitan Ogdoad, for instance, appear in late antique Hermetic literature and in Iamblichus.11 A better gauge of Eugnostus’s provenance is his use of a 360-day calendar. The standard Egyptian calendar was 360 days with five “epagomenal” days added at the end of the year. This calendar was still in use during the Roman period.12 The fact that Valentinians also presupposed the 360-day year confirms that their teacher (Valentinus) was from Egypt.13 Irenaeus attributed to Basilides a doctrine of 365 heavens, similar to the 360 heavens in Eugnostus.14 The numbers are not equal, of 8

Douglas M. Parrot, ed., Nag Hammadi Codices III,3–4 and V,1, NHS 27 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 209–216. 9 Parrott, Nag Hammadi Codices 9–12; Grant Adamson, “The Old Gods of Egypt in Lost Hermetica and Early Sethianism,” in Histories of the Hidden God: Concealment and Revelation in Western Esoteric and Mystical Traditions, ed. April DeConick and Grant Adamson (London: Acumen, 2013), 58–86; Thomas Gaston, “The Egyptian Background of Gnostic Mythology,” Numen 62 (2015): 389–407. For an introduction to Egyptian theogonies, see Françoise Dunand and Christiane Zivie-Coche, Gods and Men in Egypt 3000 bce to 395 ce, trans. David Lorton (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004), 42–70. 10 Parrott, “Gnosticism and Egyptian Religion,” NovT 29 (1987): 73–93; Adamson, “Old Gods,” 71–72. 11 Disc 8–9 (VI,6) 62.1–9; Iamblichus, Myst. 8.3.264.4–7. I owe these references to Grant Adamson (personal communication). 12 Parrott, Nag Hammadi Codices 7; Benno Przybylski, “The Role of Calendrical Data in Gnostic Literature,” VC 34 (1980): 56–70; Anne-Sophie von Bomhard, The Egyptian Calendar: A Work for Eternity (London: Periplus, 1999), 8, 83. 13 Val. Exp. (XI,2) 30.34–38; Irenaeus AH 2.15.1. Pace Antti Marjanen, The Woman Jesus Loved: Mary Magdalene in the Nag Hammadi Library and Related Documents (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 62. 14 Irenaeus, AH 1.24.7.

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course, but the Basilidean source likely included the epagomenal days.15 We know that Basilidean lore had an Egyptian origin, and the Eugnostan parallel suggests an Egyptian provenance for Eugnostus as well. Eugnostus is one of the first Christian texts to identify a God “Human.”16 The author used several terms for his set of three Humans, but his distinctive terminology highlights a “Deathless Human” in the first eternal realm.17 The one place where we can pinpoint speculation about a Human existing before flesh-and-blood humanity is Alexandria. Philo, as we saw, speculated about an androgynous type or form of Human who was the true image of God and different from the earthly Adam who received God’s breath.18 The Hermetic tractate Poimandres also records that there was a preexistent androgynous Human, the image of God, who became entangled in matter and now lives as the inner essence of humans on earth.19 Other evidence from the Hermetica helpfully illuminates Eugnostus. Early in his treatise, Eugnostus criticized a set of three positions on world governance. The philosophers, he claimed, propose: (1) that the cosmos is self-run, (2) that there is providence, and (3) that there is fate.20 In making this summary, Eugnostus was probably dependent on a doxography (or abbreviated list of philosophical opinions). The closest doxographic parallel, in my judgment, is from a Hermetic fragment that reads: “Everything comes to pass by nature and by fate, and there is no region bereft of providence.”21 In a parallel excerpt, we 15 16

17 18 19 20

21

Przybylski, “Calendrical Data,” 64. For the God-Human, see Hans-Martin Schenke, Der Gott “Mensch” in der Gnosis: Ein religionsgeschichtlicher Beitrag zur Diskussion über die paulinische Anschauung von der Kirche als Leib Christi (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962); Tobin, The Creation of Man 102–108; Alistair H. B. Logan, Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy: A Study in the History of Gnosticism (London: T&T Clark, 1996), 169–172; Jaan Lahe, Gnosis und Judentum: Alttestamentliche und jüdische Motive in der gnostischen Literatur und das Ursprungsproblem der Gnosis, NHMS 75 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 346–350; Holzhausen, Mythos vom Menschen; M. David Litwa, “The God ‘Human’ and Human Gods: Models of Deification in Irenaeus and the Apocryphon of John,” ZAC 18 (2014): 70–94. Eug. (III,3) 77.10. Philo, Opif. 134–135; Her. 55–56; Leg. All. 2.4–5. CH 1.12–16. Holzhausen, Mythos vom Menschen 7–79. Eug. (III,3) 70.15–21. Cf. Tri. Trac. (I,5) 109.5–21. See further Demetrios Trakatellis, The Transcendent God of Eugnostos: An Exegetical Contribution to the Study of the Gnostic Texts of Nag Hammadi (Brookline: Holy Cross Orthodox Press, 1991), 27–30; Paul-Hubert Poirier, “Deux Doxographies sur le Destin et le Gouvernement du monde: Le Livre des lois des pays et Eugnoste (NH III,3 et V,1),” in Coptica-GnosticaManichaica: Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk, ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-Hubert Poirier (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 761–786 at 780–786; Dunderberg, Beyond Gnosticism 179–181; Pasquier, Eugnoste Commentaire 8–10. SH 12.1 in Litwa, Hermetica II 75.



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learn: “Providence firmly governs the whole world, Necessity constrains and contains it, and Fate drives and drives round all things by force.”22 In these texts, there are three governing forces: the rule of nature – also called necessity – overlaps with the rule of fate and providence.23 Wanting to emphasize disagreement, Eugnostus seems to have split the rule of nature, providence, and fate into different philosophical positions. Whereas the Hermetic author defined Providence as “the reason of the celestial God,”24 Eugnostus called providence “stupidity.”25 If Eugnostus was responding to a Hermetic doxography, it is likely that he wrote in Egypt, the only known location where Hermetic theology flourished in the second century ce. Further hints of Eugnostus’s provenance are as follows. In 1987, Deirdre Good pointed out parallels in the names for the various Wisdoms in Eugnostus and the names for Isis.26 Her observations suggest an Egyptian provenance, since Isis was best known and worshiped in her homeland. In 1995, Louis Painchaud argued that Eugnostus and the Origin of the World formed “two complementary parts of a single design.”27 If he is right – and the texts do parallel each other in both structure and vocabulary – then Eugnostus would likely have the same origin as its complement. Most scholars would agree that the Origin of the World, with its distinctively Egyptian lore (for example, phoenixes and Apis bulls) was composed in Egypt.28 These observations, when combined, make a cogent cumulative case for Eugnostus’s Egyptian provenance.

Date The emerging consensus is that Eugnostus was originally written some time in the second century ce.29 Douglas M. Parrott preferred a date in 22 23

24 25 26 27 28

29

SH 14.1 in Litwa, Hermetica II 78. Stobaeus elsewhere called nature “the principle of movement and rest” (Ecl. 1.1 §2). See Jaap Mansfeld and David T. Runia, ed., Aëtiana V: An Edition of the Reconstructed Text of the Placita with a Commentary and a Collection of Related Texts, Part IV, English Translation, Bibliography, Indices (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 2065. SH 12.1 in Litwa, Hermetica II 75; NF, Hermès Trismégiste III.61. Eug. (III,3) 71.4 (ⲧⲉⲡⲣⲟⲛⲟⲓⲁ ⲟⲩⲙⲛ̅ⲧⲥⲟϭ ⲧⲉ). Deirdre J. Good, Reconstructing the Tradition of Sophia in Gnostic Literature (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 13. Painchaud, “Literary Contacts,” 82. Hans-Gebhard Bethge, “‘… es bedeutet dass es dem Paradies Gottes gleicht’ (NHC II p.122,35–123,2). Ägyptisches Lokalkolorit in der gnostischen Schrift ‘Vom Ursprung der Welt,” in Das ägyptische Christentum 125–143. E.g., Jesper Hyldahl, “Text and Reader in Eugnostus the Blessed (NH III,3 and V,1),” in Coptica-Gnostica-Manichaica 373–387 at 377. There are a few voices advocating a later

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the first century bce since he argued that this was the latest date in which the author could refer to “all the philosophers” in his mini-doxography while excluding Platonists.30 In my view, however, Eugnostus was not referring to any specific sect of philosophy (Platonist, Epicurean, or Stoic). He was using a doxography such as we find in the Hermetica. (It is patent that Eugnostus interacted with Platonic philosophy, even if he never mentioned Platonists.) Accordingly, nothing in the text demands a date prior to the first century ce when we know that large doxographies (such as Aetius’s Placita) circulated.31 In the past, a major factor influencing the dating was whether one took Eugnostus to be Jewish or Christian. If Jewish, then a first-century ce date was possible;32 if Christian, then the date was pushed to the second century and beyond.33 Nowadays, we do not need to make an exclusive choice, since – even apart from the disaster suffered by Jews in 117 ce – Jews and Christians in Alexandria continued to influence each other theologically throughout the second century.34 In my view, Eugnostus is a text primarily inspired by a philosophical reading of a text that became part of Jewish and Christian scriptures, namely Genesis. The Christian character of Eugnostus is not so much due to essentialized “Christian” elements as from its presuppositions and reception.35 A key Eugnostan presupposition is as follows: “through that Huma­ nity divinity began.”36 Divinity starts with Humanity, and the divine Human is the origin of all gods. One could not make this confession, I think, on the basis of Genesis 1:26 alone (humans made in the divine image). The confession presupposes a system in which God already manifested Godself as Human, in which the divine was most fully

30

31 32 33 34 35 36

date. Thomas Gaston, e.g., opted for a date in the early fourth century ce (“Egyptian Background,” 394). Douglas Parrott, “Eugnostus and ‘All the Philosophers,’” in Religion im Erbe Ägyptens: Beiträge zur spätantiken Religionsgeschichte (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1988), 153– 167. Cf. Parrott, Nag Hammadi Codices 5. Mansfeld and Runia, Aëtiana V. Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism 218; Van den Broek, who opts for Jewish authorship, still vouches for an early second-century date (Gnostic Religion in Antiquity 119). Anne Pasquier, Eugnoste, Lettre sur le dieu transcendant (NH III,3 et V,1): Commentaire (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 205–212; Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus 320–322. Peter Schäfer, The Jewish Jesus: How Judaism and Christianity Shaped Each Other (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012). Pace Van den Broek, “Eugnostus and Aristides,” 23; and Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism 218. Eug. (III,3) 77.23–25.



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expressed as Human.37 The most proximate system that propounded such ideas was Christianity.38 The identification of God and humanity in Christ led to an identification of God and Humanity on a higher plane. In brief, the notion that divinity comes from Humanity is in part a philosophical deduction from incarnational thinking. God became human because God was always Human par excellence, and everything that people call “gods” comes from the primal Human(s). To be sure, Eugnostus and Paul seem to clash. Paul insisted that the first human came from the dust whereas that the second, model Human (Christ) came from heaven (1 Cor 15:47). According to Eugnostus (and Philo), there is a primal, deathless Human (or rather set of Humans) who provided a model for the earthly human. Paul was probably not arguing against Eugnostan theology per se but against a Philonic notion of a preexistent Human form before there was a human of flesh and blood.39 Possibly this Philonic notion of the preexistent Human ideal was brought to Corinth by Apollos. If so, Eugnostus was developing a distinctly Alexandrian line of thought. If Eugnostus knew Paul’s argument, he probably would have thought that it failed to access the deeper mysteries. It is not that saved people will bear the image of the heavenly Human (1 Cor 15:49); they are already reflections of this Human. To arrive at this position, Eugnostus evidently combined notions from the gospels about a Son of Human, and from Philo (or rather Philo’s Platonist intellectual culture) about an ideal, archetypal human.40 Further arguments for the Jewish and Christian character Eugnostus’s theology focus on his language. Eugnostus was apparently familiar with Christian concepts and phrases. He seems to have known John’s gospel. The version in Nag Hammadi codex V, at least, incorporates elements from John’s prologue: the Logos being “in” the Father for instance.41 − ϩⲉⲛⲉⲝⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ)42 The hierarchy of “rulers and authorities” (ϩⲉⲛⲁⲣⲭⲏ ⲙⲛ appears distinctively in Pauline letters (1 Cor 15:24; Eph 1:21; 3:10; Col

37

38 39 40 41 42

See further Gilles Quispel, “Ezekiel 1,26 in Jewish Mysticism and Gnosis,” in Gnostica, Judaica, Catholica: Collected Essays of Gilles Quispel, ed. Johannes van Oort, Nag Hammadi, and Manichean Studies 55 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 461–474. John 1:14; Phil 2:6–8; Treat. Res. (I,3) 44.23–34. Litwa, “God Human” 78–80. See e.g., Matt 20:28; Mark 10:45; Luke 19:10. For Philo and a model Human, see Chapter 1. Eug. (V,1) 5.25–28. Eug. (V,1) 2.10–11.

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1:16; 2:10). “The Church of the saints” (ⲧⲉⲕⲕⲗⲏⲥⲓⲁ ⲛ̅ⲛⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ) recalls 1 Corinthians 14:33 (ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις τῶν ἁγίων).43 The “gods” and “lords” (ⲛ̅ⲛⲟⲩⲧⲉ … ϩⲛ̅ϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ) bring to mind 1 Corinthians 8:5 (θεοὶ … καὶ κύριοι).44 Furthermore, Eugnostus used the theme of angelic ignorance (1 Cor 2:8), though here it is the ignorance of aeons and powers.45 The Eugnostan theme of “the (divine) Name,” finally, evokes Philippians 2:10–11, Hebrews 1:4, and Ephesians 1:20–21.46 The fact that Eugnostus did not explicitly call attention to New Testament texts should not surprise us, since the New Testament was not a coherent collection when Eugnostus wrote. Indeed, Eugnostus did not call attention to his use of any scriptural material, including Genesis, although most scholars agree that he used it. One reason to date Eugnostus prior to 180 ce is that other Christian theologians (later called “Ophites”) adapted a section of it.47 To be more precise, however, these “others” adapted Wisdom (which also contains the three Humans). I claim this because of the common appearance of another parallel: “the drop (or moisture) of light” (humectatio luminis; ⲟⲩⲧⲗ̅ϯⲗⲉ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲙ̅ ⲡⲟⲩⲉⲓⲛ). This drop of light does not appear in Eugnostus, but it does show up in Wisdom48 and in Irenaeus’s report on “others” (Against Heresies 1.30.1, 3). There are of course many Nag Hammadi texts where we find the term “drop,” but “drop from/of light” is distinctive.49 According to Wisdom, the drop of light is sent into the world to be guarded by the “almighty.”50 Christ then awakens the drop sent from Wisdom that it might bear fruit.51 According to a later summary, “a drop from Light and Spirit came down to the lower regions of the almighty in chaos that their molded forms might appear from that drop, for it is a judgment on him, the chief begetter, called Yaldabaoth. That drop revealed their molded forms through the breath as a living soul.”52

43 44 45 46 47 48 49

50 51 52

Eug. (III,3) 81.5. Eug. (III,3) 87.15. Eug. (III,3) 90.3. See further Pétrement, Separate God 460–461; Pasquier, Eugnoste Commentaire 182–187. Irenaeus, AH 1.30.1–2. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 107.1–2. Apoc. Adam (V,5) 80.11–18; Tri. Trac. (I,5) 117.14–15; Ref. 5.9.21. The exception here is the Orig. World (II,5) 113.22–114.5, which probably depends on Eug. and/or the Wisd. Jes. Chr. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 106.24–107.5. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 107.18–19. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 119.6–120.1.



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In this passage, Light and Spirit seem to be basically interchangeable. There is a distinction, however, between Spirit and breath. The breath, which makes a living soul, comes from the creator (Yaldabaoth). Within the breath comes Spirit; and it is Spirit that gives form to the first (molded) human. In Against Heresies 1.30, Wisdom manages to deprive Yaldabaoth of the moisture of light. When he breathed the spirit of life (spiritum vitae) into the human, Yaldabaoth was deprived of its power.53 Here we find striking parallels to Wisdom. (1) Within Yaldabaoth’s breath is the moisture of light (= Spirit) breathed into Adam. Later in Irenaeus’s report, a distinction is made between Yaldabaoth’s breath (insufflatio) and the “moisture of the spirit of light” (humectatio spiritus luminis).54 (2) This distinction between breath and spirit also appears in Wisdom. (3) Irenaeus’s report and Wisdom (as cited earlier) manifest the same confluence between “moisture of light” and “spirit.”55 This compact set of parallels indicates that the document used by Irenaeus in Against Heresies 1.30 depended in part on Wisdom, which we know depended on Eugnostus.56 Irenaeus wrote his report around 180 ce, which gives us an upper limit for dating Wisdom.57 Another detail reported by Irenaeus – this time about the Valentinians – allows one to date Wisdom prior to 180 ce. Irenaeus observed that “other” Valentinians “say that the First-father (Προπάτορα) of the totalities himself and First-beginning (Προαρχήν) and First-unthinkable is called

53 54 55 56

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Irenaeus, AH 1.30.6, my emphasis. Irenaeus, AH 1.30.14. For further parallels, see Rasimus, Paradise 169. Catherine Barry (La Sagesse 34–35) doubts the connection between the Wisdom and the “others” mentioned by Irenaeus in AH 1.30. In AH 1.30.13, the resurrected Christ is animate and spiritual, whereas in the Wisdom he is only spiritual. But the “others” made a distinction between Christ and Jesus. It is Jesus who assumes an animate and spiritual body after the resurrection. Christ is solely a spirit being who ascended from Jesus before Jesus died. In Wisdom, Christ, aka the Savior, comes to the disciples “in invisible spirit,” resembling “a great angel of light” ([(III,4)] 91.11–13). Accordingly, I do not see a contradiction between the spiritual Savior of Wisdom and the spirit Christ in Irenaeus’s report. Irenaeus, AH 1.30.13. Pasquier points out that both Eug. (III,3 83.3–10) and Irenaeus (AH 2.13.2) use a parallel classification of six intellectual movements, when λόγος is split up into mental word and speech. Nonetheless, one cannot conclude that Irenaeus knew a version of Eugnostus directly. Irenaeus probably knew a Valentinian adaptation of a passage whose ultimate origin was Eugnostus (Pasquier, Eugnoste Commentaire 205). Alternatively we might say, with Gregor Wurst, that the passage on the intellectual movements was doxographic, which would indicate that both Eugnostus and the Valentinians

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‘Human’ (Ἄνθρωπον). And this is the great and hidden mystery: that the Power which is above all totalities and contains all others is called Human. And for this reason, Savior called himself Son of the Human.”58 In Eugnostus, we read that the Lord of the universe is not called Father but “Forefather” (ⲡⲣⲟⲡⲁⲧⲱⲣ); for the Father is the “beginning/principle” (ⲧⲁⲣⲭⲏ) of what is manifest.59 He embraces the totalities (ⲉϥⲁⲙⲁϩⲧⲉ − −) while nothing embraces him. On these three points, then, ⲛⲛⲓⲡⲧⲏⲣϥ there is agreement between these Valentinians and Eugnostus that: (1) the highest deity is called Forefather, (2) it is the first beginning or principle, and (3) it contains all. These overlaps are significant, particularly when we add the key overall parallel: that the highest of all realities is Human. On one point, however, one might see disagreement. Eugnostus, after all, insisted that the Forefather has no human form.60 This is true, but the Forefather is still the model and origin for the set of reduplicated Humans who come after him. I conclude that the “other” Valentinians mentioned by Irenaeus likely knew Eugnostan lore, and that their reading of this lore so convinced them that they were willing to stand in tension with what became a betterknown version of Valentinian theology.61 In this theology, also reported by Irenaeus,62 the Human is not the Forefather but one of the lower members of the Fullness, paired with a female entity called “Church.”63 The “other” Valentinians of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies 1.12.4 were familiar with Eugnostan lore, I propose, but not because they had read Eugnostus. Once again, I believe that these Valentinians knew Eugnostus through its explicitly Christian reception, namely Wisdom. I infer this

58 59 60 61

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pulled from an independent philosophical tradition of the mid–second century. Wurst argued that the NHC V version of Eug. knew essential elements of the Logos theology as presented by the apologists. Thus he would date the text between 140 and 180 ce (“Das Problem der Datierung der Sophia Jesus Christi und des Eugnostosbriefes,” in Jesus in apokryphen Evangelienüberlieferungen 373–386 at 383). Irenaeus, AH 1.12.4. Eug. (III,3) 74.20–75.1. Eug. (III,3) 72.4–5; cf. Philo, Opif. 69. For Valentinian dependence on Eugnostan theology more generally, see Roelof Van den Broek, “Jewish and Platonic Speculations in Early Alexandrian Theology: Eugnostos, Philo, Valentinus, and Origen,” in Roots of Egyptian Christianity 190–203; Alistair H. B. Logan, “The Epistle of Eugnostos and Valentinianism,” in Gnosis and Gnosticism: Papers Read at the Eight International Conference on Patristic Studies, Oxford, September 3–8, 1979, ed. Martin Krause (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 66–75; Rasimus, Paradise 43. Irenaeus, AH 1.1–8. For a chart of Ptolemaic aeonology, see Joel Kalvesmaki, Theology of Arithmetic 39.



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point since only in Wisdom is the teaching made explicit that in “the gospel” Jesus calls himself “Son of the Human” in reference to the primal Human. In Wisdom, this observation is explicitly made by an apostle and is a point that the author wanted to emphasize.64 In sum, Irenaeus provides the best evidence for dating Wisdom. It must be prior to 180 ce, and was probably written between 150 and 170 ce. Eugnostus logically appeared somewhat earlier, roughly between 120 and 150 ce. An unknown Christian author was responsible for transforming Eugnostus into the more obviously Christian-work called Wisdom.65 In terms of relative dating, it is significant that the Gospel of Judas knew and used a numerological system such as we find in Eugnostus: 12 aeons, 72 heavens, and 360 firmaments.66 This parallel indicates an early Sethian use of Eugnostus, and is further confirmation that the earliest version of Eugnostus prior to 150 ce.67 Can we be more precise regarding Eugnostus’s date? In 1988, Roelof van den Broek drew attention to a description of the highest deity parallel in Eugnostus and the apologist Aristides, both of whom probably used a common source.68 We could determine Eugnostus’s lower limit if we knew the date of the common source. Alas, we only know that Aristides addressed the first edition of his Apology to Hadrian, who died in 138 ce. Eusebius dated Aristides’s Apology to 125 ce.69 Such data still only allow

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68

69

Wisd. Jes. Chr. (BG) 98.10–13; (III,4) 103.22–104.2. We cannot, of course, exclude that these “other” Valentinians used both Eug. and Wisd. Jes. Chr. A connection with Eug. and Gos. Truth is the appearance of the figure of “Error” (ⲡⲗⲁⲛⲏ) in both texts (I,3 17.14; III,3 77.9). Barry believed that a Sethian redacted Wisd. Jes. Chr. (Sagesse 35). This hypothesis is not likely, in my view, since the only contemporaneous instance of Sethian work, the Gospel of Judas, excoriates the twelve apostles, whereas Wisd. Jes. Chr. honors all twelve – plus seven female disciples – as recipients of Christ’s revelation and members of the kingless generation ([(III,4)] 90.15–17). Rasimus noted that the Sethian features in Eugnostus “are weak or suspect” (Paradise 53). Adamson, “Old Gods,” 78, citing Gos. Judas (TC,3) 49.9–50.18. See further David Brakke, The Gospel of Judas: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, Anchor Bible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2022), 174–180. In Wisdom, most of the numerological material based on the Egyptian calendar disappears – perhaps because Wisdom was redacted outside of Egypt. Wherever the author of Wisd. Jes. Chr. was, says Tardieu, he was not in Syria or Palestine, otherwise he would not have written that the Mount of Olives was in Galilee (Écrits gnostiques: Codex de Berlin [Paris: Cerf, 1984], 349). See further Przybylski, “Calendrical Data,” 65–66. Van den Broek, “Eugnostus and Aristides on the Ineffable God,” in Knowledge of God in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Van den Broek, T. Baard, and J. Mansfeld (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 202–218. Helm, Die Chronik des Hieronymus 199.

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for a rough estimation. Likely, Aristides and Eugnostus were contemporaries writing under Hadrian or shortly thereafter. If so, the parallel with Aristides would confirm a date of Eugnostus of 120–150 ce.

Reception The author of Wisdom made Eugnostus’s philosophical discourse into a revelation of the resurrected Jesus. Wisdom was not so much a Christianization of a previous text (Eugnostus already shows Christian features).70 We might call it an “apostolicization.” In Wisdom, Christ’s revelation comes to the full complement of the apostolic college, which includes seven women. Five of those apostles ask questions, namely Philip, Matthew, Thomas, Mary, and Bartholomew. But Wisdom did not simply want to isolate an inner circle of apostles. On two occasions, all the apostles inquire; and in every case, Jesus addressed his answers to all of the apostles.71 In short, all the apostles are represented. In this respect, Wisdom resembles the Epistle of the Apostles (around 150 ce), where a resurrected Christ addressed the apostles as a group.72 Why did the author of Wisdom use a preexisting source to write a revelatory dialogue? My sense is that the author perceived Eugnostus as an instance of Christian theology, so it was a logical step to reframe the text as spoken by Jesus to the apostles. Wisdom reshaped Eugnostus by adding a summary of Wisdom’s fall, the emergence of the evil creator Yaldabaoth, and the origin of humans on earth. These stories are best paralleled by the material Irenaeus reported in Against Heresies 1.30.

Conclusion Based on these data, what can we say about the author of Eugnostus? He was apparently an Alexandrian theologian, trained in the Platonic and Pythagorean lore of his time. Agreeing with Eudorus of Alexandria, he posited a supreme transcendent principle, the Forefather, above the monad (or Father), who gave rise to a Dyad (the Deathless Human joined

70 71 72

Pace Marjanen, who asserted that “an originally non-Christian Eugnostus has been Christianized” (Woman Jesus Loved 57). Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 119.10–14. Francis Watson, An Apostolic Gospel: The “Epistula Apostolorum” in Literary Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020).



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with All-wise Wisdom).73 These thoughts are both rarefied and nuanced. Evidently, Eugnostus had the means and leisure to pursue the highest philosophical education available. Such education ensured that Eugnostus, in his own mind, had transitioned from being a man of dust (1 Cor 15:47) to a deathless image of the deathless Human (15:49). According to Eugnostus, the person who agrees with the God of truth becomes “deathless, dwelling in the midst of dying people.”74 The nature of the divine, for Eugnostus, was blessedness and incorruption. Eugnostus himself became – at some point – “Eugnostus the Blessed,” and he invited his audience to share in divine incorruptibility even in this life. This scheme of fully realized deathlessness – or deification – was characteristic of Alexandrian theology at this time. What about our other Alexandrian tendencies? Eugnostus believed in a transcendent God or Godhead. He also emphasized God – or a form of God – as the intelligible archetypal Human.75 Eugnostus never mentioned the transmigration of souls, a separate creator, or the necessity of rejecting corruptible flesh. Yet this was because his focus was on high theology – the models for creation, not on creation itself. The authors of Wisdom and the Origin of the World, however, would introduce a creator separate from the true God and an ethics demanding the transcendence of mortal flesh. Eugnostus, when combined with Wisdom (and the Origin of the World) thus scores five out of six in our chart of Alexandrian tendencies. Eugnostus was familiar with Christian concepts and terminology, but for whatever reason he did not advertise himself as a Christian. He may have run a philosophical school with devoted disciples (he addressed “those who are his”). Nevertheless, Eugnostus’s use of ecclesial and ritual language (the angels form the “church of the holy ones”) hints that his circle practiced a holy kiss (mirrored by the angels), and employed a set of rich doxologies.76 Politically, Eugnostus probably considered himself to be a member of the “kingless generation.” Thus he would have granted only nominal recognition to the Roman rulers. Roman rulers may have controlled the 73 74 75

76

Eudorus in Simplicius, In Aristotelis physicorum libros commentaria, ed. Hermann Diels (Berlin: Reimer, 1892), 9, 181.20–30. See further Dillon, Middle Platonists 126–129. Eug. (III,3) 71.12–13. It is tempting to think that Philo’s various levels of Humanity – the archetypal Logos, the human as Idea, and the human as embodied νοῦς – are developed in Eugnostus, which parsed at least three levels of the God “Human.” For the ritual kiss, see Eug. (III,3) 81.7–8; cf. Justin, 1 Apol. 65.1–3. For doxologies, see, e.g., Eug. (III,3) 81.12–21; 89.15–90.3.

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bodies of their subjects, but they had no power over the mind – the true self. The Deathless Human was not only god of gods but also the king of kings. Eugnostus owed his allegiance to the Human(s) above. Eugnostus’s primary opponents were not Jews. He showed no animosity toward Jews or toward Jewish theology. In fact, scholars of a previous generation assumed that Eugnostus himself was Jewish.77 Eugnostus’s familiarity with Genesis is widely acknowledged. Possibly Eugnostus knew Philo as well. If Platonized Jewish theology pervades Eugnostus, the Jews themselves are not mentioned. Their effective absence would confirm a date between 117 and 150 ce, when the Jewish community at Alexandria had not yet recovered its cultural capital and prestige. Eugnostus’s main opponents were philosophers. He considered competing philosophical theories foolish and unworthy of refutation. Eugnostus was an allegorical reader of Jewish and Christian scriptures (the book of Genesis, the gospels, and probably some Pauline texts). For him, true knowledge came through revelation. This world can be described as “chaos.”78 Nonetheless, it is the much-deferred, highly ordered reflection of the transcendent realm, as can be seen in the number values of divine phenomena and their corresponding values in the divisions of cosmic time (years, months, days, hours, and even minutes). Eugnostus was one of the earliest Christian instructors of Egypt who taught at roughly same time as Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus. Judging by later reports, Basilides had a metaphysics just as complex as what we find in Eugnostus.79 As we saw in Chapter 6, speculative Christian theology ripened early in Alexandria and seeded the minds of other Christians across the Mediterranean. Eugnostus was a complex thinker who drew from multiple springs. His emphasis on the primal Human(s) may have been inspired by Philo or the Hermetica. The focus on divine Wisdom(s) accords with the Alexandrian tradition (as we see in Apollos and in the Wisdom of Solomon). Eugnostus’s inspiration from Jewish material is a strong indication that, though he may not have come into regular contact with Jews, he was an attentive student of Jewish lore and that he continued Philo’s project of making this lore palatable to a philosophically sophisticated audience.

77 78 79

Van den Broek, “Jewish and Platonic Speculations,” 191. Eug. (III,3) 89.18. Ref. 7.20.1–7.27.13.

8 Julius Cassianus and Alexandrian Ascetic Culture

Introduction The author of the Wisdom of Jesus Christ twice condemned sexual ­intercourse as “unclean rubbing.”1 Those who are worthy of knowledge are “not born from the semen of unclean rubbing, but from the First who was sent” – a probable reference to Jesus.2 Jesus was not born from “unclean rubbing” but from a virgin, and this was important for protecting his purity. Believers in Jesus are called to relinquish such rubbing that arises from the “frightful fire” of the flesh.3 Sex, according to the author of Wisdom, is promoted by the “chief begetter,” namely the creator.4 To oppose him and his minions, Christians must reject sex and embrace the androgynous ideal of the aeons.5 The reader will recall from Chapter 7 that most of the material in Wisdom comes from Eugnostus. Yet the material about “unclean rubbing” was added by the writer of Wisdom. We are not sure if the author who inserted this material was writing in Egypt. (Books called Wisdom were known and valued in Egypt. The Wisdom of Solomon had been written there some 150 years prior. The Wisdom of Jesus ben Sira was 1 2 3 4 5

Wisd. Jes. Chr. (BG) 82.14. Cf. John 1:12–13. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (BG) 106.4–6. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (BG) 119.14; 125.16. By contrast, the “chief begetter” was one of the twelve – presumably benevolent – powers in Eug. (III,3) 82.18. Judith Hartenstein, “Encratism, Asceticism, and the Construction of Gender and Sexual Identity in Apocryphal Gospels,” in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Apocrypha, ed. Andrew Gregory, Tobias Nicklas, Christopher M. Tuckett, and Joseph Verheyden (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 389–406.

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translated in Egypt.)6 We do know, however, that some Christians in mid-second-century Alexandria renounced sex as recommended by the author of the Wisdom of Jesus Christ. The best-known name here is that of Julius Cassianus, an Alexandrian ascetical writer typically dated between 160 and 180 ce.7 About 200 ce, Clement of Alexandria attacked Cassianus’s book On Self-control (also known as On Being a Eunuch).8 Clement was the first known writer to target Cassianus. One must wait until Jerome (in the early fifth century ce) for the next secure reference. Cassianus was, as far as we can tell, unknown outside of Alexandria in the second century.9 Clement began by quoting Cassianus directly but soon resorted to paraphrasing, sprinkling in his own critical comments and explanations for the scriptures Cassianus cited. About midway through his critique of Cassianus, Clement broadened his scope to address an anonymous “they” – apparently the circle of Christians who agreed with Cassianus’s stance on abstinence.

Cassianus’s Teaching According to Clement, Cassianus rejected sex and procreation. He viewed humanity as by nature spiritual, not fleshly. Human souls originally inhabited heaven.10 When they succumbed to sexual desire, they were clothed with material bodies. These bodies were allegorically referred to by the “coats of skin” provided by the creator (Gen 3:21).11 Genitals are not natural parts of the human self; rather, they are “shameful appendages” of the body.12 Sex is considered unnatural for humans and animalic. Sexual 6

Sirach, prologue 1–36 (LXX). Typically in scholarship, Julius Cassianus is treated in passing. See, e.g., Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, “Asceticism and Anthropology: Enkrateia and ‘Double Creation’ in Early Christianity,” in Asceticism, ed. Vincent Wimbush and Richard Valantasis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 127–146 at 137–138; Elaine H. Pagels, “Adam and Eve, Christ and the Church: A Survey of Second Century Controversies Concerning Marriage,” in The New Testament and Gnosis 146–175 at 154–155. 8 Clement, Strom. 3.13–18. 9 Jerome, Comm. Gal. 6.8 (Giacomo Raspanti, ed. S. Hieronymi Presbyteri Opera Pars I, Opera Exegetica 6. Commentarii in Epistulam Pauli Apostoli ad Galatas, CCSL 77a [Turnhout: Brepols, 2006], 214). 10 Clement, Strom. 3.15.95.2. 11 Clement, Strom. 3.14.95.2. See further P. F. Beatrice, “Le tuniche di pelle: Antiche letture di Gn 3,21,” in La tradizione dell’enkrateia: Motivazioni ontologiche e protologiche, ed. Ugo Bianchi (Rome: Edizione dell’Ateneo, 1985), 433–484. 12 Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.1. 7



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practice was introduced by deceit when the serpent in Eden convinced Adam to follow the habit of animals and have intercourse with Eve.13 The point of salvation, for Cassianus, was to transcend the “old self” of the material body through rebirth into a new (spiritual and nonfleshly) person.14 Cassianus had a litany of scriptural passages to support his view that physical birth and procreation were problematic.15 He appealed both to Jewish scriptures (Isaiah, Job, Esdras, Genesis, Psalms, and so on) and to distinctively Christian scriptures (mostly Pauline and gospel texts). Cassianus recommended that the genitals be constrained, not cut off. This emphasis distinguishes him from another zealous Christian of his time. Sometime between 150 and 154 ce, a young Alexandrian Christian petitioned L. Munatius Felix, then governor of Egypt, to have his testicles removed by doctors (who, due to Rome’s anti-castration laws, required government approval for the operation).16 The young man did not simply send the governor a short petition. He sent Felix a small tract laying out his logic for castration. When the petition was refused, the young man, along with “those of like mind” lived the life of eunuchs with their testicles intact.17 If they could not literally reshape their bodies, they could transform their minds to attain a sexless ideal. Apparently this attempted castrator belonged to a wider circle of celibate Christians in Alexandria. Among them, perhaps, was Cassianus.

The

sentences of sextus

These celibate Christians may have already been reading maxims from a work called the Sentences of Sextus. These Sentences survive complete in two Greek manuscripts that were later translated into Latin and Coptic. A fragmentary Coptic translation is found in Nag Hammadi codex XII,1. The Sentences themselves were originally composed in Greek, most likely during the early to mid–second century ce. 13 14 15 16

17

Clement, Strom. 3.14.94.1; 3.17.102.4. Clement, Strom. 3.14.95.1–2. Clement, Strom. 3.16.100.1–7. Justin, 1 Apol. 29.1–2. See further Peter Brown, Body and Society 168–170; Matthew Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2001); Daniel F. Caner, “The Practice and Prohibition of Self-castration in Early Christianity,” VC 51 (1997): ­396–415; Walter Stevenson, “Eunuchs and Early Christianity,” in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, ed. Shaun Tougher (Oakville, CT: Duckworth, 2002), 123–142. Justin, 1 Apol. 29.3 (ὁ νεανίσκος ἠρκέσθη τῇ ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τῶν ὁμογνωμόνων συνειδήσει); cf. Acts of John 53–54.

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Most scholars believe that these Sentences probably originated in Alexandria for the following reasons. The first person to quote from them (a total of five times) was Origen of Alexandria.18 No one outside of Alexandria quotes from or refers to Sextus until after 250 ce. The emphasis on deification, together with the idea that the mind is an inner god, echoes passages in Philo and Clement. Sextus, for instance, wrote that “God dwells in the mind of a sage” (§144). Philo considered the human mind to be “a fragment of that divine and blessed soul” or “a divine fragment” (ἀπόσπασμα θεῖον).19 Sextus also taught that “the soul of a person devoted to God is a god in a body” (82d) and that one should “venerate the sage as a living image of God” (190). Clement asserted that “the soul of a just person is an image divine.”20 A Christian is called to conform to God’s image, to become “a god walking about in flesh.”21 Finally, Sentences 39 – an allegorical interpretation of Jesus’s saying about paying the last penny – is paralleled in Carpocratian exegesis. Saying 39 informs us that “an evil daimon rectifies the one who has lived viciously after the release from the body until he pays the last penny.”22 According to Carpocrates (or Marcellina), the wayward soul is caught by the devil and transferred into other bodies until the last penny is paid.23 The eschatological focus of the interpretation and the introduction of an evil demon is striking. Some sort of exegetical interdependence seems likely.24 In both its content and reception, Sextus’s maxims were widely recognized as Christian (as Origen remarked, “the majority of Christians read [them]”).25 Although the Sentences depend on two earlier Pythagorean collections, they silently incorporate many elements from Jewish and Christian scriptures. I translate two maxims from the Sentences to contextualize the Alexandrian ascetic culture of the second century ce:

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

25

Uwe-Karsten Plisch and Hans-Martin Schenke, “Die Sextussprüche (NHC XII,1),” in Nag Hammadi Deutsch 2.796–797; Henry Chadwick, Sentences of Sextus 107–116. Philo, Det. 90; Somn. 1.34; cf. QG 1.50–51. Clement, Strom. 7.3.16.5; cf. 7.11.64.6. Clement, Protr. 7.16.101.4; cf. 7.1.3.6. The next saying (Sent. Sext. 40) is also relevant: “Blessed is the man whose soul no one will seize as it travels to God.” Irenaeus, AH 1.25.4–5. See further Litwa, Carpocrates 127. According to Paul-Hubert Poirier, the hybridized (Stoic, Cynic, Platonic, and Pythagorean) philosophy of the Sentences was typical of Alexandria (Les Sentences de Sextus (NH XII,1), BCNH “Textes” 11 [Quebec: University of Laval, 1983], 19–20). See further Wilson, Sentences of Sextus 11. Origen, Cels. 8.30.



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13. All body parts leading you not to observe moderation, throw away; for it is better to live moderately without the part than with it to live destructively.26 273. You may see people cutting off and throwing away their own body parts to make the rest of their body strong. How much better it is to do so for the sake of maintaining moderation.27

These sayings depend on Matthew 5:29–30; 18:8–9. In these passages, Jesus counsels that one should cut out one’s eye, hand, or foot if these members lead one to sin. In the biblical text, testicles are not in view. One could, however, read the eye, hand, and foot as examples of any body part. Sextus himself emphasized that “all body parts” should be cut off if they lead to immoderation. The body part does not sin, but it can induce sin. Thus we can imagine an early Christian ascetic taking Sextus as recommending castration. We need not speculate, in fact, since Origen affirmed that some early Christians took these maxims to support castration.28 The mature Origen opposed castration for both hermeneutical and medical reasons. He understood self-castration in Matthew 19:12 as figuratively indicating celibacy.29 Nevertheless the young Origen, as claimed by Eusebius, castrated himself.30 The claim is hotly contested.31 To my mind, this may be one of those traditions deemed true by the criterion of Eusebius’s own embarrassment.32 (Origen was Eusebius’s hero but Eusebius still 26 27

28

29 30 31

32

πᾶν μέλος τοῦ σώματος ἀναπεῖθόν σε μὴ σωφρονεῖν ῥῖψον. ἄμεινον γὰρ χωρὶς τοῦ μέλους ζῆν σωφρόνως ἤ μετὰ τοῦ μέλους ὀλεθρίως. ἀνθρώπους ἴδοις ἄν ὑπὲρ τοῦ τὸ λοιπὸν τοῦ σώματος ἔχειν ἐρρωμένον ἀποκόπτοντας ἑαυτῶν καὶ ῥίπτοντας μέλη. πόσῳ βέλτιον ὑπὲρ τοῦ σωφρονεῖν. The idea is parallel to Porphyry, Marcella 34: “Often people cut off some body part for the sake of health. Be prepared for the sake of the soul to slice away the whole body.” Origen added (Comm. Matt. 15.3) that Philo says in Det. 176 that “to be castrated is better than to rage after lawless sexual relationships” (ἐξευνουχισθῆναί γε μὴν ἄμεινον ἤ πρὸς συνουσίας ἐκνόμους λυττᾶν). Ronald E. Heine, ed., The Commentary of Origen on the Gospel of St Matthew, Volume 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 191–194. Origen, Comm. Matt. 15.3–5. See further Daniele Pevarello, The Sentences of Sextus and the Origins of Christian Asceticism (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 62–83. Eusebius, HE 6.8.1–5. R. P. C. Hanson, “A Note on Origen’s Self-mutilation,” VC 20 (1966): 81–82; Christoph Markschies, “Kastration oder Magenprobleme? Einige neue Blicke auf das asketische Leben des Origenes,” in Origenes und sein Erbe: Gesammelte Studien, ed. Christoph Markschies (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 15–34; Mariusz Szram, “Origen’s Castration – Solely a Spiritual Phenomenon? An Attempt of Reinterpreting the Sources,” Gregorianum 101:1 (2020): 23–36. Eusebius also mentions letters “written to bishops all over the world” decrying Origen’s castration (HE 6.8). If the accusation was false, Origen could have disproved Demetrius’s libel.

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scolded him for this “rash” act.) An interesting though unfortunately unanswerable question is: Was the young Origen influenced by the Sentences of Sextus? I would like to ask the same question about Cassianus. His philosophical and ascetic leanings also accord with Sextus’s emphases. We know from Basilides and Carpocrates that Alexandrian Christian theologians were familiar with Pythagorean lore and ethics (see Chapter 6). At the very least, Cassianus would have appreciated elements of the Sentences. I highlight Sextus’s saying: “It is given you to renounce marriage so that you can live as God’s companion” (§230a). Ascetic discipline had a theological goal. It is God, said Cassianus, to whom “we hasten.”33

The Testimony of Truth The longest quoted fragment from Cassianus is as follows: Let no one think that since we have sexual organs shaped in a male and female way, the female to receive, the male to inseminate, that sex is conceded to come from God. For if this design was from God, to whom we hasten, he would not have blessed eunuchs, nor would the prophet have said that eunuchs “are not a dry tree” (Isa. 56:3), referring by means of the tree to the person who makes himself a eunuch from such thinking.34

This quote has a parallel in the Testimony of Truth (hereafter Testimony), an ascetic treatise found at Nag Hammadi (IX,3): But those who receive him [Christ, the Child of the Human] to themselves with ignorance, the pleasures which are defiled prevail over them. It is those people who used to say, “God created members for our use, for us to grow in defilement, in order that we might enjoy ourselves.” And they cause God to participate with them in deeds of this sort; and they are not steadfast upon the earth. Nor will they reach heaven.35

In both passages, Cassianus and the author of Testimony undercut the Stoic and Christian argument from “nature” that the presence of interlocking genitals ensures the divine approval of their use. The author of Testimony also agreed with Cassianus that the goal of salvation was a heavenly ascent.36 The passage from Testimony is damaged, so we do not know if its author immediately appealed to scripture (Cassianus, for his 33 34 35 36

Clement, Strom. 3.13.91.1–2. Clement, Strom. 3.13.91.1–2. Test. Truth (IX,3) 38.27–39.15, trans. Pearson, emendations accepted. Test. Truth (IX,3) 30.8–9; cf. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.15.95.2.



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part, cited Isaiah). Significantly, the writer of Testimony later appealed to the story of Isaiah sawn in two – an act taken to symbolize the separation of males from females.37 Most scholars situate Testimony some time in second-century Alexandria for the following reasons: (1) The author mentions distinctly Egyptian opponents such as Basilides and Isidore, who did not have much influence outside of Egypt; (2) the composer was intimately familiar with Valentinian teaching, a teaching present in Alexandria (Chapter 9), as indicated by Clement; (3) the author’s allegory of Jesus turning back the Jordan has a close parallel in Clement and Naassene lore (Chapter 10);38 finally (4) – as noted – Testimony closely parallels material in Julius Cassianus. In fact, Birger Pearson proposed that the author of Testimony was Cassianus.39 This view has been criticized, but the objections are not decisive.40 To be clear, Pearson only hypothesized that Julius Cassianus wrote Testimony. I am sympathetic to this hypothesis for the following reasons. First, both Cassianus and the author of Testimony used Paul’s image of the unfading crown (1 Cor 9:25).41 Cassianus used it in the context of describing his battle against the “cosmocrators of darkness” (Eph 6:12). The author of Testimony said that the crown is received when a person achieves self-knowledge and knowledge of the God over truth.42 Moreover, Cassianus and the writer of Testimony opposed the creator for commanding procreation (Gen 1:28).43 37 38 39 40

41 42 43

Test. Truth (IX,3) 40.28–29. Cf. Asc. Isa 5 (OTP). Test. Truth (IX,3) 30.22–31.5. Pearson, ed., Nag Hammadi Codices IX and X, NHS 15 (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 118–120; Pearson, “Testimony of Truth,” in Nag Hammadi Scriptures 616. Koschorke, Die Polemik der Gnostiker 108. Koschorke’s observation that Cassianus had no polemic against baptism or martyrdom is weak, since so little from Cassianus survives. Annie and Jean-Pierre Mahé point out what they believe is an important difference between Cassianus and Testimony. They opine that the Edenic serpent is positive in Testimony while negative in Cassianus (Le Témoignage Véritable NH (IX,3), BCNH Textes 23 [Leuven: Peeters, 1996], 48–49). But the fact that the creator called the serpent “devil” in Testimony and made the devil into a serpent does not mean that the serpent is viewed positively by the writer of Testimony (47.6; 48.17). Testimony’s positive exegesis of the bronze serpent should not be blended with his treatment of the Edenic serpent (Test. Truth (IX,3) 49.3–10). Claudio Gianotto asserts that Cassianus interpreted the first sin of Adam and Eve to be sex, an act that started the cycle of birth and corruption (La testimonianza veritiera [Brescia: Paideia, 1990], 86). The author of Testimony, however, saw the intermingling of angels and women (Gen 6:1–6) as the turning point in human corruption. These theories are not mutually exclusive. Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 3.16.100.7. Test. Truth. (IX,3) 45.1–5. Test. Truth (IX,3) 29.23–30.9; Julius Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.16.101.2.

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A further alignment concerns Christ’s body. Clement called Cassianus “the teacher of simulation” (ὁ τῆς δοκήσεως ἐξάρχων).44 Evidently Clement believed that for Cassianus, Jesus’s body was phantasmal.45 What Cassianus asserted, it seems, was that Jesus was not born like other humans. This belief again connects him to Testimony where Jesus was born from the virgin Mary but only by being “passed through” her. Finally, the author of Testimony and Cassianus both referred to the fleshly body as a “coat of skin” (Gen 3:21), an interpretation with a precedent in Philo.46 The author of Testimony was not a Valentinian. In fact, he criticized Valentinus and another person who “completed the course” of Valentinus.47 A man who was both familiar with and critical of Valentinian lore accords with Clement’s comment that Cassianus was a former Valentinian. In this scenario, Cassianus was familiar with Valentinian lore but came to reject some of its teachings – chiefly, it seems, Valentinian views on marriage.48 We will probably never know who the author of Testimony is, but Cassianus is still a reasonable guess. To further situate Cassianus in an Alexandrian context, we can note other similarities between Cassianus and Basilideans. Cassianus referred to Matthew 19:12 where Jesus commended those who made themselves eunuchs for God’s kingdom. According to Cassianus, eunuchs cut off sexual thoughts, not their testicles.49 Basilides’s son Isidore explained the passage in a similar way. He said that those made eunuchs by men are “theatric ascetics,” who “exercise self-control as propelled by fame.” Spiritual self-castrators, by contrast, make a choice for celibacy by reasoned reflection, not by surgery.50 In short, the “eunuchs” in Matthew 19:12 were already being interpreted figuratively by Cassianus’s time.

44 45

46 47 48 49 50

For the pedagogical use of ἐξάρχων, cf. Strom. 4.19.119.3; 7.99.5; 7.17.106.1, citing Plato, Laws 10.891d (Le Boulluec, Notion d’hérésie 2.349, n.221). On the vague and polemical category “docetism,” see Joseph Verheyden, Reimund Bieringer, Jens Schröter, and Ines Jäger, ed., Docetism in the Early Church: The Quest for an Elusive Phenomenon (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018); Hoklotubbe, “What Is Docetism?” in Re-making the World: Christianity and Categories – Essays in Honor of Karen L. King (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 62–63. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.14.95.2; Philo, QG 1.53; cf. Leg. All. 2.55–56; Ref. 6.13.4. Cf. Ref. 10.13.4; Irenaeus, AH 1.5.5; 1.18.2; Clement, Exc. 55.1. Cf. Test. Truth (IX,3) 56.1–5. Clement, Strom. 3.1.1.1. Clement, Strom. 3.13.91.2. Clement, Strom. 3.1.1.3–4. Clement quoted Isidore’s Ethics in Strom. 3.1.2.2.

The Gospel According to the Egyptians



129

Cassianus seems also to have understood the eunuch in Isaiah 56:3–5 figuratively, since here the eunuch who keeps the Sabbath and the covenant has a place in God’s temple.51 Cassianus showed no interest in literal obedience to Torah or appreciation of the Jewish temple. The eunuch was a symbol of the spiritually advanced Christian – a person “transformed” by the Savior – removed from error and genital coitus.52

The

gospel according to the egyptians

At some point in On Self-control, Cassianus appealed to the Gospel According to the Egyptians, a lost gospel used – and probably written – in Alexandria. Christians outside of Egypt may have named this gospel in recognition of the fact that it was authoritative only in Egypt.53 This gospel is not the same as the Egyptian Gospel (more properly: the Holy Book of the Great Invisible Spirit) recovered at Nag Hammadi. The Gospel According to the Egyptians was likely written in Greek during the early second century ce. It featured a dialogue between Jesus and Salome.54 Cassianus quoted a saying from it: “When Salome inquired when what she asked about would become known, the Lord said, ‘When you trample the garment of shame, when the two become one, and when the male with the female is no longer male or female.’” A version of this saying is also found in the Gospel of Thomas (hereafter Thomas) 22.5: “when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male will not be male nor the female be female.” Wisdom also presents the Savior as coming to earth to make “the two one.”55 Similar is a maxim quoted in 2 Clement 12:2: “When the two shall be one, and the outside like the inside, and the male with the female neither male nor female.”56 51 52 53 54

55 56

Clement, Strom. 3.13.91.1–2; 3.15.98.1. Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.1. Manfred Hornschuh, “Erwägungen zum ‘Evangelium der Ägypter’, insbesondere zur Bedeutung seines Titels,” VC 18, 1964, 6–13. Salome is mentioned in Mark 15:40; 16:1; Gos. Thom. 61; 1 Apoc. Jas. V.3, 40.25–26. See further Richard Bauckham, Gospel Women: Studies of the Named Women in the Gospels (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 234–247. Wisd. Jes. Chr. (III,4) 117.2; BG 122.10. See further Karl Paul Donfried, The Setting of Second Clement in Early Christianity (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 73–77; Tjitze Baarda, “2 Clement 12 and the Sayings of Jesus,” in Logia: Les Paroles de Jésus – The Sayings of Jesus: Mémorial Joseph Coppens, ed. Joël Delobel (Leuven: Peeters, 1982), 529–556; Terrance Callan, “The Saying of Jesus in Gos. Thom. 22/2 Clem 12/Gos. Eg. 5,” Journal of Religious Studies 16 (1988): 46–64. Some have argued, on the basis of this parallel, that 2 Clement was written in Alexandria,

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According to Cassianus, the human soul transcends gender when it rises to heaven and is “transferred to unity” (μετατίθεται εἰς ἕνωσιν). He then explained the problem: In the distant past, the soul was “feminized by desire” when it entered this world of birth and decay.57 The cutting away of desire does not make the soul male (contrast Thomas §114), but rather pushes it beyond gender. From the Naassene report, one learns that the Gospel According to the Egyptians told a larger story of the human soul’s origin and transformations.58 The idea that the Gospel According to the Egyptians contained data on the soul is confirmed by Cassianus, who had his own theory of the soul’s original heavenly home along with its “feminization” when it arrived in a mortal body. The Gospel According to the Egyptians contained three other sayings that would have appealed to Cassianus: 1. 2. 3.

Jesus said, “I have come to bring female works to an end.” Salome said, “How long will humans die?” Jesus said, “As long as women give birth.” Salome said, “I did well, then, by not giving birth?” Jesus said, “Eat every plant, but do not eat one that has bitterness.”59

In fact, all the direct quotes from the Gospel According to the Egyptians are apparently taken from a dialogue of Jesus and Salome. This observation suggests that Salome, a witness to Jesus’s resurrection in the Gospel According to Mark (16:1), was an important figure among some Christians in Alexandria, as confirmed by Carpocratians (specifically, Marcellinians) who appealed to her.60 Salome was apparently considered to be a virgin, or at least a woman who did not give birth. She is a woman who brought distinctly female works (conception and birth and,

57 58 59

60

e.g., Helmut Koester, Introduction to the New Testament, Volume 2, History and Literature of Early Christianity, 2nd ed. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 241–243; Pratscher, “Der zweite Clemensbrief,” in Das ägyptische Christentum im. 2. Jahrhundert, 81–100. James A. Kelhoffer argues that the sayings in 2 Clem 12 are not in themselves encratic (“Eschatology, Androgynous Thinking, Encratism, and the Question of Anti-Gnosticism in 2 Clement 12 [Part One],” VC 72 [2018]: 142–164). Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.2–3.13.93.3. Ref. 5.7.8. Clement, Strom. 3.9.63.1; 3.6.45.3; 3.9.66.1; Exc. 67.2. I have omitted Clement’s interpretive comments. Cf. Dial. Sav. (III,5) 144.19–20. See further Petersen, “Zerstört die Werke der Weiblichkeit!” 208–220; Klauck, Apocryphal Gospels 55–59; Christoph Markschies, “Das Evangelium nach den Ägyptern,” in Antike christliche Apokryphen I/1, 661–682. Origen, Cels. 5.62.



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131

more broadly, deeds involving passions) to an end. She did not accept the bitterness of giving birth to children destined to die.61 Salome also appears in Thomas, a gospel where Jesus remarks: “Blessed is the womb that has not conceived.”62

The

gospel of thomas

It is important to take a closer look at Thomas since it contributed to the overall culture of second-century Christian asceticism in Alexandria. Ian Phillip Brown has recently argued that Thomas was written in Alexandria.63 He leans mainly on exegetical similarities shared by Thomas and Philo, specifically on the double creation of humankind in Genesis 1:26–28 and 2:7.64 In my view, these parallels are suggestive though in themselves not specific enough to indicate provenance. There are other reasons for supporting Thomas’s Egyptian provenance. First, as already pointed out, Thomasine sayings and a main character (Salome in logion 61) overlap with sayings and a main character from the Gospel According to the Egyptians. In particular, we have the saying in Thomas 37, where Jesus’s disciples ask: “‘When will you appear to us and when shall we see you?’ Jesus said, ‘When you strip without being ashamed and you take your clothes and put them under your feet like little children and trample them…’.”65 According to the Gospel According to the Egyptians, cited by Cassianus, “When Salome inquired when what she asked about would become known, the Lord said, ‘When you trample the garment of shame…’.”66 In both texts, stripping off the garment of shame is likely a metaphor for leaving the fleshly body.67 One tramples the flesh only to receive a new, redeemed body 61 62

63 64

65

66 67

Cf. Gos. Thom. (II,2) 79.3; 114.3. Gos. Thom. (II,2) 79.2. On Thomasine asceticism, see Richard Valantasis, Making of the Self: Ancient and Modern Asceticism (Cambridge: James Clark & Co., 2008), 189– 211; Risto Uro, “Is Thomas an Encratite Gospel?” in Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas, ed. Risto Uro [London: Bloomsbury, 2000], 140–162). Brown, “Where Indeed?” 451–472. Stevan Davies, “The Christology and Protology of the ‘Gospel of Thomas,’” JBL 111:4 (1992): 663–682; Elaine H. Pagels, “Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,” JBL 118:3 (1999): 477–496. Cf. Gos. Thom. (II,2) 21.4. See further J. Z. Smith, “The Garments of Shame,” History of Religions 5 (1966): 217–238; April D. DeConick and Jarl Fossum, “Stripped before God: A New Interpretation of Logion 37 in the Gospel of Thomas,” VC 45 (1991) 125–150; Gathercole, Gospel of Thomas 362–366. Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.2–3.13.93.3. Cf. Sent. Sext. §449.

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that is not sexually differentiated. The time when male and female were not distinguished was in Eden when God made the first human prior to distinguishing Adam from Eve (Gen 1:26). Second, both Cassianus and Thomas present Platonizing interpretations of Genesis.68 Indeed, one could say that Cassianus interpreted Genesis in a Thomasine way by appealing to the soul’s preexistence and original androgyny.69 Third, Thomas’s ascetic sayings (e.g., 79, “Blessed is the womb that has not conceived”) fit Cassianus’s ideological context and rejection of fleshly birth. Fourth, Cassianus evidently used the Thomasine saying, “fast from the world.”70 This saying is quoted in the fourth or fifth century ce Liber Graduum, but second-century attestation only occurs in Cassianus and Thomas.71 If Cassianus (between 160 and 180 ce) quoted the Gospel of Thomas, then he is one of our earliest – if not the earliest – receiver of this gospel, which was probably completed about 140 ce (when hope for the rebuilding of the Temple was quashed, Thomas §71).72 This would mean that the earliest documented use of Thomas was in Alexandria. To this we can add likely quotations of Thomas by the author of Testimony and the Naassene Preacher (see earlier and Chapter 10).73 Lastly, the surviving versions of 68

69 70

71 72

73

Stephen Patterson, “Jesus Meets Plato: The Theology of the Gospel of Thomas and Middle Platonism,” in The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins: Essays on the Fifth Gospel (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 33–60; Ivan Miroshnikov, The Gospel of Thomas and Plato: A Study of the Impact of Platonism on the “Fifth Gospel” (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 91–115. See further A. F. J. Klijn, “The ‘Single One’ in the Gospel of Thomas,” JBL 81 (1962): 275–278; Zöckler, Jesu Lehren im Thomasevangelium (Leiden: Brill, 1999) 229–237. Gos. Thom. II,2 §27 (attested in P.Oxy 1.5–6, νηστεύσηται τὸν κόσμον); cf. Clement, Strom. 3.15.99.4 (οἱ τοῦ κόσμου νηστεύοντες). Clement does not say that he is quoting Cassianus, but in context, he was reading and critiquing Cassianus’s book On Being a Eunuch. See further Alain le Boulluec, “De l’Évangile des Égyptiens a l’Évangile selon Thomas en passant par Jules Cassien et Clément d’Alexandrie,” in “L’Évangile selon Thomas et les textes de Nag Hammadi,” Colloque international Québec 29–31 mai 2003, ed. L. Painchaud (Laval: Laval University Press, 2007), 255–274 at 272. Aelred Baker, “Fasting to the World,” JBL 84:3 (1965): 291–294. Mark Goodacre, Thomas and the Gospels: The Case for Thomas’s Familiarity with the Synoptics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 171; Gathercole, The Gospel of Thomas: Introduction and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 112–127. Thomas probably had a prehistory. Attacks on distinctly Jewish dietary and purity regulations (logia 14, 89), along with the sabbath (27) and circumcision (53) suggests a time when Christians were in competition with those who practiced distinctively Jewish customs. See further Antti Marjanen, “Thomas and Jewish Religious Practices,” in Thomas at the Crossroads 163–182. Namely making the “inner” like the “outer” (Test. Truth [IX,3] 68.16–17) and finding rest after seeking (69.2–4).



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Thomas are attested solely in Egyptian papyri – and in fairly early witnesses found in Middle Egypt (late second to early third centuries).74 To be clear, Thomas and Cassianus do not exactly agree on their ascetic ideal. Although both Thomas and Cassianus urged a return to (primal) unity, Thomas never recommended celibacy as such. Thomas’s ideal of singleness may imply that his ideal reader should pursue singleness (in the sense of refraining from marriage), but this point is not explicit. Not bearing children was a Thomasine ideal, I think, but for Cassianus it was a requirement.75 In Thomas, Jesus recommends hatred of mother and father (logion 101), but not of wife and children.76 All this seems to mean that, although Thomas and Cassianus shared an ascetic mentality, Cassianus was stricter in his demand for celibacy. We could say that, if Cassianus read Thomas in the mid–second century, then he took it in an even more ascetical direction. exegesis of the soul

The call to celibacy is promoted in another Nag Hammadi tractate, namely the Exegesis of the Soul (hereafter Exegesis). Most scholars who examine this work typically place it in second- or early third-century Alexandria.77 They do so for several reasons. First, Exegesis presents a positive view of Homer and Homeric allegory in the Alexandrian tradition.78 Philo used allegorized Homeric prooftexts to support his 74

75 76

77

78

Jens Schröter, “B.IV.1. Das Evangelium nach Thomas (Thomasevangelium [NHC II,2 p.32,10–51,28]) Oxyrhynchus-Papyri I 1, IV 654 und IV 655 (P.Oxy. I 1, IV 654 und IV 655),” in Antike christliche Apokryphen I/1 484–486. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.15.92.2; 3.15.97.2. See further Risto Uro, “Asceticism and Anti-familial Language in the Gospel of Thomas,” in Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, ed. Halvor Moxnes (London: Routledge, 1997), 216–234. Scopello, L’Exégèse de l’âme 100; Scopello, “Practicing ‘Repentance’ on the Path to Gnosis in Exegesis on the Soul,” in Practicing Gnosis: Ritual, Magic, Theurgy and Liturgy in Nag Hammadi, Manichaean and Other Ancient Literature: Essays in Honor of Birger A. Pearson, ed. April D. DeConick, Gregory Shaw, and John D. Turner (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 199–213; Cornelia Kulawik, Die Erzählung über die Seele (Nag Hammadi Codex (II,6)) (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 6; Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism 228. Lundhaug claims that no internal evidence “necessitates a dating prior to the fifth century” (Images of Rebirth 141). But would so late a Christian writer have intimate knowledge of Simonian and Valentinian terms and concepts? Philo, Prov. 2.40–41. On Homeric allegory, see Arthur J. Droge, “Homeric Exegesis among the Gnostics,” Studia Patristica 19 (1989): 313–321; Maren Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 133–185; Scopello, Gnose, femme 186–194.

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interpretations of scripture, and this is what we find in the Exegesis.79 The Naassene Preacher, whom I will argue was Alexandrian, treated Homer in the same way. For him, Homer was a “prophet”80 on par with the other Jewish prophets as is true in the Exegesis.81 (Valentinians, incidentally, also employed Homer as a “prophet.”82) There are other, more precise overlaps of Exegesis with Philo. Philo’s virtue-loving soul is a daughter of God, as she is in the Exegesis.83 The erring soul is prostituted, according to Philo, which is the same master image we see in the Exegesis.84 Philo used the same prooftexts with the same allegorical interpretation: for instance, the call of Abraham to leave his country (Gen 12:1) symbolizing the soul’s departure from material things.85 Third, the author of Exegesis was familiar with Valentinian terminology and lore (Christ as bridegroom,86 the bridal chamber,87 the spiritual seed,88 resurrection as ascension).89 Valentinian lore might also suggest Rome as a provenance, but nothing else in the Exegesis is specifically Roman. Finally, as was the case with Testimony, there are striking overlaps between Exegesis and Cassianus. For instance, Cassianus believed that the soul, when it entered the fleshly body, became feminine.90 The feminized soul is assumed throughout the Exegesis.91 Both Cassianus and the author of Exegesis agreed that the soul, feminized when placed in a mortal body, became subject to abuse – evidently the abuse of the passions, but possibly of demons as well.92 79

Philo, Mut. 179; Fug. 61; Somn. 1.233; 2.70; Exeg. Soul (II,6) 136.28–137.5; Erkki Koskenniemi, “Philo and Greek Poets,” JSJ 41:3 (2010): 305–311, 322; Katell Berthelot, “Philon d’Alexandrie, lecteur d’Homère: quelques éléments de réflexion,” in Prolongements et renouvellements de la tradition classique, ed. A. Balansard, G. Dorival, and M. Loubet (Aix-en-Provence: Université de Provence, 2011). 80 Ref. 5.8.1; cf. Irenaeus, AH 4.33.3 (Homerus proprius ipsorum propheta). 81 Scopello, “Les Citations d’Homère dans le traité de L’Exégèse de l’âme.” 82 Irenaeus, AH 4.33.3. 83 Philo, Mut. 205. 84 Philo, Fug. 153. 85 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 133.28; Philo, Migr. 1–2. 86 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 132.9. 87 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 132.13–14. 88 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 134.1. 89 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 134.12–14. See further Madeleine Scopello, “Exegesis on the Soul,” in Nag Hammadi Scriptures 226; Jean-Marie Sevrin, L’Exégèse de l’âme (NH (II,6)) Texte Établi et Présenté, BCNH 9 (Québec: Laval University Press, 1983), 58–59. 90 Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.13.93.3. 91 E.g., Exeg. Soul (II,6) 127.23–128.2, trans. William C. Robinson. 92 See further Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta, “Platonism and the Expository Treatise on the Soul (NHC II,6),” in Gods, Daimones, Rituals, Myths and the History of Religions in



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Like Cassianus, the writer of the Exegesis probably considered sex to be defiling. When the soul became a “widow,” in the Exegesis, she received nothing from her lovers except “the defilements they gave her.”93 Moreover, both Cassianus and the author of the Exegesis rejected sex and procreation. The latter called sex “the treachery of Aphrodite who exists here in the act of begetting.”94 Both authors used the image of rebirth in which rebirth means birth out of the body into the soul’s original (deathless and divine) state.95 There are overlaps in their use of scripture as well. Both Cassianus and the author of the Exegesis quoted from Genesis, Isaiah, Jeremiah, the Psalms, Matthew, Luke, 1 Corinthians, and Ephesians. In fact, they quoted two of the very same verses, namely Ephesians 6:1296 and Luke 14:26.97 These similarities allow us, tentatively at least, to situate the Exegesis in the Christian exegetical culture of Cassianus at Alexandria. There are of course differences between Exegesis and Cassianus, though some are only apparent. Exegesis indicates that Eve, not the snake, deceived Adam.98 But if the snake represents pleasure, then it correlates with “Aphrodite” in the Exegesis, who tricks the soul into leaving her heavenly husband.99 The author of Exegesis, furthermore, called birth “a perfect wonder,”100 whereas Clement indicated that Cassianus despised birth.101 Yet the wondrous birth in the Exegesis is spiritual, not mortal. Linguistically, it recalls the “wonder of wonders” found in the Gospel of Thomas and the Naassene discourse.102 Accordingly, I hypothesize that Exegesis is yet another mid-second-century Alexandrian ascetical treatise promoting an ethic of celibacy in an attempt to free the soul from flesh.

Conclusion Much of the evidence discussed in this chapter is fragmentary and contested. Even so, I believe that we can still make some reasonable

Plutarch’s Works: Studies Devoted to Professor Frederick E. Brenk (Logan: Utah State University Press, 2010), 354–362. 93 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 128.24. cf. 132.11–12. 94 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 137.7–8; Cf. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.1. 95 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 134.6–7, 10. 96 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 131.11–13. 97 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 135.20. 98 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 133.5. 99 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 137.7. 100 Exeg. Soul (II,6) 134.4–5. 101 Clement, Strom. 3.16.100.1–101.4. 102 Gos. Thom. (II,2) 29.2; Ref. 5.8.18.

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hypotheses about Christian ascetic culture in mid to late second-century Alexandria. Recall that Philo eulogized the ascetic cultures of the Essenes and Therapeutae before 50 ce. Independent streams of evidence indicate that a culture of celibate Christianity was making headway in Egypt about a century later. Between 150 and 180 ce, there were Christians who attempted to make themselves eunuchs for Christ’s kingdom (Matt 19:12). One Christian applied to physically remove his testes about 150 ce; most, however, strove to excise lustful thoughts. They found abundant support for their views in a Platonizing reading of Genesis that spoke of primitive unity and/or androgyny. Transcending gender had always been a Christian ideal (Gal 3:28), but few Christians took concrete steps to achieve it. Julius Cassianus was one of these more daring Christians. He cannot easily be pigeonholed into any of the known Christian groups of secondcentury Alexandria. Assuming Cassianus is the author of Testimony, then he actively opposed other Christian groups (Basilideans, Simonians, Valentinians, and so on). At the same time, he felt himself to be “hastening” toward God with a circle of like-minded Christians.103 If he did belong to a group of dedicated celibates, one can call him a forerunner of urban monastics in Egypt. As for gospel texts, Cassianus used not only Matthew but also the locally authoritative Gospel According to the Egyptians and probably the Gospel of Thomas. The range of Septuagintal texts that Cassianus appealed to is impressive (Genesis, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Psalms, and so forth). Beyond his appeal to Jewish scriptures, however, Cassianus showed no particular interest in Jews or Jewish customs. Jews did not have a strong tradition of celibacy, in spite of what Philo said about the Therapeutae. Cassianus would have collided with Jews and Christians who believed that God commanded procreation (Gen 1:28). He evidently quoted Micah 6:7 (“If I give my firstborn for the sake of impiety, the fruit of my womb for the sin of my soul”) as contradicting the creator who said: “Be fruitful and multiply” (Gen 1:28).104 Our evidence is spotty, but I suspect that for Cassianus the creator was one of the “cosmocrators” against whom Christians wrestle (Eph 6:12).105 On our chart of Alexandrian tendencies, then, Cassianus ticks four out of six boxes. He believed in a transcendent, sexless deity beyond the 103 104 105

Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.13.91.1–2 (θεοῦ εἰς ὅν σπεύδομεν). Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.16.101.1–2. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.16.101.3.



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creator. He rejected the corruptible flesh. He also supported a notion of deification as the transcendence of flesh and gender in hopes of communion with the higher God. In what survives, however, Cassianus did not refer to God as Human or to the transmigration of souls. In a famous passage, Jerome called Cassianus “chief heretic of the Encratites (encratitarum … haeresiarches).”106 Cassianus himself, it seems, never called himself an “encratite” (a person engaged in practices of self-control). Nevertheless, he and the other authors discussed here would have agreed with Sextus that “the foundation of piety is self-control (ἐγκράτεια)” (§86a). To use “encratite” as a label for these authors might be useful as long as one does not envision “the Encratites” as a formal, organized group with a defined character in the second century ce.107 There is no surviving evidence that Cassianus rejected the consumption of meat or wine. We would of course like to know more about Cassianus and “those of like mind.” He apparently wrote in order to persuade Christians to maintain a lifelong celibate lifestyle. Does his writing practice assume some sort of school? Or was it rather a school of thought with little to no formal organization? I am inclined to think there was at least a minimal group mentality assumed by Cassianus, as indicated by the polemical nature of his comments and Clement’s tendency to attack a plural “they” while criticizing Cassianus. Cassianus and the writers of texts such as Thomas and Testimony were trying to defend a version of Christian ethics against an equally Christian view that understood sex as natural and approved by God. The latter view was well represented by Clement, who considered his opponents to be overly rigorous. I suspect, however, that Cassianus (and his confreres) would have had little time for Clement’s compromise between “libertine” and “encratic” Christians.108 To Cassianus, Clement’s attempt to support marriages in which sex was used only for procreation must have seemed unrealistic at best and, at worst, a dangerous concession to the cosmocrators.109

106 107 108 109

Jerome, Comm. Gal. 6.8. For early criticism of “encratites,” see Eusebius, HE 4.28 (Musanus); Irenaeus, AH 1.28.1. Clement, Strom. 3.5.40.2–3. See further Williams, Rethinking 139–188. Clement, Paed. 2.10.83.1–2; Strom. 2.18.93.1; 2.23.137.1; 3.7.58.2.

9 Valentinian and Marcionite Currents

Introduction In Chapter 6 we spoke of Basilides, Carpocrates, and Prodicus but said very little about Valentinus. This is because, for the majority of his adult life, Valentinus lived and worked in Rome.1 According to Epiphanius, however, Valentinus was born in Egypt, and specifically in a town of the Nile Delta called Paralia.2 In the same passage, Epiphanius reports that Valentinus received his education in Alexandria. I find no reason to deny Valentinus this compliment (Alexandria was perhaps the most famous university town in the Mediterranean.). At the same time, it is a real question how much influence Valentinus could exert on the development of early Alexandrian Christianity. Clement quoted Valentinus’s epistles and sermons in Alexandria about the turn of the third century ce.3 The question is whether Valentinus left these epistles and sermons behind in Alexandria or whether his followers brought them from Rome to Alexandria sometime later in the second century ce. By about the mid–second century, at any rate, we can reasonably postulate that there was a Valentinian movement in Alexandria. Julius Cassianus was reportedly a former Valentinian.4 The author of 1 2 3 4

Irenaeus, AH 3.4.3. Epiphanius, Pan. 31.2.2. Clement, Strom. 2.8.36.2–4; 2.20.114.3–6; 3.7.59.3; 4.13.89.1–3; 4.13.89.6–4.13.90.1; 6.6.52.3–6.6.53.1. Clement, Strom. 3.13.92.1. Both Cassianus and Valentinians used the Gospel According to the Egyptians (Clement, Exc. 67.2). Tertullian noted that some Valentinians were voluntary eunuchs (Val. 30.4). Both Cassianus and Valentinus also used the Pauline designation “old human” to refer to the flesh and the “new human” (Eph 4:22–24) to indicate

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Valentinian Teaching in the Excerpts

139

Testimony referred to someone in the vicinity who had “completed the course” of Valentinus.5 Clement also transmitted a set of notes attributed to a Valentinian called Theodotus, a teacher whose work was apparently preserved in Alexandria. Clement’s Excerpts from Theodotus (hereafter Excerpts) do not all derive from Theodotus but from various Valentinian works to which Clement had access in Alexandria.6 These Excerpts thus provide a snapshot of Valentinian thought and practice in Alexandria about a generation before Clement (about 160–190 ce). The Excerpts also quote the Gospel According to the Egyptians, which was probably written in Alexandria.7 There is also a possible allusion to the last saying in the Gospel of Thomas.8 Other Valentinian theologians such as Heracleon may have sojourned in Alexandria, but exactly when is uncertain. The Excerpts is thus the best place to start when studying the Alexandrian variant of Valentinian Christianity. The ancient title of the Excerpts – probably secondary and possibly late – refers to the “eastern school” of Valentinus. Nevertheless, this “eastern school” made use of “western” Valentinian thought as well.9 Accordingly, I do not try to divide the Excerpts into distinct sources. (Clement never cited separate sources.) I also do not contend that all the sources were written in Alexandria, only that they represent the kind of (hybridized) Valentinian thought one might find in late second-century Alexandria.

Valentinian Teaching in the

excerpts

The Excerpts are not a polished work of literature. They are, rather, working notes mixed in with Clement’s critical comments. These notes

5 6 7 8 9

the person released from flesh (Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.14.95.1–2; Valentinus in Ref. 10.13.4). Test. Truth (IX,3) 56.1–2. Thomassen tries to isolate the distinct doctrines of Theodotus in The Spiritual Seed: The Church of the “Valentinians” (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 28–38, cf. 253–255. Clement, Exc. 67.2. Clement, Exc. 79. See further Jorunn Jacobsen Buckley, Female Fault and Fulfillment in Gnosticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), 61–83, esp. 83. Clement, Exc. 43.2–65 parallels Irenaeus, AH 1.4.1–1.7.5. According to Otto Dibelius, they depend on a common source (“Studien zur Geschichte der Valentinianer I: Die Excerpta ex Theodoto und Irenäus,” ZNW 9 [1908]: 230–247). Joel Kalvesmaki sees eastern and western Valentinianism as largely heresiological constructions (“Italian versus Eastern Valentinianism?” VC 62 [2008]: 79–89).

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are sometimes disjointed and difficult to read. By a process of synthesis, however, one can cull out a coherent story of salvation.10 The story begins, like so many others, with a transcendent Father. As is traditional in Christian theology, the Father wished to be known and so emanated an only-born Son by a process of self-reflection.11 Dwelling in this only-born Son was the Logos, paired with Life. All these entities come from the prologue of John’s gospel. The onlyborn Son lies in the bosom of the Father (John 1:18). The Son is also called Beginning (John 1:1); in the Beginning was the Logos; and in the Logos was Life (John 1:4). Virtually all Christians viewed the Logos in John 1:1 as a personal entity identified with Jesus; it is no surprise that Valentinians would read “Beginning” and “Life” in the same way.12 The most famous entity in Valentinian theology is, however, Wisdom. She is veiled in John’s prologue. At the same time, she is so well known from ancient Jewish theology – and Philo in particular – that she needs no introduction. In Jewish thought, Wisdom descended to this world and became a creatrix (Prov 8:22–31; Sir 24). The same happens in Valentinian thought, with the tweak that Wisdom’s descent is taken to be her fall away from the divine Fullness. Wisdom’s wild reaction to her fall (grief, consternation, and terror) becomes the substrate of matter in its various manifestations. Jesus the Savior came to rescue Wisdom with his angels.13 In reaction to these angels, Wisdom emitted the spiritual seed as their image. The spiritual seed is the true core of preexistent humanity, and that is why Valentinians called Wisdom their Mother.14 But the spiritual seed needed training, so Wisdom organized the world as a gymnasium of virtue. She began by making the creator in the image of the Father. Wisdom then proceeded to create the world through the creator who later inspired the Jewish prophets. This lower father, called the craftsman as in Plato’s Timaeus, was a being of soulish or animate nature. The creator made the material body of the first human, Adam, and gave him a soul. In turn, Wisdom arranged for Adam to receive the 10

11 12 13 14

See further Jean-Daniel Dubois, “Remarques sur la coherence des Extraits de Théodote,” in Gnosticism, Platonism and the Late Ancient World: Essays in Honour of John D. Turner, ed. K. Corrigan and T. Rasimus, NHMS 82 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 209–223. Clement, Exc. 7. See further Tuomas Rasimus, “Ptolemaeus and the Valentinian Exegesis of John’s Prologue,” in Legacy of John 145–172. Clement, Exc. 35.1. In other versions, Wisdom emits the angels together with the spiritual seed. Exc. 34.2; Cf. Gos. Phil. (II,3) 52.23.



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spiritual seed via the creator’s breath (Gen 2:7). Adam thus became the father of three types of humans: those dominated by their material nature (symbolized by Cain), those dominated by their animate nature (symbolized by Abel), and those dominated by their spiritual nature (symbolized by Seth).15 Matter by nature decays, as do those dominated by material concerns. Jesus came to save animate and spiritual peoples. He did so by assuming an animate and spiritual body in Mary’s womb. Jesus’s body was not made of matter but of an animate substance that looked like human flesh. The spiritual body of the Savior was in effect the corporate body of the angels who are the twins of the spiritual seed. Those who cultivate the spiritual seed recognize their angelic twin abiding in Jesus and seek union with their angel. It is only by union with one’s angel (in a spiritual marriage called “bridal chamber”) that one can become complete and proceed into the Fullness.16 Animate people receive a lower salvation in the middle place of the creator. There is some debate as to whether animate people can become spiritual and enter the Fullness.17 In the Excerpts, it seems, spiritual equality is possible in the long arc of eternity. In the end, both animate and spiritual peoples partake of the heavenly banquet.18 Such is the streamlined story of Valentinian salvation we find in the Excerpts. What about ritual practice? Valentinian baptism, we learn, was preceded by fasts, supplications, acts of kneeling, and the imposition (or raising) of hands.19 Valentinians first exorcized the waters of baptism, ridding them of demons.20 Baptism was performed in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.21 The Spirit came to inhabit the soul, effectively pushing out other (evil) spirits and granting the believer power over them.22 Baptism meant the rebirth of the soul. It disabled any powers the stars had, whatever their 15 16 17 18

19 20

21 22

Clement, Exc. 54.1. Clement, Exc. 68. Clement, Exc. 62.3. See further Elaine. H. Pagels, “Conflicting Versions of Valentinian Eschatology: Irenaeus’ Treatise vs. The Excerpts from Theodotus,” HTR 67 (1974): 35–53; James F. McCue, “Conflicting Versions of Valentinianism? Irenaeus and the Excerpta ex Theodoto,” in The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978, ed. B. Layton, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1980), 1.404–416. Clement, Exc. 84. Clement, Exc. 82.2. See further Nicola Denzey Lewis, “The Problem of Bad Baptisms: Unclean Spirits, Exorcism, and the Unseen in Second-Century Christian Practice,” in Beyond the Gnostic Gospels 187–203. Clement, Exc. 80.3. Clement, Exc. 81.3.

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conjunction, over body and soul.23 But baptism alone did not enact rebirth. Valentinians were catechized to understand, in the famous line, who they were, what they became, where they were, from where they were thrown, the place where they hasten, and from what they were ransomed.24 The bread consumed in the Eucharist was thought to be “changed into spiritual power.”25 That is to say, the loaf was ritually sacralized and probably thought to be transformed into the body of Jesus.26 There is no mention of wine, which may suggest it was not used.27 Olive oil is mentioned. It too was changed into spiritual power and used to anoint the baptized either before or after immersion. The ritual use of anointing oil was common in Syria and Egypt and is comparable to Naassene practice (Chapter 10).28 Valentinian salvation was a form of deification. According to the Excerpts, baptized believers receive the name of God in baptism – a name that Jesus himself acquired (Phil 2:10).29 According to an unknown Valentinian, “whoever has been baptized into God has moved into God and has received ‘authority to tread on scorpions and snakes,’ that is, evil powers.”30 Here we see both a union with God and investment with superhuman power over demons. Baptized Valentinians become superior to “all the remaining powers” in heaven and on earth.31 Superhuman powers – along with deathlessness – were key traits of deification.32 There was no better way of describing the future immortal state of the elect than to call them “eternities.”33

Alexandrian Tendencies We can now ask how the Excerpts score on our table of Alexandrian theological tendencies. The Excerpts present a transcendent Father who 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Clement, Exc. 78.1. See further Nicola Denzey Lewis, Cosmology and Fate in Gnosticism and Graeco-Roman Antiquity: Under Pitiless Skies, NHMS 81 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 145–164. Clement, Exc. 78.2. See further Thomassen, Spiritual Seed 338. Clement, Exc. 82.1. Clement, Exc. 13. Andrew McGowan argues for a water-only eucharist in Exc. (Ascetic Eucharists: Food and Drink in Early Christian Ritual Meals [Oxford: Clarendon, 1999], 162–164). See further Thomassen, Spiritual Seed 333–341. Clement, Exc. 86.2. Phil 2:10 is quoted in Exc. 43.4. Clement, Exc. 76.2, trans. David Brakke. Clement, Exc. 76.4. Liwa, We Are Being Transformed 119–228. Clement, Exc. 64.



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is distinct from the creator. God is not called a preexistent Human, but Valentinus himself – along with some of his other followers – referred to God in this way.34 There was no Valentinian doctrine of transmigration. There was, however, a rejection of corruptible flesh (the result of Wisdom’s passion) along with a theory of deification. The theory of deification is distinct because it involved spiritual marriage to one’s angel. Valentinian deification might more precisely be called “angelification” (transformation into an angel).35 The Excerpts directly quote the Lucan saying that Christians will be “equal to angels” (Luke 20:36).36 When Valentinians laid their hands on those about to be baptized, they did so “for the angelic redemption.”37 Altogether, Valentinian thought scores four out of six in our scheme of Alexandrian theological tendencies. We can add a word about Jews and Judaism in the Excerpts since by the mid–second century, Jewish life had somewhat recovered. Valentinians did not follow distinctly Jewish customs, but they did borrow heavily from Jewish theology (and Wisdom lore in particular). Valentinian dependence on Philo is likely, though as yet unexplored.38 I detect no hostility toward actual Jews. In the Excerpts, they are called “a people renowned for their piety.”39 Valentinians claimed to have received the same spirit that was poured upon the Jewish prophets.40 Carnal Israel, it seems, had lost its election. Israel became a symbol of those who can spiritually see.41 This allegory (Israel as the one who sees) is probably borrowed from Philo, although Philo would have acknowledged both a spiritual and a physical Israel. Valentinians accepted only a spiritual Israel (themselves) and a heavenly Jerusalem (Wisdom).

Apelles I turn now to the only named Marcionite leader who reportedly sojourned in Alexandria – indeed, the most famous Marcionite after Marcion

34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Clement, Strom. 2.8.36.2–4 (the pre-existent Human); Irenaeus, AH 1.12.4. Clement, Exc. 21. Thomassen, Spiritual Seed 325–326, 377–383. See further M. David Litwa, “Equal to Angels: The Early Reception History of the Lukan ἰσάγγελοι (Luke 20:36),” JBL 140:3 (2021): 601–622. Clement, Exc. 22. See, however, Risto Auvinen, “Philo and the Valentinians: Protology, Cosmology, and Anthropology” (PhD diss., University of Helsinki, 2016). Clement, Exc. 75.3. Clement, Exc. 24. Clement, Exc. 56.

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himself, Apelles. Apelles was not a native of the Egyptian metropolis. He knew Marcion, presumably in Rome, and then traveled to Alexandria.42 He remained in Alexandria some years before returning to Rome as an old man respected for his continent way of life.43 Apparently Apelles – like Marcion – never married and refrained from sexual activity. (I discount Tertullian’s claim about Apelles’s sexual lapse leading him to travel to Alexandria.44 Such accounts are heresiological commonplaces. Epiphanius made an analogous claim about Marcion himself.45) Apelles’s sojourn in Alexandria could reasonably have occurred anytime between 150 and 180 ce when Cassianus flourished there along with Prodicus, Carpocrates, Marcellina, and Theodotus. We do not know if Apelles was the first to bring Marcionite Christianity to Alexandria. We can surmise, however, that Apelles successfully established a Christian group there, since Origen called him “father of a sect.”46 Origen immediately thought of Apelles when Celsus referred to the core Marcionite teaching: The creator is different than the true God, who is the father of Jesus Christ.47 According to Apelles, the creator was the god of the Mosaic law and of Israel.48 The idea that Jews worshiped a lower deity would have readily distinguished the Apellian Christian circle from Jews in Alexandria. At the same time, Apelles did not excoriate the Judean lord nor did he, in what survives, deprecate Jews themselves. Heresiologists accused Apelles of being a renegade against Marcion.49 Yet it is precipitous to think that Apelles left the Marcionite fold.50 Apelles was inspired by the virgin prophetess Philumene, but she only exerted influence, it seems, after Apelles’s return to Rome. To be sure, Apelles developed Marcionite thought in a certain direction. He attempted to solve latent problems in Marcion’s theology to make it more plausible for a new generation of Christians.51 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

Tertullian, Praescr. 30.5. Eusebius, HE 5.13. Tertullian, Praescr. 30. Epiphanius, Pan. 42.1.4. Origen, Cels. 5.54. Origen, Cels. 5.54. Tertullian, Praescr. 34.4. Tertullian, Praescr. 30.6; Carn. Chr. 1. Litwa, Found Christianities 230. Meike Willing, “Die neue Frage des Marcionschülers Apelles – zur Rezeption marcionitischen Gedankenguts,” in Marcion und seine kirchengeschichtliche Wirkung/Marcion and His Impact on Church History: Vorträge der Internationalen Fachkonferenz zu Marcion gehalten vom 15.–18.August 2001 in Mainz, ed. Gerhard May and Katharina Greschat (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002), 221–231.



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Apelles’s major developments were in the doctrine of God. Heresiologists depicted Marcion as a theological dualist who was effectively a ditheist (a believer in two gods). This heresiological argument (and framework) is in my view inaccurate.52 For his part, Apelles made it much harder for his opponents to distort his teaching. He upheld a single divine being as the one true and good God. He was happy to call this being a “first principle.” He agreed with Philo that God as first principle could not be demonstrated by arguments.53 God’s existential priority was the presupposition upon which arguments and rationality itself were built. Apelles viewed the creator as a fiery angel and not a god.54 The notion of angelic creation goes back to Jewish tradition and was supported by Valentinus.55 (The Refutator, who distinguished Apelles’s creator angel from a fiery angel and a malignant angel, polemically multiplied divinities.56 He even called Apelles’s Christ a fifth “god.”57) Despite some confusion in the sources, it seems that Apelles distinguished a true God and subordinate angels (among them the Judean lord) – whom he did not call “gods.” Apelles’s creator angel functioned like Plato’s craftsman. The craftsman made this world for the glory of the unborn and good God. He made it according to the model of the upper world.58 But this craftsman could not make the world perfect and so felt remorse (Gen 6:6).59 This remorse is similar to the repentance Wisdom felt after her fall in Valentinian sources.60 Apelles’s creator was the lost sheep – another image used of Wisdom in Valentinian lore.61 In both cases, the lost sheep was found by the searching shepherd (typically conceived of as Christ). Apelles’s creator asked the good God to send Jesus in order to correct the world.62 In short, God and the creator worked together for human salvation.

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62

M. David Litwa, “Did Marcion Call the Creator ‘God’?” JTS 72:1 (2021): 231–246. Eusebius, HE 5.13.6–7; Philo, Post. 167. Tertullian, Praescr. 34. Justin, Dial. 62.3. Ref. 7.38.1. Ref. 10.20. Ps-Tertullian, AAH 6.4. Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 8.1. Irenaeus, AH 1.4.1–2. Irenaeus, AH 1.8.4; Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 8.3. See further K. Greschat, Apelles und Hermogenes: Zwei theologische Lehrer des zweiten Jahrhunderts (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 88–89. Origen, Comm. Titus (in Pamphilus, Apol. 33).

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Marcion – disagreeing with Plato – seems to have taught that the creator was evil.63 By contrast, Apelles leaned toward the Valentinian position that the creator was neither wholly good nor evil. Instead, the creator was righteous and progressing toward the good.64 It is tempting to suppose that Apelles assimilated this Valentinian theory during his sojourn in Valentinus’s hometown.65 Apelles also differed from Marcion in the view that human souls were offspring of the good God. Marcion understood souls to be made by the creator. When Christ came to save souls, the theory went, he removed them from the creator. Tertullian thus accused Marcion’s Christ of theft – filching souls which did not belong to him. Apelles solved this problem by arguing that souls were offspring of the true God, thus true possessions of God.66 These souls preexisted the fleshly bodies made by the creator. The creator had to entice these souls to enter bodies.67 Again, Apelles moved in a Valentinian direction. Valentinians viewed the soul as the direct offspring of Wisdom. It was thus something divine and not the creator’s possession. Perhaps Apelles also fell under Valentinian influence when he theorized about Jesus’s body.68 Valentinians said that Jesus was born through Mary but he did not inherit flesh from her. Instead, Jesus passed through Mary like water through a tube.69 Apelles took it one step further. According to him, Jesus was not born. Rather, he descended from heaven and constructed a pure body from starry substance. After he passed through the heavens, he constructed a body made from dry, moist, cold, and hot elements.70 Apelles was clearer than Marcion in declaring that Jesus’s body was true flesh, made of special – though solid – material elements.71 At the same time, Jesus’s flesh was different from fallen humanity’s. This attempt to make Jesus’s body solid but special was akin to 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

70 71

Winrich Löhr, “Did Marcion Distinguish between a Just God and a Good God?” in Marcion und seine kirchengeschichtliche Wirkung 131–146. Ref. 7.38.1; Exc. 7.5; cf. Tertullian, Praescr. 34; Res. 5; An. 23. Alfons Fürst, Christentum als Intellektuellen-religion: Die Anfänge des Christentums in Alexandria (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2007), 25. Greschat, Apelles 95. Tertullian, An. 23.3. Tertullian, Res. Carn. 2. Irenaeus, Haer. 1.7.2. See further Michel Tardieu, “À travers un tuyau: Quelques remarques sur le myth valentinien de la chair céleste due Christ,” in Colloque international sur les textes de Nag Hammadi, ed. Bernard Barc (Québec: Université Laval, 1981), 151–177. Ref. 7.38.3; Epiphanius, Pan. 44.2.3. See further Greschat, Apelles 102–109. Tertullian, Carn. Chr. 6.3.



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Valentinian tendencies. Several Valentinian teachers, it seems, rejected the idea that Jesus had a body of flesh. They spoke of Jesus’s animate or spirit body (or both). (Note that in antiquity, “spirit,” or πνεῦμα, could still be a material substance, though a subtle one.)72 In the Excerpts, an animate and perceptible body was woven for Jesus.73 Nevertheless, the true “flesh” of Jesus was the spiritual seed, not the decaying matter of fallen humans.74 Unnamed Valentinians in the Excerpts are credited with the belief that “the spirit of the Father’s thought appeared as a body” and descended on Jesus at his baptism.75 This spirit body was unborn. According to Apelles, Jesus’s body truly suffered, was truly crucified, and truly rose from the dead.76 Yet when Jesus ascended, he stripped off his earthly elements and flew to heaven as a pure mind or spirit.77 The theory is similar to Philo’s description of Moses’s ascent. Moses did not die like other people. His fleshly elements spun away and Moses ascended as a pure mind to heaven, bright like the sun.78 Philo and Apelles agreed that the fleshly body made by the creator was not the subject of redemption. Only the intelligible core of humanity was saved. Similarly, Valentinians in the Excerpts thought that only the spiritual seed of the believer was redeemed.79 The corruptible flesh is not the true self and so can be left behind. Apelles was perhaps most famous for writing the Syllogisms, a work attempting to prove the discord and mythic quality of passages in the Law and the Prophets.80 The fragments that survive focus on logical problems in the Garden of Eden story and the narrative of Noah’s flood.81 Origen clarified, however, that Apelles did not “wholly deny that the Law and the Prophets are of God.”82 Apelles cited the saying of Jesus, “Be approved moneychangers” – a saying also quoted by Clement and

72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Clement, Exc. 59.3. Clement, Exc. 1.1–2. The teaching is ascribed to Theodotus in Exc. 26.1. Clement, Exc. 16. Epiphanius, Pan. 44.2.7. Ref. 7.38.4–5; Ps-Tertullian, AAH 6.5. Philo, Vit. Mos. 2.288. Clement, Exc. 2.2. Ps.-Tertullian, AAH 6.6. Litwa, Found Christianities 233–235; Greschat, Apelles 45–72. Origen, Comm. Titus in René Amacker and Éric Junod, Pamphile et Eusèbe de Césarée apologie pour Origène suivi de Rufin d’Aquilée sur la falsification des livres d’Origène, SC 464 (Paris: Cerf, 2002), 80 (§33).

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Origen.83 In Apelles’s usage, the saying meant something to the effect of “be critical readers of scripture – accepting only what is good and beneficial.”84 Some prophecies were true and helpful, and some were not. It is never explicitly said that Apelles used any other canon beyond that of Marcion. At the same time, he appealed to more authorities. He used several gospels and at least one unwritten saying of Jesus. He later inscribed the sayings and visions of the virgin prophetess Philumene, though he probably did not view them as scriptural.85 Still, Apelles was open to new revelations. This was yet another way in which Apelles conformed to Valentinians, who emphasized prophetic gifts among Christians.86 By promoting celibacy, finally, Apelles was comparable to the former Valentinian Julius Cassianus. We do not know exactly how Apelles argued for celibacy (for instance, by appealing to primitive androgyny in a creation story). What we do know is that both Cassianus and Apelles distinguished between God and the creator and both refused to propagate fleshly human bodies designed by the creator. Both believed that the soul was preexistent and that the fleshly body was not the soul’s true home. Given these doctrines, celibacy, though not necessary for all, was logical for many.

Conclusion Apelles refurbished Marcionite thought in Alexandria mainly in dialogue with Valentinian (or former Valentinian) theologians there. He clarified Marcion’s doctrine of God (the single redeemer God is the only true God), modified Marcion’s doctrine of the creator (not evil but just), and specified the nature of Jesus’s body (true flesh but unborn). At the same time,

83

84

85 86

Clement, Strom. 1.28.177.2; Origen, Comm. Matt. 28 in E. Benz, ed., Origenes Matthäuserklärung 2. Die lateinische Übersetzung der Commentariorum Series, GCS 38 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012 [originally 1935]), 51. Cf. Epiphanius, Pan. 44.2.6; cf. Ref. 7.38.4; Ps.-Clem., Hom. 2.5.1. See further J. S. Vos, “Das Agraphon ‘Seid kundige Geldwechsler!’ bei Origenes,” in Sayings of Jesus: Canonical and Non-canonical – Essays in Honour of T. Baarda, ed. W. L. Petersen et al. (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 227–302; Giovanni Bazzana, “‘Be Good Moneychangers’: The Role of an Agraphon in a Discursive Fight for the Canon of Scripture,” in Invention, Rewriting, Usurpation: Discursive Fights over Religious Traditions in Antiquity, ed. David Brakke, Jörg Ulrich, and Anders-Christian Jacobsen (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2012), 297–312. Ps.-Tertullian, AAH 6.6. E.g., Irenaeus, AH 1.13.3.



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Apelles continued the basic emphases of Marcionite thought (the distinction between God and the creator, the call to celibacy, the focus on Paul, and a single gospel). Apelles probably created a Christian group (later called “Apellians”) in Alexandria, which thrived after Apelles returned to Rome. This group may have looked in part like a philosophical circle, but it doubled as a Marcionite church. When we score Apelles on our chart of Alexandrian theological tendencies, we see that he upheld a transcendent and good God clearly distinct from the creator. He did not teach that God was a primal Human, nor did he believe – from what we can tell – in the transmigration of souls. He did reject the salvation of the corruptible flesh. The deification of the mind (or spirit) is not explicit but may be inferred if believers attain the deathless and fleshless state of Christ in the heavens. At best, then, Apelles scores a four out of six. We should not expect him to score too highly, since he was not from Alexandria and did not train there. Assuming he was in Alexandria for a considerable time, however, one can reasonably hypothesize that he was influenced by (largely Valentinian) currents of Alexandrian thought. All told, not much evidence survives of second-century Marcionite Christianity in Alexandria. Beyond a few passing remarks on Marcionites by Celsus and Origen, Apelles is our best window for seeing the contours of Marcionite Christianity in Alexandria during this time. The witness of Apelles testifies that between 150 and 180 ce, Alexandria continued to be a vibrant place of theological debate, in dialogue with Jewish traditions, open to an ascetic counterculture, and fostering hybrid forms of Christian thought.

10 The Naassene Preacher

Introduction The Naassenes are something of a mystery, and they are not well ­studied.1 They are not the same Christian group as the “Ophites,” nor are they a branch of them. Ophite and Naassene theologies are considerably different.2 We only know about the Naassenes from the report of the author of the Refutation of All Heresies, a work completed about 222 ce. The author of this report, whom I call “the Refutator,” spoke of the Naassenes among other opponents whom he accused of worshiping the snake (that is, Satan).3 The Refutator derived the name “Naassene” from the allegorization of naas (the transliterated Hebrew word for snake). Frankly, however, we do not know if “Naassenes” called themselves “Naassene.” Arguably, naas as a symbol was not central to Naassene thought and practice.4 The Refutator wanted to 1

2 3

4

This chapter adapts and expands my treatment of the Naassenes Found Christianities 276–287. See further Litwa, The Naassenes: Exploring an Early Christian Identity (London: Routledge, 2023). The Refutator himself assumed that Ophites and Naassenes were different (Ref. 8.20.3). Ref. 5.9.11; 10.9.1 (Theodoret, Fab. 13 is derivative). See further Tuomas Rasimus, Paradise Reconsidered in Gnostic Mythmaking: Rethinking Sethianism in Light of the Ophite Evidence, NHMS 68 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 210–223. Apart from the Refutator’s initial comments, the snake only appears after two lengthy chapters at the end of the Naassene report (Ref. 5.9.12–13). Ref. 5.9.13. See further J. Kaestli, “L’interprétation du serpent de Genèse 3 dans quelques textes gnostiques et la question de la gnose ‘Ophite’,” in Gnosticisme et monde hellénistique: Actes due Colloque de Louvain-la-Neuve (11–14 Mars 1980), ed. J. Ries et al. (Louvain-la-Neuve: Catholic University of Leuven, 1982), 116–130 at 128; Lancellotti, Naassenes 30–34; Rasimus, Paradise 82–83, 214–215.

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connect his set of “snake heresies” (Naassenes, Peratai, Sethians, and Justin the author of Baruch), but his editorial decision was polemically motivated and in the end, forced. It seems better to call Naassenes “Christians,” since that is what they called themselves. In fact, they claimed to be the only Christians.5 Other signs of their Christian identity are evident from the Refutator’s report. First, they traced their tradition back to Jesus, whose teaching was passed through two apostolic figures: James the brother of Jesus, and “Mariamme” (who could be Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, or some fusion of Marys).6 Second, they practiced Christian rituals such as baptism and anointing. Third, they cited distinctly Christian scriptures (gospel and Pauline literature) using well-honed techniques of Christian allegory. Finally, they worshiped God in binitarian form as Human and Child of the Human (a form of theandry reminiscent of what we saw in Eugnostus).7 The Refutator said that “later,” Naassenes called themselves “gnostics.”8 The Naassenes were not the only Alexandrian Christian group to refer to themselves this way. The followers of Carpocrates and the Prodicans also called themselves “gnostics.” Clement, for his part, referred to self-declared “gnostics” he apparently met in Alexandria.9 Clement referred to his own sort of ideal Christians as “gnostic.”10 None of these groups or persons, it seems, intended “gnostic” to serve as their technical group designation. In the Naassene report, one also finds selflabels such as “spirituals,” “perfect people,” and “elect.”11 For lack of a more specific group designation, I preserve the term “Naassenes” and refer to their spokesman as “the Naassene Preacher” or simply “the Preacher.” 5

Ref. 5.9.22: ἡμεῖς Χριστιανοὶ μόνοι. Ref. 5.7.1. It is probably not Mary the mother of Jesus who is later referred to by the Preacher as Μαρία (Ref. 5.6.7). See further Stephen J. Shoemaker, “A Case of Mistaken Identity? Naming the Gnostic Mary,” Which Mary? The Marys of Early Christian Tradition, ed. F. Stanley Jones (Atlanta: SBL, 2002). 7 See further Schenke, Gott “Mensch”; Logan, Gnostic Truth 169–172; Lahe, Gnosis und Judentum 346–350; Holzhausen, Mythos vom Menschen; Litwa, “The God ‘Human’ and Human Gods,” 70–94. 8 Ref. 5.6.4. 9 Clement, Strom. 2.20.117.5; 4.18.114.2; cf. Origen, Cels. 5.61. 10 E.g., Clement, Strom. 4.3.9.2. See further Norbert Brox, “Γνωστικοί als häresiologischer Terminus,” ZNW 57: 1 (1966): 106–113; Morton Smith, “The History of the Term Gnostikos,” in Rediscovery of Gnosticism 2.796–807; Holzhausen, “Gnostizismus,” 58–74; Brakke, Gnostics 33–34, 48. 11 Ref. 5.9.21; 5.8.5. 6

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Literary Form The Refutator came to know the Preacher’s work after obtaining some sort of document. Toward the beginning of the Refutator’s report, he referred to the Preacher’s use of many λόγοι – which I take to be sayings – attributed to James via Mariamme. The Preacher knew and transmitted some of these sayings. At the end of the report, the Refutator referred to “innumerable arguments.”12 Judging from the Preacher’s coherence and versatility, I am inclined to think that the Refutator used a single Naassene treatise that incorporated other cited works and several layers of argument. This treatise the Refutator “summarized” using – often partial and sometimes rearranged – paraphrases sprinkled with his own critical comments and “explanations.”13 The Preacher combined an impressive array of religious literature. He or she quoted several hymns. Some of these were apparently earlier compositions taken from other poets.14 Others seem to have been Naassene compositions that may have been used in a liturgical setting (the most famous being the “Naassene Psalm”).15 Moreover, the Preacher quoted or at least cited a set of sayings – perhaps from a lost dialogue gospel – spoken by James to Mariamme. The heart of the Preacher’s treatise, however, was an allegorical commentary on a preexisting hymn to the Phrygian god Attis.16 To provide a simplified outline of the Naassene report: I. The “main points” of the Refutator’s summary (Ref. 5.6.4–5.7.2) II. The origin of the first earthly human or Adam (Ref. 5.7.3–9) III. An exploration of the Human’s universality via an allegorical commentary on a hymn to Attis (Ref. 5.7.10–5.9.9) IV. An allegory of the rivers in Paradise (Ref. 5.9.11–21) V. A sampler of Naassene doctrine: the Naassene Psalm (Ref. 5.10.2) Despite the Preacher’s tendency to hop from one point to another, there is a method to the madness. When one charts the exposition of

12 13

14 15 16

Ref. 5.10.1. On the Refutator’s methods, see Sebastian Hanstein, “Studien zur Redaktionellen Gestaltung des Sonderguts in der Schrift, ‘Widerlegung aller Häresien’ unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Darstellung der sog. Peraten” (PhD diss., Rheinischen FriedrichWilhelms-Universität Bonn, 2019), 66–69. Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, “Lesefrüchte,” Hermes 37 (1902): 328–332. Ref. 5.10.2. Quoted in Ref. 5.9.8.

Literary Form



153

Table 10.1  Attis and Christ Attis hymn

Naassene commentary

You the Assyrians called “Thrice-desired Adonis” All Egypt calls you “Osiris” Greek Wisdom calls you “Celestial horn of Me¯n” Samothracians call you august “Adamas” Haimonians call you “Corybas” Phrygians call you now “Papas” Now again “corpse” “god” “unfruitful” “goatherd” “green ear of harvested grain” “fruitful one” “whom the almond bore” “pipe player”

Ref. 5.7.11–19 Ref. 5.7.20–41 Ref. 5.8.4–8 Ref. 5.8.9–12 Ref. 5.8.13–21 Ref. 5.8.22 Ref. 5.8.23–24a Ref. 5.8.24b–30 Ref. 5.8.31–33 Ref. 5.8.34–38 Ref. 5.8.39–45 Ref. 5.8.36b–38 Ref. 5.9.1–2 Ref. 5.9.3–6

the Attis hymn, for instance, one can see how the Preacher commented sequentially on the hymn in nearly perfect order (Table 10.1).17 Richard Reitzenstein called the original Naassene document a “sermon” (Predigt).18 It does seem to be an oration spoken to religious insiders. It jibes well with the interests of showpiece or epideictic rhetoric in praise of a deity. I am content to call the original Naassene treatise a “discourse,” which is not incompatible with the idea that it served as a homily for a circle of Christian initiates. Previous scholarship sought to stratify the Preacher’s discourse into different layers written by different authors at different times.19 Nowadays scholars are less sanguine about uncovering the text’s strata. 17

18 19

I adapt Table 10.1 in part from R. Scott Birdsall, “The Naassene Sermon and the Allegorical Tradition: Allegorical Interpretation, Syncretism, and Textual Authority” (PhD diss., Claremont, 1984), esp. 198–292. The Preacher reversed the order of “fruitful one” and “green ear of harvested grain” in his commentary. Richard Reitzenstein, Poimandres: Studien zur griechisch-ägyptischen und frühchristlichen Literatur (Leipzig: Teubner, 1904) 82; Lancellotti, Naassenes 10–29. Josef Frickel, Hellenistische Erlösung in christlicher Deutung – Die gnostische Naassenerschrift: Quellenkritische Studien, Strukturanalyse, Schichtenscheidung, Rekonstruktion der Anthropos-Lehrschrift (Leiden: Brill 1984), esp. 164–171.

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The discourse, for all its variety, is consistent in pursuing a central theme: to show that all reality is a sacred symbol of the God-Human. The biblical citations are varied, but they are woven into a bouquet presenting the divine Human in all creation. True, the Naassene discourse has come down to us in excerpted and rearranged form. But this makes its unified theme and citations all the more striking.20

Author The Preacher – whom I will treat as male, though a female identity is not excluded – is never named. Probably, then, he was never named in the source, since elsewhere the Refutator had no problem revealing the names of his opponents. The Preacher was a polymath, who via variegated learning rivaled older contemporaries Plutarch and Apuleius. He was rhetorically proficient and could cite a range of poets and philosophers including Anacreon (Ref. 5.8.6–7), Aristotle (5.7.25), Empedocles (5.7.30), Heraclitus (5.8.42–44), Homer (5.7.30–38; 5.8.3, 36), and Parmenides (5.8.43).21 The Preacher knew cultural and religious lore stemming from diverse places such as Syria, Libya, Samothrace, and Phrygia. Given the specificity of his religious knowledge, we might speculate that he, before becoming a Christian, was initiated into several mystery cults. Alternatively, the Preacher was simply well read in the literature of various Mediterranean cults.22 Based on the panoply of citations, he had access to a well-stocked library of Jewish and Christian scriptures.

Provenance The Refutator probably obtained the Naassene discourse in Rome, where he wrote the Refutation. But Rome was probably not the Preacher’s native city. After all, the Preacher showed no interest in specifically Roman deities or rites. Latin lore and mythology are conspicuously absent. The Preacher’s world was that of the Hellenized east, where most of his illustrations derive. The Preacher was highly educated, but what he learned by direct experience came from Egypt. The Preacher spoke of ritual objects in Egypt “within everyone’s purview” (εἰς τὴν ἁπάντων ἐπίγνωσιν) that everyone recognizes.23 20 21 22 23

So also Lancellotti, Naassenes 24–25. Ref. 5.7.10; 5.9.4. Lancellotti, Naassenes 245, 258–259, 265–266, 283–284. Ref. 5.7.28.



Provenance

155

Judging from the context, I take these objects to be statuettes of Agathos Daimon (the Good Spirit), represented by a snake and often fixed in front of houses in Alexandria.24 The Preacher specifically said these images stood in front of homes and that they are called “Good” and “bringers of Good” by the local population.25 The remark implies an Alexandrian audience, where Agathos Daimon was the city’s protective spirit and where snakes (venerated as ἀγαθοί δαίμονες) were invited into houses and celebrated in a civic holiday.26 Alexandria was a Hellenic city and the Preacher said it was the “Hellenes” who – in their ithyphallic herms – borrowed the snake as a phallic symbol from the Egyptians.27 Alexandria was famous for weaving together Hellenic and Egyptian symbols in iconography.28 An Alexandrian provenance is also supported by the Preacher’s use of the Gospel According to the Egyptians, a text likely composed in Egypt and quoted, as we saw, by Julius Cassianus.29 Like Cassianus, the Preacher quoted the Gospel of Thomas, also attested, if not written, in second-century Egypt.30 The quotations or allusions of Thomas pepper the entire discourse. Steven R. Johnson shows how the Preacher refers to four of the five initial Thomasine sayings. There is also language from Thomas logia §33,31 §96, and §109 (or §76.3),32 along with a possible reference to §92.2 (“wonder of wonders”).33

24

25

26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33

Daniel Ogden, Drako¯n: Dragon Myth and Serpent Cult in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 286–292. For iconography, see Françoise Dunand, “Agathodaimon,” Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (LIMC), Volume 1 (Zurich: Artemis, 2009), 276–282; Marjorie Susan Venit, Visualizing the Afterlife in the Tombs of Graeco-Roman Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 67, with commentary on 69. For coins, see, e.g., Roman Provincial Coinage 1.5210, 5230; II.2713. Ref. 5.7.28; cf. Cornutus, Nat. d. 27.14; Plutarch, Is. Os. 51 (Mor. 371f). For another theory, see Miroslav Marcovich, Studies in Graeco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism (Leiden: Brill, 1988), 118. Alexander Romance 1.32. See further Krzysztof Nawotka, The Alexander Romance by Ps.-Callisthenes: A Historical Commentary, Mnemosyne (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 106–108. Ref. 5.7.28–29. Venit, Visualizing the Afterlife. Ref. 5.7.9; cf. Cassianus in Clement, Strom. 3.6.45.3; 3.9.63.2. See further Brown, “Where Indeed,” 451–472. AnneMarie Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord 21; Nongbri, God’s Library 216–246. William R. Schoedel opined that Thomas was Naassene in “Naassene Themes in the Coptic Gospel of Thomas,” VC 14 (1960): 225–234. See further Lancellotti, Naassenes 317–348. Ref. 5.7.28. Ref. 5.8.8. Ref. 5.8.18. Johnson, “Hippolytus’s Refutatio and the Gospel of Thomas,” JECS 18:2 (2010): 305–326 at 316.

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As we have seen in the Exegesis of the Soul, an Alexandrian Christian intellectual could well combine biblical and Homeric citations read allegorically to support a common point.34 The Refutator mocked the Preacher for treating Homer as a “prophet,” but the Preacher, like the author of the Exegesis, seems to have accepted Homer’s inspiration.35 Clement, for his part, was also willing to grant that Homer could prophecy accurately and Valentinians adapted Homeric poetry as well.36 There are four further indications of the Preacher’s Alexandrian provenance. First, he or she refers to Hermes as the creator (δημιουργός).37 In Greek tradition, Hermes was the messenger and trickster of the gods, but he was not the creator.38 Only in Hermetic tradition – most prevalent in Egypt – do we see Hermes-Thoth fulfilling this role.39 Second, one senses a whiff of local pride when the Preacher claims that the Egyptians, “by common consent” (ὁμολογουμένως), first proclaimed to all other peoples the rites and initiations of the gods.40 Only in Egypt could such a view be broadly accepted; Phrygians in Asia, Babylonians in Mesopotamia, and Jews in Palestine – among other peoples – would have disputed such a claim. Like Philo, moreover, the Preacher attributed the creation of the earthly Adam to beings called “powers.”41 Finally, the Preacher alluded to a doctrine of transmigration. He allegorized the tides of Homer’s Ocean to refer to the birth of people and of gods (deified people). When the cosmic tide comes in, people are born into mortal flesh; when the tide ebbs, spirituals are born out of flesh into godhood.42 As we have seen, transmigration was a distinctly Alexandrian Christian doctrine taught by Basilides and Carpocrates and foreshadowed in Philo. 34 35 36 37 38

39

40 41 42

Exeg. Soul (II,6) 136.27–137.5. Ref. 5.8.1. Clement, Strom. 5.14.116.1; Irenaeus, AH 2.14.2. Ref. 5.7.29. Walter Burkert, Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche, 2nd ed. (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2011), 241–245; John F. Miller and Jenny Strauss Clay, Tracking Hermes, Pursuing Mercury (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). E.g., SH 23.44–49. In the Shabaka text, Thoth functions as the creator in the form of Ptah. According to a fourth-century ce Strasbourg Cosmogony, Hermes is the cosmic creator (D. L. Page, Greek Literary Papyri, LCL [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942], 544–550). See further Jean-Marie Flamand, “Cosmogonie de Strasbourg,” Dictionnaire des Philosophes Antiques, ed. Richard Goulet, 7 vols. (Paris: CNRS, 1994– 2018), 2.478–480; Youri Volokhine, “Le dieu Thot et la parole,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 221 (2004): 131–156; Bull, Tradition 33–96. Ref. 5.7.22; Cf. SH 23.68. Ref. 5.7.6; cf. Philo, Conf. 171–174; Fug. 69. Ref. 5.7.38, alluding to Homer, Iliad 14.201, 246.



Individual or Group?

157

Date The Refutator wrote of the Naassenes not long after the death of the Roman bishop Callistus (in 222 ce). Accordingly, we can posit that the Naassenes lived in Alexandria prior to 220 ce. Although Clement never referred to the Naassenes in surviving evidence, he parallels Naassene methods by his pronounced use of Greco-Roman poets and philosophers to express Christian truth.43 The Refutator considered the Naassenes to be the first “gnostic” group, supplying the doctrinal nucleus that proliferated in later circles.44 His theory is unlikely, since the Preacher quoted the Simonian Great Declaration (probably early second century ce).45 The Preacher used, furthermore, key terms from Valentinian theology (the “Fullness”) and the self-designation from the Seed of Seth (the “kingless generation”).46 Use of the terms “Human” and “Child of the Human” jibes well with Eugnostan lore.47 In short, the Preacher was an intellectual magpie who plucked from a variety of second-century Christian theologians. He must have lived later in the second century ce and perhaps, like Clement, into the third.

Individual or Group? I have referred to “Naassenes,” but of course we do not have a discourse from “Naassenes” but from an author whom the Refutator represented as speaking for a larger group.48 Was he correct? The evidence must be gauged from the report itself. The Preacher assumed that he addressed a broader circle, for instance when he said that “we are the only Christians,”49 and “we alone know the unspeakable mysteries.”50 Perhaps dependent on the Valentinians, the Preacher referred to his group as the “angelic church.”51 43

44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

E.g., Clement, Protr. 2.33.1–2; 7.76.1; Paed. 3.1.2; Strom. 5.14.116.1. See further André Méhat, Étude sur les Stromates de Clément d’Alexandrie (Paris: du Seuil, 1966), 187–195; Lancellotti, Naassenes 304–312. Ref. 5.11.1. Ref. 5.6.4; 5.9.5. See M. David Litwa, Simon of Samaria and the Simonians: Contours of An Early Christian Movement (London, T&T Clark, forthcoming), 12–27. Ref. 5.8.2 (kingless generation); 5.8.30 (Fullness). The same terminology appears in Monoïmus (Ref. 8.12.1–4). Ref. 5.6.5 (τὸν αὑτῶν λόγον). When the Refutator quoted the document, he often switched between “he [the Naassene Preacher] says” and “they [Naassenes] say.” Ref. 5.9.22. Ref. 5.8.26. Ref. 5.6.7.

158

The Naassene Preacher

The Refutator called the Naassene authorities “leaders and priests.”52 Even if he was being sarcastic, the language indicates some sort of leadership structure. The organizational structure of the group probably included persons of greater perceived holiness (likely those who made more ascetic commitments). The Refutator likened certain Naassenes to castrated priests of Cybele (the galli).53 This point does not show that Naassenes worshiped the Phrygian Mother goddess. What it does indicate is that some of them, at least, practiced celibacy. The Refutator thought they might as well be castrated like the galli. His taunt makes it clear that they were not actual eunuchs. In their commitment to celibacy without castration, Naassenes best resembled Julius Cassianus and his circle who understood salvation as a return to androgyny.54 The Naassene God was both male and female.55

Ritual Practice The Preacher promoted the practice of widely recognized Christian rituals, namely baptism and anointing. Yet he adapted these rituals. Naassene baptism occurred in “living” water; and the ointment was called “ineffable.”56 “Living water” often designated the running water of a stream or river.57 Yet even if “living” was metaphorical (as the lifegiving spring in John 4:10, 14), the “living water” of the Naassenes was thought to differ from the baptismal waters available in other churches. Being baptized in “living” water, according to the Preacher, led the initiate into “unfading pleasure,” namely the nonfleshly pleasure experienced by spirit.58 Similarly, the Preacher contrasted his “ineffable” ointment with what was available in other churches. These alternative churches were said to possess only the ointment of Saul, ancient king of Israel and friend of “fleshly lust.”59 Naassene Christians, by contrast, had ointment from the “horn of David,” which made them rulers over their bodies. Apparently this point was an implicit criticism of other churches, who anointed people but did 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Ref. 5.6.3. Ref. 5.10.10–11. Ref. 5.7.15. Ref. 5.6.4. Ref. 5.7.19; cf. Ref. 5.9.21. Didache 7.1–2. Ref. 5.7.19. Ref. 7.9.22.



Ritual Practice

159

not require celibacy. The Preacher attacked these other Christians, much like the author of Testimony of Truth, for failing to attain an ascetic ideal. The Preacher’s allegorical reading of the Jordan River also recalls the exegesis in Testimony. In speaking of humans born of flesh, the Preacher recalled “the great Jordan, which flows down and prevents the children of Israel from leaving Egypt.” The Preacher identified “Egypt” as representing “mixture” (μίξις). “Mixture” could be taken in a broad sense, but here it seems to refer to the entwining of mortal bodies for the purpose of procreation. Jesus’s (aka Joshua’s) accomplishment was to turn back the Jordan and make it flow upward (ἄνωθεν, Josh 3:16, LXX). This is also the work of Jesus/Joshua in the Testimony: The Child of the Human turns back the Jordan, a river allegorized to mean “the dominion of mortal procreation.” The Jordan indicates the desire for sex, which apparently was thought to cease after baptism.60 The imagery and ideology is parallel and might allow for some kind of connection between the Naassene discourse and the Testimony. Alternatively, we might posit a common source. Another Alexandrian who allegorized the Jordan in a similar way was Clement. In his Eclogues, he observed: Is not baptism itself a sign of rebirth, the exit from matter through the Savior’s teaching, which serves as a large and powerful stream always bearing us up and along? … Two prophets cut off and split this [Jordan] river of matter and the sea by the power of the Lord, when matter was traversed between two walls of water by God’s will. These pure generals [Moses and Joshua] both completed their service and through them the signs were believed, so that the just person might exit matter which he traversed at first. The second general was given the name of our Savior [Ἰησοῦς = Joshua/Jesus].61

Clement did not think that baptism cut off the desire for procreation. He allegorized the story of Joshua/Jesus stopping the Jordan as referring to the exit from “matter” in general. But one can see how another exegete would closely associate sex with the mingling of matter. Clement’s idea of an exit from matter would, moreover, ultimately preclude sex. Clement also used texts cited by the Preacher, namely Joshua 3:16 and John 3.62 All three authors (the Preacher, Clement, and the writer of Testimony) seem, at the very least, to be familiar with a common – and apparently Alexandrian – allegorization of Joshua/Jesus reversing Jordan’s flow. 60 61 62

Test. Truth (IX,3) 30.19–31.5. See further Lancellotti, Naassenes 160–162. Clement, Ecl. 5.1–6.3. Clement appealed to John 3:5 (Ecl. 7.1) while the Preacher cited John 3:6 (Ref. 5.7.40).

160

The Naassene Preacher

Scriptural Practice More can be said about the Preacher’s use of scripture. Like Cassianus, Clement, and the author of Testimony, the Preacher made extensive use of the Septuagint. He or she also employed gospels that were standard by the late second century, including Matthew (eleven quotations or allusions) and John (at least sixteen), along with six Pauline letters (twentyfour references). But the Naassene scriptures were broader. The Preacher used the Gospel According to the Egyptians at least once and a version of the Gospel of Thomas. There is also a likely allusion to the Ascension of Isaiah.63 The Refutator claimed that the Naassenes “make their investigations not from the scriptures, but … from the mysteries.”64 Yet when one checks the Preacher’s citations, the vast majority come from Jewish and Christian scripture.65 If one were to remove these citations, one would dismantle the entire discourse. To my mind, the Preacher has every right to be called a Christian exegete. Admittedly, one group’s exegesis is another’s eisegesis. Yet what the Preacher brought to the text of scripture – like so many other preachers – he at least imagined he read out of it.

Cosmopolitan Outlook The Preacher was a universalist of sorts, a wide-ranging allegorizer who saw truth lurking in other religious cults. At the same time, he aimed to generate an exclusive community ethos to reinforce group solidarity in an environment of competing religious claims. The rites, hymns, and philosophies of all religions, reportedly, heralded Christian truth, even if the hymnists who sung them did not know it.66 Likewise, other churches did not know the mysteries revealed by the Preacher’s interpretations. The Preacher’s cosmopolitan outlook reflected the intellectual breadth of second-century Alexandria.67 Valentinus observed: “Many of those things written in publicly available books are found written in the church of God.”68 The Preacher took this insight to a new level. He or she found 63 64 65 66 67

68

Ref. 5.8.13; 5.10.2. Ref. 5.7.8. Lancellotti, Naassenes 285–287. Ref. 5.9.7. On cosmopolitanism, see Daniel S. Richter, “Cosmopolitanism,” in The Oxford Handbook to the Second Sophistic, ed. Daniel S. Richter and William A. Johnson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 82–93. Valentinus in Clement, Strom. 6.6.52.3–6.53.1.



View of God

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truth glittering like diamonds on every street corner, viewing all reality as a symbol system for Christian truth. The Refutator observed: “They claim that everything said and done by all human beings comes about spiritually in accord with their particular understanding.”69 The Preacher based this approach on Romans 1:20: “from the creation of the world, God’s invisible workings have been understood and observed in his created products.”70 Using the versatile tool of allegory, the Preacher converted classical culture into the substance of Christian truth. He effectively scripturalized Homer, transformed the sense of Greek myths, and reinvented the meaning of foreign rites. Nothing was off limits. Symbolic truth was seen in the castration of Attis,71 erect phalluses in Egyptian and Greek iconography,72 and in the story of Adonis, the mauled lover of Aphrodite.73 For the Preacher, the whole world was an open book of sacred symbols, a harvest of spiritual truth.

View of God Although the Naassene discourse bursts with intertextual complexity, the Preacher’s thesis is clear: Christ, the Child of the Human, is symbolized in a host of other religious rites and songs. The Preacher seems to have taken over this idea from a devotee of Attis, who sung about his own deity revealed in other religious lore.74 The Preacher quoted two Attis hymns, commenting extensively on the first.75 The Preacher explained Attis’s names and symbols in light of Naassene theology. According to this theology, there was in the beginning a divine Human and a Child of the Human corresponding to the Godhead of Father 69 70 71 72 73 74

75

Ref. 5.9.7. Quoted in Ref. 5.7.17. Ref. 5.7.13–15. Ref. 5.7.27–29. Ref. 5.7.11. For Attis, see Pausanias, Descr. 7.17.9–12; Arnobius, Adv. Nat. 5.5–7; cf. Lucian, Syrian Goddess 15; Ovid, Fasti 4.179–190, 221–244, 333–372. See further Lynn E. Roller, In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of Anatolian Cybele (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 237–259; Philippe Borgeaud, Mother of the Gods: From Cybele to the Virgin Mary, trans. Lysa Hochroth (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 2005), 102–107; Maria Grazia Lancellotti, Attis: Between Myth and History – King, Priest and God (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 16–118; Jaime Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods: Myth, Salvation and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras, trans. Richard Gordon (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 63–74. For Attis’s castration allegorized, cf. Clement, Protr. 19.4. Ref. 5.9.8.

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and Child. The Father deity is unknown and indeterminate. The Child of the Human is the determinate Logos identified with Jesus.76 Both the Human and Child of Human were called “Adamas” and were considered one.77 As we saw with Basilides, the Valentinians, and Prodicus, the Naassene primal deity was distinct from the creator. The Preacher called the creator “Esaldaios” (apparently a form of the Hebrew name “El Shaddai”).78 He is identical to the Judean deity insofar as he is a fiery god (Deut 4:34; 9:3).79 This fiery god made the world and physical bodies of humans from mud (Gen 2:7). He rules the world with a rod of iron (emphasizing his harsh justice).80 Esaldaios did not make human souls. Rather, souls are fragments of the Child of the Human.81 The creator dragged down these souls from heaven so that the divine Human became enslaved in bodies and subjected to the passions.82

Humanity Human souls in bodies follow the tendencies that predominate within. They can be earthly, following the needs and desires of the body; they can be animate, following the impulses of their souls; or they can be noetic, following their higher minds. These three groups of people find themselves in three “churches”: the earthly, animate, and angelic. Naassene Christians, like Valentinians, viewed themselves as the angelic church. Apparently, competing Christians made up the animate church.83 All others, presumably, formed the earthly church called “captive.” The fact that all humans belong to “churches” indicates at least their potential to be saved. After all, each human soul is a portion of the divine Human.84 Since the divine Human has three aspects – earthly, animate, and spiritual – so does the human soul.85 The divided soul is

76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

Ref. 5.6.4; 5.7.33. Ref. 10.9.1. Cf. Ἠσαδδαῖος in Ref. 5.26.3 (Justin). Cf. Ref. 6.9.3 (“Simon”); 6.32.7–8 (“Valentinus”); 7.38.1 (Apelles); 8.9.7 (“Doketai”); PGM XII.115 (ὁ [π]ύρινος θεός). Ref. 5.7.32. Ref. 5.7.30. Ref. 5.7.7–8. Ref. 5.6.7. Ref. 5.8.4; cf. 5.8.23. See further Lancellotti, Naassenes, 130; Heckel, Der Innere Mensch 82–88, 221–226. Ref. 5.7.13, here more or less following Platonic tripartite anthropology: humans have bodies, souls, and minds.



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understandably pulled in different directions. Whatever direction one primarily follows determines one’s overall character. If one changes one’s orientation, attaining higher knowledge, one can presumably pass from one “church” to another.86

View of Jesus All human beings incarnate fragments of the divine Human – but the Human in all his fullness inhabited Jesus, son of Mary.87 When exactly this inhabitation occurred is uncertain. It could have happened when Jesus was conceived, or at his baptism, or at some other point in time. In the Naassene Psalm, the Child of the Human is called Jesus. Here Jesus implores his Father to observe his fractured self that wanders in human souls.88 Although the Refutator glides past this point, the fact that Jesus was born from Mary is noteworthy. According to the Preacher, Jesus had a physical birth and was genuinely human. Evidently, the physical birth was also a virgin birth, because the Preacher, like the author of Testimony, viewed the coupling of mortal bodies as impure. The Preacher began his discourse by noting that the Human has an intellectual, animate, and earthly aspect. All three aspects apparently entered Jesus. Thus, when Jesus spoke, three kinds of people heard him in their own way: in earthly, animate, and angelic ways. Only the angelic church received “the hidden things of the holy path … called gnosis.”89 This model of graded revelation is close to Valentinian thought as indicated, for instance, by Heracleon’s Commentary on John.90 In sum, even though Naassenes considered themselves to be the only true Christians, they acknowledged other “churches” and thought that all people were capable of salvation. Though in the end few receive the highest salvation (Matt 7:13–14), even those blind from birth can recover their spiritual sight (John 9).91

86 87

88 89 90 91

Lancellotti, Naassenes, 139–140. Ref. 5.6.7. Cf. Irenaeus, AH 1.8.3. See further Antonio Orbe, Cristología Gnóstica: Introducción a la soteriología de los siglos II y III, 2 vols. (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1976), 1.416–417. Ref. 5.10.2. Ref. 5.10.2. Heracleon frag. 37 from Origen, Comm. Io. 13.341; frag. 40 from Comm. Io. 13.416– 26; frag. 45 from Origen, Comm. Io. 20.198. Ref. 5.8.45; 5.9.20.

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Ethics and Salvation Salvation requires spiritual rebirth. For the Preacher, as was true for Cassianus, this meant birth out of flesh. The Preacher took seriously Jesus’s statement in John (3:6): “What is born of flesh is flesh; what is born of Spirit is spirit.”92 That is to say, what is born of flesh dies again; what is born of Spirit is everlasting and eternal. Salvation requires moral effort to separate from the works of the flesh, but it is also the work of God. The higher, noetic nature of the supercosmic beings calls up the “male” power of the soul (the νοῦς or mind) and cuts it off from the forces of fleshly generation (the desires for sex and procreation).93 Like Cassianus and the authors of the Exegesis and Testimony, the Preacher renounced sexual intercourse.94 He or she demonized fleshly lust and depicted an ongoing war in the body between spirit and flesh (Gal 5:17).95 Spiritual people were those who triumphed over flesh. At the same time, the desire to transcend the flesh did not mean hatred of it. Even the divine, for the Preacher, had an earthly aspect. The Preacher based his sexual ethics in part on his reading of Romans 1:27: “Likewise the males, after abandoning the natural use of the female, were fired in their yearning for one another – males with males performed the work of formlessness (ἀσχημοσύνη).”96 This Greek word is usually understood as “disgrace,” “shame,” or the like. The Preacher took it in the etymological sense of “form-less” (ἀ-σχημ) activity. “Formlessness” was identified with “the primal and blessed Being.”97 Males interacting with males allegorically meant that, in the higher (nonfleshly) realm, pure and shapeless minds join with other immaterial minds. In the context of offering this interpretation, the Preacher had just finished allegorizing the myth of Attis cutting off his genitals. For the Preacher, Attis’s genitals signify “the male power of the soul” (that is, the νοῦς) which can ascend to the “supercosmic beings” when it is cut off from the “female” (the fleshly body and lower soul).98 The supercosmic realm is the realm of formlessness where only “males” (i.e.,  minds)  abide.99

92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

Quoted in Ref. 5.7.40. Ref. 5.7.13. Ref. 5.7.14; 5.9.11; Ref. 5.8.33. Ref. 5.8.19, quoting Job 40:32 LXX. Ref. 5.7.18. Ref. 5.7.18. Ref. 5.7.13. Cf. Gos. Thom. (II,2) §114.



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For the “males,” then, to do the work of formlessness is for them to feel the “unfading pleasure” of “formless” (fleshless) activity.100 Death for the Preacher meant departure from one’s fleshly sleeve. He interpreted the saying “the dead will leap out of the graves” (cf. John 5:28) to mean “out of earthly bodies.” When the saints leap out of earthly bodies, they “are reborn as spirit, not as flesh.”101 In support of this line of thought, the Preacher attempted to follow in Paul’s footsteps. Paul was deified by soaring to the third heaven, passing through three heavenly gates.102 The final gate was Jesus himself, through whom only spiritual people pass.103 Beyond the third gate, spiritual people become gods (that is, immortal spirit beings). They do so on the basis of Psalm 82:6, where God himself performatively proclaims to the elect: “you are gods!”104 Although the Preacher called the elect “consubstantial” with Adamas, he did not envision the angelic church as absorbed into the Human.105 He made a distinction between the supreme God and the future deified selves of the elect, called “the kingless generation.”106

Conclusion To sum up, the Naassene Preacher addressed a Christian group that probably existed in Alexandria between 160 and 220 ce. He or she tried to cultivate a mentality that was both universalistic (all could be saved) but also exclusive (“we are the only Christians”).107 The Preacher saw the truth of his or her Christianity gleaming in virtually all cults, without endorsing these systems or their practices as such. The Preacher was probably Alexandrian and he hit upon all six of our Alexandrian theological tendencies: a transcendent God distinguished from the creator, theandry (a divine Human or set of Humans), the 100

101 102 103 104 105 106 107

Cf. Ref. 5.8.44–45; 5.9.11. Cf. the interpretation of Jonathan Cahana-Blum, Wrestling with Archons: Gnosticism as a Critical Theory of Culture (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2018), 94–96. See further Frickel, Hellenistische Erlösung 49; Lancellotti, Naassenes 164–177. Ref. 5.8.23. Ref. 5.8.25–26. Ref. 5.7.24. M. David Litwa, “You Are Gods: Deification in the Naassene Writer and Clement of Alexandria,” HTR 110:1 (2017): 125–148. Ref. 5.8.10 (ὁμοιούσιος). Ref. 5.8.2, 30. Ref. 5.9.22.

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transmigration of souls, the rejection of corruptible flesh, and a theory of deification. We can add here an emphasis on gnosis as needed for salvation (and overlap with Clement, Prodicans, and Carpocratians). The Preacher’s group of knowers had their own rites (baptism and anointing), leadership structure, a communal gathering (a setting for rituals), an exegetical practice, and a common aim: to transcend the flesh while living in it; to be angelic (celibate) even on earth (Luke 20:36). Christ, the Child of the Human, inhabited all people. But he had given gnosis to the elect alone. Armed with such gnosis, Naassene Christians spent their lives trying to attain physical and moral purity so that after death they could ascend past the third heaven. In so doing, they thought they followed the path forged by Jesus and Paul. With them, Naassenes hoped to become immortal spirits: fleshless beings called gods, experiencing eternal pleasure far above this cosmos. In terms of social history, I would place the Preacher among the wider circle of celibacy-promoting Christian intellectuals in second-century Alexandria represented by Cassianus, the author of the Testimony, and the writer of the Exegesis. What is new here is the Preacher’s combination of rigorous sexual asceticism with a daring cosmopolitan outlook toward other religious texts and ideas. The Preacher was intent on Christianizing these texts and ideas, but his profound openness to and ability to transform Hellenized traditions is significant and best parallels Clement. By the late second century ce, Alexandrian Christianity had come of age, and Christian intellectuals such as Clement and the Preacher looked with seemingly boundless confidence upon the resources of Hellenic culture. All truth, they believed, was God’s truth. In this sense, these Christian intellectuals best merit the name “catholic” or universal. Although the early catholic tradition in Alexandria under bishop Demetrius would eventually take a different course, Demetrius could not set the ethos for late second-century Christian intellectuals, nor could he limit their explorations.108 Could the Preacher have been in communion with Demetrius’s early catholic network? The Preacher, to be sure, viewed his or her assembly as higher and angelic, but that does not mean that his assembly was 108

For Demetrius, see further Maged S. A. Mikhail, The Legacy of Demetrius of Alexandria (189–232 CE): The Form and Function of Hagiography in Late Antique and Islamic Egypt (London: Routledge, 2017).



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organizationally cut off from other ecclesial networks in Alexandria.109 The Preacher criticized noncelibate Christians on ethical, ritual, and epistemic grounds, but he did not reject them as heretics. Rather, the Preacher urged all people to accept (his version of) gnosis in order to become spiritual and angelic. If the Preacher could still “go to church” with Demetrius, he or she also probably sponsored independent meetings for higher initiates. One can only speculate about Naassene gatherings. They probably congregated in their own domestic settings to perform their distinctive rites of baptism and the Eucharist. Their doors were open to the Hellenized and highly educated peoples of Alexandria, which would include Jews. I suspect that Naassene discourse would have appealed to intellectuals looking to relate their Hellenic traditions to the relatively new Christian faith in Alexandria. The Naassene assembly was a church in which Hellenic and Egyptian peoples were told that they need not forsake their sacred rites and traditions. They needed, rather, to understand them through a new, universalizing and Christianizing lens. Naassene Christianity, or whatever we choose to call it, was, to sum up, a daring and vibrant movement showcasing the variety and intellectual breadth of late secondcentury ce Alexandrian Christian culture.

109

Clement complained of intruders in the church (Strom. 7.17.106.2), but they had probably been there at least as long as Clement. Here the “blemishes” in the Love Feasts are relevant (Jude 12; 2 Pet 2:13).

Conclusion The “Great Church” and the Many Schools of Alexandria

Introduction Despite complaints about lack of evidence, I have argued that much can be said about earliest Christianity in Alexandria prior to Demetrius (189 ce). As already stated, my focus here has been on marginalized and hereticalized figures in first- and second-century ce Alexandria. My claim is not that “Gnosticism” or Gnostic Christian groups dominated the intellectual scene of Alexandria after 117 ce. The point is that many different sorts of Christian groups arose and competed during this time, some of whom (including Prodicans, Marcellinians, and Naassenes) called themselves “gnostics.” Most of these competing Christian groups explored similar and distinctive themes: the idea of a transcendent and unknowable God often distinct from the creator, God as a primal Human, the transmigration of souls, the rejection of corruptible flesh, and the deification of the mind. These themes do not combine to give us an abstract category called “Gnosis” or “Gnosticism,” since they are also themes explored by theologians who have been claimed (or reclaimed) for orthodoxy – in particular, Clement and Origen. Even for these “church fathers,” the Logos, as a or the agent of creation, is distinct from the Father who exists beyond the reaches of human knowledge. Both Clement and Origen preached the deification of the human mind or soul, which inevitably implies a separation from flesh – as least the vulnerable and decaying flesh known here on earth. These two theologians even present hints of transmigration.1 1

Yli-Karjanmaa, “Clement of Alexandria’s Position on the Doctrine of Reincarnation,” 75–90; Litwa, Posthuman Transformation 107–109.

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I have named these six theological tendencies “Alexandrian,” with the caveat that none of them in isolation is distinctly Alexandrian. “Alexandrian,” in this understanding, is a polythetic category, which leads us to think of networked ideas appearing in sets, with no requirement that every tendency appear together in one thinker.2 These tendencies appear in different combinations in different Alexandrian thinkers, with different sorts of overlap between them. No two Alexandrian theologians have exactly the same set of tendencies understood in exactly the same way. Can we say anything about the relative size of the groups that these theologians belonged to? Unfortunately, we cannot reliably pronounce on the numbers of Alexandrian Christians in the second century.3 In Alexandria, there may have been churches that claimed to be “primary,” “spiritual,” and “created before the sun and moon” (2 Clem 14:1), but judging the actual attendance of competing assemblies is now impossible. We have no solid demographic data showing the number of Christians on the ground. All the projected numbers are educated guesses, sometimes based on modern growth patterns (such as Mormon growth rates).4 When ancient Christians themselves mentioned numbers, they were employed more as ideological than as statistical tools. The central assumption was – and in many cases still is – “majority rules.” A Christian assembly that was bigger, or that felt itself to be larger, could claim more “universality” and hence more legitimacy.

The Great Church There is evidence that at least one Alexandrian Christian assembly called itself a “great church.” One needs to approach this phrase critically in order to understand its (polemical) context. Still today, “the great” or “majority church” (la grand Église, die Großkirche) is a fixed expression sometimes employed to refer to the early catholic church in Alexandria

2 3 4

For polythetic classification, see J. Z. Smith, Imagining Religion from Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 4–5. On this point – though with a broader scope – see Thomas A. Robinson, Who Were the First Christians? Dismantling the Urban Thesis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016). Rodney Stark, Cities of God: The Real Story of How Christianity Became an Urban Movement and Conquered Rome (New York: Harper One, 2006), 141–182. See further Adam M. Schor, “Conversion by the Numbers: Benefits and Pitfalls of Quantitative Modelling in the Study of Early Christian Growth,” Journal of Religious History 33:4 (2009): 472–498.

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and elsewhere. (The use of “mainstream church” seems little more than an updating of such language.) In historical inquiry, attention to regional differences is vital. There were areas such as Rome where incipient catholics seemed to have gained the upper hand in the late second century ce.5 In other places, such as Edessa, Alexandria, and Samaria, an early catholic majority in the second century seems unlikely. Moreover, self-identifying catholics in Syria looked different from those in Spain and North Africa. Regional differences tended to trump common labels. Unity and conformity in practice and belief must be argued, not assumed. According to present evidence, the first known person to mention those from a “great church” as a distinctly Christian group (as opposed to Septuagintal usage) was Celsus, sometime between 161 and 180 ce. Assuming Origen quoted him accurately, Celsus made reference to “those from the great church” (τῶν ἀπὸ μεγάλης ἐκκλησίας)6 not long before he made reference to Marcionites, Valentinians, Gnostics, Christians who follow Jewish law, Sybillists, Simonians, Helenians, Marcellinians, and Harpocratians.7 The context of Celsus’s discussion is polemical. Celsus was attacking Christian legitimacy by highlighting Christian cacophony. Either Celsus himself was choosing which assembly to call “great” or he was recycling the language of a self-proclaimed “great church” in the area. If the latter, those from the “great church” were evidently trying to distinguish themselves from various other (apparently not so great) churches. In Celsus’s usage, it is unclear whether “the great church” refers (solely) to early catholics. Origen, interestingly, did not claim the “great church” title for his own group. “Those from the great church,” says Celsus, are those Christians who confess that their God is the creator known to the Jews, who affirm the six or seven days of creation, the genealogy of humankind from Adam, the history of the patriarchs, and the descent of Israel into Egypt and its subsequent “flight” from there.8 Several Christian groups could have affirmed these points even while maintaining a “higher” level of interpretation. Moreover, there were a number of Christian groups identifying the demiurge with their supreme deity. 5 6 7 8

Peter Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus: Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries, ed. Marshall Johnson, trans. Michael Steinhauser (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 397–413. Origen, Cels. 5.59. It is unclear why Celsus uses the term “Harpocratians” but they are better known as “Carpocratians.” Origen, Cels. 5.54, 62. Origen, Cels. 5.59.



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Later in Celsus’s discussion, it becomes clearer what he meant by “great” in “the great church.” The expression refers to “those from the multitude” or the “masses” (οὕς ἀπὸ τοῦ πλήθους).9 From such usage, it might be that “the great church” simply drew its members from the (uneducated) majority population. Celsus had already urged, tendentiously, that Christians were a crowd of unsophisticated yokels.10 If someone today chooses to take “great church” in a quantitative sense, one must reckon with the fact that other Christian groups – evidently in Alexandria – apparently believed that they were numerically larger, or more significant, than their opponents.11 Origen mentions that in his youth (ca. 200–210 ce) the “heresies” were “blooming” and members of these “heresies” seemed to be “many” or “in the majority” (ἐδόκουν πολλοὶ εἶναι οἱ ἐν αὐταῖς συναγόμενοι).12 He also notes that their “schools” (διδασκαλεῖα) were “applauded” (συγκροτούμενα) at that time. The author of the Second Discourse of Great Seth, for his part, wrote that his opponents were “small” or “few” (ϩⲉⲛ ⲕⲟⲩⲉⲓ ⲛⲉ) and “uneducated.”13 The remark implies that, from the author’s point of view, his group was either quantitatively and qualitatively superior, or both. The Second Discourse is probably an early third-century ce text. It represents, in my view, a fusion of Sethian, Basilidean, and Valentinian lore – a combination made possible, as is likely, after several decades of intellectual entanglement. The parallels are sometimes precise: Creating angels fear Adam, their molded product, which is close to Valentinus’s description of Adam’s creation.14 In the case of Basilides, we must use the report in Irenaeus, which probably represents later Basilidean thought. According to this report, Simon (of Cyrene) takes the place of Jesus on the cross, while the real Jesus laughs and ascends to heaven.15 A similar event happens in the Second Discourse of Great Seth: Simon takes up the cross

9 10 11 12

13 14 15

Origen, Cels. 5.61. Origen, Cels. 3.55–58; 3.75; 6.1. Statements about the “many” who seem to be saved and the “few” who actually will be (e.g., Gos Thom. 74–75) cannot be read demographically. Origen, Homily 2 on Ps. 77 §4 in Origenes Werke, XIII: Die neuen Psalmenhomilien – eine kritische Edition des Codex Monacensis Graecus 314, ed. Lorenzo Perrone, GCS NF 19 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 371. 2 Disc. Seth (VII,2) 69.11–12. For the simplicity of most Christians, note Origen, Cels. 3.44, 50, 55, 59, 74–75; 6.12–14. −ⲗⲁⲥⲥⲉ ⲙⲙⲟϥ … − −ⲧⲉ ⲁϥϣⲱⲡⲉ); Valentinus 2 Disc Seth (VII,2) 53.18–21 (ⲁⲇⲁⲙ ⲡⲉⲛⲧⲁⲩⲣ ⲛ ϩⲣ in Clement, Strom. 2.8.36.2–4 (φόβος ἐπ’ ἐκείνου τοῦ πλάσματος ὑπῆρξε τοῖς ἀγγέλοις). Irenaeus, AH 1.24.4.

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while the exalted Savior is bemused by the ignorance of the archons.16 This Savior, we are told, is actually the great Seth who became Jesus – a distinctively Sethian theory of incarnation.17 In what kind of context could such a combination of Valentinian, Sethian, and Basilidean lore arise? Presumably, it was only in a context in which these three streams of Christian thought interacted as traditions in the third century ce. We have no evidence of Basilidean ideas or groups taking hold anywhere outside of Alexandria. Only in Alexandria, it seems, did actual groups of Basilidean, Valentinian, and Sethian Christians survive into the third century.18 Thus Alexandria is the logical choice for the provenance of the Second Discourse of Great Seth and the major commentators agree on this point.19 Another text to consider here is the Coptic Apocalypse of Peter. Its Alexandrian origin is indicated by its contents, its appeal to Petrine authority, and its relation to other Alexandrian texts.20 Birger Pearson called attention to the fact that the Coptic Apocalypse adapts 2 Peter 2:17, where the opponents are called “waterless founts” (πηγαὶ ἄνυδροι).21 The “Peter” of the Apocalypse called bishops and deacons “waterless canals” (ⲛⲓⲟⲟⲣ − ⲛⲁⲧⲙⲟⲟⲩ).22 This seems to be an instance of two writers hurling a similarly worded insult with a different referent. Assuming that the author of the Coptic Apocalypse knew 2 Peter, he or she likely knew it at or near its place of origin, namely Alexandria.23 16 17

18

19

20

21

22 23

2 Disc Seth (VII,2) 57.9–19. Holy Book (III,2) 64.1–2. See further Dylan M. Burns “Jesus’ Reincarnations Revisited in Jewish Christianity, Sethian Gnosticism, and Mani,” in Portraits of Jesus: Studies in Christology, ed. Susan E. Myers (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 371–392. The best evidence for this is Clement, who in Strom. (ca. 200–210 ce) addresses Valentinus, Heracleon, Basilides, Isidore, Carpocrates, Epiphanes, and any Christian (including Marcionites and possibly Sethians) who proposed a negative view of the creator. Louis Painchaud, Le deuxième traité du Grand Seth (NH VII,2), BCNH “Textes” 6 (Quebec: University of Laval Press, 1982), 4–7; Gregory Riley, “Second Treatise of Great Seth,” in Nag Hammadi Codex VII, ed. Birger A. Pearson, NHMS 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 142–143; Silvia Pellegrini, “Der Zweite Logos des Groβen Seth,” Nag Hammadi Deutsch 2.569–590 at 573. Havelaar’s arguments for Syrian provenance (use of Matthew, similarity to other Peter literature – naming only Kerygmata Petrou and the Pseudo-Clementines) is not cogent (The Coptic Apocalypse of Peter [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012], 15). Birger Pearson, “The Apocalypse of Peter and Canonical 2 Peter,” in Gnosticism and the Early Christian World in Honor of James M. Robinson, ed. J. E. Goehring et al. (Sonoma: Polebridge, 1990), 67–74. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 79.31. Grünstäudl, Petrus Alexandrinus; Frey, “Second Peter in New Perspective,” 7–74.



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The fact that the author of this apocalypse chose Peter as the authority indicated that he or she wanted to continue the Petrine discourse already prominent in Alexandria. References to the “wedding of incorruptibility”24 and to the Savior as a noetic Fullness sound Valentinian.25 At the same time, the depiction of Christ’s crucifixion resembles later Basilidean lore.26 The writer of the Coptic Apocalypse was neither Basilidean nor Valentinian, I believe, but he or she knew and adapted elements of Basilidean and Valentinian lore. The hybridizing assimilation of such lore suggests a location in Alexandria, where both schools of thought continued to claim a hearing into the early third century ce. The writer of the Coptic Apocalypse called his own group “the few” or “the little ones” (ⲛⲓⲕⲟⲩⲉⲓ).27 Yet the emphasis here was evidently on their spiritual youth and simplicity. They were “children of light,” the children of the undefiled Father.28 The author imagined “multitudes” (ϩⲉⲛⲙⲏⲏϣⲉ) that lead astray other “multitudes” (ϩⲉⲛⲕⲉⲙⲏⲏϣⲉ) of living ones.29 These two “multitudes” are not said to be relatively larger or smaller. Jesus creates a “remnant” (ⲡⲓⲕⲉⲥⲉⲉⲡⲉ) whom he summons to knowledge.30 But the remnant is not necessarily a minority, since the opponents, in turn, formed “an imitation remnant” (ⲟⲩϣⲱϫⲡ̅ ⲛ̅ⲁⲛⲧⲓⲙⲓⲙⲟⲛ).31 The advantage of the “imitation remnant” is temporary: they rule over the little ones. Yet in the final age, the tables will be turned and “Peter’s” group of enlightened Christians will, the author promises, take charge.32 In the end, the writer of this apocalypse never clearly concedes that his group was smaller than any opposing party.33

24 25 26

27 28 29 30 31

32 33

Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 79.6–7. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 83.8–15. Jean-Daniel Dubois, “Les Gnostiques Basilidiens et deux textes du codex VII de Nag Hammadi,” in Nag Hammadi a 70 ans: Qu’avon-nous appris? ed. E. Crégheur et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2019), 385–402. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 78.22; 79.19; 80.1; cf. Matt 18:10. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 78.25–26; cf. Matt 18:3. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 80.2–4. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 71.20–21. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 78.16. See further David Hellholm, “The Mighty Minority of Gnostic Christians,” in Mighty Minorities? Minorities in Early Christianity: Positions and Strategies, ed. David Hellholm, Halvor Moxnes, and Turid Karlsen Seim (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 41–66. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 80.8–16. Pace Andreas Werner, “The Coptic Gnostic Apocalypse of Peter,” in New Testament Apocrypha 2.700–711 at 702–703.

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In saying this, I do not deny that some of “Peter’s” opponents were early catholics.34 In fact, it is tempting to identify the “evil, cunning man” who rules “heretically” in this apocalypse with bishop Demetrius (bishop from 189 to 232 ce). If so, it would be Demetrius who, according to this author, propagated the “falsehood” that he succeeded Peter. In this way, according to the Coptic Apocalypse, he led his flock into error and falsehood. He taught his flock a “multifarious doctrine,” and spoke evil about other Christian groups.35 He appointed the very bishops and deacons who were “waterless canals.” Evidently the process of making one’s enemies “heretics” was in full swing by the turn of the third century and texts such as the Coptic Apocalypse of Peter and the Second Discourse of Great Seth give us a glimpse of figures and groups who struggled to craft a rhetoric of legitimacy. With regard to second-century Alexandrian texts, there is almost no demographical foothold whatsoever. What scant data we have do not seem to compare Christian groups, but Christians with non-Christians. The author of 2 Clement, for instance, claimed that his people “have become more numerous than those who seemed to have God” (2:3). The author never clarified who it was who “seemed” to have God. The Jews are often suggested – I think plausibly.36 If the author of 2 Clement was writing about Jews from Alexandria, then he could claim that Christians outnumbered Jews in the city after 117 ce.37 Presumably this was before Alexandria had a widely recognized monepiscopate (2 Clem 17:3) – thus before 200 ce. This was a time when Jesus’s saying that “the two shall become one, the outside like the inside, and the male with the female neither male nor female” (12:2) was locally credited as an authentic saying of Jesus.38 This was a saying found in the Gospel According to the Egyptians and partially in the Gospel of Thomas – two documents that I argued (Chapter 8) were either written in Alexandria or at least circulated there by the mid–second century. The case for 2 Clement’s Alexandrian provenance is strengthened, I believe, by its earliest preservation in the east (Codex Alexandrinus, 34 35 36 37 38

Koschorke, Die Polemik der Gnostiker. Apoc Pet. (VII,3) 74.10.27. For discussion, see Tuckett, 2 Clement 143–144. For a different view, see Pratscher, “Der zweite Clemensbrief” 96–97. This saying has resonances with both Gos. Thom. 22 and the Gospel According to the Egyptians. Clement cited similar sayings from the Gospel According to the Egyptians around 200 ce in Strom. 3.13.92.2–3.13.93.3, and did not deny that they came from Jesus.



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Codex Hierosolymitanus, and a Syrian manuscript from Edessa) and its earliest reception by Origen (probable) and Eusebius (certain). Its distinctive phrase “Father of truth” (2 Clem 3:1; 20:5) reappears in Heracleon,39 Marcus the Valentinian,40 the Gospel of Truth,41 the Second Discourse of Great Seth,42 and the Hypostasis of the Archons.43 The Gospel of Truth and the Second Discourse of Great Seth are arguably Alexandrian,44 and Heracleon perhaps sojourned in Alexandria at some point in his career.45 Possible hints of a Valentinian ecclesiology appear in 2 Clement 14:1 (a spiritual Church of life existing before creation). The apocalyptic eschatology – with the whole earth melted in fire (16:3) – resembles the scenario in 2 Peter 3. Finally, the judgment scenes in 2 Clement 17:5–7 concur with the Greek Apocalypse of Peter. 2 Peter and the Apocalypse of Peter are widely taken to be Alexandrian. Wilhelm Pratscher, to whom I am indebted for these arguments, argues for an anti-Valentinian tendency in 2 Clement that would also fit an Alexandrian context.46 Could the author of 2 Clement have claimed that his group was larger than competing Christian groups such as the Basilideans? It seems unlikely. Again, the author stated that his group has “become more numerous than those who seemed to have God” (2:3). My sense is that this author would not have conceded that Basilideans – or Prodicans or Carpocratians – ever “seemed” to have God, at least not any more than his own Christian circle. Even if this author did claim quantitative superiority over other Christian groups, one must query his remarks in light of later sources (see further in this chapter). It is precipitous, at any rate, to claim 2 Clement for what became the early catholic tradition. In his own time (early to late second century), we simply do not know to what group the author of 2 Clement belonged and whether he would have identified with what later became the early catholic network. 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Heracleon frag. 20 from Origen, Comm. Io. 13.97. Irenaeus, AH 1.13.2. Gos. Truth (I,3) 16.31–33. 2 Disc. Seth (VII,2) 53.3–4. Hyp. Arch. (II,4) 86.20–21. Ashwin-Siejkowski, Valentinus’s Legacy 61–79. Ansgar Wucherpfennig, Heracleon Philologus: Gnostische Johannesexegese im zweiten Jahrhundert, WUNT 142 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 369–371. Pratscher, “Der zweite Clemensbrief,” 92–97. Jesus’s saying to Peter in 2 Clem 5:3–4 also coincides with Petrine discourse in Alexandria. For differing opinions, see Tuckett, 2 Clement 47–57; Kelhoffer, “Second Clement and Gnosticism: The status quaestionis,” Early Christianity 8 (2017): 124–149.

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In light of these data, it is safest, I think, to discontinue the residual practice of referring to incipient catholics in Alexandria as “the great (or majority) church” – at least when treating the second century ce.47 There is simply no hard evidence that early catholics could legitimately claim numerical superiority even during the tenure of Demetrius. Christians of the second and early third centuries used numbers and numerical expressions in the context of (hostile) comparisons with other Christians in order to show that they were more legitimate. The expression “the great church” is an ideological and polemical expression. If Celsus was adopting the self-identifying label of a known Christian group, he did not identify them precisely. Only in the fourth century do we have clear and reliable evidence of early catholics – now armed with imperial support – applying “the great church” title to their own assemblies.

The Many Schools Despite many advances in research,48 there are still scholars that choose to present a fairly monolithic, formalized, and singular school of Alexandria with recognized heads (Pantaenus–Clement–Origen) – a school that Eusebius referred to as “the catechetical school.”49 In all likelihood, an 47

48

49

For recent use of “the great church” expression, see, e.g., Ritter, “Das frühchristliche Alexandrien,” 135; Kelhoffer, “Second Clement and Gnosticism,” 129; Augusto Cosentino, Il battesimo gnostico: dottrine, simboli e riti iniziatici nello gnosticismo (Cosenza: Lionello Giordano, 2007), 51–60. For Eusebius’s adoption of “the great church” expression, see HE 7.30.10; Dem. 1.10.27; 10.8.105; cf. Athanasius, Historia Arianorum 74.2; Apology to Constantine 14.1, 5; 15.1. Neymeyr, Christlichen Lehrer 93–95; Van den Broek, “The Christian ‘School’ of Alexandria in the Second and Third Centuries,” in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-modern Europe and the Near East, ed. Jan Willem Drijvers and Alisdair A. MacDonald (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 39–47; Clemens Scholten, “Die Alexandrinische Katechetenschule,” JAC 38 (1995): 16–37; Le Boulluec, “Aux origines, encore, de l’‘école’ d’Alexandrie,” in Alexandrie antique et chrétienne: Clément et Origène, 2nd ed. (Paris: Institute d’Études Augustiniennes, 2012), 25–57; Dietmar Wywra, “Religiöses Lernen im zweiten Jahrhundert und die Anfänge der alexandrinischen Katechetenschule,” in Religiöses Lernen in der biblischen, frühjüdischen und frühchristlichen Überlieferung, ed. Beate Ego and Helmut Merkel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 271–306 at 292–302; van den Hoek, “The ‘Catechetical’ School of Early Christian Alexandria and Its Philonic Heritage,” HTR 90:1 (1997): 59–87; Markschies, Christian Theology and Its Institutions in the Early Roman Empire (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2015), 80–82. Eusebius, HE 5.10; 6.3.3; 6.3.8. W. H. Oliver, “The Catechetical School in Alexandria,” Verbum et Ecclesia 36:1 (2015), http://dx.doi.org/10.4102/ve.v36i1.1385; Peter R. Rodgers, “The Origins of the Alexandrian Text of the New Testament,” Filologia Neotestamentaria 35 (2022) 49–53 at 51; Attila Jakab, “The Social History of the



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early catholic catechetical school arose in the early third century ce. In the early second century, however, a variety of Christian teachers, in the manner of Philo, gave lessons in a variety of (mostly private and domestic) settings. Each of them competed for recognition, but none of them, it seems, proved to be any more “official” than another, even if individual teachers boasted of their superior education or their honored place in a line of sacred (apostolic) tradition. To focus on a single succession (Pantaenus–Clement–Origen) tells only a partial (and partisan) story of theological education in Alexandria. A variety of other teachers, it seems, formed small but successful successions already in the first half of the second century. Carpocrates taught Epiphanes and Marcellina. Glaucias, a reputed disciple of Peter reportedly instructed Basilides, who in turn taught Isidore and other unnamed disciples. Prodicus and Apelles had unnamed disciples who carried on the teachings of their master. All these teachers formed what can be called “schools” for those interested in more advanced Christian instruction. Teachers later claimed for the fourth-century imperial church – the earliest of whom was Pantaenus – came fairly late onto the Alexandrian scene.50 They thrived a generation or more after Basilides, Carpocrates, Epiphanes, Marcellina, Prodicus, and others. By the time Pantaenus arrived in Alexandria (about 180 ce), there were at least eight known “schools” of Christian thought that were present or had once existed in Alexandria (Basilidean, Valentinian, Marcionite, Eugnostan, Carpocratian, Prodican, Cassianic, and Naassene). Pantaenus’s school was not any more institutionalized or better known between 180 and 200 ce. Whether there was an institutional connection between Pantaenus’s – and, later, Clement’s – schools and the institution later consolidated under Demetrius is an open question.51 The fact that there were many Alexandrian Christian “schools” instead of one does not diminish the pedagogical contribution of early Alexandrian Christianity. It highlights, rather, that Alexandrian

50

51

Alexandrian Church,” in The Oxford Handbook of Origen, ed. Ronald E. Heine and Karen Jo Torjesen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2022), 3–18 at 9. The testimony of Philip of Side – that Athenagoras led the school before Pantaenus – is generally not accepted, despite the argument of Bernard Pouderon, D’Athènes à Alexandrie: études dur Athénagore et les origenes de la philosophie chrétienne (Leuven: Peeters, 1997), 2–70. Cf. Pouderon, Athénagore d’Athènes: Philosophe chrétien (Paris: Beauchesne 1989), 26–29. On Pantaenus, see Neymeyr, Christlichen Lehrer 40–45; Jakab, Ecclesia alexandrina 112–116.

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Christians of several varieties were ahead of their time when it came to offering what can be called advanced theological training. Alexandria had long been a place for advanced studies in philosophy. What seems to have happened over time is that educated and elite Christians – students of ancient philosophy and literature – adapted the study-circle model and methods of local philosophers (including Philo) for teaching Christian lore.52 To be sure, when Christians adapted the structures and methods of the philosophical schools, they offered their own innovative content. Instead of exegeting Platonic dialogues, the focus was on Septuagintal and apostolic texts. Genesis replaced the Timaeus as the focus of reflection on the origin of the world. Most of this higher education probably took place in domestic settings under private instructors. We know the names of a few of these instructors (Basilides, Carpocrates, and so on), but there were probably many more.53 Were all these various Christian schools at Alexandria “catechetical”? It depends on what one means by this term. Insofar as these schools were or were wings of various Alexandrian churches, one might choose to call them “catechetical” in the sense of involving catachesis (Christian teaching broadly conceived). All teaching in these schools was ecclesial teaching insofar as these schools also served as or were outgrowths of worshiping communities. Nevertheless, if “catechetical” indicates prebaptismal instruction specifically, then these schools should be characterized differently. Generally speaking, these schools were not designed for neophytes but for advanced students who had already progressed in Christian and other sorts of learning. The emphasis on higher theological education in Alexandria does not mean that Alexandrian forms of Christianity catered only to intellectuals.54 Intellectuals only ever made up a sliver of the Christian population in Alexandria, as was the case in other cities of the Mediterranean. It is

52 53

54

Sterling, “‘School of Sacred Laws,’” 148–164; Sterling, “The School of Moses in Alexandria,” 141–166. See further A. H. Armstrong, “Gnosis and Greek Philosophy,” in Gnosis: Festschrift für Hans Jonas, ed. B. Aland et al. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 87–124; Winrich Löhr, “Christian Gnostics and Greek Philosophy in the Second Century,” Early Christianity 3 (2012): 349–377. Pace Fürst, Christentum als Intellektuellen-Religion. See further Samuel Vollenweider, “Bildungsfreunde oder Bildungsverächter? Überlegungen zum Stellenwert der Bildung im frühen Christentum,” in Was ist Bildung in der Vormoderne? ed. Peter Gemeinhardt (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020), 283–304.



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nonetheless true that Alexandrian Christian intellectuals were disproportionately influential. The work of the earliest Alexandrian theologians makes clear that deep thinkers could find a place in Christian assemblies, despite Celsus’s accusations that Christians appealed to ignorant yokels. There is suggestive evidence to say that Alexandria was the birthplace of Christian systematic theology (Eugnostus), the scientific commentary (Basilides’s Exegetica), and advanced methods in allegorical interpretation (Marcellina, Theodotus, and Clement). ֍֍֍ It is time to bring this book to a close. The journey has taken us through the thickets of early Christian theology and practice, and we have traveled many roads untaken. We have dared to depict the “dark period” in Alexandrian church history (about 40–180 ce). It is hardly the case that this book has dispelled all of that darkness. At the same time, more than a few bright brush strokes have spread across our canvas. To be sure, we would like to know more about the figures discussed here and to be more certain about what texts were written in Alexandria. New theories about a text’s provenance are destined to arise. Most of my findings, however, are grounded in the bedrock of actual persons known to have been raised in Alexandria or to have sojourned there for a significant period of time. Hopefully more data will come to light through the discovery of new papyri, texts, and artwork that manifest ideas and persons locatable in the great Egyptian metropolis. This book is not about nostalgia – pining for a time when early Christianity was diverse, cosmopolitan, and philosophically attuned. Even after 180 ce, Christian theologians in Alexandria continued to be all of these things. If the early catholic voice became increasingly dominant in the third and fourth centuries, it never managed to drown out other competing choruses in Alexandria and Egypt more broadly. New groups would arise – Origenists, Arians, a motley host of monastics, miaphysites, and other non-Chalcedonians – who would continue to contest declarations from across the Mediterranean that trumpeted their authority and orthodoxy. Although Alexandrian theologians shared distinctive themes and emphases, the very cosmopolitan nature of Alexandrian theology meant that it was never perceived as completely alien in other regions. Alexandria never stopped exporting its ideas, ideals, and institutions. Some of these ideas and institutions – such as the early Christian school and theological curriculula – would be adopted or adapted. Others, such as transmigration and the

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distinction between God and the creator, would be the objects of a twofisted attack. In sum, the ancient city of Alexander afforded some of the finest Christian theologians and writings during Christianity’s infancy. Its influence can still be felt among Christians to this day. Even now, the city has more secrets to reveal, though many of them lie buried under Alexandria’s modern highways and high-rises. I personally hope that the lovers and caretakers of this ancient city will make every effort to secure its future. Such a future can only be secured, I think, by fully recovering its past. We are no longer able to leap from Saint Mark to Demetrius. The distance is too great even if it is unsurveyed. The desolate gloom that we perceive in late first- and early second-century Alexandria can still shine with the light of scholarly discourse.

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Index

1 Corinthians, 40, 43–50, 52, 53, 66, 113, 114, 119, 127 2 Clement, 18, 19, 129, 174, 175 2 Peter, 18

catechetical school(s), 176–178 Celsus, 94, 96–98, 108, 144, 149, 170, 171, 176, 179 Christ. See Jesus Claudius, 26, 59 Clement of Alexandria, 4, 7, 9 Coptic Apocalypse of Peter, 18, 172–174 cosmopolitanism, 36, 101, 160, 166, 179 creator, lower, 94, 105, 115, 118, 119, 121, 127, 136, 140, 141, 143–149, 162, 165, 168, 180 Cybele, 158

Acts of the Apostles, 6, 8–10, 12, 13, 19, 35–37, 40–43, 49–54, 56, 63, 66–68, 79, 92, 94, 100, 123 Agathos Daimon, 155 anointing, 158, 166 Apelles, 143–149, 162, 177 Apocalypse of Peter, 2, 18, 66, 81–84, 86, 95, 102, 172–175 Apollos, 16, 38–55, 113, 120 Apuleius, 154 Aristides, 77, 112, 117 Aristotle, 154 asceticism, 7, 31, 32, 124–126, 131–133, 136, 149, 158, 159, 164, 166

deification (of the mind), 16, 23, 30, 32, 48, 54, 82, 105, 119, 124, 137, 142, 143, 149, 165, 166, 168 Demetrius, 2, 125, 166–168, 174, 176, 177, 180 Diaspora Revolt, 15, 16, 34, 61, 72, 91

baptism, 158, 166 Barnabas, Epistle of, 2, 5, 17, 18, 36, 63, 66–69, 71–76, 78, 79, 84, 86–88, 92–94 Basilides, 2–6, 9, 10, 16, 87, 91–95, 98, 99, 101–106, 109, 120, 126–128, 138, 156, 162, 171, 172, 177–179 Bauer, Walter, 3–6, 10, 13–15, 76 Berlin Coptic Book, 68 capital (social, political, cultural), 62, 64, 65, 87, 88, 106, 120 Carpocrates, 2–6, 8, 57, 87, 91–95, 98–106, 120, 124, 126, 138, 144, 151, 156, 172, 177, 178 castration, 123, 125, 158, 161

Egyptian calendar, 109, 117 Egyptians, 57 Empedocles, 154 Encratites, 137 Epiphanes, 2–5, 7, 92, 94, 95, 100, 101, 104, 105, 172, 177 Eugnostus, 2, 14, 18, 105, 107–121, 151, 179 Eusebius, 2, 5–10, 37, 61, 69, 77, 79, 82–84, 92, 99, 101, 102, 117, 125, 137, 144, 145, 175, 176 Excerpts from Theodotus, 139, 141 Exegesis of the Soul, 18, 133, 156 Felix, L. Munatius, 123

221

222

Index

galli. See castration Glaucias, 9, 95, 177 gnosis/gnostic, 2–4, 6, 11, 14, 107, 151, 157, 168, 170 Gospel According to the Egyptians, 6, 11, 13, 95, 129–131, 139, 155, 160, 174 Gospel According to the Hebrews, 13, 17 Gospel of Judas, 117 Gospel of Mary, 10, 95 Gospel of Thomas, 4, 10, 11, 15, 18, 19, 35, 45, 62, 76, 81, 98, 109, 112, 118, 129–133, 135–137, 139, 155, 160, 169, 174 “great church,” 169–171, 176 Hadrian, 4, 5, 61, 62, 72, 73, 84, 87, 91, 117 Harnack, Adolf von, 1 Heracleon, 163 Hermetica, 97, 103, 109–112, 120, 156 Homer, 154 identity, 3, 16, 44, 47, 62, 64, 65, 73, 75, 79, 80, 87, 88, 93, 100, 151, 154 Irenaeus, 7, 11, 42, 88, 92–94, 98, 99, 101, 103–106, 108–110, 114–118, 124, 128, 134, 137–139, 141, 143, 145, 146, 148, 156, 163, 171, 175 Isidore (son of Basilides), 2, 5, 7, 127, 128, 172, 177 Jerome, 6, 51, 122, 137 Jerusalem, 8–10, 12–14, 24, 25, 35, 38, 39, 62, 71, 72, 143 Jesus, 8, 10, 11, 14–16, 23, 32–37, 39–41, 43, 44, 49, 51–56, 60, 62–65, 67, 72–75, 77–81, 84–86, 88, 91–94, 97–101, 103–105, 107, 109, 112, 115–118, 121, 124, 125, 127–133, 140–142, 144–148, 151, 159, 162–166, 171–175 Jewish customs, 15, 25, 34, 63, 65, 67, 73, 74, 78, 87, 91, 132, 136, 143 Josephus, 24, 50, 58–61, 63, 64, 69, 79 Julius Cassianus, 2, 3, 5, 7, 14, 16, 121–123, 126–138, 144, 148, 155, 158, 160, 164, 166 Logos, 19, 25, 27, 28, 30–32, 47, 48, 54, 76, 82, 113, 116, 119, 140, 162, 168, 172 Lucian of Samosata, 83, 161

Marcellina, 2, 4, 5, 7, 95, 98, 100, 106, 124, 144, 177, 179 Marcion, 6, 42, 97, 143–146, 148, 160, 164 Mark, legend of, 7–9 martyrdom, 83, 85, 102, 105, 127 Mary Magdalene, 151 massacre of Jews in 66 ce, 57, 59, 62 Modrzejewski, J. M., 2 Moses, 24, 25, 28–30, 48, 72, 75, 82, 86, 87, 92, 101, 147, 159, 178 mysteries, 25, 51, 53, 113, 157, 160 networks, 33, 37, 39, 56, 63, 65, 167 nomina sacra, 12–14 ORBIS (the Stanford Geospatial Network Model of the Roman World), 38 Origen, 2, 7, 12, 27, 35, 42, 51, 68, 72, 76, 78, 92–98, 102, 103, 108, 116, 124, 125, 130, 144, 145, 147–149, 151, 163, 168, 170, 171, 175–177 Pantaenus, 2, 10, 176, 177 Pappus and Lulianus, 70, 71 papyri, 10–13, 57, 62, 133, 179 Paul, apostle, 8, 9, 14, 15, 17, 25, 26, 30, 31, 35–38, 40–53, 66, 67, 78, 81, 82, 94, 95, 103, 110, 113, 124, 127, 129, 147, 149, 165, 166, 170, 177 Pearson, Birger, 3, 4, 9, 10, 19, 48, 61, 86, 88, 108, 112, 126, 127, 133, 172 Peter, apostle, 8–10, 18, 36, 44, 50, 60, 63, 64, 72, 75–87, 93, 95, 97, 110, 112, 123, 148, 170, 172–176, 178 Philo, 7–9, 23–35, 44, 47, 48, 51, 53, 54, 57–59, 68, 69, 82, 97, 101, 103, 110, 113, 116, 119, 120, 124, 125, 128, 131, 133, 134, 136, 140, 143, 145, 147, 156, 177, 178 Platonism, 4, 16, 19, 24, 26, 132, 134, 140 Plutarch, 154 pogrom, 25, 57, 62, 88 Preaching of Peter, 18, 66 primal Human. See theandry Prodicus, 2, 4, 7, 91–95, 101, 102, 105, 106, 120, 138, 144, 151, 162, 177 Pythagoreanism, 23, 24, 26, 42, 99, 103, 104, 106, 118, 124, 126 Refutation of All Heresies. See Refutator Refutator, 152, 154, 157, 163



Index

rejection of the corruptible flesh, 48 Roberts, Colin H., 1, 10–14 Rome, 154 Salome, 18, 95, 129–131 Second Discourse of Great Seth, 171, 172, 174, 175 Second Sophistic, 153, 160 Seed of Seth, 165 Sentences of Sextus, 18, 19, 123–126 Sibylline Oracle, 76, 77, 83 Simonians, 98, 136, 157, 170 snake, 135, 150, 155 Stoicism, 24, 26, 100–101, 106, 112, 126 Testimony of Truth, 18, 126–128, 132, 134, 136, 137, 139, 159, 163, 164, 166

223

theandry, 15, 23, 48, 151, 165 Therapeutae, 7, 10, 31, 136 Trajan, 2, 57, 61, 62, 70 transcendent God, 15, 23, 26, 32, 93, 105, 119, 165 transmigration, 15, 23, 28, 29, 32, 102–105, 119, 137, 143, 149, 156, 166, 168, 179 Valentinus, 2–4, 7, 10, 14, 19, 35, 76, 91, 106, 109, 112, 116, 128, 138, 139, 143, 145, 146, 160, 162, 170–172, 175 Wisdom, 10, 14, 17, 40, 43, 47, 48, 54, 66, 74, 99, 107, 108, 114–121, 129, 140, 143, 145, 146, 153 Wisdom of Jesus Christ, 10, 107, 121, 122