Hellenistic Dimensions of the Gospel of Matthew: Background and Rhetoric 3161545230, 9783161545238

Table of contents :
Cover
Preface and Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
List of Abbreviations
1. Introduction
2. Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew
2.1 Jews and Gentiles in the Gospels
2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide
2.2.1 Historical Jesus Studies and the Gospels
2.2.2 Qumran and Diversity Within Judaism
2.3 Moving Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide
2.3.1 Hellenism Inside and Outside of Palestine
2.3.2 Presumed Audience of the Gospels
2.4 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide and the Gospel of Matthew
2.4.1 The Matthean Community: External Evidence
2.4.2 Judaism and Anti-Judaism: Internal Evidence
2.5 Conclusion
3. Matthew’s Gospel as a Greek Document
3.1 Language
3.2 Sources
3.2.1 Mark
3.2.2 Oral Tradition, Matthean Sondergut, and Q
3.2.3 LXX
3.2.4 Source Traditions of the Sermon on the Mount
3.3 Provenance and Vocabulary
3.4 Literary Genre
3.5 Conclusion
4. Rhetorical Criticism and Methodology
4.1 Primary Methodological Concerns
4.2 Intertextuality and Audience
4.2.1 The Vocabulary of Intertextuality
4.2.2 Audience and Authorial Intent
4.3 Definitions and History of Rhetorical Criticism
4.3.1 Rhetorical Analysis in Early Christianity: Origen and Augustine
4.3.2 Rhetorical Analysis and Higher Criticism: Dibelius and Bultmann
4.3.3 Rhetorical Analysis from 1968: Muilenberg
4.4 Rhetorical Criticism: Two Schools
4.4.1 Ancient Rhetoric in Modern Terms
4.4.2 Ancient Rhetoric in Ancient Terms
4.4.3 Preliminary Conclusion
4.5 Rhetorical Criticism and Other Methodologies
4.5.1 Redaction Critical Approaches
4.5.2 The Disciples’ Understanding
4.5.3 How the Disciples Relate to the Implied Audience
4.6 Conclusion
5. Ancient Greek and Roman Education
5.1 The Complexities of Analyzing Ancient Education
5.2 Conquest and the Spread of the Greek Language
5.3 General Hellenistic Education
5.3.1 Stage 1: Primary School
5.3.2 Stage 2: Secondary School
5.3.3 Stage 3: Rhetorical School
5.3.4 School Buildings
5.4 Rhetorical Education and Rhetorical Composition
5.4.1 Sources
5.4.2 Rhetorical Composition
5.4.2.1 Invention
5.4.2.2 Arrangement
5.4.2.3 Style
5.4.3 Exercises
5.4.4 μίμησις/Imitatio
5.5 Starting Points: Homeric and Socratic Works
5.5.1 Homeric Epics
5.5.2 Socratic Dialogues
5.6 Conclusion
6. Socratic Resonances
6.1 What are the Rhetorical Boundaries of the Text?
6.1.1 Greco-Roman Corollaries
6.2 What Is the Rhetorical Situation/Context in Which the Text Appears?
6.2.1 The Sermon on the Mount as Compendium or Epitome
6.2.1.1 Matthew’s Context Suggests Repetition
6.2.1.2 Matthew’s Presentation Suggests a Particular Setting
6.2.1.3 The Content and Structure of the Sermon
6.2.1.4 Possible Positions
6.2.2 Literary Genre: The Sermon on the Mount as Epitome
6.2.3 Literary Context: The Rhetorical Setting
6.2.3.1 Went
6.2.3.2 Sat Down
6.2.3.3 Opened His Mouth
6.2.3.4 Disciples/Teach/Authority
6.3 What Rhetorical Need Is the Text Addressing?
6.3.1 The Problems of Persecution and Reward
6.3.2 The Fulfillment of the Law and Prophets
6.3.3 The Call to Discipleship
6.3.4 A Matthean Apologetic
6.3.5 Rhetorical Species
6.3.6 Preliminary Conclusion
6.4 How Is the Text Arranged and Styled to Address the Need?
6.4.1 Structure
6.4.1.1 Exordium (Matt 5:3–16)
6.4.1.2 Narratio (Matt 5:17–20)
6.4.1.3 Partitio/Confirmatio/Refutatio (Matt 5:21–7:20)
6.4.1.4 Peroratio (Matt 7:21–27)
6.4.1.5 Summary of Structure
6.4.2 Major Theme(s)
6.4.2.1 General Context: Kingdom of Heaven
6.4.2.2 Beatitudes and Tributes (Matt 5:3–16)
6.4.2.3 Antitheses (Matt 5:21–48)
6.4.2.4 Righteous Piety (Matt 6:1–18)
6.4.2.5 Wealth and Relationship (Matt 6:19–7:20)
6.4.3 Literary Features
6.4.3.1 Rhetorical Questions: Aporia
6.4.3.2 Hyperbole
6.4.3.3 Parables
6.4.3.4 Anaphora
6.4.3.5 Synechdoche
6.5 Conclusion: Is It Successful in Addressing the Rhetorical Need?
7. Matthew’s Use of Education Vocabulary
7.1 Discipleship Vocabulary
7.1.1 Clarifying Sources
7.1.2 Reshaping Sources
7.1.3 Revising Sources
7.1.4 Removing from Sources
7.1.4.1 Extensive Omissions of Markan Source Material
7.1.4.2 Economic Omissions of Markan Source Material
7.1.4.3 Revisions Including Omissions of Markan Source Material
7.1.4.4 Omissions of Q Source Material
7.2 The Greek Context of Discipleship Vocabulary
7.2.1 General Use: Learner
7.2.2 Technical Use: Student/Pupil
7.2.3 Broad Use: Adherent
7.2.4 Preliminary Conclusion
7.3 Teaching Vocabulary
7.3.1 The Added Weight of ῥαββί
7.3.2 The Insertions of διδάσκαλε
7.3.3 The Use of Other Forms of διδάσκαλος
7.3.4 The Uses of Other Nouns (διδαχή and διδασκαλία)
7.3.5 The Uses of the Verb διδάσκω
7.3.6 The Other Uses of διδάσκαλος and Related Vocabulary
7.3.7 καθηγητής and Other Vocabulary
7.4 The Greek Context of Teaching Vocabulary
7.4.1 Preliminary Conclusion
7.5 Conclusion
8. Homeric Resonances
8.1 Issues of Methodology
8.1.1 MacDonald’s Criteria for Comparative Analysis
8.1.2 Problems with MacDonald’s Methodology
8.1.3 A Way Forward
8.2 Comparative Analysis of Homer with Mark and Matthew
8.2.1 Storms at Sea
8.2.2 Encounters with Brutal Figures
8.3 Analysis of Matthew’s Redactional Choices
8.4 Other Possibilities of Homeric (and Virgilian) Resonances
8.5 Conclusion
9. Conclusion
9.1 Summary
9.2 Areas of Further Research
Bibliography
Index of Ancient Sources
Hebrew Bible and Septuagint
Old Testament Pseudepigrapha
Mishna, Talmud, and Related Literature
New Testament
Apostolic Fathers
Other Ancient Authors
Index of Modern Authors
Index of Subjects

Citation preview

Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament · 2. Reihe Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) · James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL) · Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

414

Robert S. Kinney

Hellenistic Dimensions of the Gospel of Matthew Background and Rhetoric

Mohr Siebeck

Robert S. Kinney, born 1981; 2004 BA in Early Christian Literature; 2008 MS in Journalism; 2013 ThC in Theology; 2015 PhD in New Testament; since 2005 Director of Ministries for the Charles Simeon Trust (USA).

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-154524-5 ISBN 978-3-16-154523-8 ISSN 0340-9570 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2. Reihe) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

© 2016 Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed by Laupp & Göbel in Gomaringen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

For Angela

Preface and Acknowledgments This volume is a revised version of my dissertation, which was originally defended at the University of Bristol in the winter of 2014. Of course, I hope that it makes a useful contribution to scholarship on the Gospel of Matthew. As nothing of this scope is completed alone, I am very grateful to several people. First, my initial interest in the Sermon on the Mount as a piece of Greco-Roman rhetoric emerged from a conversation I had with the Rev. David R. Helm in 2008. But much more importantly, he has been a pastor, supervisor, mentor, intellectual sparring partner, and friend for more than fifteen years. I am most grateful for his counsel and friendship. Second, Dr. W. John Lyons has provided excellent guidance and shown remarkable patience as this project moved from a conversation to the thousands of words marking out these pages. He worked to provide me with an excellent atmosphere for doing research and, more importantly, he kept it both fun and interesting. I could have not have imagined a better supervisor and I am most grateful to him. It is, of course, impossible to identify all of the other influences that have contributed to my study of the Bible, but several have been important to this project. I am grateful to my examiners throughout the doctoral program: Dr. Jonathan Campbell, the Rev. Prof. John Nolland, Dr. Kurt Lampe, and Prof. James Crossley. Their feedback and guidance has only improved the quality of this work. Likewise, I have had many helpful conversations with good friends in Chicago, particularly Prof. Clare K. Rothschild, Dr. Robert Matthew Calhoun, and Prof. Emeritus Hans Dieter Betz. I am especially grateful to Dr. Calhoun for his thorough reading of a few of the early chapters. I wish I had the time to follow all of his excellent suggestions. I am also grateful for several others at the University of Chicago who contributed intangibly to my training, both during my undergraduate years and these last few, especially Prof. David G. Martinez and Prof. Jonathan Z. Smith. The assistance provided by the staff of the University of Chicago libraries has been invaluable, particularly that of my dear friend and the master of information, John W. Kimbrough. My interest in interdisciplinary approaches to the humanities, including my affection for several of the works I discuss in this dissertation, began under the guidance of a handful of influential teachers at IMSA: Dr. Laurence Chott, Dr. Claiborne Skinner, Dr. Robert Kiely, Michael DeHaven, and particularly Dr.

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Martha Regalis. It has been a long time since I sat on the floor of your classroom, Dr. Regalis, but I am still working on these texts (and without Cliff’s dubious assistance, of course). I am especially grateful to Prof. Dr. Jörg Frey, Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, and new friends at Mohr Siebeck for the opportunity to publish my dissertation and for all of the work that has gone into producing this volume. I am especially grateful for the careful eye of Bettina Gade. Thank you! Beyond the ivory tower, the support of several individuals on both sides of the Atlantic has immeasurably contributed to whatever successes I have experienced. For the financial support of my initial sabbatical in Bristol and the freedom to work on this project since, I am grateful to the Charles Simeon Trust’s Board of Directors, past and present: the Rev. Dr. R. Kent Hughes, the Rev. David R. Helm, the Rev. Jon Dennis, Jane Hensel, Jim Bowen, Jack Zimmermann, Deborah Lorentsen, David Morken, David Oster, Dr. Kathleen Nielson, and Dr. Paul McMullan. I am also grateful to my team at the CST for giving me the flexibility to spend time with the Gospel of Matthew. It is a privilege to work with you. I am likewise thankful for the support of friends in Bristol who have stood by me through these years, often sharing meals or giving me a place to sleep: David and Jolsna Rice, the Rev. Jim and Claire Walford, and the Rev. Mike Cain. I am also grateful for my friends outside of Bristol who walked with me through the program as well as the preparation of this manuscript: Dr. Stephanie Hasselbacher Berryhill, Steve and Carol Ahrenholz, Colleen McFadden, the Rev. Alexis Perez, the Rev. William Taylor, the Rev. Dr. David Jackman, the Rev. Dr. Michael Lawrence, the Rev. Blake Johnson, the Rev. Tommy Hinson, the Rev. Jay Greener, Bishop Ken Ross, and the Ven. Patrick Curran, as well as my students and church families at Emmanuel Church in Bristol, Church of the Advent in Washington D.C., Holy Trinity Church in Chicago, and Christ Church in Vienna. A love of learning undoubtedly comes from my family, especially my parents. I am thankful for that gift and so many others over the years, gifts that have made all the difference in bringing me to this point. Thank you for everything, Mom and Dad. Finally, this project would not have been started and could not have been completed without my wife, Angela M. Kinney. Nothing worth doing is easy, so I am grateful for her partnership through the difficulties of this journey. Her expertise and scholarly advice have made a substantial contribution, and her love and support have meant everything to me. I could not have gotten this far without her. And I am certain that I would not have wanted to. Soli Deo Gloria Vienna, Austria, Lent 2016

Robert S. Kinney

Table of Contents Preface and Acknowledgements ........................................................ VII List of Abbreviations ............................................................................ XV 1. Introduction ........................................................................................... 1 2. Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew ........................ 5 2.1 Jews and Gentiles in the Gospels ............................................................. 6 2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide ................................................................. 9 2.2.1 Historical Jesus Studies and the Gospels ..........................................13 2.2.2 Qumran and Diversity Within Judaism ............................................20 2.3 Moving Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide .......................................25 2.3.1 Hellenism Inside and Outside of Palestine .......................................26 2.3.2 Presumed Audience of the Gospels ..................................................29 2.4 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide and the Gospel of Matthew ....................33 2.4.1 The Matthean Community: External Evidence.................................34 2.4.2 Judaism and Anti-Judaism: Internal Evidence..................................37 2.5 Conclusion ...............................................................................................40

3. Matthew’s Gospel as a Greek Document .....................................42 3.1 Language .................................................................................................43 3.2 Sources ....................................................................................................50

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3.2.1 Mark .................................................................................................52 3.2.2 Oral Tradition, Matthean Sondergut, and Q .....................................56 3.2.3 LXX .................................................................................................60 3.2.4 Source Traditions of the Sermon on the Mount ................................63 3.3 Provenance and Vocabulary ....................................................................64 3.4 Literary Genre .........................................................................................71 3.5 Conclusion ...............................................................................................75

4. Rhetorical Criticism and Methodology .........................................77 4.1 Primary Methodological Concerns ..........................................................77 4.2 Intertextuality and Audience ....................................................................80 4.2.1 The Vocabulary of Intertextuality ....................................................80 4.2.2 Audience and Authorial Intent .........................................................82 4.3 Definitions and History of Rhetorical Criticism ......................................84 4.3.1 Rhetorical Analysis in Early Christianity: Origen and Augustine ....87 4.3.2 Rhetorical Analysis and Higher Criticism: Dibelius and Bultmann .89 4.3.3 Rhetorical Analysis from 1968: Muilenberg ....................................92 4.4 Rhetorical Criticism: Two Schools ..........................................................93 4.4.1 Ancient Rhetoric in Modern Terms ..................................................94 4.4.2 Ancient Rhetoric in Ancient Terms ................................................ 101 4.4.3 Preliminary Conclusion .................................................................. 110 4.5 Rhetorical Criticism and Other Methodologies ..................................... 111 4.5.1 Redaction Critical Approaches ....................................................... 112 4.5.2 The Disciples’ Understanding ........................................................ 113 4.5.3 How the Disciples Relate to the Implied Audience ........................ 115 4.6 Conclusion ............................................................................................. 118





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5. Ancient Greek and Roman Education .........................................120 5.1 The Complexities of Analyzing Ancient Education ................................ 120 5.2 Conquest and the Spread of the Greek Language .................................. 124 5.3 General Hellenistic Education .............................................................. 127 5.3.1 Stage 1: Primary School ................................................................. 128 5.3.2 Stage 2: Secondary School ............................................................. 130 5.3.3 Stage 3: Rhetorical School ............................................................. 133 5.3.4 School Buildings ............................................................................ 134 5.4 Rhetorical Education and Rhetorical Composition ............................... 137 5.4.1 Sources ........................................................................................... 138 5.4.2 Rhetorical Composition .................................................................. 139 5.4.2.1 Invention ................................................................................. 140 5.4.2.2 Arrangement ........................................................................... 141 5.4.2.3 Style ........................................................................................ 143 5.4.3 Exercises ........................................................................................ 145 5.4.4 µίµησις/Imitatio .............................................................................. 148 5.5 Starting Points: Homeric and Socratic Works ....................................... 149 5.5.1 Homeric Epics ................................................................................ 150 5.5.2 Socratic Dialogues ......................................................................... 153 5.6 Conclusion ............................................................................................. 155

6. Socratic Resonances .........................................................................156 6.1 What are the Rhetorical Boundaries of the Text? .................................. 157 6.1.1 Greco-Roman Corollaries............................................................... 161 6.2 What Is the Rhetorical Situation/Context in Which the Text Appears? .. 165 6.2.1 The Sermon on the Mount as Compendium or Epitome ................. 167 6.2.1.1 Matthew’s Context Suggests Repetition ................................. 167 6.2.1.2 Matthew’s Presentation Suggests a Particular Setting ............ 168 6.2.1.3 The Content and Structure of the Sermon ............................... 168 6.2.1.4 Possible Positions ................................................................... 168 6.2.2 Literary Genre: The Sermon on the Mount as Epitome .................. 170

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6.2.3 Literary Context: The Rhetorical Setting ....................................... 173 6.2.3.1 Went ....................................................................................... 174 6.2.3.2 Sat Down ................................................................................ 175 6.2.3.3 Opened His Mouth .................................................................. 179 6.2.3.4 Disciples/Teach/Authority ...................................................... 180 6.3 What Rhetorical Need Is the Text Addressing?...................................... 185 6.3.1 The Problems of Persecution and Reward ...................................... 186 6.3.2 The Fulfillment of the Law and Prophets ....................................... 187 6.3.3 The Call to Discipleship ................................................................. 188 6.3.4 A Matthean Apologetic .................................................................. 192 6.3.5 Rhetorical Species .......................................................................... 194 6.3.6 Preliminary Conclusion .................................................................. 195 6.4 How Is the Text Arranged and Styled to Address the Need? .................. 196 6.4.1 Structure ......................................................................................... 196 6.4.1.1 Exordium (Matt 5:3–16) ......................................................... 197 6.4.1.2 Narratio (Matt 5:17–20) .......................................................... 198 6.4.1.3 Partitio/Confirmatio/Refutatio (Matt 5:21–7:20) .................... 200 6.4.1.4 Peroratio (Matt 7:21–27)......................................................... 201 6.4.1.5 Summary of Structure ............................................................. 202 6.4.2 Major Theme(s) .............................................................................. 202 6.4.2.1 General Context: Kingdom of Heaven .................................... 203 6.4.2.2 Beatitudes and Tributes (Matt 5:3–16).................................... 204 6.4.2.3 Antitheses (Matt 5:21–48) ...................................................... 205 6.4.2.4 Righteous Piety (Matt 6:1–18) ................................................ 208 6.4.2.5 Wealth and Relationship (Matt 6:19–7:20) ............................. 209 6.4.3 Literary Features ............................................................................ 210 6.4.3.1 Rhetorical Questions: Aporia .................................................. 211 6.4.3.2 Hyperbole ............................................................................... 212 6.4.3.3 Parables ................................................................................... 212 6.4.3.4 Anaphora ................................................................................ 213 6.4.3.5 Synechdoche ........................................................................... 213 6.5 Conclusion: Is It Successful in Addressing the Rhetorical Need? ......... 214

7. Matthew’s Use of Education Vocabulary ...................................216 7.1 Discipleship Vocabulary ........................................................................ 216 7.1.1 Clarifying Sources .......................................................................... 220





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7.1.2 Reshaping Sources ......................................................................... 222 7.1.3 Revising Sources ............................................................................ 225 7.1.4 Removing from Sources ................................................................. 226 7.1.4.1 Extensive Omissions of Markan Source Material ................... 227 7.1.4.2 Economic Omissions of Markan Source Material ................... 228 7.1.4.3 Revisions Including Omissions of Markan Source Material ... 229 7.1.4.4 Omissions of Q Source Material ............................................. 230 7.2 The Greek Context of Discipleship Vocabulary ..................................... 231 7.2.1 General Use: Learner ..................................................................... 233 7.2.2 Technical Use: Student/Pupil ......................................................... 234 7.2.3 Broad Use: Adherent ...................................................................... 235 7.2.4 Preliminary Conclusion .................................................................. 236 7.3 Teaching Vocabulary ............................................................................. 237 7.3.1 The Added Weight of ῥαββί ........................................................... 241 7.3.2 The Insertions of διδάσκαλε ........................................................... 242 7.3.3 The Use of Other Forms of διδάσκαλος ......................................... 244 7.3.4 The Uses of Other Nouns (διδαχή and διδασκαλία) ....................... 245 7.3.5 The Uses of the Verb διδάσκω ....................................................... 245 7.3.6 The Other Uses of διδάσκαλος and Related Vocabulary ................ 247 7.3.7 καθηγητής and Other Vocabulary .................................................. 247 7.4 The Greek Context of Teaching Vocabulary .......................................... 248 7.4.1 Preliminary Conclusion .................................................................. 250 7.5 Conclusion ............................................................................................. 250

8. Homeric Resonances ........................................................................252 8.1 Issues of Methodology ........................................................................... 253 8.1.1 MacDonald’s Criteria for Comparative Analysis ........................... 253 8.1.2 Problems with MacDonald’s Methodology .................................... 255 8.1.3 A Way Forward .............................................................................. 257 8.2 Comparative Analysis of Homer with Mark and Matthew ..................... 258 8.2.1 Storms at Sea .................................................................................. 259 8.2.2 Encounters with Brutal Figures ...................................................... 268

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8.3 Analysis of Matthew’s Redactional Choices .......................................... 274 8.4 Other Possibilities of Homeric (and Virgilian) Resonances .................. 279 8.5 Conclusion ............................................................................................. 280

9. Conclusion ..........................................................................................281 9.1 Summary ................................................................................................ 281 9.2 Areas of Further Research .................................................................... 282

Bibliography ............................................................................................285 Index of Ancient Sources.....................................................................317 Index of Modern Authors ....................................................................333 Index of Subjects....................................................................................337



List of Abbreviations The abbreviation conventions generally conform to those specified in The SBL Handbook of Style. As SBL style prescribes, journals and series are not abbreviated in the bibliography and, as such, they are not listed here. The symbol * indicates that the abbreviation in question is cited in the bibliography. The symbol † indicates the title of a series of which individual volumes are found in the bibliography. ABD Freedman, et al., eds., Anchor Bible Dictionary* ANF Coxe, et al., eds., Ante-Nicene Fathers* BDAG Bauer, Danker, Arndt, and Gingrich, Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature* ESV English Standard Version LCL Loeb Classical Library† LSJ Liddell, Scott, and Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon* LXX Septuagint NA27 Nestle and Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece, 27th ed.* NA28 Nestle and Aland, Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th ed.* NPNF1 Robertson, et al., eds., Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Series 1* NPNF2 Robertson, et al., eds., Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Series 2* NRSV New Revised Standard Version OCD Hornblower and Spawforth, Oxford Classical Dictionary* POxy Oxyrhynchus Papyri SBL Society of Biblical Literature TDNT Kittel and Friedrich, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament* TLG Berkowitz and Squitier, eds., Thesaurus Linguae Graecae: Canon of Greek Authors and Works*

Chapter 1

Introduction And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of the heavens is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”1 —Matt 13:52

Dura Europos, built by the Seleucids in the 3rd century B.C.E., sits on the Euphrates in what is now southwestern Syria. It was the primary outpost between Syrian Antioch (widely considered to be the place where the Gospel of Matthew was written) and Seleucia on the Tigris. As a Hellenistic city, it was thought to be cosmopolitan. And as a Roman city in the second century C.E., it ostensibly remained diverse in its religious expression. But it was not until it was rediscovered by British troops in 1920 and excavated for the next two decades that the significance of its religious diversity was confirmed. Home to a temple dedicated to the worship of Mithras and one of the oldest known Jewish synagogues, it also claims the oldest Christian house church and, importantly, the oldest known depictions of Jesus Christ. One of the images shows Jesus healing a paralytic (Matt 9:1–8). The image is notable because Jesus is displayed beardless, with short hair, and wearing an exomis (tunic) and pallium (mantle)—all signs that he is here depicted as a philosophical teacher.2 One of the more common ways of depicting Jesus from the third century C.E. until the medieval period was as a philosopher or teacher. In Classical art, such a philosopher or teacher is generally presented as a seated male shown in profile, wearing an exomis and pallium, and barefoot. The philosopher would typically be clean-shaven and have short, curly hair (as was typical of a Roman youth). Additionally, the philosopher is often shown reading from a scroll and may have a student or two at his feet. Third and fourth century Christian versions of this standard portrait keep the dress and physical features largely the same, but generally have Jesus (i.e., the philosopher) 1

Matt 13:52. ὁ δὲ εἶπεν αὐτοῖς· διὰ τοῦτο πᾶς γραµµατεὺς µαθητευθεὶς τῇ βασιλείᾳ τῶν οὐρανῶν ὅµοιός ἐστιν ἀνθρώπῳ οἰκοδεσπότῃ, ὅστις ἐκβάλλει ἐκ τοῦ θησαυροῦ αὐτοῦ καινὰ καὶ παλαιά. The translation is the NRSV except for the pluralization of heaven. For the implications of plural heavens, see A. Collins, Cosmology and Eschatology, 1–54. 2 McKay, et al., History of World Societies, 166.

Chapter 1: Introduction

2

facing out, holding up the scroll, and sometimes making a speech gesture. Instead of one or two students at the feet of the philosopher, Jesus may be shown with his expected group of eleven or twelve disciples.3 These early depictions of Jesus as a philosophical teacher raise an important question. Is that how early Christians thought of Jesus? In addition to the Jewish Messiah, the Son of God and/or God himself, a rabbi, a miracleworking savior, an Old Testament prophet, and a wandering sage, did early Christians see him as something like a Greco-Roman disciple-gathering philosophical teacher? Where could this impression have originated? Is there something in the New Testament, even in the life of Jesus, which might hint at some similarity between Jesus and a Greco-Roman philosophical teacher? The Gospel of Matthew may have some light to shed on these questions. In chapters 2–5, I examine the background of the Gospel of Matthew in an attempt to understand its relationship to the Greco-Roman world. Beginning in chapter two, I observe that recent trends in Matthean scholarship focus on the relationship of Matthew’s gospel to contemporary Judaism, but they do so to the exclusion of Matthew’s place in a broader Hellenism. The chapter is motivated by the questions of how and why Matthean studies is so preoccupied with understanding the Gospel within increasingly narrow parameters of Second Temple Judaism and its implications. If first-century Judaism is Hellenistic, as Martin Hengel has convincingly argued, then it seems that an important voice in understanding the background of the Gospel of Matthew has been dampened. Scholarship has largely neglected to pursue the broader literary and cultural dimensions of the Gospel beyond a narrowly defined interest in its Judaism. Of course, if the Gospel of Matthew is the product of Hellenistic Judaism, we should expect to see signs of Hellenism in it. In the third chapter, I explore the Hellenistic background of Matthew’s Gospel by focusing on certain basic features of the Gospel that are typically taken for granted—particularly its language, sources, provenance, and literary genre. These aspects of the Gospel all suggest a text that is absolutely saturated with Hellenism and an author or editor who was likely the recipient of a Greek education. In the fourth chapter, I propose a way forward. If my observations about Matthew’s background are correct, then the primary question must be that of how to detect the possible Hellenistic resonances in the Gospel. After briefly considering the concerns of intertextuality, I suggest that one helpful method (given that the author of Matthew’s Gospel would have been educated in Greek) is an approach via rhetoric. Intertextuality depends on more than simple quotations and allusions. The study of Matthew’s rhetoric offers a way 3

The other common depictions of Jesus in ancient art are as an orant (praying person), shepherd, and fisherman. See Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art, 32–63, especially 44–46. See also Crossan, Essential Jesus, 177.



Chapter 1: Introduction

3

into understanding intertextuality between ancient literary texts, provided one limits the scope of the analysis to the ancient educational and rhetorical practices employed by the texts being analyzed. Additionally, in the case of Matthew’s Gospel, redaction criticism offers a necessary tool for detecting both the intertextuality of particular clear sources (i.e., the Gospel of Mark) and the author’s own intertextual efforts, as well as the possibility of unintended echoes that go beyond the author’s conscious work. The choice to study Matthew in terms of ancient rhetoric depends, to some extent, on the supposition that Matthew had a Greek education. If a Greek education can be assumed, then it will be important to know the practices and content of the educational system and demonstrate the intimate connection between ancient education and rhetorical thinking. What was Hellenistic education like? What did students do? Which texts did they read? Answers to these questions provide an important window into the possible influences on a first-century Greek text, such as the Gospel of Matthew. The survey of ancient education found in the fifth chapter suggests that one of the most important skills commended to students was imitation, a literary process of adopting and adapting literary sources. And the two most important categories of sources in ancient education were, with very little doubt, the epic poems of Homer and philosophical works about Socrates. In chapters 6–8, I narrow my focus. In particular, I employ the rhetorical methodologies already discussed to particular sections of the Gospel of Matthew. The sixth and seventh chapters look specifically at the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7), submitting it to the rhetorical analysis described in chapter 4. In the sixth chapter, I examine issues concerning the rhetorical boundaries of the text, matters of literary and historical context, the probability that the Sermon is an epitome, and various points of rhetorical exigence in the text. In the seventh chapter, I take a closer look at the rhetorical arrangement and style of the Sermon on the Mount, especially at the main themes of the text. In these two chapters, I demonstrate that the educational practice of imitating Socratic literature means that Socratic resonances in the Gospel of Matthew are plausible. In the Gospel in general, and in the Sermon on the Mount in particular, Matthew portrays Jesus as a disciple-gathering philosophical teacher, not unlike an idealized Socrates. In the eighth chapter, I ask the question of what happened to Homer. Perhaps the only more influential person than Socrates in ancient Greek literature was Homer. As such, one would expect to see resonances of Homer in the Gospel of Matthew. In this chapter, I again apply the rhetorical critical method discussed earlier, but modifying it slightly in order to wrestle with Homer’s influence in the Gospel of Mark and how that influence makes its way into (or not) the Gospel of Matthew. By including some redaction critical concerns, I am able to explore the effects that Mark’s possible relationship to Homer has on Matthew. As two test cases for this kind of study, I

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Chapter 1: Introduction



look particularly at the stilling of the storm (Mark 4:35–41, Matt 8:23–27) and its possible connections to both LXX Jonah 1:1–16 and Odyssey 9.563– 10.69, as well as an encounter with a brutal or savage figure (Mark 5:1–20, Matt 8:28–9:1) and its possible connections to Exodus 14–15 and Odyssey 9.101–10.502. The conclusion briefly summarizes my work in pursuit of an answer to my primary line of questioning. If Matthean scholars have adequately established the Jewish connections to be made with Matthew’s Gospel, what might we observe about its resonances with Greco-Roman literature? It is my thesis that 1) Matthean scholarship has ignored the Greco-Roman background to the Gospel of Matthew, and 2) an analysis of Matthew’s rhetoric in light of Greco-Roman rhetorical theory and examples is a fruitful way to study this background (as can be seen in the Sermon on the Mount and adaptations of two Markan miracle stories). In order to demonstrate this, a review of the relevant scholarship and educational backgrounds as well as rhetorical methods is necessary. And in so exploring, I intend to demonstrate that it is not only possible, but entirely probable that a Hellenistic background is a useful backdrop for studying the Gospel of Matthew and will enrich the deep study of this text, its ideas, and the world of its first audience.

Chapter 2

Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew And, in short, it is very nearly an universal rule, from the rising of the sun to its extreme west, that every country, and nation, and city, is alienated from the laws and customs of foreign nations and states, and that they think that they are adding to the estimation in which they hold their own laws by despising those in use among other nations. But this is not the case with our laws which Moses has given to us; for they lead after them and influence all nations, barbarians, and Greeks, the inhabitants of continents and islands, the eastern nations and the western, Europe and Asia; in short, the whole habitable world from one extremity to the other.1 —Philo (Mos., 2.19–20)

One need not read far in texts of the New Testament and early Christianity to encounter two terms in close proximity: Jew (Ἰουδαῖος) and Greek (Ἕλλην).2 When Paul and Barnabas entered the synagogue in Iconium, both “Jews and Greeks” came to a faith in Jesus.3 When Paul went to Corinth, he tried to persuade the “Jews and the Greeks.”4 When he spent two years in Ephesus, he preached to “all the residents of Asia,” both “Jews and Greeks.”5 And when he composed the thematic statement in his letter to the Roman church, the gospel—the power of God for salvation that is reserved for all believers, he further designates both the Jews and the Greeks.6

1

Philo, Mos., 2.19–20. ἀλλὰ σχεδὸν οἱ ἀφʼ ἡλίου ἀνιόντος ἄχρι δυοµένου, πᾶσα χώρα καὶ ἔθνος καὶ πόλις, τῶν ξενικῶν νοµίµων ἀλλοτριοῦνται καὶ οἴονται τὴν τῶν οἰκείων ἀποδοχήν, εἰ τὰ παρὰ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀτιµάζοιεν, συναυξήσειν ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὧδʼ ἔχει τὰ ἡµέτερα· πάντας γὰρ ἐπάγεται καὶ συνεπιστρέφει, βαρβάρους, Ἕλληνας, ἠπειρώτας, νησιώτας, ἔθνη τὰ ἑῷα, τὰ ἑσπέρια, Εὐρώπην, Ἀσίαν, ἅπασαν τὴν οἰκουµένην ἀπὸ περάτων ἐπὶ πέρατα. The English text is from Yonge, Works of Philo, 492–93. 2 There are several occurrences of the terms Jew (Ἰουδαῖος) and Greek (Ἕλλην) in close proximity, including Acts 14:1, 18:4, 19:1, 19:17, 20:21; Rom 1:16–17, 2:9–10, 3:9, 10:12; 1 Cor 1:24, 10:32, 12:13; Gal 3:28 and Col 3:11. There are slightly fewer references to Ἰουδαίων (Jew) and ἐθνῶν (gentiles) that fit the same categorizing pattern: Acts 14:5; Rom 3:29, 9:24; 1 Cor 1:23; Gal 2:14. For a helpful explanation of the use of these terms in their singular and plural forms, see Calhoun, Paul’s Definition, 152–153. 3 Acts 14:1. 4 Acts 18:4. 5 Acts 19:1. 6 Rom 1:16–17.

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

2.1 Jews and Gentiles in the Gospels 2.1 Jews and Gentiles in the Gospels

The Gospels paint a related and, yet, more challenging picture. The terms Ἰουδαῖος and Ἕλλην are not found in close proximity as such. In fact, Ἕλλην is not found at all in the Synoptic Gospels and only three times in John.7 Instead, the texts of Matthew, Mark, and Luke tend to portray Jesus and his followers as Jews—frequently operating within Jewish8 communities, but periodically encountering outsiders designated as ἐθνῶν. Of course the word ἐθνῶν is notoriously problematic, as it can simply mean nations (including Judea), but it also seems to explicitly exclude Jews (e.g., in Matt 4:15).9 In these cases, ἐθνῶν is typically translated as gentiles (cf. 1 Cor 12:2). Jesus’s and his disciples’ relationship to Judaism, as well as what this relationship intimates about each Gospels writers’ relationship to Judaism, is undoubtedly complex. Nowhere is this clearer than with the intrinsic exegetical difficulty faced in reconciling Jesus’s commissioning of his disciples early in Matthew’s Gospel to “go nowhere among the gentiles” (ἐθνῶν in the exclusive sense), but rather to “lost sheep of the house of Israel” in Matt 10:5–6, and the so-called Great Commission at the end of the Gospel to “go therefore and make disciples of all nations (ἔθνη)” in Matt 28:18–20. While the terms Ἕλλην and ἐθνῶν are both contrasts to Ἰουδαῖος in the New Testament, one must ask also whether they are equivalent terms to each other. On the surface, the answer seems simple enough. Whether nations or gentiles, ἔθνος would presumably include the Greeks. Yet, even in the New Testament there seems to be some amount of fluidity between the terms. Paul, the “apostle to the gentiles,”10 states his hope of reaping a harvest among the gentiles in Rom 1:13, and then refers to his obligation to the Greeks (and barbarians) in Rom 1:14. And when he gets to the great thesis statement of Romans in Rom 1:16–17, the gospel is the power of salvation

7

Ἕλλην is used twice in John 7:35 and once in John 12:20. Throughout this dissertation, in referring to the term Ἰουδαῖος, I will attempt to use Jewish as a descriptor both neutrally and when the emphasis is on the social or ethnic component of the group’s identity. I will, subsequently, attempt to use Judaic when the emphasis is on the religious component. When quoting sources, I will follow my source with explanation when necessary. Of course, this distinction is complicated by a sense of Ἰουδαῖος in which the translation Judean may also refer to homeland loyalty. For more on this third sense, see the introduction of Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Against Apion. Cf. Mason, Josephus and the New Testament, 58. 9 Matt 4:15, 6:42, 10:5, 10:18, 12:18, 12:21, 20:19, 20:25, 21:43, 24:7, 24:9, 24:14, 25:32, 28:19; Mark 10:33, 10:42, 11:17, 13:8, 13:10; Luke 2:32, 7:5; 12:30, 18:32, 21:10, 21:24, 21:25, 22:25, 23:2, and 24:47. Less frequently, ἐθνικός is used. See Matt 5:47, 6:7, 18:17. This form of the word is only otherwise used in 3 John 7 in the New Testament. 10 Rom 11:13. 8

2.1 Jews and Gentiles in the Gospels

7

for the Jew first and then to the Greek.11 Likewise, in the first half of Galatians 3, Paul’s argument revolves around the coming of blessing and justification for the gentiles through Abraham (referring to the covenant with Abraham in Gen 12:1–3 to bless the nations through him). Yet, as the rhetoric heightens toward the end of the chapter, there is “no longer Jew or Greek” in Christ Jesus (Gal 3:28). Josephus, the only arguably non-Christian witness to Jesus from the first century, also comments on the people who came to follow Jesus: Now, there was about this time Jesus, a wise man, for he was a doer of wonderful works— a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. He drew over to him both many of the Jews (καὶ πολλοὺς µὲν Ἰουδαίους), and many of Greek descent (πολλοὺς δὲ καὶ τοῦ Ἑλληνικοῦ ἐπηγάγετο). He was [the] Christ; and when Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men amongst us, had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at the first did not forsake him; and the tribe of Christians, so named from him, are not extinct at this day.12

11

While this progression from Rom 1:13 to 1:14 to 1:16–17 suggests that the barbarians and Greeks may both comprise the category of gentiles, the Greeks are certainly a privileged group and, perhaps, more the target of Paul’s mission (given the phrasing of 1:16– 17). It is, no doubt, no accident that the Greeks are considered wise and the barbarians foolish in the parallelism of 1:14 (a conclusion that both affirms his arguments in 1 Corinthians 1–2, though not to their salvific credit, and certainly plays into the politics of writing this epistle to the church in Rome). Cf. Col 3:11, where this list grows even further: “In that renewal there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!” 12 Γίνεται δὲ κατὰ τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον Ἰησοῦς σοφὸς ἀνήρ, εἴγε ἄνδρα αὐτὸν λέγειν χρή: ἦν γὰρ παραδόξων ἔργων ποιητής, διδάσκαλος ἀνθρώπων τῶν ἡδονῇ τἀληθῆ δεχοµένων, καὶ πολλοὺς µὲν Ἰουδαίους, πολλοὺς δὲ καὶ τοῦ Ἑλληνικοῦ ἐπηγάγετο: ὁ χριστὸς οὗτος ἦν. καὶ αὐτὸν ἐνδείξει τῶν πρώτων ἀνδρῶν παρ᾽ ἡµῖν σταυρῷ ἐπιτετιµηκότος Πιλάτου οὐκ ἐπαύσαντο οἱ τὸ πρῶτον ἀγαπήσαντες: ἐφάνη γὰρ αὐτοῖς τρίτην ἔχων ἡµέραν πάλιν ζῶν τῶν θείων προφητῶν ταῦτά τε καὶ ἄλλα µυρία περὶ αὐτοῦ θαυµάσια εἰρηκότων. εἰς ἔτι τε νῦν τῶν Χριστιανῶν ἀπὸ τοῦδε ὠνοµασµένον οὐκ ἐπέλιπε τὸ φῦλον. Josephus, Ant., 18:63–64. It is important to note that I have altered Whiston’s English text in two significant ways: 1) I have removed the Christian interpolations, and 2) I have rendered πολλοὺς δὲ καὶ τοῦ Ἑλληνικοῦ ἐπηγάγετο as referring to those of a Greek background rather than simply gentiles. For the English text, see Whiston, New Complete Works of Josephus, 590. For extensive discussion and bibliography on the authenticity of the text including the Christian interpolations, see Meier, Marginal Jew, Vol. 1, 56–88. See also Barnett, Finding the Historical Christ, 47–55. While the authenticity of the full text of the Testimonium Flavianum is certainly debatable—generally because of apparent Christian interpolations, modifications, and deletions—the two phrases that outline the scope of Jesus’s influence among the Jews and the Greeks are rarely doubted among scholars. Meier outlines the possible positions. Some view the entire Testimonium Flavianum as a Christian interpolation, but they are a relative minority. Most scholars, according to Meier, acknowledge some portion of the text to be from the hand of Josephus. The phrase concerning Jews and

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

Here, Josephus connected Jesus to his early followers according to the Judaic and Greek categories. The implication, of course, is that a distinction can be made between the two groups and that it was an important distinction in determining who comprised Jesus’s early followers as well as who comprised this new group called Christians. The dichotomy’s visibility in each group of texts—the Pauline Epistles, the Gospels, Josephus’s writings—is conspicuous. And readers of all of these texts are left with the sense that the world divides into these simple categories: Jew and gentile/Greek. They appear to be separate groups that are easily identifiable and distinctively separate. It would only make sense, then, that studies in the New Testament—including those on Matthew’s Gospel— would adopt this Judaism/Hellenism dualism.13 Even just a small sampling indicates as much. The provenance, setting, or audience sections of most of the major commentaries on Matthew’s Gospel focus on the central debates of the Matthean context: 1) what was the Matthean community’s relationship to Judaism and 2) how did it affect the apparent mission beyond the Jews?14 But fundamental to these questions are two major presuppositions. First, because of the prevalence of the juxtaposed categories of Jew and Greek in Paul and Josephus, the juxtaposed categories of Jew and gentile in the Gospels are assumed to be related to, or possibly even synonymous with, Jew and Greek. How they are related is given almost no attention. Instead, the Pauline category of Greek is implicitly and unreflectively mapped onto the Gospels’ category of gentile. As a result, the second presupposition is that there is a form of Judaism somewhere behind the Matthean community that can be definitively separated from Hellenistic influence. The goal of this first chapter, then, is to explore the origin of these assumptions and begin to consider how they have shaped Matthean scholarship. I will examine these assumptions in three ways. First, I will explore the evolution of the Judaism/Hellenism divide as a significant facet of New Testament studies in the last 150 years. Specifically, I will look at the broad influence of the German higher critical schools as well as two more recent major trends in Synoptic studies: historical Jesus studies and interpretation with an emphasis on the Dead Sea Scrolls. Second, I will investigate some of Greeks is not, so far as I can tell, disputed. See Meier, Marginal Jew, Vol. 1, 56–88, especially 59–63. 13 Parts of the Gospel of Matthew might have had a life prior to their inclusion in the final form of the Gospel (whether in the form of Mark’s Gospel or Q). I am open to the possibility that these parts had their own settings apart from the present form, which is broadly assumed to have been constructed in the last half of the first century, or at the very least, quite early in the second. My interest is in how the document was perceived initially as a whole. 14 Osborne, Matthew, 31–33. France, Gospel of Matthew, 15–18. Witherington, Matthew, 21–32. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 17–18.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

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the more significant challenges to the Judaism/Hellenism dichotomy raised by recent scholarship, focusing on the important work of Martin Hengel and the challenges to the concept of a presumed audience raised by Richard Bauckham. Finally, I will show how this dichotomy has influenced Matthean scholarship of the last 50–60 years and resulted in a myopic treatment of the Hellenistic background to Matthew’s Gospel.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide 2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

While the two terms—Jew and Greek—repeatedly appear in Lukan, Pauline, and Deutero-Pauline texts, the pairing of the terms as signifying the larger and more comprehensive categories of Judaism and Hellenism in the context of early Christianity did not become a major part of the common discourse until the middle of the nineteenth century.15 While I am not suggesting that terms Judaism and Hellenism in the first century were free from racial, ethnic, cultural, or political overtones, they did not carry the weight of massive and clashing cultural movements until the last 150 years or so.16 This shift in the conception of the problem emerged out of an interest in reconciling the Biblical sources with a credible model of history. What resulted was a kind of schism: the critical investigation of the historical Jesus (which will be discussed later in this chapter) on the one hand, and the theological exploration of the Christ of faith on the other.17 Over time, this separation became imbued with the tenor of the Judaism/Hellenism divide. Judaism became a dominant idea as it related to the origin and presentation of Jesus’s ideas. Hellen-

15

Engberg-Pedersen, Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide, 1–16. The attitudes of Greek and Roman authors toward the Jews varied considerably. For example, Plutarch’s reflections on the differences between Judaic and non-Judaic rituals, practices, and ideas are mostly neutral in two of his major works: the Vitae Parallelae and Quaestiones convivales. The significance of this testimony rests on two issues: 1) how Plutarch frames the differences, and 2) the reliability of his information. On the first issue, Plutarch seems to treat the differences (e.g. abstention from pork, the identity of the Judaic God) as a matter of incidental interest, reporting speculation alongside observation. See Plutarch, Quaest. conv., 4.5, 4.6. His presentation, however, does not rise to the level of sweeping conflict between Judaism and Hellenism so much as it reflects his own encounter with (Judaic) ideas different from his own. On the second issue, the reliability of Plutarch’s portrayal of Judaic rituals, practices, and ideas is suspect. For more on both points, see Gager’s discussion in Gager, Origins of Anti-Semitism, 78–80. On the other end of the spectrum are the more overtly anti-Semitic comments of Tacitus, Cicero, and others. See Tacitus, Hist., 5.2–5; Cicero, Flac., 28.67–69. 17 Kähler, So-Called Historical Jesus, 39–57. 16

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

ism was, subsequently, treated as relevant in relation to the appropriation of those ideas.18 One of the earliest scholars to use the broader dichotomy to study the context of Biblical texts was Ferdinand Christian Baur (1792–1860) in Tübingen.19 By setting the Jewish community of Jesus and his immediate followers in contrast to Paul and his Hellenized Jewish followers, Baur saw an immense and important division in the ancient world. He understood Judaism and Hellenism not merely as ethnic designations, but as category titles representing a complex set of religious, social, and cultural ideas. Building on Martin Luther’s association of Paul’s opponents with the Law, Judaism came to represent the legalistic rabbinic or Pharisaic Judaism that Jesus and his followers often encountered in Galilee.20 Hellenism came to represent the “principles of rationality and individualism that are taken to be characteristic of the philosophical and literary tradition of classical Greece, especially perhaps of Platonism”—principles that were embraced by Paul’s HellenisticJewish and gentile followers.21 In the language of religion, Judaism was an archaic, ethnic, or national belief system dependent primarily on its laws. Pauline Christianity, on the other hand, originated in Hellenism and was a religion of spirit that sprang from a different mix of gentiles and gentilefriendly cosmopolitan Jews. Judaism was particular and practiced by Judaic Jews. Christianity was universal and embraced by Hellenistic Jews and gentiles separating themselves from Judaism.22 The Tübingen School’s use of the Judaism/Hellenism duality found its first opposition in the History of Religions School in Göttingen decades later. For the History of Religions School—especially for scholars Wilhelm Bousset (1865–1920), Wilhelm Heitmüller (1869–1926), and Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976)—neither category alone would suffice. Christianity could not 18

Albert Schweitzer framed the problem in precisely these terms. “And the greatest achievement of German theology is the critical investigation of the life of Jesus. What it has accomplished here has laid down the conditions and determined the course of the religious thinking of the future. In the history of doctrine its work has been negative; it has, so to speak, cleared the site for a new edifice of religious thought. In describing how the ideas of Jesus were taken possession of by the Greek spirit, it was tracing the growth of that which must necessarily become strange to us, and, as a matter of fact, has become strange to us.” Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 1. 19 Baur, Paul the Apostle of Jesus Christ. See the discussion in Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism,” 18–20. 20 Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy,” 34. 21 Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity,” 20. 22 For Baur, “the division between Hellenism and Judaism, though, is not between Greeks and Jews, but between Hellenistic Jews and Jewish Jews, the Hellenistic followers of Jesus on the one side and the ‘Mother Church of Jerusalem’ or the ‘old cramping forms of Judaism,’ on the other.” Inherent in the universalism of Pauline Christianity is the significance of universalism. Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy,” 33–35.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

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have sprung from Hellenistic Judaism alone, but found its origin in a multistage transition from an apocalyptic Jewish sect to a Christianity immersed in the world of Hellenistic paganism.23 The proposal was bold insofar as it suggested some of the most important aspects of the Christian religion, including the Christian concept of salvation and Jesus’s divinity, were syncretistic. Few found the History of Religions School’s proposal workable, and so a third option was raised in opposition. This new position came wrapped in the same categories, only these opponents had chosen to reverse the Tübingen School’s conclusions. Wayne A. Meeks wrote on the agenda of this new evolution: The aim of this scholarship was to demonstrate the distinctiveness of Christianity against its pagan environment, which meant the distinctiveness it shared with ancient Israel, while at the same time to demonstrate that Christianity climaxed and fulfilled what was true in Judaism.24

That Christianity fulfilled Judaism was not a new idea. Instead, effort was put into sorting out the uniquely Judaic qualities of Christianity in a Hellenistic environment. Taking up this idea in 1910, Albert Schweitzer offered a critique both of the History of Religions School and the Tübingen School by arguing that both treated Paul as the Hellenizer of Christianity. In Schweitzer’s scheme, Paul could not have embraced Hellenistic ideas over Judaic ideas. Had he chosen one over the other or inappropriately incorporated pagan elements, he certainly would have been excommunicated from what was a very Jewish early Christianity. Schweitzer argues that while Paul’s language seems Hellenistic, his ideas are Judaic. But, this argument alone was not enough. In order to draw a clear line between Pauline Christianity and a believably Judaic origin, Schweitzer had to first posit different kinds of Judaism. He outlined four: Old Testament Judaism, Hellenistic Judaism, rabbinic

23

Christianity drew upon Gnosticism in particular. For example: “To express convincingly to Hellenistic ears his [the Messiah-Son-of-Man’s] eschatological meaning and also the whole eschatological message and the eschatological dualism involved in it (§10, 5), Gnosticism and its myth offered a stock of terms that were intelligible to great numbers of people…Here our task is to set forth connectedly the extent to which the understanding of the Christian message in Hellenistic Christianity was unfolded by means of Gnostic terminology. Such a process does not, in the nature of the case, take place without some effect on the content of the ideas involved. As the development of the Kyrios-cult drew Hellenistic Christianity into the syncretistic process, the development, under Gnostic influence, of the doctrine of redemption did so still more.” Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, Vol. 1, 164. It should be noted here that Bultmann does not use the term syncretism in an evaluative sense as it is assumed that no religion is free from the influence of cultures and religious systems. 24 Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity,” 21.

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

Judaism, and apocalyptic Judaism,25 favoring apocalyptic Judaism—the same apocalyptic Judaism from which Christianity had transitioned in the History of Religions School proposal. The universalism that the Tübingen School attributed to Hellenism, Schweitzer attributed back to Judaism—albeit a different form of Judaism than the legalistic version with which the Tübingen School juxtaposed Christianity. Schweitzer’s conclusion was simple: Christianity was not at all Hellenistic nor was it syncretistic. It was thoroughly rooted in Judaism. Schweitzer’s position has remained influential throughout twentiethcentury American methodologies. One example of a recent social-scientific approach can be found in Alan Segal’s study on Paul and conversion.26 Even here, in Dale Martin’s estimation, the dualistic categories find expression. Segal describes the reaction of ancient Israel to the influx of Hellenistic culture in terms of the colonized reacting to imperialism. The result is that individual Jews had the choice of redefining themselves along the lines of either a more Hellenized Judaism or a more traditional (i.e., Judaic) Judaism. While Segal uses the language of individualism, pluralism, dominant and subaltern cultures, and colonialism to make his argument, the result is a more or less dualistic expression of Judaism. In Paul’s world, a Jew either becomes a Hellenized Jew or a Judaic Jew.27 Variations on this third perspective from Schweitzer—that Christianity was thoroughly Judaic in its orientation—establish where most of the study of the Matthew’s Gospel begins (as I shall discuss later in this chapter). Christianity, presumably including Matthew’s version, was born out of the great confrontation between Judaism and Hellenism. Whether early Christianity was formed by a Jewish apocalyptic group, some other Hellenized Jews, or even gentiles, it was formed in contrast to legalistic Judaism, and this formation signifies the great conflict between Judaism and Hellenism. Hans Dieter Betz put it this way: “Christianity thus became the intellectual and spiritual battleground on which the confrontation between Judaism and Hellenism was fought with unprecedented intensity.” 28

25

Schweitzer, Paul and His Interpreters, 45, 92, 48. See Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy,” 37–38. 26 Segal, Paul the Convert. 27 Dale Martin’s conclusion is telling: “the Hellenism/Judaism dualism, developed with such different meanings in nineteenth-century Germany, may be doing different business, but it is still in business.” Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy,” 58. 28 Betz, “Hellenism” ABD 3:127–135. See also Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity,” 17.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

13

2.2.1 Historical Jesus Studies and the Gospels The Judaism/Hellenism dichotomy is plainly visible in one particular strain of Biblical studies since the advent of the German higher criticism: historical Jesus studies. This massive movement within Biblical criticism was termed “the quest of the historical Jesus” 29 by Albert Schweitzer in his 1911 examination and critique of theologians throughout the early twentieth century. The movement took up the argument that the Synoptic Gospels could not be read like modern biographies and yet maintain historical credibility. Too many sui generis events—too many things that cannot be independently verified— occur within these texts. The Gospels are riddled with a multitude of uncertainties that pose major problems for science, logic, and modern concepts of history.30 Also problematic is the condition of the sources. Even though Schweitzer suggests that the Synoptic Gospels represent fairly authentic avenues into the life of Jesus (primarily on the basis of their lower literary quality), these Gospels are, at best, incomplete. They are merely collections of anecdotes and sayings, and “from these materials, we can only get a Life of Jesus with yawning gaps.”31 The Gospel of John poses an even more significant challenge because with respect to its character and historical data, it stands in its own category apart from the Synoptic Gospels. Given these considerable historical problems, the task of the theologian—as Schweitzer traced it—was to reconstruct the figure of Jesus. But even here, especially as it relates the last point on sources, one of Schweitzer’s central presuppositions about the task at hand emerges: there is a dominant cultural perspective imbued in the Gospels themselves. Schweitzer optimistically states that the Gospel of John was “written from the Greek standpoint, while the first three are written from the Jewish.”32 This presupposition, while clearly present in the scholarship he is studying, is wholly adopted. Beyond the historical and source problems, Schweitzer found additional challenges along the lines of Jesus’s Messianic self-consciousness and the resulting problem of the ἔσχατον.33 Schweitzer observes that Jesus revealed nothing directly and very little indirectly of his own self-consciousness to his 29

Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 1. In formulating the structure of this section and finding the bibliographical references, I owe much to Clare K. Rothschild, particularly her lecture on the historical problems within New Testament studies delivered to an adult class at Holy Trinity Church in Chicago on June 6, 2010. 31 Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 7. 32 Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 6. It is unclear to me whether Schweitzer here was delineating a separate religious element in his use of the word “Jewish” over and against a social or ethnic character. 33 Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 8–10, 222–240. 30

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

disciples. Only through conjectures based upon the smallest of details could one test hypotheses about Jesus’s views of his own Messianic role. Even so, Schweitzer saw an intrinsic contradiction in Jesus’s views. The Evangelists assert that Jesus felt himself to be the Messiah. Yet, they portray a Jesus who does not claim to be the Messiah publicly and whose conduct seems at odds with Messianic expectation.34 Of course, the nature of Messianic expectation was also problematic.35 Given these problems—the lack of historical credibility, the incomplete nature of the sources, the apparent tension between Jesus’s Messianic selfconsciousness and his conduct, the eschatological uncertainty—Schweitzer set out to catalogue and critique what has become known as the original or first quest for the historical Jesus. And as Schweitzer surveyed the historical reconstructions of Jesus, he focused on two major trends: the earlier German critical approach that focused on historical solutions to the problem of the miracles, and the later romantic approaches, which focused on literary results. The German critical approach, for Schweitzer, begins with the work of Hermann Samuel Reimarus (1694–1768), first published in fragmentary form in 1778, ten years after his death, by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729– 1781).36 In this work and those who would follow, the portrayal of miracles was rejected on rationalistic (i.e. historical and scientific) grounds and the Synopticians were viewed as fraudulent. It was a simple and controversial solution to the historical problems. Instead, many of the rationalists attempted to explain the miracles as natural occurrences that had been misunderstood and misrepresented.37 Others in this rationalist movement include Johann Jakob Hess (1741–1828), Franz Volkmar Reinhard (1753–1812), Johann Gottfried von Herder (1744–1803), Heinrich Eberhard Gottlob Paulus (1761– 1851), Karl August von Hase (1800–1890), and Friedrich Ernst Daniel

34 Of course, I am assuming that Schweitzer is discounting the climactic trial scene in the Synoptic Gospels in which Jesus is convicted of blasphemy because he does, in fact, claim to be both the Messiah and the Son of God. See Mark 14:61–64, Matt 26:63–65, and Luke 22:66–71. 35 Was eschatological hope a widespread phenomenon within Judaism or was it the domain of a relative few? If eschatological hope was present, was it political or religious or some combination of political and religious? As our only evidence is saturated in a postresurrection Christian portrayal of the Messianic hope, determining the character of eschatological hope becomes (nearly) impossible. 36 Reimarus, Fragments from Reimarus. The work was originally published anonymously in installments by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing and became known as the Wolfenbüttel Fragments: Von dem Zwecke Jesu und seiner Jünger: Noch ein Fragment des Wolfenbüttelschen Ungenannten. Herausgegeben von Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. 37 The supernaturalists, by contrast, defended the historicity of both the miracles and divine intervention.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

15

Schleiermacher (1768–1834). The rationalist movement, however, culminates with David Friedrich Strauß (1808–1874). Strauß, who was greatly influenced by Schleiermacher and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831), published his controversial work, The Life of Jesus, Critically Examined, in 1835. In it, he uses the vocabulary of myth to describe aspects of the Gospels including the miracles, ultimately viewing the texts as a kind of mélange of history and mythology.38 Strauß goes further to argue that, especially with respect to the Gospel of John, Hellenism had entered into the picture. Using Greek concepts of divine Sonship, Alexandrian Logos doctrine, and a Greek speculative conception of pre-existence, John had appropriated Hellenistic ideas in a way that rendered the text inferior for historical purposes.39 This is important because, as Schweitzer has so clearly observed, the division between the more Jewish Gospels of Matthew and Luke and the more Hellenistic Gospel of John was now imbued with the values of historical reliability.40 Strauß’s view on this issue was affirmed by that of Ferdinand Christian Baur and the Tübingen School’s work on Judaism and Hellenism in the Pauline corpus throughout the height of their influence in the 1830s and 1840s. The second major trend in the quest for the historical Jesus in Schweitzer’s view was a romantic approach similar to that of Ernest Renan (1823–1892).41 This romantic approach gave greater attention to the literary maneuvers of the Evangelists and was fueled by, among other things, the improved standing of Mark’s Gospel for historical purposes because of wider acceptance of Markan priority.42 Importantly, that standing had improved between Strauß—who viewed Mark as an insignificant epitomizer of Matthew and Luke—and Renan. The idea that Mark’s Gospel might be the most valuable for historical purposes allowed Renan and others to completely dispense with John’s Gospel and even the influence of later Hellenistic Christian perspectives especially with regard to Matthew and Luke. Between the Tübingen School’s encouragement that scholars examine Greek theological ideas on their own terms and the possible removal of Hellenistic elements from the Gospels, the Jesus 38

Strauß, Life of Jesus, 27–76. Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 72–73. Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 86–87, 126–127. See also Weisse, Die evangelische Geschichte. 40 Interestingly, according to Schweitzer, Strauß began to vacillate on the issue of John’s dependability for conveying something of Jesus’s personality with the publication of the third edition of The Life of Jesus in 1839. See Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 72. 41 Renan, The Life of Jesus, 1–45. 42 Storr, De Fontibus Evangeliorum Matthaei et Lucae. Lachmann, “De ordine narrationum in evangeliis synopticis.” The English text is available in Bellinzoni, ed., TwoSource Hypothesis. See also a survey of important works by Christian Hermann Weisse (1801–1866) and Christian Gottlob Wilke (1786–1854) in Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 121–136. 39

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

who was left was a rustic, earthy, romantic Jesus. His teaching was idealized. He was a real person who emerged vividly from the pages.43 No position on the miracles was necessary. The problems of eschatology could be suspended. The story of Jesus was epic. Both of these kinds of critical study—the German historical-critical and the romantic—stripped away much of what was known about the life of Jesus and even what could be known to the extent that the remainder was not really a life of Jesus at all. Schweitzer captured it in his stark conclusion: This image [of Jesus] has not been destroyed from without, it has fallen to pieces, cleft and disintegrated by the concrete historical problems which came to the surface one after another, and in spite of all the artifice, art, artificiality, and violence which was applied to them, refused to be planed down to fit the design on which the Jesus of the theology of the last hundred and thirty years had been constructed, and were no sooner covered over than they appeared again in a new form.44

But Schweitzer’s conclusion also set the parameters for the next phase of historical Jesus studies. While the miracles in the Gospels were certainly a problem from the historical and scientific perspectives, the emergence of a historical Jesus steeped in Jewish eschatology (with the expectation that this eschatology would be imminently realized) posed a greater problem. Here, the critical and romantic approaches could not reconcile the eschatological words of Jesus and the expectations of the earliest Christian communities with the historical realities.45 Historical Jesus studies in the period immediately after the publication of Schweitzer’s survey slowed for the better part of four decades. The dependence on the historical reliability of Mark’s Gospel by the romantics had been challenged by William Wrede (1859–1906), who speculated that the Messianic secret language in the Gospel of Mark was the author’s attempt to reconcile Jesus’s Messianic claims with the fact that Jesus did not seem to conduct himself like the expected Messiah. While Schweitzer ultimately disagreed with Wrede,46 the question of Mark remained vexing to scholars. The unrest of this period is probably best captured in Rudolf Bultmann’s (1884–1976) statement of das Dass.47 Little more could be said about the historical Jesus than simply that there was a historical Jesus.

43

Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 180–192. Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 396. 45 For discussion on (and an important critique of) Schweitzer’s approach to the eschatological problem, see Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, 327–330. 46 Schweitzer, Quest of the Historical Jesus, 328–401. 47 Bultmann, “The Significance of the Historical Jesus for the Theology of Paul,” 220– 246. 44

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

17

In the 1950s, however, interest in the historical Jesus was renewed by Bultmann’s student, Ernst Käsemann (1906–1998).48 This new quest acknowledged that there was a great discontinuity between the historical Jesus who was at times barely visible in the background of the Gospels and the Christ who was presented in the foreground. At the same time, Käsemann also stressed that the two were connected by a thread of continuity, particularly in the preaching of Jesus and the preaching about Jesus in the earliest sources. In other words, the very real historical problems of the Synoptic Gospels need not discredit the Gospels entirely. In light of the text, the early reception history, and the recognition that the two are related concretely, valuable data concerning the historical Jesus could be recovered. That is, the texts need not be rejected, only reinterpreted. Furthermore, the eschatological problem that halted Schweitzer was no longer a problem. Jesus was an eschatological prophet whose prophecies needed to be reinterpreted in line with the early Christian communities. This new quest, with its emphasis on continuity, found great support from Gerhard Ebeling (1912–2001) and Günther Bornkamm (1905–1990), both students of Bultmann, as well as other scholars.49 However, this quest was short-lived as it seemed to devalue history as an element of Christology in contrast to the new developments in Biblical studies which placed a much greater emphasis on social-scientific history.50 The third quest for the historical Jesus emerged over the last 25 years. Complete with a flood of new biographies that were met with primetime fanfare and New York Times bestseller status, a quasi-parliamentary body (though not democratically elected), and the predictable band of outspoken dissenters, the third quest has become something quite conspicuous beyond the realm of academia. While the third quest is frequently described as a singular effort, it has included several studies within the guild, naturally leading to a range of conclusions. The difference of these new studies from previous quests, once again, rests in methodology. The restored access to and renewed interest in non-canonical sources such as the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Mary, the Secret Gospel of Mark, a few infancy gospels, and dozens of other gospels (some of which only exist in fragments), as well as the more traditional catalogue of first-century historical texts (such as the writings of Josephus) were a major factor.51 Progress in understanding the text and character of the Q document,52 numerous advances in archaeology and in understanding the diversity of first-century Judaism, and the development 48

Käsemann, “Das Problem des historischen Jesus,” 125–153. Theissen and Merz, Historical Jesus, 7–8. 50 McGrath, Christian Theology, 318. 51 Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 2–5. See also Theissen and Merz, Historical Jesus, 10–12. 52 Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 3. 49

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

and deployment of new disciplines (particularly sociological and other social scientific approaches to the texts) were also important factors. These new approaches resulted in biographies focused on Jesus’s Judaism. He was probably on the fringes of his community and on the lower end of the socio-economic spectrum, but it was his relationship with Judaism that mattered most. John D. Crossan begins the concluding chapter of his The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant with a telling statement: “The historical Jesus must be understood within his contemporary Judaism.”53 Crossan goes on further to isolate a specific distinction of the Hellenistic Judaism in which Jesus must be understood according to a distinction between an inclusive Judaism and an exclusive Judaism—that is, inclusive and exclusive of Hellenism. The terms generally used to describe this distinction are intra muros (describing a community within the bounds of Judaism) and extra muros (describing a community that had parted ways with the synagogue and is less exclusively tied to Judaism). For Crossan, then, Jesus must be understood within a Judaism that was in the process of determining how tolerant of Greek influence it would be. He concludes that Jesus is attempting to break down social conventions from within Judaism. Crossan is not alone in this opinion. Marcus Borg argues for a Jesus who was a subversive teacher of wisdom and dissident attempting to reclaim Judaism from conservative factions.54 E.P. Sanders concludes that Jesus is an eschatological prophet. Witherington and Downing argue for a Jesus in the tradition of Jewish sages.55 While some of these biographies received much attention outside of the academy, it was the Jesus Seminar that received the greatest portion of spotlight. The Seminar, founded by John D. Crossan and Robert Funk in 1985, has included about 150 members since its first meeting.56 One of the primary goals in establishing this Seminar was to find scholarly consensus on the authentic words of Jesus with the hope of being better able to describe him as a historical figure. The Seminar articulated a methodology built on “seven pillars of wisdom.”57 1. 2.

53 54

58.

Distinguishing between the historical Jesus and the mythical Christ Favoring the Jesus of the Synoptic Gospels over the Jesus of John’s Gospel

Crossan, Historical Jesus, 416. Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, 225–260. See also Borg, Meeting Jesus Again, 53–

55 Witherington, Jesus Quest. See also Witherington, Matthew. See also Downing, Christ and the Cynics. 56 A portion of this roster can be found in Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 533–537. 57 Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 2–5.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

19

Accepting Markan priority Accepting the Q hypothesis Rejecting the eschatological or apocalyptic Jesus (in contrast to Schweitzer) Distinguishing between oral culture and written culture Shifting burden of proof to those who consider the Gospels historical

In addition to these presuppositions, the Seminar instituted a voting system in which scholars would democratically determine the authenticity of individual sayings in the Gospels. Based on these criteria, they concluded that 82 percent of the words attributed to Jesus in the Gospels were not actually spoken by him.58 The Jesus who emerged from this system was, much like the Jesus who emerged from the first quest, somewhat more mysterious than had commonly been thought. He was certainly Jewish. He was fairly subversive. He fit reasonably well into a Jewish sage category.59 Without a doubt, the result of these various quests for the historical Jesus has contributed much to our understanding of Jesus and his relationship to Judaism. But, importantly, this trajectory of scholarship has also contributed significantly to some problematic discussions as well. For example, as James G. Crossley points out, several scholars have taken to talking about Jesus’s Jewishness as though it could be quantified. Was Jesus a marginal Jew? Was he very Jewish? Was he somewhere between? How do you measure? To what extent is his Jewishness religious, cultural, or some mix of both? Such language inevitably raises questions of the rhetoric of cultural superiority in scholarly discourse—questions that imply more about the scholars and their cultural frameworks than anything to do with Jesus.60 This rhetoric also indicates flaws in the historical content of the discourse. As William Arnal demonstrated, early discussion of Jesus’s Jewishness in historical Jesus studies is only possible when one relies on a fixed Jewish identity in the first century.61 But of course, as we shall see in the next section, the notion of a normative Judaism (and so a fixed Jewish identity) is debated. Arnal, likewise, explored other reasons that historical Jesus scholars became so fixated on the Jewishness of Jesus at a time when nobody would have (rightly) thought to deny it. At the same time, a minority of the biographers in this era—most notably John D. Crossan (again), F. Gerald Downing, and Burton L. Mack—saw beyond Jesus’s Judaism (though not neglecting it), drawing parallels between the Judaic sage or wisdom teacher aspect of his character and Cynic philoso58

Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 5. Funk and Hoover, Five Gospels, 30–34. 60 Crossley, “A Very Jewish Jesus,” 109–129. 61 Arnal, Symbolic Jesus, 8–19, 39–72. 59

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

phers. But even here, the relationship between Judaism and Hellenism was met with a wide range of perspectives. Crossan viewed Jesus within a Judaism that is somewhat inclusive of Hellenistic influence. It is not, however the elite, literary, and sophisticated philosophical synthesis of a Philo of Alexandria. It is, rather, the peasant, oral, and popular philosophical praxis of what might be termed, if adjective and noun are given equal weight, a Jewish Cynicism.62

In Crossan’s view, Jesus was mostly Jewish and much less so a Cynic. Mack, on the other hand, found a Jesus of inverse proportions. He argued that the statements of Jesus found in Q were remarkably reminiscent of the speech tradition of the Greek Cynic philosophers in a way that he did not account for nor needed to account for Jesus’s Jewish eschatological statements.63 In other words, Jesus’s Jewishness did not need to be his defining characteristic in order to make sense of the sayings in Q. His Cynic background was more than adequate. The significance of historical Jesus studies to the academic study of the New Testament from the first quest to the present day cannot be underestimated. From the critical reductionism of the rationalists in Tübingen to the literary inventiveness of the romantics, from the renewed historical synthesis of the new quest to the avalanche of new texts and methodologies incorporated in the past few decades, the fundamental problem has remained: namely, the problem of reconciling the presumably Jewish Jesus of history with the Hellenistic authors of the first texts about him. Because this is the fundamental issue of historical Jesus studies, the categories of Judaism and Hellenism have remained relevant at every stage. 2.2.2 Qumran and Diversity Within Judaism One of the more important presuppositions of the latest quests for the historical Jesus—and perhaps one of the most important reasons why there has been any progress in historical Jesus studies in the last few decades—relates to that of diversity within Judaism in the first century. While scholars early in the twentieth century had recognized the co-existence of different Jewish groups, parties, and/or sects, the scope and complexity of Jewish/Judaic diversity was relatively unknown. But, with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the field of study dramatically expanded. These scrolls, found in a series of caves near Qumran, became a significant source of knowledge concerning the evolution of Judaism(s) during the first century, demonstrating a breadth of diversity in 62

Crossan, Historical Jesus, 421. Here, I think the emphasis in Crossan’s use of Jewish incorporates both the ethnic/cultural/social elements and the religious element of the term. 63 Mack, Lost Gospel, 45–47, 51–70. For a thorough critique of the argument that Jesus was like a Cynic, see Betz, “Jesus and the Cynics: Survey and Analysis of a Hypothesis,” 453–475.

2.2 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide

21

belief and practice and suggesting a range of Judaisms existing side-by-side, including sectarian conflict between Jewish groups.64 Of course, the issue of how to classify, distinguish, or otherwise draw lines between the various Judaisms acknowledged and implied in the Qumran documents remains a largely unresolved problem within Qumran studies.65 Overreliance on the documents from Cave 1 (perhaps because of the delays associated with the staggered public release of the documents over the last 50 years) has complicated the question of nomenclature.66 An even more significant complication comes in the form of a constraint on the nearly limitless variations in Judaism designated common Judaism (also sometimes called normative Judaism).67 This idea of a common type of Judaism was raised by E.P. Sanders in 1992 in his Judaism: Practice and Belief.68 Sanders’s approach was to survey every conceivable type of evidence and locate what each diverse group held in common.69 In sorting out this evidence, weight was given to what Sanders 64

For a magnificently concise introduction to the Dead Sea Scrolls, see Lim, Dead Sea Scrolls. For a similarly magnificent introduction to Second Temple Judaism, see Grabbe, Introduction to Second Temple Judaism; Campbell, Deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls; and Lim and Collins, Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls. On the issues of multiple Judaisms, numerous scholars have argued for a great diversity within Judaism. For example, Overman concludes: “So varied was Jewish society in the land of Israel in this period, and so varied were the Jewish groups, that scholars no longer speak of Judaism in the singular when discussing this formative and fertile period in Jewish history. Instead, we speak about Judaisms.” Overman, Church and Community in Crisis, 9. See also the work of Jacob Neusner cited earlier. For brief comments on how this diversity is apparent in Matthean studies, see Talbert, Reading the Sermon on the Mount, 5. 65 It is also clear that there was already a tendency within Judaism and the rest of the ancient world during the first century for forming smaller social clubs and associations organized around extended family, religious or cultic commitments, a common profession, or other facets. See Kloppenborg, “Associations in the Ancient World,” 323–327. These clubs provided social value and a wide range of benefits including political force, economic advantages, culinary opportunities, and sometimes even a burial plot. Josephus describes just three major Jewish groups within the time period: Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes. Each has a distinct theology, social traditions, and cultic practices. See Josephus, Life 2.10. There is also some evidence to suggest distinct groups other than those Josephus outlined, including Herodians, Zealots, Scribes, and Elders. This comes as no surprise, since this tendency for forming groups has a long history within Judaism; indeed, Israel from its very beginning was one people, yet at the same time many tribes with distinct social and cultic responsibilities. 66 See P.R. Davies, “Sects from Texts,” 69–82. 67 It should be noted that “normative Judaism” is not identical with “rabbinic Judaism,” as E.P. Sanders argues. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism, 34. 68 Sanders, Judaism: Practice and Belief. 69 A common critique of Sanders’s approach is that it reduces Judaism to an essence unhelpful for the study of religion. Sanders responded to this specific critique—levied by Jonathan Z. Smith in a centennial lecture to the Society of Biblical Literature in 1978—in his essay “Common Judaism Explored.” Sanders, “Common Judaism Explored,” 13–14.

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believed to be the normal practices of ordinary Jewish people outside of the power structures of the Pharisaic party, the Essenes, the Sadducees, and other possible groups. This idea attracted supporters to an ongoing enterprise to sort out and describe more precisely the interplay between common Judaism and Judaic diversity in the first century.70 Sanders also found opposition.71 For example, Jacob Neusner had previously made use of a diametrically opposed methodology. Where Sanders wished to combine the common elements of Judaism in order to describe a kind of least common denominator of Judaism, Neusner argued that each piece of evidence must be treated individually, and so suggested a distinctive form of Judaism. Only after studying evidence apart from its more general context could a broader relationship between Judaic groups be outlined. Neusner’s conclusion was plain: despite a common set of Scriptures and some common practices, the various Judaic groups were adequately diverse enough to be considered distinct.72 For example, Neusner argued that Pharisees in the first century comprised largely sectarian groups differentiated by food purity rituals. Another problem is sorting out the tendencies toward sectarianism apparent in these early communities. While the boundaries are never clear or absolute, it must be acknowledged that division is the starting point. Shaye J.D. Cohen drew this very conclusion: Jewishness, the conscious affirmation of the qualities that make Jews Jews, presumes a contrast between Us and Them. The Jews constitute an Us; all the rest of humanity, or, in Jewish language, the nations of the world, the gentiles, constitute a Them. Between Us and Them is a line, a boundary, drawn not in sand or stone but in the mind. The line is no less real for being imaginary, since both Us and Them agree that it exists. Although there is a boundary that separates the two, it is crossable and not always distinct.73

Cohen’s study attempts to define precisely in what ways that boundary is traversable and indistinct. Cohen, like Neusner, argues for tendency toward division, yet with the persistent possibility of some kind of malleability. The picture that Cohen paints, like that of Neusner and even Sanders, avoids both extremes. Neusner argues for finding the diversity within the unity. Sanders argues for finding the unity within the diversity. While the subtleties, nuances, and 70

Sanders’s first work on this subject came in Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism. See also Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, as well as essays in Common Judaism. 71 Neusner, “The Rabbinic Traditions about the Pharisees,” 295–311. Neusner, “The Debate with E.P. Sanders since 1970,” 395–405. Neusner, Judaism: The Evidence of the Mishnah. Neusner, Messiah in Context: Israel’s History and Destiny in Formative Judaism. 72 Neusner, “Parsing the Rabbinic Canon,” 173. 73 Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 341.

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23

implications of this debate continue, numerous questions remain unresolved. Is there such thing as common Judaism? What falls within its bounds? What is the precise relationship between common Judaism and Judaic diversity in the first century? Does common Judaism, for which Sanders argues strongly, extend into the Diaspora? How does one know what constitutes a sect? Given that the study of early Christianity is greatly affected by the unsettled state of Second Temple Judaism studies, we might expect to find attempts to explain the origin of Christianity in light of this new complexity in Judaism. Distinctive beliefs or ideologies are one place to start, but historical and sociological differences provide other avenues for describing various Judaisms.74 One example of such an approach was Anthony J. Saldarini’s study of three groups: Pharisees, scribes, and Sadducees. Saldarini begins from a point of deconstructing previous work on the diversity/unity problems within Judaism: In most historical reconstructions of Jewish society the categories used to describe these groups, such as sect, school, upper class, lay leadership, etc. are ill defined or misused and not integrated into an understanding of the overall structure and functioning of society.75

Instead, Saldarini sought to reconstruct these categories by means of a sociological method (which he adds to literary and historical approaches). He begins by looking at broader Palestinian culture, both larger and smaller networks of relationships, attempting to construct the kind of society in which these social groups—Pharisees, scribes, and Sadducees—existed. He then looks at literary evidence from Josephus, the New Testament, and much of the rabbinic corpus. He then synthesizes his findings to provide a new description of each group that makes better sense of the complex social interactions among them and between them and the power structures intrinsic to first-century Palestine.76 Yet another example of taxonomic work instigated by ongoing debates over unity and diversity within first-century Judaism was led by Raymond Brown, who suggested a new system on ideological grounds. 77 By arguing that Paul is more of a Hebrew Christian than a Hellenistic Christian78 and by 74

See P.R. Davies, “Sects from Texts,” 69–82. Saldarini’s monograph was originally published as Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Society by Michael Glazer, Inc. in 1988. It was later reprinted under the same title in the Biblical Resources Series. Saldarini, Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Society, 3. 76 It should be noted here that Saldarini received endorsements and generally positive reviews from both Sanders and Neusner. 77 R. Brown, “Not Jewish Christianity and Gentile Christianity,” 74–79. See R. Brown and Meier, Antioch & Rome, 1–9. 78 Paul is generally associated with Jewish-Christianity on the basis of his selfidentification as a noteworthy Jew. See Phil 3:2–6. 75

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Chapter 2: Judaism, Hellenism, and the Gospel of Matthew

exploring Paul’s presentation of disagreements about the Mosaic Law, R. Brown identified four different types of Jewish/gentile Christianity in the first century. 1.

2.

3.

4.

This first category consists of Jewish Christians and some gentile converts who fully adhered to the Mosaic Law, including the practice of circumcision. Such adherence is necessary to fully receive the salvation through Christ. This category is classified as a type of Hebrew Christianity by R. Brown. The second category consists of Jewish Christians and gentile converts who did not insist on circumcision, but who did require adherence to other food purity requirements of the Mosaic Law. This category is classified as a type of Hebrew Christianity by R. Brown. A third category consists of Jewish Christians and gentile converts who did not require circumcision or adherence to food purity provisions of the Mosaic Law. At the same time, Jews were not necessarily compelled to refrain from circumcision or adherence to food purity laws. This category is classified as a type of Hebrew Christianity by R. Brown. The fourth category consists of Jewish and gentile Christians who did not require adherence to circumcision or food purity Laws and “saw abiding significance in the cult of the Jerusalem temple.” This type of Christianity heads in the direction of seeing Judaism and Christianity as distinct, separate religions dominated by two separate covenants. For R. Brown, this is the only type (among the four) that should be classified as Hellenistic Christianity.

While R. Brown does not designate further types, he is open to the possibility of others—especially further divisions of the gentiles within these groups into those who allowed themselves to be circumcised and those who did not.79 R. Brown’s categories are useful in that they reach beyond the shortcomings of oversimplified taxonomies.80 They help make sense of the diversity intrinsic to early Christianity. In his assessment of the issue, Meeks put it this way: Christianity began its existence as one among several competing Jewish sects or movements. Judaism was not one thing, either in Judea and Galilee or in the Diaspora, nor were the boundaries among the varieties of Judaism fixed or impermeable. Not surprisingly,

79

R. Brown and Meier, Antioch & Rome, 2. These categories are also particularly useful to Matthean studies because they offer a taxonomy of varying attitudes toward the Mosaic Law. 80

2.3 Moving Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide

25

then, we see variety also in early Christian groups, from the earliest moment we can detect their character in our sources.81

The Dead Sea Scrolls have broadened the range of possible Jewish settings for Matthew’s Gospel in addition to shaping how scholars approach the question of Matthew’s community and relationship to Judaism. This broadened scope, of course, is an exciting challenge for scholars. But these categories also leave open the possibility of greater or lesser Hellenistic influence in their gradations of how first-century Jewish-Christians would have balanced following Moses against following Christ.82 More importantly, perhaps, the challenge posed by the Qumran documents has the indirect consequence of dominating scholarly resources and attention.83 As is clear from the overview of recent Matthean studies surveyed later in this chapter, the Jewish context has overshadowed the study of Greek philosophical, rhetorical, and ideological influences in Matthew’s Gospel. The world of Judaisms has greatly expanded, making it possible to see Judaic influence where previously none had been observed. The questions of taxonomy and of distinctions between kinds of Judaism have become the assumed framework within which questions concerning Matthew’s community are examined. The question of what counts as uniquely Hellenistic and the treatment of the Hellenistic part of hybrid elements are issues that have diminished in importance.84 In other words, these new taxonomies, such as R. Brown’s, provide no assistance in tracing Hellenistic and/or pagan influences. They only delineate categories for distinguishing Judaic groups.

2.3 Moving Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide 2.3 Moving Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide

Given the frequency of this expression of the Judaism/Hellenism divide in Synoptic scholarship, and particularly Matthean scholarship (as will be discussed later in this chapter), one wonders what the purpose of this divide is, whether it is efficacious, and whether evidence supports it. Within Pauline scholarship, a trend has emerged that challenges the common use of this dualism. The works of Wayne Meeks, Dale Martin, and Troels EngbergPedersen unflinchingly suggest that the intended meanings of the terms Judaism and Hellenism in modern scholarship are often unclear, and thus the

81

Meeks, “Judaism, Hellenism, and the Birth of Christianity,” 26. For another interesting set of distinct theologies and attitudes attributed to the person of Jesus, see Levine, “Introduction,” 12–13. 83 See Senior, “Between Two Worlds,” 1–2. 84 For an example, see Martin’s critique of Earle Ellis. Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy,” 50–52. 82

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terms are not necessarily or precisely comparable.85 Challenging the antagonistic comparison of these terms has had the great effect of freeing scholars to consider other ways in which the two concepts may be related. It will be helpful at this point to consider two major shifts in New Testament studies that have fueled this trend. First, in the late 1960s, Martin Hengel completed the first major historical work on the presence of Hellenistic ideas in Palestine in the four centuries leading up to the New Testament. His work was an extensive historical study that has been widely influential since. Second, Richard Bauckham offered a critique on the way in which scholars have understood the communities within which the Gospels were produced (i.e., the communities for whom the Gospels were written). Hengel and Bauckham are certainly not the only scholars to raise significant challenges to the Judaism/Hellenism dualism, but they are significant voices in the conversation and worthy of consideration. 2.3.1 Hellenism Inside and Outside of Palestine One of the earliest and most important historical projects to raise significant challenges to the presuppositional use of the Judaism/Hellenism dualism is Martin Hengel’s Judaism and Hellenism, first published widely in German in 1969 (Judentum und Hellenismus). In this work, Hengel argues that both the geography and the chronology of Judaism in Palestine during the few hundred years prior to the composition of the Gospels cannot be separated from the influence of Hellenistic culture. He ultimately suggests that the categories of “Palestinian Jewish Christianity,” “Hellenistic Jewish Christianity,” and even “gentile Christianity” (categories given to us by form and redaction criticism) are not as rigidly definable as was once thought, nor are they useful for the kind of comparative study taken up by many New Testament scholars.86 Arguing for a robust definition of Hellenism, Hengel describes a significant permeation of Hellenism into almost every facet of Judaism during the four centuries leading up to and including the events of Matthew’s Gospel. The term Hellenistic is used widely with a historical dimension and is often applied to everything (e.g., culture, education, literature) in the eastern Mediterranean from the late fourth century B.C.E. until the middle of the fourth century C.E.87 The spread and influence of Hellenism was massive, thanks to the conquests of Alexander beginning in the 330s B.C.E. The result of these 85

The essays of these three scholars in Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (which have been cited throughout this chapter) are a good starting point and provide additional bibliography. 86 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1. 87 See Chancey, Greco-Roman Culture, 8. Chancey cites Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity, xi, 7.

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conquests was the widespread use of a common dialect of Greek (Κοινὴ Ἑλληνική) in commerce, the saturation of culture with Hellenistic influences, the adoption of Greek educational systems, the dominance of Hellenistic literature/philosophy, and the increasing enmeshment of Greco-Roman rule and Judaic political structures. These are only some of the factors that can be used to describe what Hengel calls “the encounter between Judaism and Hellenism.”88 Architecture, coinage, names, and military organization also demonstrate considerable Hellenistic influence in Palestine.89 Hengel’s conclusions were compelling: Judaism neither progressed untouched by Hellenism through the three centuries leading up to the New Testament nor did it fall completely to syncretism. Instead, “the truth lies between the extremes.”90 The result is a perspective in which all first-century Judaisms are, by definition, somewhat Hellenistic. Yet, not all of Hellenism is Jewish. Hengel’s work implies something rather significant about the widespread use of the terms Judaism and Hellenism. They are not, at least as they are typically understood, precisely comparable terms. Jewish can refer ethnically, culturally, or ideologically to a person or idea, regardless of location. But it also implies some connection that can be traced back to the religion of ancient Israel. That is, what holds the idea of Judaism together is the religious element. If there were such a thing as normative Judaism, its essence would be found here. But it is the variety of belief systems that make it appropriate to speak of Judaisms in the plural. The question should be asked: is it equally appropriate to speak of Hellenisms in the same way? There is not a common ideology or belief system that holds the concept of Hellenism together in the same way. Rather, the common origin of all expressions of Hellenism is not a religion or even a philosophy, but a language and perhaps some kind of ancillary connection to Athens. John M.G. Barclay takes a similar approach to that of Hengel, but focuses on Judaism in the Mediterranean Diaspora.91 His concluding sketch of Jewish identity in the Diaspora only affirms Hengel’s conclusions about the Hellenistic character of first-century Judaism.

88 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1. For additional studies supporting Hengel’s thesis, see several articles in Collins and Sterling, Hellenism in the Land of Israel. For how this encounter plays out beyond Palestine, see also Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans. 89 See Chancey, Greco-Roman Culture. 90 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 310. 91 Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora.

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In the literature which we have studied we have also found a rich diversity in the sociocultural stances adopted by Diaspora Jews, some developing elements of convergence with their non-Jewish cultural milieu, others adopting a largely antagonistic stance.92

In Barclay’s presentation, whether positively engaged with Hellenistic culture or reacting against it, Hellenism was a critical force for Diaspora Jews. What held them together was a distinctive focus on the Scriptures, Moses, and the Sabbath. A similar attempt to that of Hengel’s and Barclay’s at moving beyond the Judaism/Hellenism divide using a comparison of the Hebrew and Greek languages is John Pairman Brown’s massive work: Israel and Hellas. Published first as a series of essays beginning in 1968 (a year before Hengel’s Judentum und Hellenismus), J.P. Brown’s method consists of more or less comparing ideas across the literatures of the two great societies centered in Jerusalem and Athens. He argues that most scholars engage in the enterprise of contrasting these two societies, but contrast is only possible if the two societies are first comparable. The basis of his comparison is linguistic, as stated in his 1995 preface: Still, I will be bold and claim that this book, for the first time, documents as a unified event the double emergence, around Jerusalem and Athens respectively, of full humanity as we know it. The primary clue to the comparability of Hebrew and Greek texts—and of the societies they reveal—is the surprising fact of their shared vocabulary, mostly of nouns.93

Throughout his three-volume work, J.P. Brown proceeds to compare linguistic and etymological commonalities in Greek and Hebrew authors; he discusses their congruence across numerous topics, from vine vocabulary (e.g., wine jar and to mix) to cultic terminology (e.g., bull’s horn) to archery expressions (e.g., arrow as bearing poison and pestilence and broken bow). Provocative as these systematic comparisons were, J.P. Brown saw a point at which the two languages, cultures, and sets of ideas intersected in a way beyond mere coincidence. He traced the control of Palestine from Alexander to Rome (by way of Ptolemaic and Seleucid control and a brief independence under the Maccabees), arguing—much like Hengel—that it was here that Israel and Hellas met face-to-face. These Jewish and Hellenistic societies reached their confluence in the New Testament. The “narrative and spiritual theme is Israelite” and the “linguistic form and social institutions are Greek.” Put more simply: “its matter is Israelite and its form Hellenic.”94 While J. P. Brown is not alone in this type of comparative study, few have gone the route of studying the linguistic overlap of Greek and Hebrew as well

92

Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora, 400. J.P. Brown, Israel and Hellas, Vol. 1, viii. The emphasis is J.P. Brown’s. 94 J.P. Brown, Israel and Hellas, Vol. 3, 175. 93

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as the cultures, religions and ideas the two languages articulate.95 A much more common approach is to compare Pauline theology and rhetoric with Greco-Roman philosophy. Engberg-Pedersen’s study of Paul and Stoic philosophy, Bruce Winter’s study of Paul and Sophism, and F. Gerald Downing’s study of early Christian texts in the context of Cynic philosophy are just a few of the many examples that have surfaced since Hengel’s work.96 One notable work along these lines is that of Daniel Boyarin, who set out specifically to describe Greek philosophical dialogical patterns as “a particular practice of a particular cultural form (Greek and then Hellenistic, including Jewish Hellenism, by which I mean potentially all Judaism after the coming of Alexander).97 Fundamental to his understanding is the pervasiveness of Hellenism in Judaisms, including Judaisms in Babylon and on the far reaches of the diaspora.98 Each of these attempts is a window to the enormous world of reading Biblical texts in relationship to their Greek philosophical, political, social, cultural, and religious contexts, suggesting that Greek philosophical ideas are discernible in the New Testament. Yet, comparatively fewer attempts have been made to isolate a Greek philosophical or rhetorical influence in the Gospels as a whole, and in this regard, the least amount of attention has been paid to Greek influence on Matthew’s Gospel in particular. 2.3.2 Presumed Audience of the Gospels Another significant challenge to the Judaism/Hellenism dualism comes from the work of Richard Bauckham on the question of the Gospel communities. Armed with a handful of supplementary studies from fellow British scholars, Bauckham strongly argued for the possibility that the Evangelists composed their Gospels with the intention of wide circulation, and so the community in which the Gospel was written (i.e., the so-called implied readers) and the community for whom the Gospel was written were not necessarily the same.99 Bauckham’s perceived starting point is clear:

95 A notable example of a study like that of J.P. Brown is F. Gerald Downing’s Strangely Familiar: An Introductory Reader to the First Century. See also Downing, Christ and the Cynics. 96 Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics; Winter, Philo and Paul Among the Sophists; Downing, Christ and the Cynics. 97 Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis, 29. 98 Boyarin draws on the work of Shaye J.D. Cohen to point out the influence of Hellenism in Jewish Babylonia while not denying the influence of Iran. He points particularly to the Platonic understanding of statements concerning anamnesis and pedagogical assumptions and their specific consonance with the Babylonian rabbis. Boyarin, Socrates and the Fat Rabbis, 134–138. See Cohen, “Patriarchs and Scholarchs,” 85. 99 Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?,” 9–48.

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It is a remarkable feature of the history of New Testament scholarship in this century that this consensus about the original intended audiences of the Gospels has come about without any substantial argument. Nearly all scholars writing about the Gospels now treat it as virtually self-evident that each evangelist addressed the specific context and concerns of his own community, and a large and increasingly sophisticated edifice of scholarly reconstruction has been erected on this basic assumption.

Nowhere does this observation seem truer than in Matthean studies, where the question of Matthew’s community and its relationship to Judaism has been the dominant question. Major works that set out specifically to describe the Matthean community include David C. Sim’s The Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism: The History and Social Setting of the Matthean Community100 as well as Warren Carter’s Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading.101 Their approach was to ascertain the character of the community on the basis of the available details in the Gospel text and the contemporary historical and literary documents. Robert H. Gundry’s approach is similar. “By noting Matthew’s emphases we can infer the situation in which he wrote and the purposes for which he wrote.”102 Gundry’s conclusion is that Matthew was particularly concerned by the mixed Jew and gentile constituency of his church. Donald Hagner assumes the majority position in a lengthy reflection on Israel and the Church,103 arguing that a “key issue in defining the life setting of Matthew’s community is whether by the time of the writing of the Gospel a clear break between the church and synagogue had taken place.”104 While Hagner is very careful not to make too much of the supposed evidence, he clearly adopts the premise that Matthew’s community can be detected in this historical tension. Ulrich Luz takes a variety of approaches to arrive at the same assumption. First, he looks at the particulars of Matthew’s Gospel (e.g. inclusion of the Lord’s Prayer in chapter 6 and the particular expression of the Eucharistic words of institution in chapter 26) to argue that Matthew’s theology is informed by the Eucharistic worship of his community.105 He then proceeds to survey the arguments for and against gentile authorship on redaction critical grounds as well as historical grounds only to conclude that “the Gospel of Matthew originates in a Jewish Christian community and comes from a Jewish Christian author.”106 Numerous other examples can be found in nearly 100

Sim, Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism. Carter, Matthew and the Margins. 102 Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church Under Persecution, 5. 103 Hagner, Matthew 1–13, lxvi–lxviii. 104 Hagner, Matthew 1–13, xlviii. 105 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 43–44. 106 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 46. 101

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every commentary on Matthew published in the last 50 years, not the least of which is an extensive treatment of the Matthean community by Jack Dean Kingsbury.107 In contrast to these approaches, Bauckham’s challenge to an overemphasis on reconstructing Gospel communities was built primarily on three arguments. First, Bauckham observes that the so-called consensus concerning the existence of Gospel communities was assumed without adequate support.108 That is, it was assumed appropriate that the Gospels should be read as situational documents much like the Pauline letters, without a specific argument as to why they should be read that way. It is possible that this reading strategy is related to the suggestion of Burnett Hillman Streeter (1874–1937) that each of the Gospels originated from a major city. This possibility has been raised in subsequent argument against Bauckham, on the basis that the existence of four Gospel communities helps explain why we have four Gospels rather than one dominant Gospel.109 This ungrounded assumption is further complicated in that conclusions based on the assumption are then held up to justify the truth of the assumption in the first place. That is, Bauckham argues that conclusions that seem to confirm the hypothesis of a particular Gospel community are merely the results of a circular reading strategy, not proof that this reading strategy does better justice to the text.110 Second, if a particular Gospel community should not be assumed, then a general Gospel community can be assumed. And in fact, Bauckham argues, the evidence for a general Gospel community is more compelling.111 Here, Bauckham is greatly aided in his argument by essays on the production and circulation of ancient books by Loveday Alexander112 and the general circulation practices of βίοι (a genre to which Gospels belong, or so Bauckham takes for granted) by Richard Burridge.113 The evidence offered by L. Alexander and Burridge confirms Bauckham’s understanding of the situation in the first century: these texts were likely intended to be distributed widely and among people not specifically known by the author. Third, even if the Gospel texts were written for specific communities, it was unlikely that they were expected to remain within those communities as early Christian communities were not the segregated, isolated, and reclusive 107 Kingsbury, Matthew as Story, 147–160. Kingsbury takes a slightly more circumspect approach in his article: Kingsbury “Conclusion: Analysis of a Conversation,” 259–269. 108 Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” 10. 109 Marcus, Mark 1–8, 17–39. See also Peterson, Origins of Mark. 110 Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” 22. 111 Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” 26–29. 112 L. Alexander, “Ancient Book Production and the Circulation of the Gospels,” 71– 105. 113 Burridge, “About People, by People, for People: Gospel Genre and Audiences,” 113–145.

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groups that many in search of particular Gospel communities assumed such communities would have been.114 Here, again, Bauckham finds support in an essay on communication habits between Christian communities by Michael B. Thompson.115 As the prologues and epilogues of Pauline letters indicate, correspondence among Christian communities in the first century was common. That such a community should take to writing or revising a major work like a Gospel and then not share it is simply unrealistic. Bauckham’s new perspective on the Gospel communities, however, did not stay uncontested for very long. Joel Marcus, for example, revived the argument that the Gospels were each preserved, in part, because of the individual communities from which they came.116 While not denying Bauckham’s conclusion that the Gospels were intended for broader audiences, Marcus argues that they were still written first for specific communities. This nuanced conclusion that makes room for both was also embraced by Margaret M. Mitchell on the basis of additional criteria. In her 2003 Society of Biblical Literature paper, she agrees with the general premise that Bauckham has overstated his case concerning unimportance of local communities.117 She goes on to show that this overstatement is particularly at odds with the testimony of the earliest patristic exegetes, who were, in her estimation, profoundly concerned with identifying and describing the communities of the Evangelists.118 Within Matthean studies, this kind of nuanced approach is anticipated most clearly by Graham N. Stanton in his A Gospel for a New People: Studies in Matthew. While he maintains the majority position of placing the Matthean community in the context of turmoil over the increasing separation of gentiles from Jews in Jewish and Christian communities, he still acknowledges the speculative nature of the enterprise. “A reconstruction on these lines must inevitably draw heavily on the disciplined imagination of the historian.” This sentiment is even more clearly stated in an article called “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities,” published in 1996 in Hervormde Teologiese Studies119 and based on a 1994 SBL seminar paper of the same name. In this article, Stanton asserts that a Gospel is not a letter and should not be read like one. Here, Stanton has made way for Bauckham’s more comprehensive argument along the same lines.

114

Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” 30. Thompson, “The Holy Internet,” 49–70. 116 Marcus, Mark 1–8, 17–39. 117 Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-Evidence,” 36–79. 118 While Mitchell’s point is certainly valid, I am apprehensive about relying too much on patristic evidence. As I will show concerning Papias, standard interpretations of some patristic evidence are not reliable or, at least, not undisputed. 119 Stanton, “Revisiting Matthew’s Communities,” 376–394. 115

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John Nolland, in his Matthew commentary, also takes a more nuanced view of the community issue, confining his remarks to somewhat broader communities in the text of his commentary, and addressing Bauckham’s specific thesis in an important note: Certainly his [Bauckham’s] contention is correct that they are written as open documents and not as closed documents. And certainly the book [The Gospel for All Nations] is right to protest that to know something of the provenance of the writer and/or his materials does not provide a basis for making immediate assumptions about readership […] I think, however, that the Bauckham volume is in danger of moving to the opposite extreme from those of the scholarly orthodoxies it is rightly concerned to dislodge. There do seem to me to be some patterns of assumptions about reader perspectives to be found in both Luke and Matthew; each Gospel bridges most naturally to a limited range from among all the potential readers available in the first-century Greco-Roman world.120

Nolland’s perspective argues for acknowledging both the traditional view of Gospel communities and the extreme critique of Bauckham, but evaluating each element on a case-by-case basis. Some aspects of Matthew’s Gospel were probably meant for a broad audience. Other aspects probably reveal something about Matthew’s particular community. But most importantly, Nolland places the range of communities for the Gospel in the Greco-Roman world. Unlike most Matthean scholars who came before him and who saw Matthew’s community as fundamentally wrestling with the exclusivity or inclusivity of gentiles, Nolland’s intermediate position—much like Bauckham’s radical position—recognizes the possibility of a Greco-Roman context for the Matthean text. With the increased acceptance of Hengel’s thesis concerning the intersection of Judaism and Hellenism as well as correlative supports in the marketplace of New Testament Studies (such as Bauckham’s thesis concerning the widespread audience of the Gospels), the question remains as to how these ideas relate to the Gospel of Matthew.

2.4 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide and the Gospel of Matthew 2.4 The Judaism/Hellenism Divide and the Gospel of Matthew

Charles Talbert opened his 2004 monograph on the Sermon on the Mount with a revealing statement: “Matthew’s Gospel is clearly set in the context of ancient Judaism. It is usually recognized as the most Jewish of all the four canonical gospels.”121 In the space of these two lines, Talbert has summarized the starting point for most Matthean scholars, especially those of the last 50 years: Matthew is the “most Jewish” gospel.122 Talbert—like so many others 120

Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 18. Talbert, Reading the Sermon on the Mount, 3. 122 France, Gospel of Matthew, 19. 121

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trying to grasp the world in which the Gospel was written, constructed, and read—recognizes the central question within Matthean studies over these decades: what is the relationship of Matthew’s Gospel and community to that of contemporary Judaism(s)? Answers to the question, naturally, involve investigating evidence both external and internal to the text. 2.4.1 The Matthean Community: External Evidence One of the first scholars to wrestle with the question of the Matthean community in light of both historical Jesus studies and the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls was William D. Davies. W.D. Davies’s influential monograph, The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, endeavored to place the Sermon on the Mount—and by extension, the Gospel of Matthew—within its literary context on the basis of contemporary Jewish and early Christian literature. As such, he proposed that the Sermon on the Mount was constructed in opposition to, among other groups, Pharisaic Jews.123 W.D. Davies argued that the fall of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. paved the way for the rise of the Pharisaic party, which up to that point had been one among many Jewish groups. Under the leadership of Rabbi Johannan ben Zakkai, what was left of the various Judaisms unified into a more homogenous and conservative group. W.D. Davies argued that Johannan, in unifying the diverse Jewish groups, avoided the uninformed enthusiasm of charismatic and apocalyptic Judaism as well as the greed and violence of certain priestly groups, in order to pursue a more pragmatic Judaism characterized by the careful study and rigorous application of the Torah.124 This practical attitude is most evident in Johannan’s alleged gathering of Pharisaic scholars, the forerunners of rabbinic Judaism, in Jamnia. According to W.D. Davies, it was out of a concern for the survival of Judaism there that Johannan and his successor Gamaliel II prompted dramatic consolidation efforts. These efforts included broadly reaching reforms leading to a systematic purging of divergent groups within Judaism as well as further collective self-identification against competing groups. For example, a doctrinal difference concerning the resurrection of the dead was dogmatized, further isolating the increasingly unpopular Sadducees.125 Priestly orders, another compet-

123

Cohen, for example suggests that the Jamnian enterprise should be viewed more as a coalition of different Jewish sects rather than the triumph of the Pharisaic sect. Cohen, “The Significance of Yavneh: Pharisees, Rabbis, and the End of Jewish Sectarianism,” 27– 53. 124 W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 256–257. 125 See m. Sanh. 10:1, wherein the Sadducees’ disbelief in the resurrection of the dead necessarily makes them heretics. Their significance is also greatly diminished in this period as they became purposeless with the destruction of the temple in 70 CE and likely

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ing group, were stripped of their importance as liturgical reforms shifted authority from priests to rabbis and from the Temple to the synagogue.126 Christian interlopers similarly were targeted by the Jamnian reforms. The chief prayer of the synagogue, the Tefillah or Amidah (which consisted of eighteen benedictions), was amended to include two additional lines in the twelfth benediction: For persecutors let there be no hope, and the dominion of arrogance do Thou speedily root out in our days; and let Christians (notzrim) and minim perish in a moment, let them be blotted out of the book of the living and let them not be written with the righteous.127

For W.D. Davies, the additional lines (which came to be known as the Birkat ha-Minim) suggested that the Pharisaic sages in Jamnia regarded Christians— that is, Jewish-Christians who had likely shared the synagogue as a place of worship until that point—as a “menace sufficiently serious to warrant a liturgical innovation.”128 On the basis of this Benediction, W.D. Davies concluded that the Christians were widely and abruptly expelled from the synagogues (extra muros). With this context in mind, W.D. Davies turned to his study of Matthew and the Sermon on the Mount. W.D. Davies argued that with a visible and definitive split between normative Judaism and Jewish-Christianity, the Sermon was Matthew’s Jewish-Christian response to Jamnia, his attempt at forging an identity for his Christian-Jewish community in opposition to the Pharisaic Jews’ efforts to do the same in Jamnia.”129 Matthew’s Gospel is, therefore, defined by its opposition to Judaism. Building on Neusner’s challenges to W.D. Davies, J. Andrew Overman frames the discussion within Matthean studies. He argues that Christianity was not yet identifiably different from Judaism at the time of the writing of Matthew’s Gospel. The Gospel itself could not be a document describing the tension of a group who had split with Judaism, as W.D. Davies’s argument suggests, but rather it describes a community struggling within Judaism and still a part of the synagogue culture (intra muros). Overman acknowledged

ceased to exist as a social order shortly thereafter. W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 259. 126 W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 260. 127 “First, the 12th Benediction, in its main structure, existed in the early part of the first century. Secondly, the last two lines in the Palestinian version…did not belong to the original Benediction, but were an addition. Thirdly, the specific Talmudic evidence that the Birkhat ha-Minim (the name given to these lines) was composed in the time of Rabban Gamaliel II by Samuel the Small need not be questioned, and is confirmed by the fact that the rhyme in its two verses differs from that found in the rest of the Tefillah.” W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 275. 128 W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 276. 129 W.D. Davies, Setting of the Sermon on the Mount, 315.

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the same competing groups as W.D. Davies—apocalyptic Jews, Sadducees, priestly orders, Christian-Jews—but argues that in Matthew’s case, the Gospel portrays a community that continued to view themselves as Jews. Similarly to Overman, Anthony J. Saldarini understands Matthew’s community as a Jewish sect.130 He characterizes Matthew as representing a “fragile minority” who considered themselves Jews while simultaneously believing that Jesus was the Messiah. While Matthew may have been on the fringe of Judaism, he would identify himself primarily within normative Judaism.131 Saldarini makes his case on the basis of several criteria: 1) Matthew’s Judaism was before codification of the Mishnah and Talmuds, and thus would have been one of various Judaisms in the second temple period; 2) Matthew’s use of Israel, people, and crowds suggests that Matthew sees his community as constituting Israel; 3) Jesus’s opponents in Matthew’s Gospel are the Jewish leaders;132 4) Matthew’s use of nations is consistent with normal Greek usage and so does not imply a theological succession of gentiles over Jews— yet it remains open to inclusion of gentiles; 5) sociological concepts in Matthew such as space, inclusion, etc. can help us to surmount oversimplified dichotomies between Judaism and Christianity; 6) Matthew’s discussion of the Law was normal for the contemporary debate in Judaism and he would have seen himself as a Jewish leader—not spokesperson for a new religion; and 7) Matthew’s claims about Jesus have parallels in Judaism. Additionally, Overman and Saldarini both favor the few instances of ostensibly anti-gentile references (Matt 5:46–47; 6:7–8, 6:31–32; 18:17) over the mission to gentiles (in Matt 28:19), concluding that Matthew and his readers properly belong within the bounds of a Law-abiding, Sabbath-honoring, sacrificing, circumcising Judaism which they would have seen as representative of the Israel of the Hebrew Bible. They were slightly different only in that they were also Christians—which presumably affected their cultic practices.133 130

Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community. This group would also likely have required circumcision and food-law observance of gentile converts. 132 The negative portrayal of Scribes and Pharisees endemic to Matthew’s Gospel might indicate that Matthew’s community was uncomfortable with certain aspects of “normative Judaism.” How much of this anti-Pharisaism is the creation of Matthew and how much he inherited from Mark is much more difficult to determine. I am using George, F. Moore’s definition of “normative Judaism” as a monotheistic religion defined by its “religious conceptions, its moral principles, its forms of worship, and its distinctive type of piety, as well as the rules of laws and observance which became authoritative for all succeeding time.” This religion culminated in the second century with the codified Mishnah and what became known as Rabbinic Judaism. G.F. Moore, Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era, 3. See also Kaufman, “Buber’s and Kaplan’s Critiques of Normative Judaism,” 7–16. See also the discussion earlier in this chapter. 133 For a critique of Saldarini and Overman, see Hare, “How Jewish is the Gospel of Matthew?” 264–277. 131

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2.4.2 Judaism and Anti-Judaism: Internal Evidence Several commentators have adopted W.D. Davies’s conclusions, though they remain skeptical about the significance W.D. Davies attributes to Jamnia and the Birkhat ha-Minim. Instead, they focus on the seemingly contradictory evidence within Matthew. The evidence broadly includes balancing the themes of Jewish persecution in the birth narrative as well as Jesus and his family and followers all being Jewish with the invective Jesus employs against the Pharisaic leaders of Judaism at the end of the Gospel. 134 The evidence includes elements like the juxtaposition of a mission that involves going “nowhere among the gentiles,”135 but rather “the house of Israel,”136 with the mission “to all nations.”137 The result of this seemingly contradictory internal evidence is a large and important enterprise in sorting out the relationship of Jesus, Matthew, and Matthew’s community with Judaism.138 Graham Stanton, for example, takes what he calls a “mediating position.” Stanton’s position is that Matthew’s community has parted with Judaism, and so some gentiles have been accepted. They are no longer a part of synagogue culture (extra muros). “Nearly every pericope of the gospel reflects rivalry between ‘church’ and ‘synagogue.’”139 Stanton bases his position on 1) the negative light in which Matthew holds the Pharisees, scribes, and other Jewish leaders; 2) Matthew’s association of these Jewish leaders with synagogues, often with references to “their synagogues;”140 3) the apparent foundation of the church as an assembly in competition with the synagogue; 4) the transference of the kingdom to a new people including gentiles; and 5) allusion to circulation of a Jewish account of the resurrection rivaling Matthew’s own (see Matt 28:15). Another intermediate perspective has been outlined by Donald Hagner. He argues that the tension felt by Matthew’s community and expressed in the Gospel need not indicate either a presently or formerly Jewish setting, but rather a community in transition. Hagner suggests that Matthew and his community were Jews who had realized the fulfillment of their Judaism in Jesus as the Messiah and that they had separated from other Jews who had rejected Jesus as the Messiah. Matthew’s community was in a difficult position, “wanting to reach back for continuity with the old and as the same time 134

Matt 23:13–39. Matt 10:5. 136 Matt 10:6. 137 Matt 28:19. 138 For a discussion of the anti-Judaic elements of the Gospel, see Levine, “AntiJudaism and the Gospel of Matthew,” 9–36. Levine concludes that the Gospel itself is antagonistic to a significant portion of Jews. 139 Stanton, Gospel for a New People, 124. 140 Matt 12:9, 13:54. 135

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to reach forward to the new work God was doing in the largely gentile church.”141 They had the dual goal of defining and defending their Jewish Christianity against normative Judaism and, at the same time, finding a way of relating to gentile Christianity.142 Even a perspective on the opposite end of the spectrum from that of Overman and Saldarini—that is, a perspective that argues for an exclusively gentile bias—still views Matthew’s Gospel in light of the struggle between the Jews as a homogenous group and those outside of Judaism. In an influential 1947 essay, Kenneth W. Clark argues for gentile authorship of the Gospel by focusing on the problem of defining what constitutes something that is uniquely Jewish.143 He begins by laying out the typical arguments for Jewish authorship and then challenging the presuppositions that such arguments require.144 The genealogy in the first chapter, the repeated references to Isaiah and other Hebrew prophets, and other linguistic elements certainly do call to mind the Hebrew Scriptures. But are these features uniquely Jewish? Luke, who is typically seen as a predominantly gentile and Hellenistic writer,145 also makes use of a genealogy and Isaiah. In addition, there are elements in the Gospel atypical of what would be expected in a Jewish setting—such as the implicit rejection of Israel in Matt 28:16–20 or the explicit rejection of Israel’s leaders in Matthew 23. Paul, himself a Jew who believed that this new Christianity was open to gentile converts, treats the question of the future of the Jews quite differently. In Romans 9–11, Paul earnestly desires that his fellow Jews would come to a faith in Jesus even after a period of rejecting Christ. For Clark, no such hope is present in Matthew: The Matthean picture of judgment and rejection is not presented as a warning to Judaism to repent. The author believes that the warning has already been sufficient, and penitence is no longer to be expected. Judaism as such has definitely rejected Jesus as God’s Messiah, and God has finally rejected Judaism. This gentile bias is the primary thesis in Matthew, and such a message would be natural only from the bias of a gentile author.146

141

Hagner, Matthew 1–13, lxx. Hagner, “Sitz im Leben of the Gospel of Matthew,” 49–50. 143 A few recent scholars have taken Clark’s position, but Clark’s presentation of the arguments remains one of the clearest and most influential, as can be seen in the citations of those who take his position. See Hagner, “Sitz im Leben of the Gospel of Matthew,” 34. See also R. Brown and Meier, Antioch & Rome, 61. Others have gone as far as to suggest that Matthew was a gentile in a Hellenistic setting and writing only for gentile Christians. Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit, 15–34. 144 Clark, “Gentile Bias in Matthew,” 165. 145 See Brawley for an interesting discussion of Luke’s Jewish-Christian background. While convincing in some respects, this is still a minority view. Brawley, Luke-Acts and the Jews. 146 Clark, “Gentile Bias in Matthew,” 167–168. 142

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Based on this reading of Matthew, Clark concludes that the gentiles replace the Jews as the chosen recipients of God’s and Christ’s gospel salvation in Matthew’s Gospel.147 Therefore, Matthew must have been a gentile.148 Interestingly, while his conclusions radically differ from those who see Matthew as exclusively for Jewish communities, Clark’s perspective on Matthew’s goal is very much like that of those who see Matthew as Jewish: Matthew is reacting to and engaging with a proximate Judaism.149 From Overman and Saldarini on one extreme to Clark on the other, with Stanton and others staking out a middle ground, there remains a wide range of perspectives on Matthew and his community. Yet, all these perspectives have one very important thing in common: they argue that the dominant and defining characteristic of Matthew’s community is its relationship with Judaism. This relationship is the means by which Matthew’s setting and theological perspective can be derived. And while some commentators have explicitly expressed doubts as to the relevance of the Birkhat ha-Minim to the discussion or the value of arguing intra muros versus extra muros, they invariably rehearse the arguments as though Judaism is the dominant issue. The implication is hard to miss. The task for these commentators, then, has been to sort out Matthew’s relationship to Judaism, to observe Israel’s impressions on the Matthean community, and compare the uniquely Jewish influences with contemporary Judaisms. Often, because Matthew seems so intensely interested in Jewish things, the implication is that he is proportionately uninterested in uniquely Hellenistic—or non-Jewish—things. The relationship of Matthew’s gentile references 147 One significant challenge to Clark’s thesis is the presence of seemingly pro-Jewish statements in Matthew’s Gospel. These passages—a favorable view of the Law in Matt 5:17–48, the narrow mission only to Israel in 10:5–6 and 15:24, and the affirmation of the Pharisees and Scribes as heirs to “Moses’s seat” in 23:2—are some of the very passages which Overman and Saldarini use to support their position. Yet, it is possible that these statements of Jesus are not as pro-Jewish as they seem. The statements meant to preserve the Law in 5:17–18 seem to be undone by the Jesus’s tempering of the Law in 5:21–48. The statements affirming the Pharisees and Scribes in Moses’s seat come just before a strong rebuke of how they have managed the Jewish people from that seat. The limiting of Jesus’s mission to Israel must be balanced against the command to go to all nations in 28:19. It is possible that Matthew has constructed an implicit narrative progression wherein Israel is Jesus’s first priority (hence a focus on the Jews in his early ministry), but their eventual rejection of him leads to gentile inclusion or even a gentile focus. This idea seems to be present in other early Christian writings (e.g. Rom 11:11–36, Acts 18:5–6). In light of subsequent history, the narrow focus on Israel may have been part of a larger antiJewish argument. See Cook, “Interpreting the Pro-Jewish Passages in Matthew,” 135–146. 148 Clark, “Gentile Bias in Matthew,” 166. 149 This gentile bias has subsequently been taken as an anti-Semitic bias that is intrinsic to the composition of the Gospel. See Burnett, “Exposing the Anti-Jewish Ideology of Matthew’s Implied Author,” 155–191.

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to Hellenism is neglected. The distinction is muddled. And anything which cannot be traced back specifically to Israel is frequently ignored or subordinated to Matthew’s apparent Jewish interests. In other words, the Hellenistic part of Hengel’s corrective toward Hellenistic Judaism is functionally irrelevant. The result is that each view operates well within the dualistic system of Judaism and Hellenism, reinforcing those categories with the conclusion that the setting of Matthew’s Gospel and its inherent theological perspective address ideas that are uniquely Jewish. Indeed, this is the basis on which most commentaries proceed.150

2.5 Conclusion 2.5 Conclusion

One of the greatest challenges within New Testament studies is the lack of homogeneity in the texts. The New Testament canon is comprised of 27 books, arguably written by at least seven individuals over the course of 50– 100 years. Behind each of these texts is the historical religious tradition of ancient Israel. National and cultural identities were constantly in question throughout the Hellenistic period as the Seleucids and the Ptolemies battled over Palestine and Syria. Greek culture had taken root. And even before Jesus was born, Roman governance and cultural innovation (with its espousal of all things Greek) had become additional factors. Even so, there remains the possibility of immeasurable and unknown influences. The complexity of sorting out all of the little inconsistencies, reconciling the vast disparate influences, 150

Blomberg concludes: “In light of his structure and theological emphases, perhaps pride of place attaches to the first of these purposes—apologetics in interaction with Jews.” Blomberg, Matthew, 34. Nolland concludes: “Matthew promotes mission to all peoples, but he promotes it to Jewish Christians and to a constituency that appears not to have had any significant gentile membership and seems not to have much natural social interaction with non-Jews.” Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 17. Morris concludes: “The writer seems concerned throughout to show that Christianity is the true continuation of the Old Testament—the true Judaism, if we may put it that way.” Morris, Gospel According to Matthew, 2. Stanton concludes: “Matthew does far more than simply react polemically to the perceived hostility of the synagogue across the street. He sets out his account of Jesus partly in the light of specific Jewish accusations and criticisms and partly in the light of possible Jewish objections to Christian claims…I hope that I have shown that for much of early Christianity, and for Matthew in particular, the relationship between Christianity and Judaism was the central problem for Christian theology.” Stanton, Gospel for a New People, 168. To my knowledge, R.H. Smith is one of a very few who argue that Matthew espouses neither specifically Jewish nor anti-Jewish sentiments. Rather, R.H. Smith argues that Matthew is self-critiquing his Christian community in only ‘Christian’ terms in an era beyond Christian separation from the synagogue. R.H. Smith, “Matthew’s Message for Insiders,” 229–239.

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handling the inherent biases of sources produced by groups prone to sectarianism, and explaining how these texts developed is immense. The assertion that these multifaceted traditions can be accurately represented by two simple, definable categories—Jewish and Hellenistic—is convenient. Too convenient. Much of recent Biblical scholarship has, indeed, moved past the Judaism/Hellenism divide. This is especially true in work using sociological, rhetorical, postcolonial, and postmodern methodologies. Matthean Studies, however, which generally remains dominated by redaction and literary methodologies, seems not to have forded the river. Waves of interest in reconciling the historical Jesus with ‘Christ of faith’ and the massive breakthroughs in our understanding of Second Temple Judaisms (fueled by the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls) have kept the critical study of Matthew’s Gospel concentrated on the Judaism question. Even though evidence from Qumran and the novelty of questing for a historical Jesus has opened up a world of possibilities for seeing a Gospel with varying kinds and degrees of Jewishness, the reality of Matthew’s context remains far more complex. There were certainly both Jews and Jewish Christians. There well may have even been non-Jewish Christians. But in light of Hengel’s work and those who followed him, it seems now impossible that each of these groups was not also thoroughly steeped in Hellenistic literature, history, culture, and education. The very spirit of Athens lingered in nearly every aspect of life. Separating Hellenism from Judaism has become impossible. Naturally, the complexity of detecting Hellenistic influence within these various and diverse groups should result in an even wider variety of hypotheses on Matthew’s Christian community. Nevertheless, the current state of scholarship would have us choose from the various types of Jewish Christians. Almost no attention is given to the Hellenistic part of Hellenistic Judaism. And while the position that Matthew’s Gospel text emanates from a cloistered Jewish community or even a Hellenistic-Jewish community is not universal, framing discussions of Matthew’s Sitz im Leben within the Judaism/Hellenism is, apparently, inescapable. The divide remains. The question of the Matthean community’s relationship to Judaism dominates. And with very few exceptions, the question of Matthew’s community’s relationship to Hellenism remains confined to footnotes, if present at all.151

151 Notable exceptions include the new introductory material in Craig S. Keener’s 1999 commentary, recently published as Keener, Gospel of Matthew, xxv–l. See also Betz, Commentary on the Sermon on the Mount. See also the chapter on the Sermon on the Mount in Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism.

Chapter 3

Matthew’s Gospel as a Greek Document The Jews said to one another, “Where does this man intend to go that we will not find him? Does he intend to go to the Dispersion among the Greeks and teach the Greeks?”1 —John 7:35

If Matthean scholarship is dominated by the questions of Matthew’s particular Judaism, as was argued in the previous chapter, then a way forward that accounts for Hengel’s corrective—that first-century Judaism is Hellenistic— could be useful for further study in Matthew. I will propose in the fourth chapter that the study of the Greco-Roman rhetorical backdrop of the Gospel of Matthew is one such way forward. But any argument about the Hellenistic character of the rhetoric of the Gospel will necessarily presuppose that Hellenistic rhetorical influence is plausible. But, is it? This question is really two separate questions that must be addressed. First, is there anything about the Gospel of Matthew that might suggest it properly belongs in Hengel’s world of muddled Judaism and Hellenism more than a kind of cloistered Jewish community? This third chapter will attempt to answer that question. Second, is it plausible that Greco-Roman rhetorical influence was dominant enough in the backdrop of Matthew’s Hellenistic world to show in the text of the Gospel? The fourth chapter will attempt to answer that question in a somewhat broader sense. Of course, it is worth noting at this point that one need not argue for explicit or intentional influence. Rather, my questions here are whether Matthew was in such a Hellenistic world that patterns of argumentation and literature might have left an imprint on him that emerges even unintentionally in his text. Or to put it in terms of audience, would the first readers of the Gospel have perceived resonances with Matthew’s Hellenistic background, whether such connections were intentional or unintentional on the part of Matthew? In order to answer the question of how Hellenistic the world of Matthew’s Gospel is, we must look at four facets of the Gospel: language, sources, provenance, and literary genre. While the content of Matthew’s Gospel is un-

1

John 7:35. εἶπον οὖν οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι πρὸς ἑαυτούς· ποῦ οὗτος µέλλει πορεύεσθαι ὅτι ἡµεῖς οὐχ εὑρήσοµεν αὐτόν; µὴ εἰς τὴν διασπορὰν τῶν Ἑλλήνων µέλλει πορεύεσθαι καὶ διδάσκειν τοὺς Ἕλληνας;

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doubtedly saturated with Judaism from the Second Temple period, these facets of the Gospel suggest a diverse backdrop. That is, while Judaism may necessarily be Hellenistic, not all Hellenistic influence is Jewish. The result is a wide array of influences on the Gospel writer. Importantly, these facets are generally agreed upon and taken for granted by a substantial majority of Matthean scholars. Also importantly, by way of contrast, these facets are rarely included in discussions of the Matthean community’s relationship to Judaism.2 As one might expect, arguments concerning these elements include considerable overlap with each other. Nevertheless, taken together, they paint a picture of the Matthean backdrop that demands a deeper look at our assumptions about the editor’s education and method of constructing his text.

3.1 Language 3.1 Language

While considering particular vocabulary and linguistic features will be important for analyzing aspects of the Gospel, it is important to first establish the language in which the Gospel was written. The most significant challenge of this particular question arises from the tension between the ancient testimony that the Gospel was written in Hebrew (or Aramaic) and the modern assessment that there is no internal evidence to suggest that what we know as the Gospel of Matthew was written in anything other than Greek. It is worth briefly reviewing both the external and internal evidence here as Matthean scholars still almost universally find it necessary to mention the tradition that Matthew’s Gospel was composed in a Semitic language. Likewise, while Markan priority remains the majority position (which generally, though not always, precludes a primarily Semitic source for Matthew), the assumption of a Semitic antecedent to the Gospel and the possibility of Matthean priority have both gained support in recent years.3 The starting point of any discussion of external evidence concerning the language of the Gospel is Papias. One of the so-called church fathers, Papias is thought to have served as Bishop of Hierapolis in the early second century and possibly the late first.4 According to Irenaeus, his credibility stems from 2

One significant counter-example is the massive commentary of Davies and Allison, who quite defensively discuss, for 49 pages, every argument for and against both Jewish authorship and a Jewish milieu. See Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 9–58. 3 While there seem to be as many unique solutions to the Synoptic Problem as there are people writing on the Synoptic Problem, several hold to the Two-Gospel Hypothesis (i.e., a rebranding of the Griesbach Hypothesis). See particularly Wenham, Redating Matthew, Mark, & Luke. See also Farmer, The Synoptic Problem. 4 Yarbrough, “The Date of Papias: A Reassessment,” 181–191.

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having been a student of both the Apostle John and John’s student Polycarp.5 His major written work, a five-part exposition of the sayings of the Lord (Λογίων Κυριακῶν Ἐξήγησις) is largely lost, apart from a series of fragments preserved in works by other church fathers (including Irenaeus, Eusebius, and Jerome).6 For the purpose of establishing language, one of Papias’s fragments is particularly important: This also the presbyter said: Mark, having become the interpreter [ἑρµηνευτὴς] of Peter, wrote down accurately [ἀκριβῶς ἔγραψεν], though not in order [οὐ µέντοι τάξει], whatsoever he remembered of the things said or done by Christ. For he neither heard the Lord nor followed him, but afterward, as I said, he followed Peter, who adapted his teaching to the needs of his hearers, but with no intention of giving a connected account [σύνταξιν] of the Lord’s discourses [λογίων], so that Mark committed no error while he thus wrote some things as he remembered them. For he was careful of one thing, not to omit any of the things which he had heard, and not to state any of them falsely…So then Matthew wrote [συνετάξατο, so possibly set in order?] the oracles [τὰ λόγια, so possibly the logia, or the gospel?] in the Hebrew language [Ἑβραΐδι διαλέκτῳ, so possibly Aramaic?], and every one interpreted [ἡρµήνευσεν, so possibly translated?] them as he was able.7

Though recording several details about the compositional process for Mark’s Gospel, Papias makes only a brief comment about Matthew. As is apparent from my inserted notes above, Papias’s comment is anything but clear. The use of Hebrew dialect rather than simply Hebrew is probably the least problematic phrase as we know that Hebrew was spoken only in a few closed communities, but Aramaic was commonly spoken and is associated with Hebrew. Whether one understands this phrase to be Hebrew or Aramaic typically does not affect one’s theory of Synoptic evolution. The use of logia or oracles, on the other hand, may suggest that the documents in question are not, in fact Gospels. Papias’s use of logia to refer to the Lord’s teaching in his comments on Mark along with an understanding that the logia generally referred to sayings, whereas Gospels generally referred to narrative accounts which included logia, means that Papias may be referring to something other 5

Irenaeus, Haer., 5.33.4. The original language is preserved in Eusebius, Hist. eccl., 3.39.1. See Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 417–437. 6 There are eight reliable fragments recognized by Enrico Norelli in his definitive volume on Papias. See Norelli, Papia di Hierapolix. MacDonald makes extensive use of Norelli in MacDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels. 7 This particular fragment of Papias is recorded in Eusebius, Hist. eccl., 3.39.15–16 (NPNF2 1:172–173). τοῦθ̓ ὁ πρεσβύτερος ἔλεγεν: Μάρκος µὲν ἑρµηνευτὴς Πέτρου γενόµενος, ὅσα ἐµνηµόνευσεν, ἀκριβῶς ἔγραψεν, οὐ µέντοι τάξει, τὰ ὑπὸ τοῦ κυρίου ἢ λεχθέντα ἢ πραχθέντα. οὔτε γὰρ ἤκουσεντοῦ κυρίου οὔτε παρηκολούθησεν αὐτῷ, ὕστερον δέ, ὡς ἔφην, Πέτρῳ: ὃς πρὸς τὰς χρείας ἐποιεῖτοτὰς διδασκαλίας, ἀλλ̓ οὐχ ὥσπερ σύνταξιν τῶν κυριακῶν ποιούµενος λογίων, ὥστε οὐδὲν ἥµαρτεν Μάρκος οὕτως ἔνια γράψας ὡς ἀπεµνηµόνευσεν. ἑνὸς γὰρ ἐποιήσατο πρόνοιαν, τοῦ µηδὲν ὧνἤκουσεν παραλιπεῖν ἢ ψεύσασθαί τι ἐν αὐτοῖς…Ματθαῖος µὲν οὖν Ἑβραΐδι διαλέκτῳ τὰ λόγια συνετάξατο, ἡρµήνευσεν δ̓ αὐτὰ ὡς ἦν δυνατὸςἕκαστος.

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than the canonical Gospel of Matthew. Of course, it is possible that logia refers to not merely sayings, but also narrative and commentary as well. Papias earlier calls Mark’s writings logia (though, interestingly, he does not refer to the writings as a Gospel). The only document we have attributed to Mark is the canonical Gospel, which, certainly, includes narrative. Likewise, Eusebius relays to us the title of Papias’s five-volume work, his expositions of the logia of the Lord, which also appears to include more than just commentary on the sayings of Jesus. As such, his use of logia is at best suggestive, and certainly not conclusive, as to whether Matthew’s Hebrew document could be an antecedent to our Gospel of Matthew. Use of the verb ἑρµηνεύω is more conclusive. While both the LSJ and BDAG list both possible renderings—interpret and translate—scholarship seems to favor translate.8 The clearest argument is the internal argument. The pairing of ἑρµηνεύω and διάλεκτος surely indicates that the question for Papias is one of documents in two different languages.9 As such, the internal evidence of whether our Gospel of Matthew bears any marks of having been translated from Hebrew (or Aramaic) becomes more important. Finally, use of the verb συντάσσω makes apparent that Papias’s concern is the sequence or structure of the Gospel. Compared with Mark’s Gospel, which was apparently out of order, Matthew’s logia were put into a proper sequence in their Hebrew version. This raises the question then, of whether the presumably Greek translations were also in the proper sequence and whether Papias’s concern about the ability of the translators refers to the translation or the sequencing. Briefly setting aside the specific language, Papias’s comment about Matthew also reveals that he is trying to understand the relationships among at least three documents: a presumed Hebrew Gospel and at least two interpretations (or translations), generally assumed to be Greek.10 As we certainly have a Greek Gospel attributed to Matthew, this is a logical assumption. What we know as the Gospel of Matthew (in Greek) is quoted early in the second century by Ignatius of Antioch, who, interestingly, does not indicate any supposed Hebrew antecedent.11 The question then necessarily becomes: did Papias actually see a Hebrew Gospel composed by Matthew or is there some other explanation? Could he have been the recipient of problematic tradition? Or, possibly, could the notion of a Hebrew antecedent and multiple transla8

Both LSJ and BDAG list interpret first and translate second. However, BDAG also cites this passage from Papias under the translate definition. “ἑρµηνεία,” LSJ, 690. “ἑρµηνεύω,” BDAG, 393. An eloquent defense of interpret (and concluding that Matthew wrote in Greek, but in a Semitic style or using Semitic forms) can be found in Kürzinger, “Zur Komposition der Bergpredigt nach Matthäus,” 568–589. 9 This is also the conclusion at which Nolland arrives. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 3. 10 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 417–437. MacDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels, 14. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 2–3. 11 Ign. Eph. 14:2, Smyrn. 6:1, Pol., 2:2.

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tions be a contrived explanation, trying to make sense of multiple Greek Gospels attributed to Matthew which do not convey the same order or sequence of oracles?12 The particularity of Papias’s language seems to indicate this possibility. Or should Papias be taken at his word? Is it possible that a Hebrew antecedent to the Greek Gospel was penned by Matthew and is now completely and surprisingly lost? Of course, Papias is not the only one to give such testimony. A handful of other church fathers, including Clement and Jerome, attribute a Hebrew Gospel to Matthew. According to Irenaeus, for example: “Matthew published his Gospel among the Hebrews in their own language, while Peter and Paul were preaching and founding the church in Rome.”13 Note that Irenaeus describes Matthew’s work as a Gospel rather than logia. However, it is impossible to tell if this shift in language springs from an independent tradition concerning Matthew and a Hebrew Gospel or it is merely an adaptation of the same tradition that Papias records. Indeed, it is impossible to demonstrate that any testimony concerning Matthew’s supposed Hebrew Gospel is independent from Papias’s influence or the tradition he received. As a result, any difficulties with Papias’s reliability extend to those whose testimony follows him. Additionally, none of the church fathers aside from Papias make any mention of a Greek translation of the Hebrew Gospel of Matthew. So while it seems clear that belief in a Hebrew Gospel of Matthew persists until the sixth century, none are willing to connect it to the Greek Gospel of Matthew—a Gospel which Origen and Jerome certainly knew. Finally, we must also consider the absence of a particular kind of external evidence. While arguments from silence should generally be avoided, it is conspicuous in this case that there is no evidence of a Hebrew text that corresponds to our Greek Gospel of Matthew until the fourteenth century.14 While we do not know how common such translation projects were in the first cen12

MacDonald’s bibliography on this last option is particularly helpful. MacDonald, Two Shipwrecked Gospels, 15. He cites: Norelli, Papia di Hierapolix, 322–323, 329; Nepper-Christensen, Das Matthäusevangelium, 49–50; Cameron, Sayings Traditions in the Apocryphon of James, 100–121. 13 Irenaeus, Haer., 3.1.1. Irenaeus is also quoted in Eusebius, Hist. eccl., 5.8.2 (NPNF2 1:222). ὁ µὲν δὴ Ματθαῖος ἐν τοῖς Ἑβραίοις τῇ ἰδίᾳ αὐτῶν διαλέκτῳ καὶ γραφὴν ἐξήνεγκεν εὐαγγελίου, τοῦ Πέτρου καὶ τοῦ Παύλουἐν Ῥώµῃ εὐαγγελιζοµένων καὶ θεµελιούντων τὴν ἐκκλησίαν. 14 In the fourth century, Jerome claims to have found the Hebrew Gospel of Matthew. See Jerome, Vir. ill., 3. However, he seems to change his mind and later associates this text with the Gospel of the Hebrews or the Gospel of the Nazoreans. See Jerome, Pelag., 3.2 (NPNF2 6:472). See also Koester, Introduction to the New Testament, Volume 2, 207. The earliest presently known Hebrew Gospel of Matthew is found in a fourteenth century Jewish treatise by the apologist Shem-Tov. Even this text, however, is difficult to relate directly to our Greek Gospel of Matthew. Howard, Hebrew Gospel of Matthew. J.R. Edwards, Hebrew Gospel & the Development of the Synoptic Tradition.

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tury, there are at least a couple somewhat correlative examples. The LXX and other Greek translations of the Hebrew Bible were massive public translation projects that certainly occurred within a few centuries prior to the composition of the Gospel of Matthew. But, a more contemporary example also exists in Josephus. I have proposed to myself, for the sake of such as live under the government of the Romans, to translate those books into the Greek tongue, which I formerly composed in the language of our country, and sent to the Upper Barbarians; Joseph, the son of Matthias, by birth a Hebrew, a priest also, and one who at first fought against the Romans myself, and was forced to be present at what was done afterwards, [am the author of this work]. 15

Josephus’s confidence in his facility with Greek and his apparent comfort in translating a lengthy work are presented plainly. But does this example exhibit enough similarity to lend credence to Papias’s comments about Matthew’s Gospel? We have Greek texts with supposed (but not extant) Hebrew originals. In the case of Josephus, we have an author translating his own work. In the case of Matthew, we have multiple translators interpreting an unknown text without any confirmation that what we have in our Greek text is, in fact, the result of the supposed translation. That is, there is no testimony that connects the translated work to our extant version of the Greek Gospel of Matthew.16 As such, while the practice of translation does have precedent, we simply do not have enough information to draw a solid conclusion about Papias’s statement. Given the opacity of what little external evidence we have, we must also consider internal evidence. Here, the task is determining whether or not the Gospel of Matthew shows any signs of having been translated from Hebrew. Does the Greek Gospel of Matthew contain external signs such as retained Semitisms, awkward or difficult word order or style (that presumably makes 15

Josephus, J.W., 1.preface. For the English text, see Whiston, The Works of Flavius Josephus, 55. Josephus describes his facility with Greek in Josephus, Ant., 20.11.2. “I have also taken a great deal of pains to obtain the learning of the Greeks, and understand the elements of the Greek language, although I have so long accustomed myself to speak our own tongue, that I cannot pronounce Greek with sufficient exactness; for our nation does not encourage those that learn the languages of many nations, and so adorn their discourses with the smoothness of their periods; because they look upon this sort of accomplishment as common, not only to all sorts of free-men, but to as many of the servants as please to learn them.” For the English text, see Whiston, The Works of Flavius Josephus, 428. 16 It is also curious that Papias refers to the Gospel by the name of the assumed original author or compiler rather than referring to the translators. In the case of Peter’s testimony according to Mark and in the case of the naming of the LXX, it is the translator or interpreter that lends their name(s) to the document rather than the source of information. For more of this argument, see Goodspeed, Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist, 105–106. Of course, that Matthew was assumed to be a singular eyewitness source may account for the peculiarity of this naming scheme.

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better sense in Hebrew than in Greek), or other distinctively Hebraic literary features? Given the absurdity of trying to prove the absence of such external signs in a text, it will be more efficient at this point to simply note that Matthean scholarship is reliably consistent on the Greek quality of Matthew’s Gospel. David Brown’s comments in one of the earlier critical commentaries are poignant: Further, not a trace can be discovered in this Gospel itself of its being a translation. Michaelis tried to detect, and fancied that he had succeeded in detecting, one or two such. Other Germans since, and Davidson and Cureton among ourselves, have made the same attempt. But the entire failure of all such attempts is now generally admitted, and candid advocates of a Hebrew original are quite ready to own that none such are to be found, and that but for external testimony no one would have imagined that the Greek was not the original. This they regard as showing how perfectly the translation has been executed; but those who know best what translating from one language into another is will be the readiest to own that this is tantamount to giving up the question. This Gospel proclaims its own originality in a number of striking points; such as its manner of quoting from the Old Testament, and its phraseology in some peculiar cases. But the close verbal coincidences of our Greek Matthew with the next two Gospels must not be quite passed over. There are but two possible ways of explaining this. Either the translator, sacrificing verbal fidelity in his version, intentionally conformed certain parts of his author’s work to the second and third Gospels—in which case it can hardly be called Matthew’s Gospel at all—or our Greek Matthew is itself the original.17

More recent and conservative commentators, such as R.T. France, have fundamentally agreed: The Greek of the gospel as we know it does not read like ‘translation Greek’, and the close literary relationship of Matthew with the (Greek) gospels of Mark and Luke makes its origin in any other language unlikely. It is quite possible that Christians in the first few centuries AD were familiar with a Hebrew or Aramaic work which was traditionally associated with Matthew, but unlikely that it was our gospel.18

Nolland concurs: The difficulty for us is that the Greek Gospel of Matthew shows not the slightest sign of having been translated from a Semitic language. As we will discuss below, Matthew not only seems to have been written in Greek but also to have drawn on sources which were at least predominantly in Greek.19

Notice that both Nolland and France make comments about their sense of Matthew’s language, but also raise the issue of Synoptic relationships and Matthew’s sources. And at this point, it is hard to separate the discussion of language from sources. Of course, if we assume some kind of Synoptic rela17 Jamieson, Fausset, and D. Brown, Commentary, Critical and Explanatory, on the Old and New Testaments, Vol. 2, 4. 18 France, “Matthew,” 906. 19 Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 3.

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tionship between Matthew and Mark (which we will consider in the next section), we also have to explain the relationship between Mark’s Greek and Matthew’s Greek. It is generally believed that Matthew’s grasp of the Greek language and writing style are superior to Mark’s.20 So in the case of Matthean priority, we have to defend why Mark not only abbreviated Matthew’s Gospel as a whole (though frequently expands individual periscopes and sentences), but also lowers its philological quality. In the case of Markan priority, it seems clear then that Matthew has an independent understanding of Greek that exceeds Mark’s. Finally, even those—such as Davies and Allison—who wish to defend Papias’s assertion of a Hebrew Gospel of Matthew, have to concede and explain the quality of Greek in the canonical Matthew. And the explanation tends to demand a thoroughly Hellenized translator—or at least one quite comfortable using Greek language sources. George A. Kennedy has suggested a particularly efficient explanation of this process: If a gospel had been written in Greek at a fairly early date and was reasonably well-known, and if subsequently someone undertook to translate an Aramaic gospel, rather fuller in content into Greek, it would be in accordance with Greek conventions for the translator to have taken the language of the existing Greek gospel as his model, even to the extent of borrowing some of that familiar language to translate passage of Aramaic that were not literally identical to his text. I understand that when Matthew cites passage of the Old Testament that are also cited by Mark or Luke, these citations are close to the Septuagint and highly consistent in language, whereas when Matthew cites passage of the Old Testament not found in the other gospels, his version is characteristically not that of the Septuagint. To me, this suggests that the Greek text of an earlier gospel was a more potent influence on the translator than was the Septuagint itself.21

Kennedy’s picture is important because it allows for a synthesis of the internal and external evidence. By expanding an understanding of translation as a practice, Kennedy is able to explain how Matthew worked from both an Aramaic source, sometimes only loosely followed, and multiple Greek sources (which we otherwise know that Matthew tended to improve).22 As such, such a synthesis requires an understanding of our Matthean editor as one who is 20

Stein, Studying the Synoptic Gospels: Origin and Interpretation, 50–59. Kennedy, “Classical and Christian Source Criticism,” 146. 22 Kennedy explores two facets of translation that were “evident in the classical period.” The first observation he makes is that the concept of translation was very broad, including “literal and word for word renderings of texts” as well as adaptive imitations. The second observation Kennedy makes is that translation was part of a larger category of literary imitation (mimēsis) of Classical Greek and Latin texts. He cites Josephus’s works and their relationships to literary models such as Thucydides and Dionysius of Halicarnassus in order to demonstrate his point. Kennedy, “Classical and Christian Source Criticism,” 144–146. Concerning Matthew’s improvement of his literary sources, see Stein, Studying the Synoptic Gospels: Origin and Interpretation, 50–59. 21

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not just familiar with Greek, but who is substantially Hellenized. That is, if the question is one of a Hebrew antecedent to the Gospel of Matthew, Kennedy’s solution is compelling. But if the question is one of what does the language of our Greek Gospel of Matthew tell us about the author, then whether we go with Kennedy’s version of the Papias argument or the more common position that Matthew’s Gospel has always been Greek and Papias was wrong, the language of our Gospel of Matthew demands an author who is completely immersed in Greco-Roman language, literature, and very possibly rhetoric.23 This becomes especially apparent when we consider that Mark includes (more) Aramaic transliterated into Greek while Matthew translates such words into Greek.24

3.2 Sources 3.2 Sources

Understanding that the language of the Gospel of Matthew and its sources are difficult aspects to separate, it is nevertheless important to attempt an independent discussion of sources at this point. And in this discussion, we will be guided by two questions: What are the sources behind Matthew’s Gospel? And of what kind are these sources? While there are several solutions to the Synoptic Problem that are commonly adopted by Gospels scholars, a dominant majority seem to have settled on some form of the two-source hypothesis.25 But settling on any of the possible solutions generally requires settling the twin issues of priority and the constellation of written sources. The two-source hypothesis, as such, suggests that Mark was composed first and that Matthew and Luke had access to both it and a separate hypothetical collection of the sayings of Jesus now known as Q.26 While no solution is perfect—hence the ongoing debate—and while 23

Kennedy, “Classical and Christian Source Criticism,” 126. Köstenberger, Cradle, The Cross, and the Crown, 168. 25 I would include here those who hold to a four-source hypothesis, which adds special Matthean and Lukan sources to Mark and Q. 26 See Blair, “Recent Study of the Sources of Matthew Author(s),” 206–210. His summary of source traditions has, for the most part, remained the consensus since 1959. Blomberg basically sides with the majority on the Two-source hypothesis, but is somewhat reserved in his confidence of Q. He also mentions the possibility of M, but seems reluctant to really include it in his work. Additionally, he postulates that problem concerning Papias’s statements about the Hebrew origin of the Gospel could be resolved by imagining that Matthew wrote down sayings in Hebrew/Aramaic (constructing something much like we imagine to be Q) and that Matthew later used additional materials, maybe the products of his own memory (or that some redactor used additional materials) to write the Greek Gospel as we now have it. Blomberg, Matthew, 37–40. Luz adheres to the Two-source hypothesis, though he does specify a minimally expanded Q (QMt he calls it) was likely 24

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there has been a resurgence of those who somewhat compellingly argue for Matthean priority (which then leads to either Augustine’s solution or the twoGospel hypothesis), another option—and the one of which I am persuaded— is Farrer’s sequence of Mark, then Matthew, then Luke (in which Luke would have had both Mark and Matthew) and which dispenses with the need for the hypothetical source.27 Rather than defend comprehensive positions on the Synoptic Problem at this point, I will argue for aspects of Farrer’s solution within the individual sections on each probable source below. The second question of Matthew’s sources asks of what kind the sources are. Even if we dispense with Farrer and require Q, the answer to the question of its Hellenistic-Judaic character is still tenuous. An argument based on history would limit it to the actual sayings of a first-century Jew in the Eastern Mediterranean, who presumably spoke Aramaic and which requires an unobtainable understanding of the translation (i.e. Hellenization) of the text. Matthew’s source. He states that the only significant challenge to the Two-source hypothesis is the minor agreements between Matthew and Luke. He argues that each agreement should be taken on its own terms and may have one or more of numerous explanations (including a common revised Mark that is secondary to ours). Luz, Matthew 1–7, 47–48. See also Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 109. Nolland, with very little stated argument, assumes Markan priority and the availability of “a version of Q.” He states that Matthew had Mark “or something much like it.” He also traces out a few other categories of sources including: oral tradition, larger sets of linked units related to material in Mark or Q and smaller sets of linked units without parallel in the Canonical Gospels. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 5–9. France argues for Markan priority and Matthew’s adoption of the geographical structure. He argues for very little other influence and calls the idea of redacting a fixed text (in the Q tradition or really even the Mark tradition) “improbably simple.” He seems open to the possibility of Matthew having received similar texts of a different tradition rather than having explicitly edited/redacted Mark or Luke. France, Gospel of Matthew, 21–22. Stanton’s discussion of his own positions on Markan priority and those of Dobschütz are also worth considering. Stanton, ‘Introduction: Matthew’s Gospel in Recent Scholarship,’ 3–5. Davies and Allison hold that Matthew and Luke likely had slightly different versions of Q, accounting for the minor differences. They also hold that the vast majority of the First Gospel not found in Mark or Luke was heavily redacted (charted on 122–124). Given this, they hold that it is very unlikely that an M document existed as such (for little unredacted material that has no origin in Mark or Q is left), but it is possible that Matthew had access to some other collection. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 121–125. Betz’s positions on these issues are addressed elsewhere in this study. 27 Farrer, “On Dispensing with Q.” See also Goodacre, Case Against Q. Perhaps the most compelling internal evidence comes from a comprehensive study of ancient compositional practices by Robert A. Derrenbacker. In his study, Derrenbacker demonstrates the dubiousness of Mark adapting Matthew and Luke, showing that no ancient corollaries exist. He also shows that Matthean redaction of Mark is feasible; though he also concludes Goulder’s explanations for why Matthew adapts the way he does is unconvincing. The adaptation practices of Luke are also unconvincing. Derrenbacker ultimately concludes that the Two-document hypothesis is the most probable, though not without problems. See Derrenbacker, Ancient Compositional Practices and the Synoptic Problem.

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An argument based on using Luke’s version of Q sayings requires a similar understanding of the character of Luke’s Gospel and interplay with Q sources resulting in a particular text. An argument based on Matthew’s version of Q is, at best, circular given that my goal is to determine the character of Matthew’s sources. Fundamentally, the problem is that Q is a conjectured source and determining its character is necessarily problematic as a result. Further, even if Q could be demonstrated to be strictly Judaic in its character, it does not undermine the thesis that Matthew is essentially Hellenistic and Judaic in its character. One need not posit only Hellenistic sources to argue for the validity of understanding a Hellenistic backdrop to Matthew’s Gospel in the scheme I have proposed. In fact, the same is also true of the Special Matthean material in the four-source hypothesis. 3.2.1 Mark The seeming consensus among Matthean scholars is that Matthew’s Gospel makes clear use of Mark’s Gospel. The case for Matthew’s dependence on Mark is evident from how much of Mark is used and in what way. Davies and Allison offer a thorough review of the evidence. Roughly 90 percent of Mark’s Gospel finds a home in Matthew. Conversely, only 55 verses in Mark do not make it into Matthew.28 Several commentators have also noted that Matthew’s Gospel seems to adopt the structure of Mark’s Gospel.29 While Davies and Allison clearly summarize the logical fallacy of proving the face value of this statement, they take an important additional step. They ask the question whether it is more plausible that Mark adapted both Matthew and Luke, arbitrarily adopting and attempting to flatten their structural inconsistencies, or that both Matthew and Luke worked from and departed from Mark. But before they reach the conclusion of Markan priority, they ask one more question: how and why might Matthew have changed Mark and vice versa. Their evidence is significant. First, Davies and Allison chart eight verses in Mark and not in Matthew where Jesus is said to experience emotion (anger, pity, marvel, indignation, etc.).30 They then chart 14 verses where Jesus is either ignorant of some immediate circumstance (“who touched my garment,” “where am I to eat,” etc.) or inability (no longer able to openly enter a town, 28

Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 108. Stein cites a statistical conclusion that approximately 97 percent of Mark is replicated in Matthew. Stein, Synoptic Problem, 48. He is citing Joseph Tyson and Longstaff, Synoptic Abstract. 29 The argument goes something like this: those moments where the First departs from the Second, The Third Gospel supports the structure of the Second. And where the Third Gospel departs from the ordering of the Second, so the First supports the Second. Davies and Allison deconstruct this argument. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 99. 30 Mark 1:41, 1:43, 3:5, 6:6, 8:12, 10:14, 10:21, 14:33; Davies and Allison, Matthew 1– 7, 104.

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etc.).31 Finally, they chart five passages where Matthew’s version is apparently more reverent to Jesus than Mark’s or Matthew simply omits the Markan text.32 It seems odd to them that Mark would set out to highlight these aspects of Jesus in his shorter adaptation of Matthew. Rather, it seems more likely that Matthew flattened these moments in Mark as he adapted. Carson’s general observations agree and provide additional support for Markan priority (and Mark’s Gospel as a source for Matthew’s): Matthew and Mark frequently agree against Luke, and Mark and Luke frequently agree against Matthew, but Matthew and Luke seldom agree against Mark. It is not the argument from order itself that is convincing, for all that proves is that Mark stands in the middle between the other two. What is more impressive is that close study finds it easier to explain changes from Mark to Matthew and Luke than the other way around.

Carson states plainly what many redaction critical commentaries conclude.33 The argument against Matthean priority is similarly apparent from the cumulative weight of general observations. The notion that Mark would consistently expand the length of each pericope while also omitting lengthy sections of primarily teaching (i.e., the words of Jesus) is simply less plausible than Matthew and Luke condensing (often independently) each pericope in order to make more room for their additional source material. As Carson notes, Matthean priority is also undermined by Papias’s comments, which identify the teaching of Peter (and not other written Gospels) as Mark’s source.34 While no solution is perfect, the general arguments already mentioned along with the aggregate support of much scholarship persuade me of both Markan priority and Matthew’s use of Mark’s Gospel as a source. Markan priority is important because it serves as a control to the potential for “Judaizing” and “Hellenizing” in Matthew’s redaction activities. That is, if we can confidently assume Markan priority, we can also begin to analyze how Matthew adapted when he did. As has already been discussed, he introduces additional Judaic elements and Semitisms into his text that did not appear in Mark. Yet, some of Matthew’s other uses of Mark might suggest that this assessment is not quite so simple. For instance, Matthew omits six Semitic expressions that Mark includes.35

31 Mark 1:45, 5:9, 5:30, 6:5, 6:38, 6:48, 7:24, 8:12, 8:23, 9:16, 9:21, 9:33, 11:13, 14:14; Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 105. 32 Mark 1:32–33/Matt 8:16, Mark 3:10/Matt 12:15, Mark 3:21 (omitted in Matthew), Mark 10:18/Matt 19:17, Mark 14:58/Matt 26:61; Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 105. 33 See Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 97–127 and Nolland, Matthew, 4–5. 34 D.A. Carson, Matthew, 11–17. 35 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 19–21, 106.

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Word

Mark

Matthew

Notes

βοανηργές

Mark 3:17

Matt 10:1–4

Matthew omits some, but not all, modifiers of names, but adds one (his own?). The derivation of this name from Hebrew is difficult and so Matthew could have omitted for that reason.

ταλιθα κουµ

Mark 5:41

Matt 9:18–25

Matthew shortens the stories considerably.

κορβᾶν

Mark 7:11

Matt 15:1–9

Matthew swaps the order of the Isaiah and Moses quotations in this section. Matthew uses the term δῶρον which became a technical term for κορβᾶν in rabbinic Hebrew.36 It is possible that Matthew used δῶρον because it was more familiar to him.

βαρτιµαῖος

Mark 10:46

Matt 20:29–33

Matthew agrees in location, but states that Jesus healed two blind men whereas Mark only mentions the one, but mentions him by name and lineage. It is possible this omission is part of Matthew’s effort to shorten the pericope.

ῥαββουνί

Mark 10:51

Matt 20:29–33

Matthew swaps in “Lord” for Mark’s “Rabbi.”

ἀββά

Mark 14:36

Matt 26:36–46

Matthew has “Father” to Mark’s “Abba, Father” at the beginning of his prayer at Gethsemane.

Given that the Gospel of Matthew does contain parallel passages for each of these words in Mark, it seems unlikely that the omissions are accidental or merely part of the normal practice of editing and/or summarizing (except perhaps the Mark 5:41/Matt 9:18–25 parallel). Rather, there are two choices: Matthew consciously removes these Semitic expressions from Mark or Mark is attempting to “Judaize” Matthew’s otherwise fairly Jewish Gospel. Logically, the first option is somewhat more plausible. The question then be36

Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 20.

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comes: why did Matthew feel the need to remove these Semitic expressions? Could this be evidence of the Matthean redactor “Hellenizing” his text? 37 Assuming that Mark’s Gospel is a source for Matthew’s Gospel, we must also ask of what kind this source is. Does this source help us as we seek to learn about the mix of Judaism and Hellenism in the Gospel of Matthew? Historically, much of Markan scholarship has assumed that Mark was a gentile and his text is a specifically Hellenistic text.38 Evidence of Mark’s provenance in a Greco-Roman context includes: 1) Mark’s use of Latinisms to explain Jewish terms in 12:42 and 15:16; 2) Mark’s use of other Latinisms in 4:21, 7:4, 12:14, 15:6, 15:15, and 15:39; 3) Mark’s description of a woman as Syro-Phoenician in 7:26 (an outsider term) where Matthew changes the description to Canaanite; 4) Mark’s apparent uncertainty on Palestinian geography;39 and 5) Papias’s otherwise unchallenged and unconfirmed testimony that Mark wrote his Gospel on the basis of Peter’s preaching in Rome.40 Citing additional evidence, Eugene Boring concludes: The author writes in Greek and translates lingering Aramaic elements in his tradition (5:41; 7:34; 14:36; 15:22, 34). He explains Jewish practices, not always accurately (2:19; 7:3–4; 10:2; 14:1; 14:12; 14:64; 15:42) and does not seem to have a clear picture of Jewish leadership groups (3:6; 6:17; 8:15; 12:13). The readers, or most of them, thus seem to be a Greek-speaking community that reads its Bible in Greek translation (the LXX), with a limited knowledge of Judaism. But since Sabbath-keeping, fasting, and purity laws are issues (e.g., 2:1–3:6; 7:19), the Markan church is a mixed community for whom the integration of Jews and Gentiles in one church was a major issue.41

Boring ultimately does not take a position on geography, though he conclusively rules out Palestine. Joel Marcus, likewise, carefully considers both Roman and Syrian options, ultimately choosing a Syrian option as a kind of compromise between Rome and Palestine. Interestingly, he ultimately chooses a Syrian option:

37

Davies and Allison offer their explanations for each omission, once again raising the issue of how one weighs very plausible individual explanations against the sum of all the omissions. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 17–21. 38 Some recent scholars have argued against each of the pieces of evidence mentioned here, ultimately suggesting that Mark’s provenance may have been much closer to Palestine than Rome and the Gospel’s Sitz im Leben may have been more Jewish or apocalyptic than Hellenistic. Drawing on arguments supplied by W. G. Kümmel, H. Koester, G. Theissen, and several others, Joel Marcus has compiled a rather intriguing set of arguments for this possibility in in Marcus, “The Jewish War,” 441–462. 39 Boring, Mark, 19. 40 Hengel makes a fascinating and fairly persuasive argument for a Roman provenance based on, among other things, a serious disposition to Papias’s testimony. Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark. 41 Boring, Mark, 16.

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Rather than arguing for Galilee, most of those who have advocated a location close to Palestine have pointed to the Roman province of Syria, which was contiguous to Palestine. Syria was close enough that contact with many traditions about Jesus was likely, but it was also a predominantly Gentile region and an area of Pauline influence…42

Note that, even after merely introducing the Syrian option, he immediately identifies it as a predominantly gentile context, implying once again that the non-Jewish evidence is quite significant. After explaining his reasons for choosing a Syrian option, Marcus concedes that his exegesis would work just as well if the setting were Rome.43 Given Marcus’s and Boring’s positions and the persuasiveness of the evidence, it would seem that if Mark’s Gospel is indeed a source for Matthew’s—as it seems to have been, it was likely a Greco-Roman source. 3.2.2 Oral Tradition, Matthean Sondergut, and Q Having chosen the Farrer hypothesis, the rather frequent assumption of other first century sources by Matthean scholars requires some consideration. Most would identify oral tradition, some other written materials unique to Matthew, and the sayings collection Q as possible sources. And it is worth considering each, if only briefly. Oral traditions are easy to describe here because this is one area in which Matthean scholars are not only aware, but also generally willing to admit, that we know very little. Or at least, we are able to demonstrate very little.44 Likewise, a written source known only to Matthew (often designated M or special Matthean materials) is possible but equally intangible.45 Like Q, this Matthean Sondergut is a hypothetical document. And as its existence is not certain, it is simply unfeasible to demonstrate convincingly anything about its cultural character.46 As many Matthean scholars are somewhat more confident in the existence of the hypothetical source known as Q, it is important to consider more carefully arguments for and against it at this point. Q is typically defined as the passages of Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels not also found in Mark’s Gospel (i.e., double tradition material). These passages, curiously, tend to focus on sayings more than narrative, suggesting that a collection of sayings may have been a written source. As such, Matthew and Luke would have had both the Gospel of Mark and this sayings source Q. Common alternate theories in42

Marcus, Mark 1–8, 36. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 36. 44 Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 6. 45 B.H. Streeter advanced a position that the Matthean Sondergut (as well as the Lukan Sondergut) was a written source. Streeter, Four Gospels, 223–270. 46 It is thought to contain mainly parables. Van Voorst, Jesus Outside the New Testament, 123. J.R. Edwards, Hebrew Gospel & the Development of the Synoptic Tradition, 228. Jones, Matthean and Lukan Special Material. 43

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clude the Augustinian Hypothesis and Two-Gospel Hypothesis (both of which argue that Matthew wrote first) and the Farrer hypothesis (which argues on the basis of Markan priority, but assumes Matthew wrote with Mark in hand, and Luke had access to both Mark and Matthew). Having argued for Markan priority in the last section, my remaining question really only relates to the necessity of Q. As an advocate for the Farrer hypothesis, I think Mark Goodacre’s approach to the Synoptic Problem is as good of a starting point as any. Goodacre begins by reminding us that Q is first, and fundamentally, a hypothetical collection with no external witness and only observable within other canonical Gospels.47 This is in stark contrast to some advocates of Q, who view it as a missing Gospel that not only solves the Synoptic Problem, but also serves as the best window into the historical Jesus.48 Goodacre is clear that the primary difficulty with the tension created by the massive divide between these two positions is not that Q is merely hypothetical—as he is very much supportive of the productive use of hypotheses—but that Q has seemingly become a fact on the basis of dogma more than evidence.49 Nevertheless, there are substantive arguments on both ends of this spectrum. Goodacre divides the arguments into two sets: negative arguments (i.e., reasons against Luke’s use of Matthew) and positive arguments (i.e., reasons for the plausibility of Q as a solution to the double tradition materials). Goodacre isolates four negative arguments.50 First, he addresses Luke’s supposed ignorance of Matthew’s redaction of Mark.51 The advocates of Q 47

Goodacre, Case Against Q, 1–18. Sanders and M. Davies, also advocates of the Farrer hypothesis, put it clearly: “Historically most scholars have been conscious that ‘Q’ is a scholarly convention which explains the Matthew-Luke double tradition, and they have deliberately remained vague about whether or not it was one document, a loose assemblage of passages, or simply a convenient name for oral or ‘floating’ traditions. For many decades the effort to reconstruct Q, like the effort to reconstruct Proto-Mark, was abandoned. Now a few scholars are again attempting to define Q as a document: if it really existed, it directly reflects the theology of a community, and one can even make a concordance of it. This work is mostly of curiosity value, since it shows how far a hypothesis can be pushed despite its lack of fundamental support.” Sanders and M. Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels, 116. Additional arguments for a robust skepticism toward Q can be found in Goodacre and Ni. Perrin, Questioning Q. 48 Crossan, Historical Jesus. See also Goodacre’s bibliography in Goodacre, Case Against Q, 5–6. Cf. Marxsen, Introduction to the New Testament, 118. 49 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 9. 50 B.H. Streeter identified five negative reasons: 1) Luke would not have omitted so much of Mark; 2) Luke occasionally preserves more primitive versions of texts than Matthew; 3) Luke follows Mark’s order, but not always Matthew’s; 4) Luke uses material less well than Matthew; and 5) Luke does not always pair Matthean and Markan material the way Matthew pairs his material with Mark. Streeter, Four Gospels. Farrer first raised his hypothesis in opposition to Streeter. Farrer, “On Dispensing with Q,” 55–88.

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argue that when all three of the Synoptic Gospels include the same material, Luke follows Mark’s presumably more primitive version—concluding that Luke could not have known of Matthew’s editorial activities. Goodacre argues against this assumption by pointing out that their examples are weak (e.g., Tuckett and Fitzmeyer cite Matt 14:28–31, which Goodacre observes is in the context of Jesus walking on water, a story that Luke completely lacks). Goodacre also notes that Luke sometimes uses the Matthean version in triple tradition materials, which suggests that if Luke had both Mark and Matthew, it would be sensible for him to choose which version suited his agenda the best. He even notes that if Luke had Mark’s Gospel for a significant amount of time and Matthew’s for only a short amount of time, his familiarity might have factored in. Second, Goodacre looks at Luke’s lack of the Matthean Sondergut.52 Goodacre points out that, of course, this is a circular argument (i.e., Matthean Sondergut is, by definition, unique to Matthew). Goodacre also notes that Luke does, in fact, include a significant amount of the relatively few Matthean narrative sections not also found in Mark (e.g., the temptation narrative, the centurion’s boy, and the messengers from John the Baptist). He also notes that Luke seems to know Matthew’s birth narrative (including a remarkable similarity between Matt 1:21 and Luke 1:31). Arguments that these similarities might be the result of Q only lead us back to the circularity of the argument. Third, Goodacre explores Luke’s sequence of double tradition material, which Q advocates suggest cannot be explained if he has used Matthew.53 Advocates of Q tend to focus specifically on the Sermon on the Mount at this point, noting that it is unlikely that Luke would so dramatically rearrange and remove parts of Matthew’s elegant sermon. Goodacre spends three chapters addressing elements of this argument about order, but summarizes his conclusion: The argument from order depends on misstatements of the evidence, a dubious value judgment, and failures in both the application of redaction criticism and the appreciation of Luke’s literary ability or narrative agenda.54

51

Goodacre, Case Against Q, 49–54. For this first argument, Goodacre cites Tuckett, Fitzmeyer, and Kloppenborg as his opponents. Tuckett, “The Existence of Q,” 19–47. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity. Fitzmeyer, Gospel According to Luke I– IX, 73–74. Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 41. 52 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 54–59. Here, Goodacre cites Fitzmeyer and Stein as his opponents. Fitzmeyer, Luke I–IX, 75. Stein, Synoptic Problem, 102. 53 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 59–61. Goodacre cites Stanton and, again, Tuckett, in addition to others. Stanton, “The Gospel of Matthew,” 432–435. Cf. C. Tuckett, “Synoptic Problem,” ABD 6:263–270. 54 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 61. Goodacre argues the fullness of this conclusion in Goodacre, Case Against Q, 81–132.

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As such, the argument concerning Luke’s order seems the most plausible, yet still highly questionable. Fourth, Goodacre looks at the argument that Luke sometimes records more primitive readings of double tradition material than we find in Matthew’s Gospel.55 Fundamentally, this argument breaks down when we look at how Q is constructed. Where Matthew’s version of double tradition material includes particular characteristics of Matthew’s writing style, it is assumed that Luke preserves the version closer to the Q source (and that the distinctive Matthean elements were introduced by Matthew rather than in Q). In these cases, and on the assumption that Luke and Matthew had a common source like Q, Luke will always seem to be more primitive by definition. In other words, the argument of primitive readings is circular at best. Additionally, even if we assumed the grounds for arguing primitive readings, it seems that to argue Luke’s use of them could not be explained other ways (e.g., from a decision to follow oral tradition). Goodacre also isolates a constellation of interrelated positive arguments. They revolve around the notion that Q seems to make its presence known in the Gospels from its distinctive theology, vocabulary, history, structure, and style.56 The difficulty with these arguments, as Goodacre argues, is that a distance between the distinctive qualities of Matthew and Q should exist not because of a necessary Q document, but because in Farrer’s hypothesis, the so-called Q materials would be those parts omitted from Mark and systematically extracted from Matthew and modified by Luke. In addition to these positive arguments, Goodacre explores the assumption that redaction criticism supports the existence of Q.57 The difficulty with the redaction criticism argument is that, once again, the entrenchment of redaction critics for the utility of Q and a failure to always clearly distinguish between Markan priority and the two-source hypothesis conceals an unavoidable circularity. With Goodacre’s case well in hand, it seems that the Farrer hypothesis— again, assuming Markan priority but assuming that neither Luke nor a hypothetical Q were necessarily written sources for Matthew—is the most plausible solution to the Synoptic Problem. However, as with oral tradition and Matthean Sondergut, the existence of an actual written source document like Q does nothing to undermine the larger argument about backgrounds. Without access to the documents, arguments about their cultural context, vocabulary, history, genre, theology, and style are speculative at best.

55 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 61–66. On this fourth point, Goodacre primarily argues against Davies and Allison. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 116. 56 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 67–75. On this first positive point, Goodacre focuses his arguments against Catchpole and Kloppenborg. Catchpole, Quest for Q. Kloppenborg, “Introduction.” 57 Goodacre, Case Against Q, 75–80. Goodacre isolates Stanton’s argument about redaction criticism. Stanton, A Gospel for a New People, 35.

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3.2.3 LXX Beyond first-century sources is the question of Matthew’s particular attention to citing from the Judaic Scriptures.58 The question, of course, becomes one of whether he was citing them in Hebrew (i.e., making his own translations) or working from an established Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. Further, if one can demonstrate that Matthew did adopt or adapt from a known Septuagint (LXX), Old Greek, or some other translated text, what can we know about the source and its relationship to our broader question concerning Judaism and Hellenism? Septuagint Studies is a notoriously expansive and specialized subfield of biblical studies and one that is frequently misused by those of us who are not at all experts in it. As such, it will be necessary to resist the temptation to draw simplistic conclusions. Fortunately, there have been several helpful recent volumes on the study of the LXX as a source document for first century texts,59 including an important contribution on the nature of Matthew’s use of the LXX by Maarten J.J. Menken.60

58

Use of the term LXX and related terms is notoriously problematic in New Testament studies. Timothy McLay puts it clearly: “For example, one often finds references in the footnotes of English translations of the Bible to a reading of the ‘LXX’ without any explanation. To what does this mysterious ‘LXX’ refer? Sometimes ‘LXX’ refers to the reading in the Greek Jewish Scriptures that has been judged by the editor of a critical text to be most likely the original reading, that is, what is believed to be the closest approximation that we can make to what was probably originally by the translator. In other cases ‘LXX’ may refer to any reading that is found in any Greek manuscript of the Jewish Scriptures, which is not necessarily the original or even a very early reading. It could be any reading or word that appears in any Greek manuscript of a book in the LXX. In the same way, it is often stated that the NT writer quotes the ‘LXX’ version of a biblical text, as opposed to the Hebrew version or the MT, without any clarification. Which Greek text is being quoted? Do we actually have a Greek witness with that reading or is it labeled a Septuagint quotation because it does not reflect what we have in the Hebrew? How is the use of a Greek text as opposed to the Hebrew reflected in the theology of the writer? Does it make any difference?” McLay, Use of the Septuagint in New Testament Research, 5–6. For the most part, I am using LXX, Septuagint, and Greek Old Testament as interchangeable terms. While the legend found in the Letter of Aristeas and the Babylonian Talmud (as well as Philo and Josephus) suggests that the LXX was originally a translation of only the Torah, it seems that Septuagint Studies now uses each of these terms to refer to the full translation of the full Hebrew Scriptures, including additional documents. 59 For really helpful introductory works, see Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint; McLay, Use of the Septuagint in New Testament Research; and Hengel, Septuagint as Christian Scripture. 60 Menken, Matthew’s Bible. See also Gundry, Use of the Old Testament in St. Matthew’s Gospel; Nkhoma, Use of Fulfillment Quotations in the Gospel According to Matthew; and Hillyer, “Matthew’s Use of the Old Testament,” 12–26.

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Menken’s extensive study was aimed at exploring Matthew’s quotations from the Hebrew Scriptures—both those marked out by a citation formula as well as those unmarked—and determining the form and character of his sources for those quotations. He begins by noting a significant challenge to the frequent assumption that Matthew’s inserted fulfillment citations depart from the LXX in favor of the Hebrew Scriptures, a problem previously noted by Krister Stendahl: On the whole there is scarcely any tradition of translation or interpretation that does not emerge in Matthew’s manner of understanding his quotations. This leads us to presume that Matthew wrote Greek and rendered the O.T. quotations along the lines of various traditions and methods of interpretations.61

Stendahl concludes that Matthew was both able and free to render his own translations of Hebrew Scriptures. Robert H. Gundry’s study of Matthew’s sources leads him to a similar conclusion, noting that Matthew’s mixed textual sources are consistent with Luke but different from the more consistent use of the LXX by Mark. As Menken records, Davies and Allison also draw the conclusion that Matthew used a mix of LXX and Hebrew text form.62 Menken’s study, importantly, goes well beyond the mixed citations. In his search for the form and character of Matthew’s sources, he observes: The problem is becoming even more complex because apart from the fulfillment quotations, Matthew seems to use the LXX. That is, most quotations which Matthew found in his sources Mark and Q, agree with the LXX or are at least close to it; Matthew sometimes makes modifications in them which seem to enhance their similarity to the LXX; his Sondergut contains quotations which must come from the LXX.63

Based on this study, Menken concludes that Matthew’s primary source for his use of the Hebrew Scriptures was the LXX and it is rather the source of the citations that must be explained. That is, Matthew’s source for the Hebrew

61

Stendahl, School of St. Matthew, 127. See also Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 4. Stendahl later, however, raises the question of whether Matthew’s text might have influenced the LXX readings which we are now assuming he used as his sources. However, relying on the peculiarity of Matthew’s formula citations and wider use of the so-called LXX readings influencing his other citations, Stendahl remains unfazed by this possibility. Stendahl, School of St. Matthew, 169–182. 62 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 32–58. 63 Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 5. Others, notably Soares Prabhu and Stanton, question whether Matthew’s use of the Hebrew Scriptures really can be tied to the LXX. Menken, however, argues along with Stendahl that there were wider efforts in the last half of the first century to revise the LXX and bring it closer to the Hebrew Scriptures. As such, Matthew’s sources can still be identified within the realm of the LXX. Soares Prabhu, Formula Quotations in the Infancy Narrative of Matthew. Stanton, Gospel for a New People, iv.

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Scriptures in his Gospel is a “continuous biblical text” that is best described as “a revised LXX.”64 He goes on to conclude: There is a clear LXX basis in the fulfillment quotations, and the divergences from the LXX can be explained in three ways: (a) as corrections to make the translation better agree with the Hebrew; (b) as efforts to improve the quality of the Greek (which may include the expressive force of the text); (c) as changes that can be considered as due to ancient biblical exegesis.65

But even assuming these differences between Matthew’s Gospel text and the LXX, Menken further concludes: There are no indications that it was Matthew who translated the Hebrew or revised the LXX. On the contrary: several elements of the fulfillment quotations clearly suggest a preMatthean origin of the Greek OT translation used.66

This argument is based, in part, on observing Matthew’s tendency to closely follow his other sources. Finally, the evidence beyond the formulaic citations is comparatively simple. In most cases, his sources—mostly Mark’s Gospel and occasionally Q— are already largely similar to the LXX.67 The two quotations of the Hebrew Scriptures found in the Matthean Sondergut also follow the LXX.68 As such, the argument that Matthew used the LXX, parts of which were already being revised by the time he produced his Gospel, are convincing. Assuming that Matthew used the LXX as a source, our next question must again be that of the character of his source. How Hellenistic is it? The answer to this question inevitably drops us into the questions of the translation strategy of those who produced the LXX and the complex reality of several translation projects of the Hebrew Scriptures—not merely the LXX (which ostensibly began as a project to translate only the Torah). Jobes and Silva describe the process of translation as more than merely the changing of languages. Because the biblical texts were both ancient and sacred, the translators were concerned with relating the translation to the religious understanding, traditions, and sensibilities of their contemporary target audience. They worked not only within the linguistic context of Hellenistic Greek, but also within a social, political, and religious context that shaped their translation, probably both deliberately and unconsciously. The audience of the translation is different from the audience the author of the original work was writing for; and the 64

Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 280. Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 280. 66 Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 280. 67 Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 281. 68 Matthew must have inserted at least the second half of the quotation of Deut 8:3 in Matt 4:4. Matthew also quoted Deut 19:15 in Matt 18:16. Interestingly, these are the only two unique insertions of Matthew as well as the only two citations of Deuteronomy in the Gospel, suggesting that Matthew may have had an apparently unrevised LXX version of Deuteronomy. See Menken, Matthew’s Bible, 281. 65

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concerns of the translator may well have been different from those of the original author. Not surprisingly, the Septuagint is regarded as one of the earliest witnesses to the history of biblical interpretation. It has the potential of enlightening our understanding of how the Hebrew Bible was used at the time it was translated into Greek. The Septuagint can provide access to the theological trends and hermeneutical principles of Judaism in the Hellenistic period. It also provides clues about the social and political concerns of its day.69

Jobes and Silva fully expect that the Greek translations reflect as much about the Hellenistic age in which they were produced as they do about any original context. But, note that it is not merely chronological specificity. They assume adaptation to a Hellenistic culture or “the intellectual milieu of Greek culture.”70 Of course it did mean, minimally, that words and phrases were adapted.71 But translation meant more than language shifts. It meant theological shifts (e.g., whether one refers to God in anthropomorphic terms or even simply as a rock).72 It meant adapting language for Greek cities, including replacing pagan Semitic deity names with pagan Greek deity names.73 These translation details and the conclusions of Jobes and Silva make apparent that insofar as Matthew used versions of the LXX as a source, he was using a demonstrably Hellenistic source. 3.2.4 Source Traditions of the Sermon on the Mount As part of this project looks specifically at the Sermon on the Mount, it is worth considering the specific sources that may have been used its construction. The source traditions of the Sermon on the Mount are quite complex. There are two significant questions that must be addressed. First, how much of the Sermon can be found in Matthew’s sources? Second, how much of the Sermon is redacted? France provides a useful analysis of the first, arguing that the majority of the text of the Sermon is shared with Luke, especially the Sermon on the Plain.74 § § § §

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27 percent parallels with Luke 6:20–49 33 percent parallels with other text in Luke 5 percent parallels with Mark 35 percent has no parallels

Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 89. Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 91. 71 Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 93, 184–189. 72 Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 95–96. Importantly, however, these theological shifts do not necessarily demand that Hellenistic philosophy influenced translations of the LXX. See Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 302–307. 73 Jobes and Silva, Invitation to the Septuagint, 99–100. 74 France, The Gospel of Matthew, 154–155. 70

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France notes again that the substructure of the other four discourses comes from Mark, while the Sermon on the Mount has its only reasonable parallel in Luke. He concludes that while the overall structure links with Luke,75 the wording differences make it likely that they derive their specific forms from two different traditions.76 France does, however, allow for the possibility that Matthew made use of Luke’s outline: “this discourse is thus properly described as an anthology of the teaching of Jesus relating to discipleship, compiled by Matthew into his own distinctive structure (though using as a basis the sermon outline of Luke 6:20–49), but aiming to provide an overview of the authoritative teaching of the Messiah himself.” It is possible that these two different, yet similar traditions are two separate versions of Q, as Betz has hypothesized. France’s position does not significantly alter the dating arguments for the whole Gospel. Betz’s variation allows for a somewhat earlier and even pre-synoptic source for the Sermon.77 The second issue is that of Matthew’s redaction of the Sermon on the Mount. Davies and Allison maintain that the vast majority of the Sermon is heavily or partially redacted.78 Luz concurs, arguing that much of the material comes from Q and a QMt tradition (thus explaining the differences between Luke and Matthew). Luz concludes that Matthew’s redaction is “very careful” and “conservative,” arguing that Matthew did not simply edit his texts as a free author but was “influenced by the language and the life of his community.”79 If Luz is correct in observing this influence, it is possible that Matthew’s influences were Hellenistic (as well as Judaic). The source traditions of the Sermon are consistent with those of the Gospel as a whole and so allow for the possibility of Hellenistic influence.

3.3 Provenance and Vocabulary 3.3 Provenance and Vocabulary

Given the maddening lack of availability of the autographs of the Gospels, along with something less than definitive traditions about their compositions, provenance is impossible to establish. Most arguments about provenance include the intertwined matters of historical testimony, vocabulary, and other social and geographical indicators. Like the other Gospels, the specific provenance of Matthew’s Gospel cannot be conclusively determined, though Syrian Antioch is clearly favored 75

There are a few minor differences of order: Luke 6:27–28, 31. France, Gospel of Matthew, 155. 77 Betz, ‘Cosmogony and Ethics in the Sermon on the Mount,’ 89–90. See also Carlston, review Betz, 47–57. 78 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 121–127. 79 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 213–214. 76

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among Matthean scholars.80 There have been several attempts to locate Matthew’s Gospel in other places: Palestinian options including Jerusalem, Caesarea Maritima, and Galilee; Phoenicia; Alexandria; and east of the Jordan, perhaps in Decapolis. Each is worth considering and each has its own problems. The Palestinian options have had several supporters throughout history, generally on the grounds of 1) Matthew’s apparently conservative view of the Mosaic Law in 5:17–20, 2) the heated interaction with the Pharisees (who were most prominent and influential in Palestine), and 3) the testimony of the Church Fathers.81 The combination of these characteristics feed the notion that Matthew’s Gospel is somehow overly and exclusively Jewish in its concerns and content. Each of these points, however, is problematic. Concerning the first point—Matthew’s portrayal of Jesus’s conservative approach to the Law—the context raises a challenge. On the surface, the antitheses in Matt 5:21–48 seem to undo an interpretation of the Law or custom that was endorsed by the local Jewish leadership as historically consistent (“You have heard that it was said to those of old…” in 5:21, cf. 5:27, 5:31, 5:33, 5:38, 5:43). Concerning the second point—the prominence of the Pharisees in the text—the argument requires a corollary assumption that Pharisees were not influential or prominent outside of Palestine.82 This assumption is simply not reasonable, as it was quite common for Pharisaic Jews to venture well beyond Jerusalem. Paul, who was himself from the Diaspora, had no difficulty claiming for himself the term Pharisee with no explanation as to its meaning in his correspondence with the Philippians.83 R. Gamaliel II even took an extended trip to visit the governor of Syria.84 On the other hand, even if we assume that Matthew’s concern over the Pharisees is geographically significant, it is im-

80 The first major attempt at locating the Gospel in Antioch was that of Streeter. Streeter, Four Gospels, 500–523. Davies and Allison skeptically find Antioch to be the most attractive proposal after thoroughly reviewing the evidence. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 143–147. Hagner seems to think Antioch is also a reasonable possibility. Hagner, Matthew 1–13, lxxv. Nolland is, however, unwilling to argue a specific location, though likely an urban one. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 17–18. Others have chosen locations further south in Syria or even in northern Palestine, perhaps making the Matthean ‘dialogue’ with Jamnia more plausible. On these grounds, however, the argument becomes somewhat circular. See Viviano, Matthew and His World, 4–23. 81 More recently, Overman has argued for Galilee. Overman, Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism, 158–158. Viviano has argued for Caesarea Maritima. Viviano, Matthew and His World, 9–23. 82 Viviano, Matthew and His World, 10. 83 Phil 3:5. 84 m. Ἑd. 7:7.

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possible to tie this concern to Palestine. Luke’s apparent rage toward the Pharisees is rarely used to demand a Palestinian provenance for his Gospel. Concerning the third point, the testimony of the Church Fathers is notoriously problematic, as we have already seen. Even if Papias’s assertion that Matthew wrote a Gospel in the Hebrew language is to be trusted, it is a leap to assume that it would likely come from Jerusalem or Palestine.85 Rather, given the arguments of the previous section, it is somewhat more likely that Papias was referring to something quite different from our Greek Gospel of Matthew. Even if they were not, it is not impossible that a Hebrew Gospel could have been composed outside of Palestine. Beyond these counterpoints, the typically assumed late date of Matthew is a significant reason to exclude Jerusalem and Palestine from consideration. Though certainly not conclusive, Matthew does seem to be aware of the Jewish war in 70 C.E.86 He appears surprisingly untroubled by it, if we are supposing that he is an author in a community which had experienced it. Roman armies under Titus had brought massive destruction to Jerusalem and surrounding Palestine, killing or dispersing most of the Jewish population. The Jewish communities in this area were disrupted to a great extent. Yet Matthew’s Gospel for his “Jewish” community seems relatively unaffected by these events approximately a decade earlier. This difficulty can be avoided by dating the Gospel much before the Jewish war. However, this concession is problematic in that it requires compromising or altogether disregarding the two-source hypothesis and Markan priority. Phoenicia, as is argued by George D. Kilpatrick,87 seems a plausible choice for two reasons: 1) Matthew uses ὕδατα (water) rather than Mark’s θάλασσα (sea) to describe the sea of Galilee, instead reserving θάλασσα for the much larger and deeper Mediterranean88 and 2) Matthew changes Mark’s Syro-Phoenician woman to a Canaanite woman perhaps because of his own location.89 Additionally, the argument concerning Matthew’s water terminology assumes he is writing from a port city, perhaps Tyre or Sidon (as they are mentioned in Acts 21:3–7 and 27:3, respectively, and so might have had a Christian community large enough to warrant the production of a new Gospel beyond Mark’s). The transition of the Syro-Phoenician woman to Canaanite may have been an attempt by Matthew to separate his audience in a sophisticated, Hellenized port city from the rural, less Hellenized natives that Jesus might have encountered. As the woman would have been seen negatively in 85

Eusebius, Hist. eccl., 3.24.6, 3.39.16, 5.8.2, 5.10.2–3, 6.25.4. Matt 22:7. 87 Kilpatrick, Origins of the Gospel According to St. Matthew, 130–134. 88 Matt 8:32, 14:28–29, and Mark 5:13. See also Matthew’s description of θάλασσα as deep in Matt 18:6 compared with Mark 9:42. 89 Mark 7:26 and Matt 15:22. 86

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the Gospels, Matthew’s change shows a preference for the Phoenician ports. Of course, these are relatively small arguments compared with those suggesting other locations. Additionally, both of the arguments also have problems. First, Matthew uses both ὕδατα and θάλασσα in 8:32 to refer to the demise of the pigs (“the whole herd rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters”). No distinction between Matthew and Mark here is necessary. Second, Matthew’s choice to use Canaanite rather than SyroPhoenician is also not clearly an issue of coastal cities and rural towns as is suggested by Kilpatrick. Matthew’s complex relationship with Judaism may have been just as responsible in the characterization of the woman as Canaanite. Neither assumption is necessary, nor is the presupposition that Matthew would have wanted to separate the rural and urban communities of Phoenicia. It seems especially unlikely that a Gospel constructed in Phoenicia, especially the port cities of Tyre or Sidon, would include as strongly a disapproving statement as is found in Matt 11:20–23: Then he began to denounce the cities where most of his mighty works had been done, because they did not repent. “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes. But I tell you, it will be more bearable on the day of judgment for Tyre and Sidon than for you. And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You will be brought down to Hades. For if the mighty works done in you had been done in Sodom, it would have remained until this day.”

The characterization of Tyre and Sidon as unrepentant and the comparison with Sodom would certainly not have been well regarded by a Matthean community in Phoenicia. The evidence for Alexandria and east of the Jordan is comparatively sparse and has gathered almost no scholarly support. The plausibility of Alexandria depends on an assumption that the excursion into Egypt found in Matthew’s infancy narrative would have appealed to an Alexandrian Christian community more than other communities. While this may be true, it is by no means a certainty nor is it a comparison that can be objectively made based on our evidence. Alexandria is also problematic in that Matthew’s Gospel unabashedly holds Peter in great esteem, but there is no evidence to suggest that Peter held any significant position in the Alexandrian church. Furthermore, we might expect a Gospel such as Matthew’s, with its supposedly Jewish subject matter, to engage Philo. Yet there is no trace of Philo in Matthew. Finally, historical testimony about Christian communities in Alexandria during the last three decades of the first century remains scant (especially compared to the wealth of other literature and papyrus fragments we have from this period in Alexandria). The arguments for Alexandria are, as a result, quite tenuous. Arguments for a locality of composition somewhere east of the Jordan, perhaps in the Decapolis, depend on what Matthew means by “beyond the Jordan” in Matt 4:15 and 19:1. It is possible that such a designation places

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Matthew’s perspective as east of the Jordan—making “beyond the Jordan” equivalent to west of the Jordan. The ambiguities or variant readings of Matthew’s source texts (Isaiah 8:23 and Mark 10:1) complicate the question, as does the range of what Matthew might mean by “beyond the Jordan.” A further complicating factor is Matt 4:25, in which “beyond the Jordan” clearly refers to the lands east of the Jordan—making Matthew’s location west of the Jordan—contrary to what is assumed about 4:15 and 19:1. Additionally, Matthew omits Mark’s references to Decapolis,90 a strange redactional choice if Matthew is writing from a community in that region. Finally, like Alexandria, a significant lack of historical knowledge about the Christian communities east of the Jordan renders it an unappealing choice. Recognizing the difficulties with the Palestinian, Phoenician and eastern choices, most scholars have argued for a Syrian option, specifically Antioch. The plausibility of this specific location depends on four arguments. First, the earliest witness to the Gospel is in a letter of Ignatius, the third Bishop of Antioch.91 Second, there appear to be linguistic connections between the Gospel and the Didache, a roughly contemporary document. The Didache is associated with Roman Syria through its substantial influence on the Didascalia Apostolorum (which was composed in Syria in the third century C.E.). Third, Peter emerges as a central figure in an even more significant way than the accounts of Mark and Luke record (particularly in in Matt 16:13–20). Paul’s letter to the churches in Galatia suggests that Peter had vacated Jerusalem for Antioch.92 It is not unreasonable to assume that these two facts are related.93 Fourth and finally, Matt 4:24 refers to news of Jesus spreading throughout Syria, a curious addition to the likely source in Mark 1:28–1:39 which highlights Galilee (as does much of the rest of Matthew 4), if Syria is of no particular significance. Beyond the specific evidence, there is a probability that Matthew was writing from a city like Syrian Antioch. If the assumption concerning a tension in the Jewish tone of Matthew’s work is correct, then Matthew’s location would have been a large city where there existed multiple Jewish communities spanning the spectrum as well as a significant gentile community. Matthew’s use of certain images and phrases also indicate there would likely have been a large economic spectrum and thus he was likely in a large urban center. These images and phrases include Matthew’s use of the word πόλις (city), which 90

Mark 5:20 and 7:31. Ignatius references Matt 3:15 in Ign. Smyrn. 1:1. Additionally, he alludes to Matt 10:16b in Ign. Pol., 2:2. He also develops Matthew’s story of the Magi and the star in Ign. Eph. 19:2–3. For more on this, see R. Brown and Meier, Antioch & Rome, 24–25. 92 See Gal 2:9–14. It appears that after Paul’s opposition to Peter in Antioch, Peter traveled to Jerusalem where he and Paul reconciled (to some extent). See Bruce, Galatians, 121–134. Betz, Galatians, 99–112. 93 Schweizer, “Matthew’s Church,” 149–150. 91

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he uses 27 times (compared to Mark’s eight), his use of the word κώµη (village) only four times (compared to Mark’s seven)94 and his volume and various uses of elevated monetary terms:95 Greek

English

Matthew

Mark

Luke

χρυσός

gold

5

0

0

ἄργυρος

silver money

1

0

0

ἀργύριον

piece of silver

9

1

4

δραχµή

drachma

0

0

3

τάλαντον

talent

14

0

0

χαλκός

copper

1

2

0

λεπτός

copper coin

0

1

2

κοδράντης

penny

1

1

0

µαµωνᾶς

money, riches

1

0

3

χρῆµα

money, wealth

0

1

1

2

0

0

τιµή

price, honor

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In addition to the increased usage of monetary terms, Matthew also frequently heightens values or shifts language to include wealth status. Where Mark’s Jesus sends his disciples out on a mission, commanding them to take no bread, no bag and no copper coins (Mark 6:8), Matthew’s Jesus commands them to leave their gold, silver and copper at home with their bags (Matt 10:9). Whereas Mark describes Joseph of Arimathea as a respected member of the Council (Mark 15:43), Matthew describes him simply as a “rich man” (Matt 27:57). Finally, assuming that the Gospel was composed in Greek, there would have to have been a sizeable community of Jews speaking Greek.97 Antioch fits each of these criteria. 94

Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 25. Note that I have arrived at a different total for Matthew’s use of ‘city’ than Carter’s source, which cites only 26 instances in Matthew’s Gospel. Carter cites Kingsbury “Verb AKOLOUTHEIN (“TO Follow”) as an Index of Matthew’s View of His Community,” 66–68; Kilpatrick, Origins of the Gospel According to St. Matthew, 124–126; and R.W. Smith “Were the Early Christians Middle-Class? A Sociological Analysis of the New Testament,” 265–271. 95 Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 25. Note that I have included more terms than Carter’s source and have accordingly arrived at different totals. For Carter’s sources, see the previous footnote. 96 Honor seems to be being used in a monetary sense. 97 Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 17–18.

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Antioch was an important city in Matthew’s world.98 Founded around 300 B.C.E., it became the capital of the Roman province of Syria by the first century. It had grown quite large (estimates put its population between 150,000 and 200,00099) and was considered third only to Rome and Alexandria in stature. Though landlocked, the nearby travel hub of Seleucia Piera served as Antioch’s conduit to the rest of the Mediterranean and also constituted a major Roman naval base. Julius Caesar built an aqueduct, a theater, an amphitheater, and new temples and baths. Easy land routes further enabled travel and commerce while contributing to a growing ethnic and religious diversity. It was the point of convergence for several major trade routes and a cosmopolitan city.100 With such diversity intrinsic to the city, the question becomes one of how the Christian community would have functioned in Antioch. John P. Meier offers an interesting historical insight, describing Matthew and his group as the second generation of Christians in Antioch.101 Meier observes that the first generation of believers in Jesus Christ would have been in Antioch already in the 40s, among them Paul, Barnabas, Peter, and James (by extension). There were also already distinct and diverse groups of JewishChristians in this first generation, debating the applicability of circumcision and food requirements in the Mosaic Law (Galatians 2 and Acts 15). These groups appear to have reached a compromise; though how well this compromise was followed and for how long it lasted is not at all apparent. It seems from the Gospel of Matthew that by the second generation—Matthew’s generation—there were still plenty of Jewish, Jewish-Christian, and gentileChristian groups debating the applicability of the Mosaic Law. What’s more, there seems to have been a peaceful co-existence between the Jewish and gentile communities. That is, there is evidence of the integration of Jews and gentiles in Antioch, especially Greek “sympathizers of the splendidly furnished central synagogue.”102 Additional sociological data about Greco-Roman cities, and particularly Syrian Antioch, has been collected by Rodney Stark in an important article.103 In his work, Stark explores everything from public infrastructure (e.g. sewer 98

See Bockmuehl, Jewish Law in Gentile Churches, 49–57. See Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 17. Chandler and Fox, Three Thousand Years of Urban Growth, 81, 303. See also Stark’s article, which also cites Chandler and Fox, but also explores additional aspects of population density. Stark, “Antioch as the Social Situation for Matthew’s Gospel,” 192. 100 See Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 17. Charlesworth, Trade Routes and Commerce of the Roman Empire, 36–56. 101 R. Brown and Meier, Antioch & Rome, 22–27. 102 Bockmuehl, Jewish Law in Gentile Churches, 57. Bockmuehl is citing Josephus, J.W., 7.3.3. 103 Stark, “Antioch as the Social Situation for Matthew’s Gospel.” 99

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systems, public baths) to the robust multi-ethnicity of the city, citing as many as 18 distinct ethnic sections within the city. 104 Two of the larger groups within the city were Romans and Jews. Given this characterization of Antioch and that most scholars agree on Antioch as the likely candidate for Matthew’s community, it seems strange that so many argue for an isolated Jewish setting—a setting so Jewish and so void of Hellenistic influence that it likely did not exist at all, especially in a cosmopolitan city like Antioch. Indeed, the Roman imperial authority in Antioch and the Roman adoption of so much of Greek culture, literature and social organization makes it unlikely that a Christian community there could be as free from Greco-Roman influence as the some Matthean scholars imply.

3.4 Literary Genre 3.4 Literary Genre

While the Gospels seem to incorporate elements of several comparable literary genres, scholars tend to agree that there is a clearly dominant template genre.105 This position, advanced by Richard Burridge, is that the literary genre of the Gospels most closely resembles the Greco-Roman βίος (life).106 He arrived at this position by comparing the Gospels with a widely diverse array of texts that clearly belong to this genre: Isocrates’s Evagoras, Xenophon’s Agesilaus, Satyrus’s Euripides, Nepos’s Atticus, Philo’s Moses, Tacitus’s Agricola, Plutarch’s Cato Minor, Suetonius’s Lives of the Caesars, Lucian’s Demonax, and Philostratus’s Apollonius of Tyana.107 He systemati-

104

Stark, “Antioch as the Social Situation for Matthew’s Gospel,” 196. Stark cites Meeks and Wilken, Jews and Christians in Antioch in the First Four Centuries of the Common Era, and W. Smith, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Geography, 143. 105 The position that Matthew’s Gospel contains within it multiple genres is very supportable, and so my description of one possibility is not intended to exclude others. Catechesis, apologetic or missionary propaganda, polemic against the rabbis, lectionary, apocalyptic teachings, history, handbook for a school, (unhistorical) midrash, encomium, and Hebrew biography are among the many choices. See Hagner, Matthew 1–13, lvii–lix, and Blomberg, Matthew, 46, for history and biography; Stendahl, School of St. Matthew, 20–29, for handbook for a school; Gundry Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church Under Persecution for unhistorical midrash; Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew, 2–3, for encomium and Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 19, for elements of Hebrew style biography. See also Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 3. For a discussion of the mixing of genres, see Burridge, What are the Gospels?, 58–59. 106 Burridge, What are the Gospels?, 109–239. 107 Burridge helpfully summarizes his arguments in Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 121–125. See also Burridge, What are the Gospels?, 109–239. For a discussion of gospel genre as a Christological claim, see Burridge, “Gospel Genre, Christological Controversy and the Absence of Rabbinic Biography,” 155–156.

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cally compares and contrasts numerous characteristics of these texts to arrive at a basic description of the genre. Unlike modern biographies, Greco-Roman lives do not cover the whole life in strict chronological sequence, complete with detailed psychological analysis of the subject’s character. Often, they have only a bare chronological outline, beginning with the birth or arrival on the public scene and ending with the death; the intervening space includes selected stories, anecdotes, speeches, and sayings, all displaying something of the subject.108

Texts concerning philosophers and “thinkers” tend to be “more anecdotal” and “arranged around collections of material displaying their ideas and teachings” rather than the strict chronology typical of military and political leaders.109 These texts also tend to give disproportionate focus to the death of the subject (cf. Plutarch, Tacitus, Nepos, and Philostratus).110 Burridge also surmised that these ancient biographies serve one or more functions: to praise and/or blame the subject and his opponents,111 to serve as an example, to advance moral purposes, to teach his followers about the subject, to preserve the memory of a great man, and/or to entertain.112 The last element of Burridge’s argument is found in comparing of the results of his study of Greco-Roman βίος with the canonical gospels. He concludes that the literary characteristics of the gospels are consistent with and, in some cases, closely resemble those of βίοι. Indeed, the Matthean narrative structure resembles that of other βίοι about philosophers or “thinkers” as Burridge describes them, complete with anecdotal sections, an extended death sequence and focusing particularly on the teaching of Jesus.113 In support of his conclusion, Burridge appeals to linguistic feature of the genre. His verb study of the βίοι genre yielded the following results: a quarter to a third of verbs are dominated by a single subject and an additional fifteen to thirty percent are within “sayings, speeches or quotations from the person.” Matthew’s Gospel is consistent with βίοι as almost twenty percent of the verbs are dominated by Jesus and about forty percent are uttered by him.114 It seems that several, even most, modern commentators on Matthew have agreed with Burridge’s premise in that it properly belongs to the genre of 108

Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 122. Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 122. 110 Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 122. 111 Neyrey, Honor and Shame, 3–12. He states the idea in terms of “honor and shame,” but it is premise of the whole book. 112 Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 134–135. Hagiography, which was written for these same reasons, is likely the Christian continuation of the βίος, with the Gospels providing the prototype for hagiography. 113 The structure of Matthew, according to Bacon, is built around five extended teaching sequences or discourses. See France, Gospel of Matthew, 2–10. 114 Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 123. 109

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Greco-Roman βίος.115 At the same time, many commentators seem open to the idea that specific pericopes within the Gospel fit into other genres or that it was constructed with several purposes that would each be expressed in one or more genres.116 Only a few have adopted an extreme version of Burridge’s position, that Matthew is exclusively a βίος. Fewer yet have insisted that no part of it resembles a βίος and instead fits better into some other genre. One example, Gundry, separates Matthew from Mark and Luke based on apparently different levels of redactional activity.117 He argues that Mark is simple in its form and serves as a good foundation for expansion and commentary (such as that of Matthew’s Gospel). Luke, on the other hand, is clear in its historical intentions. Matthew therefore stands alone in its appropriation and embellishing of Mark and Q. With respect to genre, it is this embellishing that qualifies it as midrash in Gundry’s mind.118 This embellishing, according to Gundry, also distorts the presumed historical accuracy of the source documents and so it must fall far outside of the realm of βίος. While Gundry does point out certain differences, it seems implausible to separate Matthew from the other Synoptic Gospels along the lines of genre, especially as even a cursory glance through recent scholarship will reveal rather strong arguments for a similar or greater level of redaction in Mark and Luke. Gundry also seems to take an unwarranted liberty with the term midrash. For Gundry, the term seems to go beyond normal scope of midrashim as commentary on a text or idea.119 Rather, it apparently includes Matthew’s supposedly liberal practice of taking a bit of Mark or Q and creating completely unhistorical events as fluid narrative in order to advance his own theological purposes. So, while Gundry’s conclusions are unsupported from 115

Blomberg, Matthew, 46–48. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 19. Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 113–145. 116 Davies and Allison see a plurality of genres for individual pericopes in the Gospel in their lengthy study. “A close reading would indicate that not one of these categories taken in isolation does justice to the totality of the gospel, even though it includes examples and elements of them all: history, myth, moral instructions, apocalyptic teaching, liturgy, catechism, and apologetics. In a literary sense, as in others, the text is an omnibus of genres.” Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 3. Hagner also argues that the Gospel incorporates elements of other more specific genres: midrash, lectionary, catechesis or catechetical manual, church correctives, missionary propaganda, and polemic against the rabbis. Hagner, Matthew 1–13, lvii–lix. “This variety of options concerning the genre of Matthew indicates something of its multifaceted character. Several of these explanations may well be equally true. The evangelist could have had several purposes.” My question is whether we can identify a single genre for the First Gospel as a whole and I am inclined to agree with Burridge. 117 Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Literary and Theological Art. 118 The specific arguments above are refuted in Moo, “Matthew and Midrash,” 31–39. See also Carson, “Gundry on Matthew: A Critical Review,” 71–91. 119 G. Porton, “midrash,” ABD 4:818–819.

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his arguments, his premise is not completely without merit. The seeming fluidity of Matthew as a narrative must be considered and, in fact, rules out certain other possible genres, though not βίος. Ulrich Luz argues as much from his assessment of the structure of the Gospel.120 Luz also briefly considers the possibility of the Gospel fitting within the genre of Greco-Roman βίος, but ultimately finds this position lacking, noting that this would be a foreign format in Jewish composition traditions. Luz compares the genealogy in the first chapter with the Jewish practice of including genealogies in Genesis and Chronicles. He also sees the discourses in Matthew having little to do with the speeches one would find in a Greek or Roman biography or historical writing as they do not have contemporary applications and Jesus’s discourses do.121 Luz argues that this follows in the tradition of Moses’s speech in Deuteronomy 4–30. And so, he concludes that Matthew’s Gospel works in the sphere of Deuteronomy but ultimately follows Mark into a new genre: εὐαγγέλιον.122 The theory that the Gospels are a new and unique literary genre has attracted several commentators, including Stanton.123 Stanton’s argument begins by tracing the earliest words that are used to designate the Gospels. When early Christian communities began to use multiple Gospels, it follows logically that they would have had to distinguish between them. He sees no evidence of the word βίος being used to distinguish the Gospels, concluding rather that there is only one possibility: εὐαγγέλιον.124 For example, Stanton suggests that the four references to εὐαγγέλιον in the Didache125 refer to specific written texts, not merely oral proclamations. Indeed, the reference in Did. 8:2 is particularly poignant as it introduces a parallel text to Matt 6:5– 14.126 The two references in Did. 15:3–4 also seem to be alluding to specific 120 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 37. Matthew obviously values a seamless course of narrative more than a clear distinction of major parts. That speaks in favor of assuming that the Gospel of Matthew, as far as genre is concerned, has to be understood as a connected narrative and not as a collection of individual texts that could be used liturgically as pericopes or catechetically as texts for instruction. 121 The discourses may actually have more in common with the written accounts of the lives of pagan martyrs. See Musurillo, Acts of the Pagan Martyrs. 122 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 44–46. He would also be supported, perhaps, by Nolland’s comparison of the Gospel to biographical accounts of key figures in the Hebrew Bible. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 19. See also Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 317–346. 123 It seems that this position is a change from Stanton’s earlier position. For a discussion of his earlier work, see Burridge, “What are the Gospels?” 82–84. 124 Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 344. 125 Did. 8:2, 11:3, 15:3–4. 126 Did. 8:2: µηδὲ προσεύχεσθε ὡς οἱ ὑποκριταί, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἐκέλευσεν ὁ κύριος ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ αὐτοῦ, οὕτως προσεύχεσθε· | Πάτερ ἡµῶν ὁ ἐν τῷ οὐρανῷ, | ἁγιασθήτω τὸ ὄνοµά σου, | ἐλθέτω ἡ βασιλεία σου, | γενηθήτω τὸ θέληµά σου | ὡς ἐν οὐρανῷ καὶ ἐπὶ γῆς. | Τὸν ἄρτον ἡµῶν τὸν ἐπιούσιον δὸς ἡµῖν σήµερον, | καὶ ἄφες ἡµῖν τὴν ὀφειλὴν ἡµῶν, | ὡς

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ideas in Matthew.127 He also points out references in Ignatius’s letter to the Smyrneans (Ign. Smyrn. 5.1, 7.2) and in 2 Clem. 8:5.128 Once the term was used to refer to writings, it was a natural extension to use it as a title, thus setting apart the genre of the Gospels.129 In exploring the possible genres for the Gospel, three conclusions are important. First, whether by consensus of commentators or by the significance of the evidence, it is apparent that Matthew’s literary genre most closely resembles Greco-Roman βίος. This is important because the literary genre of a text provides the reader tools for understanding the document in a particular context, in this case Greek literature. While we are right to avoid transferring too much from the Gospel to the community, understanding the Matthew’s literary genre can help us to understand the expectations of the original readers.130 In Matthew’s Gospel, both the compiler of the final form and his intended audience would have to have been familiar with Greco-Roman biographical forms of writing. Second, while it is likely that Matthew wrote in the tradition of Greco-Roman biography, his work deviated from the form and was also received as a Gospel. This is significant because it demonstrates that while the author or redactor had traceable influences, he also added and edited freely. Third, the genre of βίοι is flexible enough to incorporate elements of other genres. Thus, the Sermon on the Mount may broadly fit into a Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition insofar as Matthew’s Gospel does, but its literary genre may come from elsewhere within the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition.

3.5 Conclusion 3.5 Conclusion

At this point, it is helpful to review what has been argued thus far. In sum, I am suggesting that the most commonly held positions by Matthean scholars concerning the most basic aspects of the Gospel of Matthew point to the καὶ ἡµεῖς ἀφίεµεν τοῖς ὀφειλέταις ἡµῶν, | καὶ µὴ εἰσενέγκῃς ἡµᾶς εἰς πειρασµόν, | ἀλλὰ ῥῦσαι ἡµᾶς ἀπὸ τοῦ πονηροῦ · | ὅτι σοῦ ἐστιν ἡ δύναµις καὶ ἡ δόξα εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας. Holmes, Apostolic Fathers. 127 Did. 15:3–4: Ἐλέγχετε δὲ ἀλλήλους µὴ ἐν ὀργῇ, ἀλλ’ ἐν εἰρήνη, ὡς ἔχετε ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ· καὶ παντὶ ἀστοχοῦντι κατὰ τοῦ ἑτέρου, µηδεὶς λαλείτω µηδὲ παρ’ ὑµῶν ἀκουέτω, ἕως οὗ µετανοήσῃ. τὰς δὲ εὐχὰς ὑµῶν καὶ τὰς ἐλεηµοσύνας καὶ πάσας τὰς πράξεις, οὕτως ποιήσατε ὡς ἔχετε ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ τοῦ κυρίου ἡµῶν. Holmes, Apostolic Fathers. 128 Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 329–334. 129 Stanton concedes in the same article that they broadly belong in the category of βίοι, “but are not βίοι tout court, they are four witnesses to the one Gospel.” Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 344. 130 Burridge, “About People, By People, For People,” 143.

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plausibility of a Greco-Roman background for the Gospel text. As for language, it is entirely likely that what we call the Gospel of Matthew was written in Greek or, at least, edited by someone thoroughly Hellenized. While it is not unthinkable that the author wrote the Gospel in Aramaic and, yet, still used Greco-Roman rhetorical forms, that the Gospel was wholly written in Greek is the most probable. Common positions on the sources Matthew used, the provenance from which he composed, and the genre in which he arranged only affirm as much. In turn, the goal of this monograph is to argue for the value of pursuing such Greco-Roman rhetorical influence in the Gospel. But at this early stage, simple arguments concerning the background of the Gospel suffice in beginning to deconstruct the ‘common knowledge’ concerning Matthew’s cloistered Jewish background.

Chapter 4

Rhetorical Criticism and Methodology How can Horace go with the psalter, Virgil with the gospels, Cicero with the apostle? Is not a brother made to stumble if he sees you sitting at meat in an idol’s temple? Although “unto the pure all things are pure,” and “nothing is to be refused if it be received with thanksgiving,” still we ought not to drink the cup of Christ, and, at the same time, the cup of devils.1 —Jerome (Epist., 22.29)

There are ultimately two overlapping goals or agendas for this project. The first is to acknowledge the complexity of the background of Matthew’s Gospel—both in its actual historical context and within the dominant views of its historical context in modern Matthean scholarship. Second, I intend to begin exploring this background. How does Matthew’s Gospel fit within a GrecoRoman historical setting? It is possible, in one extreme, that Matthew made a conscious decision to incorporate Greco-Roman influences in his Gospel text in order to communicate in a way that draws on a widely understood GrecoRoman context. It is also possible that such an explicit event need not have taken place. Rather, Matthew’s use of Greco-Roman patterns of thought or composition could very well have been unconscious or unintentional. In this case, it is undoubtedly more profitable to consider Matthew’s use of GrecoRoman patterns of thought or composition by considering his text as a firstcentury literate person, familiar with Greco-Roman culture, would have considered it. Even at this level of intertextuality, Matthew’s diverse background is worth exploring.

4.1 Primary Methodological Concerns 4.1 Primary Methodological Concerns

Such a project may seem strange, given that the overwhelming trend in Matthean studies has been a seemingly single-minded focus on the Judaic 1

Quid facit cum psalterio Horatius? cum evangeliis Maro? cum apostolo Cicero? Nonne scandalizatur frater, si te viderit in idolio recumbentem? Et licet omnia munda mundis et nihil reiciendum sit, quod cum gratiarum actione percipitur, tamen simul bibere non debemus calicem Christi et calicem daemoniorum. For the English text, see W.H. Fremantle’s translation in Jerome, Epist., 22.29 (NPNF2 6:35).

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sources, provenance, and character of Matthew’s Gospel. As I showed in the second chapter, the Hellenistic character of Matthew’s Gospel has not been given much attention in the past 40 years of Matthean scholarship.2 Rather, some Matthean scholars, in fact, have focused so exclusively on the Judaic character of the Gospel as to deny, explicitly or implicitly, that Hellenism is even relevant (e.g., Saldarini, Overman, Sim).3 Yet, on the other hand, few have given Hellenism considerable attention (e.g. Betz, Keener).4 As I argued in the second chapter, there ought to be a much greater discussion of the complexity of this background that tries to make sense of all the data. The complexity of this project, however, stems from a relatively new perspective on the Hellenism/Judaism divide that has transformed the field of Biblical studies: that is, Judaisms, in some measure, are Hellenistic (e.g. Hengel, Engberg-Pedersen, Meeks, Martin).5 The default starting point cannot be the question of whether a text, idea, piece of evidence, or other artifact is Hellenistic or Jewish. There is no constraint of binary conclusions. Rather, the question becomes one of how Hellenistic any text, idea, piece of evidence, or other artifact might be. The range of possibilities is immense, from very Jewish and a little Hellenistic (e.g., sectarian Jewish groups in Qumran), to both Jewish and Hellenistic (e.g., Paul), to not very Jewish and very Hellenistic (e.g., Virgil). In other words, the question has become one of degree, not of kind. While the dissolution of the strict Jew/Greek dichotomy is ultimately beneficial for this present examination of Matthew’s work, the relatively small impact this perspective has had upon Matthean studies up to now undeniably complicates this study. Much of the scholarship on Mathew implicitly invokes the divide between Jew and gentile; the constructed dichotomy, presumed inviolable, subsequently affects scholarly discussions of all things Jewish and Hellenistic. In light of these matters, the question is how to sense the Greco-Roman context for Matthew’s Gospel. Given the significant divergence of Matthean studies from much of the rest of New Testament studies, the problem of scope is one of considerable importance for this project. Hellenistic qualities could be identified in numerous aspects of Matthew’s Gospel: literary, linguistic, and grammatical characteristics; social and cultural practices; historical and geographical evidence; theological, philosophical, and religious ideas—all these could be analyzed in 2

See the second chapter for a discussion of Matthean scholarship. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community. See also Overman, Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism, and Sim, The Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism, 109–163. 4 Hans Dieter Betz and Craig Keener are notable examples of the few who have given the Greco-Roman context considerable attention: Betz, Sermon on the Mount; Keener, Gospel of Matthew. 5 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1. See also the essays of Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Wayne A. Meeks, and Dale B. Martin in Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide. 3

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terms of possible Hellenistic resonance—whether conscious or unconscious on the part of Matthew. As with any somewhat ambitious project, the focus must be narrowed both by intentionally restraining the content under investigation and by imposing methodological limits. For the specific interest and size of this investigation, I have chosen to focus on aspects of the Gospel related to educational practices and the implications of these educational practices for the text. As such, this project is not comprehensive and neither is it a commentary on Matthew’s Gospel.6 Finally, it is necessary to find and/or define a methodological approach that both allows for a systematic analysis of Matthew’s Gospel and also yields a project of manageable size. Accordingly, three particular areas of methodology must be considered. First, I will briefly consider the discipline of intertextual studies, focusing particularly on the vocabulary and definitions of intertextual study. Second, as I have chosen educational practices as my entry point in Matthew—during a period in which the culminating phase of education was primarily concerned with rhetoric—I have also chosen rhetorical analysis of the Gospel as the primary methodology.7 As will become clear in this chapter, rhetorical analysis grants certain flexibilities in distinguishing form from content. And while the content of the Gospel of Matthew is irrefutably Jewish to a great extent, a study of the rhetorical form of the Matthean text affords entry into the text from another perspective for the sake of comparison, allowing us to suspend a discussion of the relative Jewish-ness and Greek-ness of the content.8 Third, as the Gospel of Matthew is part of the

6 Certain positions concerning the text, authorship, setting, and other characteristics of Matthew’s Gospel will have to be taken as axiomatic. I have and will declare my positions and provide background as to why I hold these positions, but only when relevant to the larger argument. 7 As will become clear in this chapter, I am referring to a historical-critical side of rhetorical criticism rather than to the comprehensive enterprise that includes anthropological, sociological, and other social-scientific concerns. 8 While the vast majority of scholars who engage in rhetorical criticism do so on the basis of analogizing Biblical rhetorical forms with Greco-Roman rhetorical forms, there are notable exceptions. For example, Roland Meynet argues for a unique Jewish rhetoric as the basis of the Gospels: “It is possible, in fact, that biblical texts follow a different logic to the logic in which modern readers have been trained. The anomalies, incoherencies, breaks in the normal progression of thought, could also be opinions brought to bear by our Western logic. What if there were another way of expression and composition? A biblical rhetoric, whose canon would be different from those of modern rhetoric, inherited from classic Greece and Rome? My basic thesis is that there is a biblical and wider Semitic rhetoric— and, therefore, a logic—which is very different from classical rhetoric; and that even the texts of the New Testament, for all that they were directly written in Greek (so that they could be understood in their world), are more dependent on this Semitic rhetoric than on Greco-Latin rhetoric.” Meynet, A New Introduction to the Synoptic Gospels, 62. Here,

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Synoptic Gospels—a set of documents with a peculiar relationship— rhetorical criticism must also take into account others of the historical-critical methodologies, particularly redaction criticism. As such, I will consider how redaction criticism will aid in rhetorical analysis.

4.2 Intertextuality and Audience 4.2 Intertextuality and Audience

The analysis of the relationship between texts, as a discipline within the study of the New Testament, has become an increasingly larger and more complex field of study as more and more external texts have been conceived of as relating to the New Testament.9 As Stanley E. Porter has repeatedly observed, the diversity of such studies has created an abundance of terms that are often unclear and which have definitions that vary from one study to the next.10 As the goal of this present study of the Gospel of Matthew is to suggest a background in Greco-Roman educational and rhetorical practices—practices that are known to us through ancient texts—clarity on the discipline of intertextuality is a foundational necessity. 4.2.1 The Vocabulary of Intertextuality Porter helpfully reduces the taxonomy of relationships between texts to five categories: formulaic quotations, direct quotations, paraphrases, allusions, and echoes.11 Using these categories, it is clear that Matthew quotes, both formulaically and directly, from the Hebrew Bible.12 It is equally apparent that he does not quote from Greco-Roman educational or rhetorical literature. Likewise, Matthew paraphrases from the Hebrew Bible and, apparently, does

even Meynet remains open to the inclusion of “Greco-Latin rhetoric” in the Gospels, but rather objects to the majority assumptions on relative balance. 9 The discipline of intertextual studies as it is applied in the New Testament draws significantly from the same field in Classical studies. Major works on this field include: Conte, Rhetoric of Imitation; Edmunds, Intertextuality; and Hinds, Allusion and Intertext. 10 Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 29–40. Porter, “The Use of the Old Testament,” 79– 96. Porter, “Further Comments,” 98–110. 11 Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 29. See also Porter, “Further Comments,” 107–109. Porter “The Use of the Old Testament,” 79–96. 12 Matthew, more than any other Gospel writer, is abundantly explicit in his formulaic quotations. In fulfillment of perceived prophecy, he typically uses the verb πληρόω (fulfill) and cites his source or the prophets more generally. See Matt 1:22–23, 2:15, 2:17, 2:23, 4:14, 8:17, 12:17–21, 13:35, 21:4, 26:54, 26:56, and 27:9. Direct quotations (or quotations without an introductory formula) are usually introduced in the voice of Jesus in Matthew’s Text. See, for example, Matt 4:4, 4:6, 4:10, 9:13, 11:10, 11:17, etc.

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not from Greco-Roman educational or rhetorical literature. 13 Indeed, Matthew seems to quote or paraphrase only from the Hebrew Scriptures. And as these first three categories involve some form of citation or stated common text, they are easily understood categories and need no further explanation here. The categories of allusion and echo, however, are more complex. Both terms refer to indirect connections. The key difference for Porter, however, seems to be in specificity.14 Arguing on the basis of C. Hugh Holman’s work, Porter suggests that allusions include five significant elements: 1) that the connection may be to a historical or literary entity (person, event, or object), 2) the reference is indirect, 3) the reference is intended by the author, 4) the reference may occur without the awareness of the reader, and 5) the reference is most effective where the author and reader share a body of knowledge.15 For Porter, the category of echo follows very closely. Where some would simply take the terms as having identical or synonymous definition, Porter argues that an echo is less specific.16 That is, an echo does not require the particularity of Holman’s first element—that the connection revolves around a historical or literary person, event, or object. Rather, an echo “may be used for the invocation by means of thematically related language of some more general notion or concept.”17 The definitions of these categories of allusion and echo tend to draw scholarly attention to the difference between direct forms of intertextual connections (quotation and paraphrase) and these distinctively indirect forms. As such, they raise questions of plagiarism and, as a result, make the question of intentionality even more important. For Porter, at least, both categories still draw on the intentionality of the author.18 Do we not need another category 13

Matthew’s use of paraphrase is, like his use of direct quotation, often introduced in the voice of Jesus. For example, some of the antitheses in Matt 5:21–48 seem to be paraphrases of the Law more than quotations of it. Similarly, Jesus seems to paraphrase from the Law in the discussion of divorce exceptions in Matt 19:1–12. The Pharisees likewise seem to paraphrase from Deut 25:5 in their question to Jesus in Matt 22:24. More broadly, the beatitudes of Matt 5:2–12 seem to paraphrase portions of Isaiah, particularly Isa 61:1– 3. 14 The importance of intentionality as the primary defining characteristic of allusion (in contrast to other forms of intertextual connections) is likewise maintained by Stephen Hinds throughout Hinds, Allusion and Intertext, as well as other significant works, including D. Fowler, Roman Constructions. 15 Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 30–32. Porter cites Holman, A Handbook to Literature, 12. Cf. D. Fowler, Roman Constructions, 117–118. 16 Porter focuses particularly on Hays, Echoes of Scripture, 1–33. Others who conflate or combine the terms in following Hays are cited in Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 36– 37, note 22. 17 Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 39. Porter is drawing strongly from his previous work in Porter, “Use of the Old Testament,” 84–85. 18 Porter, “Allusions and Echoes,” 40.

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for intertextual connections that goes beyond the specific intended connections of the author? Is it not necessary to have an intertextuality category that, like allusions and echoes, refers to indirect connections, but is otherwise reserved for unintentional or subconscious connections? The study of intertextual dynamics in a text must make room for the possibility that more than one set of intertextual connections can be in play in one text, even a section of text relatively limited in scope. On the one hand, there may very well be a set of intended connections. But on the other hand, the education and cultural saturation and specific purpose in writing may introduce another set of unintended connections. The presence of unintentional or accidental intertextuality is, obviously, beyond the conscious control of the author, making it unnecessary and even deficient to suppose that a clear allusion is the sole connection in a text.19 Therefore, it is important to avoid the “philological tunnel vision” or “philological fundamentalism” that comes from focusing exclusively on or searching exclusively for very particular kinds of textual allusions.20 Additionally, a thoughtful rejection of this kind of fundamentalism should open up the possibility that sets of allusions and echoes need not necessarily be related to one another. That is, an author can intend one set of intertextual connections (e.g., Matthew likely intends to evoke Moses at Sinai in his articulation of Jesus approaching the Sermon on the Mount) while simultaneously and subconsciously (or unintentionally or accidentally) introducing intertextual connections or resonances that originate in his training or culture, but which do not specifically relate to the intended allusions (e.g., Greco-Roman teacher/disciple dynamics that are otherwise unrelated to Moses and Sinai). By acknowledging the multi-faceted complexity of intertextuality as well as the range of connections available (including unintentional ones), we free ourselves from trying to divine or derive the conscious intention of the author and, instead, find a productive way of studying texts that actually approaches the way a first audience could have or would have understood a text. 4.2.2 Audience and Authorial Intent It is actually this question of audience that pushes us beyond the understanding of intertextual relationships as a matter of authorial intention in writing. These are not precisely different questions so much as different orientations on the same question. 19

D. Fowler puts it in even stronger terms: “It will be obvious already from the above that authors and texts do not have a choice as to whether they participate in these systems of meaning, and that intertextuality is a property of language—and of semiotic systems in general—not simply of literature.” D. Fowler, Roman Constructions, 119. 20 Hinds, Allusion and Intertext, 19–20. See the fuller argument in Hinds, Allusion and Intertext, 17–51.

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One very influential effort in the study of intertextual connections is Richard Hays’s 1989 volume, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul, in which he set out criteria for studying the use of the Hebrew Scriptures in Paul’s epistles.21 Hays’s method is important because he set out to move beyond attempting to observe or derive the conscious intention of Paul.22 Nevertheless, as Christopher Stanley points out, Hays was unable to completely push past trying to recover Paul’s hermeneutical activity.23 As such, Stanley offers a corrective: merely identify and study poetic resonances from the perspective of the audience, a task that requires much restraint. Such restraint rejects the drawing of simple and simplistic conclusions about an ultimately unrecoverable author’s mind. It avoids the circularity of arguing about an author’s intent by way of his hermeneutical practices (when such practices are the result of the author’s intent). And for Stanley, it also avoids the historical challenge of connecting the first (or ancient) audience’s capacity for making such connections with the modern audience’s capacity for the same. But, what becomes of the connection between the author’s intent and the ancient audience’s capacity? Or to put it differently, does not the subtextual communication between author and first audience made possible through intertextual connection demonstrate a unity between the intent of the author and the receptive capacity of the audience? It would seem to me that, in terms of historical-critical methodology, this is an inference too far. What an audience could have understood is, itself, already the product of circumstantial criteria: the historical sequence of the writing of texts, the geographic spread of the source text, the prominence of the source text in the culture of the audience, etc.24 The argument as to what an audience could have understood of allusions and echoes and is already one of plausibility rather than certainty.25 The equation of that plausibility with the author’s intent is much more problematic and, in some ways, unnecessary. The plausibility of a widespread and diverse audience’s reception of a particular intertextual resonance is much more powerful than the lone intention of an author. It speaks the depth and breadth of the connection if it can be demonstrated that an allusion or echo is likely. Or, in terms of this particular project, the notion that Jesus would have been understood in relationship to a Greco-Roman philosophical 21

49.

22

Hays, Echoes of Scripture, 1–33. See also Hays, Conversion of the Imagination, 25–

Hays, Echoes of Scripture, 18–33. Hays relies greatly on Hollander, Figure of Echo, ix, 50, 65, 100, et al. 23 Stanley, “Paul’s Use of Scripture,” 129. 24 These criteria, of course, make the study of ancient education and the question of what a literate person in the first century would have (or could have) known all the more important. The entirety of the next chapter focuses on these questions. 25 This is true, of course, except in the very rare cases in which a particular member of the audience comments on a connection in his own work.

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disciple-gathering teacher by the first audience of Matthew’s Gospel is actually a much more compelling conclusion than what we can (or cannot) know of Matthew’s intent. That such a resonance would be understood by some, or even most, of a widespread audience demonstrates more about the reception of this text than it does reconstructions of authorial intent. For the purpose of this study in the Gospel of Matthew, as such, my concern is much more how the audience would understand Matthew’s presentation of Jesus than specifically how Matthew intended to present Jesus (though, of course, the two are presumably related). As such, I intend to frame intertextual questions in terms of the range of possibilities of the audience’s perception rather than in terms of the author’s intention and believe this will yield a far richer study of the text. The challenge is not in merely identifying a set of possible allusions, echoes, or unintentional connections, but in exploring the nuance of how such connections are presented and whether, through the study of presentation as well as content, they demonstrate a particular background. In order to understand the presentation, how information is communicated in the text of Matthew’s Gospel, the study of rhetoric will be necessary.

4.3 Definitions and History of Rhetorical Criticism 4.3 Definitions and History of Rhetorical Criticism

Before rhetorical criticism can be defined, we must first investigate rhetoric. At its most basic level, the term rhetoric derives from ῥητορικός (oratorical), and is related to ῥητορεία (oratory), ῥήτωρ (public speaker) and ῥῆµα (that which is said or spoken, word, saying).26 Each of these terms is etymologically related to the verb ἐρῶ (say, speak).27 In its broadest sense in antiquity, then, the term rhetoric concerns human discourse.28 It is oratory and, at the 26

“ῥητορεία, ἡ,” LSJ 1569; “ῥήτωρ, ὁ/ἡ,” LSJ 1570; “ῥῆµα, τό,” LSJ 1569. “ἐρῶ,” LSJ 695. 28 According to George A. Kennedy, for example, rhetoric is the “civic art of public speaking as it developed in deliberative assemblies, law courts, and other formal occasions under constitutional government in the Greek cities, especially the Athenian democracy.” Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric, 3. Applied to both oral and written communication, rhetoric is “that quality in discourse by which a speaker or writer seeks to accomplish his purposes.” Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 3. Kennedy goes on to distinguish ancient rhetoric from early Christian rhetoric, suggesting that early Christian rhetoric was proclamation rather than persuasion. Kennedy makes this argument on the basis of proclamations having an authority that derives from a divine origin and persuasion from a human origin. While the authority of the oratory may be derived from a different place, the semantic difference between proclamation and persuasion seems unnecessary as proclamations were intended to be persuasive. Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric & Its Christian and Secular Tradition from Ancient to Modern Times, 127. For a discussion of this 27

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same time, it is an aspect of oratory. While public speaking was certainly a common practice prior to the fifth century B.C.E., it was at that time that there was a significant increase in work about rhetoric and a kind of consolidation of the things that made the conscious practice of rhetoric into a social phenomenon.29 It became an art and a science. It took on an evaluative meaning. It became as much about how oratory accomplishes its goals as it was simply a term for the act of public speaking. Rhetoric became, in some sense, synonymous with persuasion.30 During this period, much attention was paid to style, purpose, and even the possibility of using rhetoric for deception. It began to be taught in schools and ultimately became an integral element of formal education. As such, it became an important topic of discussion in philosophical works by Plato, Aristotle, and other philosophers, as well as the primary subject for several textbooks.31 Plato (428–348 B.C.E.), for example, outlines two kinds of rhetoric: one that can be used to instill knowledge and another that is used to instill belief apart from knowledge. This second type, characterized as the tool of the Sophists, is defined as distinct from and even opposed to the goals of dialectic (“the science of conducting a philosophical dialogue”).32 Plato gives a distinction, see Levison, “Did the Spirit Inspire Rhetoric?” 25. For an elementary introduction to definitions of rhetoric, see also Witherington, New Testament Rhetoric, 1–9. 29 Over the next several hundred years, constant reference was made to much earlier Greek literature. For example, speeches in the Homeric epics are treated as instances of rhetoric by Quintilian. See Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.46. For more on this historical peak of interest in rhetoric, see Kennedy, New History of Classical Rhetoric, 3. 30 Witherington, New Testament Rhetoric, ix. 31 Important works include: Aristotle’s Categoriae and Rhetorica¸ as well as the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum attributed to Aristotle; Cicero’s De Oratore, as well as the Rhetorica ad Herennium formerly attributed to Cicero; Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria. Two important collections of writing on rhetoric have recently become available as part of the Society of Biblical Literature’s Writings from the Greco-Roman World series. First, the progymnasmata (or preliminary exercises) attributed to Theon, Hermogenes, Aphthonius, and Nicolaus are available in English translation as Kennedy, ed., Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric. Second, a side-by-side publication of the Greek text and an English translation of two additional works attributed to Hermogenes are available in Kennedy, ed., Invention and Method: Two Rhetorical Treatises from the Hermogenic Corpus. For more information on the nature of rhetorical education and the ancient sources, please see chapter 5 of this dissertation. 32 D.N. Sedley, “dialectic,” OCD 461. It should be noted that I have truncated the definition above that states “the science of conducting a philosophical dialogue by exploring the premises asserted or conceded by an interlocutor.” I have purposefully removed the dependent clause as to distinguish διαλεκτική from ἔλεγχος (which is sometimes translated as dialectic but is really a kind of dialectic used by Socrates and which involves the examination of a position for refutation in a dialogue). Sedley cites διαλεκτική as it is used in Plato. Plato, Meno, 75c–d (Lamb, LCL). ἔστι δὲ ἴσως τὸ διαλεκτικώτερον µὴ µόνον τἀληθῆ ἀποκρίνεσθαι. “The more dialectical way, I suppose, is not merely to answer what

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somewhat preliminary definition in his Gorgias, wherein rhetoric is defined as a “producer of persuasion, and has therein its whole business and main consummation.”33 In the dialogue, Socrates presses the definition according to the content of the persuasion, suggesting that some can be persuaded to believe false things and others to believe true things.34 The distinction is between knowledge as a matter of teaching and learning (dialectic) and opinions as a matter of persuading and believing (rhetoric). Plato’s fear, then, is that rhetoric, defined as persuasion, can be used to deceive others into believing things that are false or harmful. At the same time, Plato acknowledges the possibility of a positive kind of rhetoric—rhetoric allied with dialectic and striving to “say what is best, whether it prove more or less pleasant to one’s hearers”35 Plato ties this good use of rhetoric to content that is both good and true and to the noble character of the rhetor who determines to teach these good and true things, perhaps despite his audience. Aristotle (384–322 B.C.E.) follows Plato, though framing his definition in somewhat more neutral terms. The idealized rhetorician is “one who can always see what will persuade in the given circumstances, and omit nothing,”36 making rhetoric “the faculty of discovering the possible means of persuasion in reference to any subject whatever.”37 For Aristotle, then, rhetoric is about discovering and defining that element of oratory that makes it persuasive. It does not necessarily include moral intention (negative or positive). Rather, it is a science. Defining rhetoric is simply the first step. Rhetorical criticism, as a discipline and tool used by New Testament scholars, also requires a broader discussion of methodology and recent practices. While the origin of the current practice of rhetorical criticism dates to only 1968, something similar to the is true, but also to make use of those points which the questioned person acknowledges he knows.” Later Platonic dialogues treat rhetoric specifically as a means of logically arriving at definitions. See Plato, Resp., 532a–b; Plato, Soph., 253d–e. 33 Plato, Gorg., 453a (Lamb, LCL). λέγεις ὅτι πειθοῦς δηµιουργός ἐστιν ἡ ῥητορική, καὶ ἡ πραγµατεία αὐτῆς ἅπασα. For a discussion of this Platonic dialogue as the starting point of the concept of rhetoric, see Cole, Origins of Rhetoric in Ancient Greece, 2. 34 Plato, Gorg., 454c–e. 35 Plato, Gorg., 503a–b (Lamb, LCL). “For if this thing also is twofold, one part of it, I presume, will be flattery and a base mob-oratory, while the other is noble—the endeavor, that is, to make the citizens’ souls as good as possible, and the persistent effort to say what is best, whether it prove more or less pleasant to one’s hearers.” εἰ γὰρ καὶ τοῦτό ἐστι διπλοῦν, τὸ µὲν ἕτερόν που τούτου κολακεία ἂν εἴη καὶ αἰσχρὰ δηµηγορία, τὸ δ᾽ ἕτερον καλόν, τὸ παρασκευάζειν ὅπως ὡς βέλτισται ἔσονται τῶν πολιτῶν αἱ ψυχαί, καὶ διαµάχεσθαι λέγοντα τὰ βέλτιστα, εἴτε ἡδίω εἴτε ἀηδέστερα ἔσται τοῖς ἀκούουσιν. See also Kennedy, New History of Classical Rhetoric, 38. 36 Aristotle, Cat., 6.12 (Cooke, LCL). 37 Aristotle, Rhet., 1.2 (Freese, LCL). ἔστω δὴ ἡ ῥητορικὴ δύναµις περὶ ἕκαστον τοῦ θεωρῆσαι τὸ ἐνδεχόµενον πιθανόν.

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modern discipline can be found throughout the history of Biblical interpretation. 4.3.1 Rhetorical Analysis in Early Christianity: Origen and Augustine Arguably the first scholar and theologian to systematically approach the New Testament as a collection of rhetorical documents was Origen (c. 185–254 C.E.). Within a broader discussion of the interpretation of Scripture in the fourth book of his De principiis, Origen importantly argues for the persuasive quality of Scripture evinced in three levels of meaning inherent in the text: “For as man consists of body, and soul, and spirit, so in the same way does Scripture, which has been arranged to be given by God for the salvation of men.”38 The first level of meaning in a text, likened to the flesh, is literal meaning. Interestingly, this level of meaning is apprehensible by the “simple man.”39 The second level of meaning in a text, likened to the soul, is somewhat more concealed. It is apparent only to those who have “ascended a certain way”40 and often demands a certain kind of ethical behavior. The third level of meaning, likened to the spirit, is the most hidden. It is concealed behind metaphors and symbols apparent in the text, written as types (τύπους εἶναι τὰ γεγραµµένα).41 These types—or patterns—can only be unveiled by the most advanced individuals, generally by means of allegorical interpretation. Application of this level of meaning may not require a shift in specific behavior, but a shift in thinking. While the corporeal level of meaning may be present or not, the spiritual level is always present, suggesting that there is always some kind of rhetorical intent intrinsic to the text. This rhetorical intent is of divine origin.42 For we have the treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power of God may shine forth, and that it may not be deemed to proceed from us (who are but) human beings. For if the hackneyed methods of demonstration (common) among men, contained in the books (of the Bible), had been successful in producing conviction, then our faith would rightly have been supposed to rest on the wisdom of men, and not on the power of God; but now it is manifest to every one who lifts up his eyes, that the word and preaching have not prevailed among the multitude “by persuasive words of wisdom, but by demonstration of the Spirit and of power.”43

If the meaning of the text is divine in its origin, then human agency is absent from the rhetorical construction of the Biblical texts. As such, ancient rhetor38

Origen, Princ., 4.1.11 (ANF 4:359). Origen, Princ., 4.1.11 (ANF 4:359). 40 Origen, Princ., 4.1.11 (ANF 4:359). 41 Origen, Princ., 4.1.9 (ANF 4:357). 42 He also cites Solomon in the Proverbs, which appears to be a corrupt reading of Proverbs 22:21. See Origen, Princ., 4.1.11 (ANF 4:359). 43 Origen, Princ., 4.1.7 (ANF 4:355). Origen is quoting 2 Cor 2:4. 39

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ical terminology is largely absent from the discussion of how to interpret Biblical texts, though the divisions of body (logical), soul (ethical), and spirit (emotional) may possibly map to Aristotle’s logos, ethos, and pathos.44 Nevertheless, there is an apparent strategy of looking at multiple levels of meaning in order to ascertain a kind of rhetorical element concealed in the text. While some Christian exegetes struggled with reconciling their Christian disposition with Greek and Roman rhetorical practices (e.g. Jerome), and yet others employed rhetorical training in their orations seemingly without reservation (e.g. Gregory Thaumaturgus, John Chrysostom, Lactantius), we know of few occasions in this period in which any were reflective on rhetoric intrinsic to the Biblical texts. Indeed, it was Augustine in the late fourth or early fifth century that developed the first substantial treatment widely accepted in which the Scriptures and Greco-Roman rhetoric were explicitly connected. In his De doctrina christiana, Augustine gives the first three books to interpretive principles that the Christian orator may use in his study of Scripture, and the fourth book to rhetoric he may employ when teaching Scripture. This division seems to be organized around the distinction between dialectic (the first three books) and rhetoric (the fourth book). Importantly, both in his discussion of the rhetoric of Scripture and his outline of rhetoric one may use to teach Scripture, Augustine introduces comparisons with secular literature. He argues quite explicitly for making use of Greek texts insofar as they inform one’s reading of Scripture. Yet, one must avoid the superstitions of such texts.45 Augustine even acknowledges the overlap in content between Greek literature and the teaching found in Scripture, finding great comfort in Ambrose’s “discovery” of a trip that Plato made to Egypt during the time of the prophet Jeremiah. But it is not merely content that Augustine finds worthy of comparison. The means by which the human authors of Scripture express this content also finds its origin in Greek literature. Moreover, I would have learned men to know that the authors of our Scriptures use all those forms of expression which grammarians call by the Greek name tropes, and use them more freely and in greater variety than people who are unacquainted with the Scriptures, and have learned these figures of speech from other writings, can imagine or believe. Nevertheless, those who know these tropes recognize them in Scripture, and are very much assisted by their knowledge of them in understanding Scripture.46

Similarly, in a discussion of examples from Scripture of the styles of oratory available in the fourth book, Augustine suggests that the human authors of Scripture had presented something quite like good oratory by secular standards. 44

Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric & Its Christian and Secular Tradition, 159. Augustine, Doctr. chr., 2.28–31 (NPNF1 2:544–545). 46 Augustine, Doctr. chr., 3.40 (NPNF1 2:567). 45

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This I know, however, that if any one who is skilled in this species of harmony would take the closing sentences of these writers and arrange them according to the law of harmony (which he could very easily do by changing some words for words of equivalent meaning, or by retaining the words he finds and altering their arrangement), he will learn that these divinely-inspired men are not defective in any of those points which he has been taught in the schools of the grammarians and rhetoricians to consider of importance.47

Augustine’s perspective is simple: the means of expression of Scripture is enough like that of the Greek pagans that rigorous study of Greek literature is essential to Biblical interpretation. At the same time, Augustine, like Plato, expresses concern about the relationship between the content (dialectic) and the means of expression (rhetoric).48 The content originates with God alone. The means of expression also comes from God, but by way of Greek literature. 4.3.2 Rhetorical Analysis and Higher Criticism: Dibelius and Bultmann While methods of Biblical interpretation evolved between the fifth and nineteenth centuries, the first major shifts in the rhetorical analysis of Scripture especially relevant to this project came with the advent of German higher criticism and its historical concerns.49 Particularly important is Martin Dibelius (1883–1947), who produced Die Formgeschichte Des Evangeliums, a volume on the function of stories and sayings within sermons as a means of bridging the historical gap between tradition around Jesus and the texts of the Synoptic Gospels.50 The literary practices of the Christian preachers, according to Dibelius, facilitated their cause: to fix texts meant to persuade the unAugustine, Doctr. chr., 4.41 (NPNF1 2:558). Augustine, Doctr. chr., 2.54–55 (NPNF1 2:552–553). 49 Notable figures of rhetorical analysis between the 5th and 19th centuries include the Venerable Bede in the eighth century, especially his On Tropes and Figures, and Philip Melanchthon, a Reformer. For a short description of Bede, see Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric & Its Christian and Secular Tradition, 206–207. For a lengthy treatment of Melanchthon’s method, see Classen, Rhetorical Criticism of the New Testament, 99–177. An example of German higher criticism prior to Dibelius is Karl Ludwig Bauer (1730–1799), who published Rhetoricae Paullinae, a substantial analysis of Paul’s rhetorical strategies. For a brief history of all of these figures, see Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism of the New Testament,” 42. Cf. Mack, Rhetoric and the New Testament, 9–11. 50 Dibelius sets out to explore the ‘oral culture’ between the events of Jesus and his followers and the ‘fixation’ of these events in a written record of at least 40 years later in Die Formgeschichte Des Evangeliums. This text was made available in English in the United States as Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel. The relevant pages to this discussion are 9– 36. See also Mack and Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion in the Gospels, 3. For more recent discussion of the sermon as a bridge between Hellenistic and Christian texts, see Wills, “The Form of the Sermon in Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity,” 277–299; and Black, “The Rhetorical From of the Hellenistic Jewish and Early Christian Sermon,” 1–18. 47 48

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converted and build the confidence of the converted. That is, Dibelius reduced the process of communication in this period to two parts: the persuasive intention of the authors and the means by which the authors would convince their readers. Dibelius called these two elements the motive and the law.51 The law, for Dibelius, was the schematic of how oral tradition evolved into written tradition, lest the texts of the Synoptic Gospels be new inventions of merely literary significance. And it was to studying this law, this process of codification for persuasive practices, that Dibelius gave much attention. Through examination of texts like 1 Corinthians and Luke-Acts, Dibelius observed that Christian preachers in this period transmitted their Gospel message via sermons with a four-part structure: The other sermons in Acts show such a repetition in a much higher degree; in the speeches of Peter to the people (Acts ii, iii), and to Cornelius, as well as in the sermon of Paul at Antioch, there is an introduction varying somewhat according to the situation. But otherwise, there is a similar well-planned outline whose sections are frequently repeated and only accidentally change their order. Thus we have the right to speak of a scheme which the author consciously accepts and which consists in the following: Kerygma or message, scriptural proof, exhortation to repentance.52

This structure maps to the elements of ancient oration: the introduction or exordium (προοίµιον), statement of the argument (διήγησις), proof or refutation (πίστις or ἀντιδίκους), and epilogue (ἐπίλογος).53 Dibelius then turned to determining which parts of each text functioned in which way. With respect to the Synoptic Gospels, he focused primarily on the arguments and proofs, attempting to designate how each story or saying would be categorized in terms of these rhetorical elements. Here, Dibelius devised a new scheme in which each story would be classified as a paradigm, tale, or legend—each designation with varying levels of applicability to the persuasive strategies of the Synoptic Gospels.54 While Dibelius was ultimately investigating how oral forms became written forms and arguing for historical development, his strategy of doing so within rhetorical function was significant for subsequent studies and what would eventually become the discipline of rhetorical criticism. Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976) was similarly driven by historical concerns. Whereas Dibelius focused upon longer rhetorical forms (e.g. sermons) that included saying and stories, Bultmann concentrated primarily on these stories and sayings themselves, especially a subset of sayings which could include a saying along with a brief narrative context. He called these apophthegms

51

Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel, 11. Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel, 16–17. 53 Aristotle, Rhet., 3.13 (Freese, LCL). 54 Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel, 37–132. 52

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(ἀπόφθεγµα).55 He developed an extensive nomenclature for these units, focusing on whether they or their parts were primary (and therefore early) or secondary (and therefore later). Among the apophthegms, the saying was most likely to be primary and the narrative context was more likely a secondary element, constructed as a matter of rhetorical function in order to contextualize and therefore further explain the saying. As has been argued by Vernon K. Robbins, Bultmann’s method diverges from the trajectory of rhetorical analysis outlined above.56 First, Bultmann’s choice of terminology—apophthegm—is a term found in antiquity, but not a prominent one in discussions of rhetorical units featuring well-known people.57 This allows Bultmann to interpret the so-called apophthegms without much reference to classical rhetoric. Such interpretation begins to confuse rhetorical issues for the modern student as Bultmann uses the term with a definition different from its ancient definition. Second, the size of an apophthegm varied considerably in Bultmann’s various analyses, sometimes even including entire stories from the Synoptic Gospels. Such large stories, in Bultmann’s nomenclature, presume somewhat larger primary (or early) units than those generally considered in rhetorical analysis of forms and style. Third, when looking at larger rhetorical units, Bultmann explicitly avoids analogies to ancient Greek literature and instead prefers to compare the Synoptic Gospels with rabbinic tradition.58 While Bultmann did occasionally use rhetorical terms found in ancient Greek literature, his overall method—unlike Dibelius—was not concerned with linking the origin and content of the Syn-

55

“It also seems to me a secondary matter whether one begins with sayings or stories. I start with sayings. But I should reckon as part of the tradition of sayings a species of traditional material that might well be reckoned as stories—viz. such units as consist of saying of Jesus set in brief context. I use a term to describe them which comes from Greek literature, and is least question-begging—’apophthegms.’” Bultmann, The History of Synoptic Tradition, 11. 56 Mack and Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion, 6–10. 57 The term is not defined, but rather used generically of ‘sayings’ attributed to people. See [Aristotle], Oec., 1345a. Cf. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, 1.4. 58 “‘In what historical life do the stories of controversy dialogues have their proper place?’ It is much more important that this question should be put first, and, if so, the answer would be: ‘In the apologetic and polemic of the Palestinian Church.’” Bultmann, History of Synoptic Tradition, 40–41. “To carry on disputes in this way is typically Rabbinic. So we have to look for the Sitz im Leben of the controversy dialogues in the discussions the Church had with its opponents, and as certainly within itself, on questions of law. It is quite inappropriate to call these passages paradigms, i.e. examples of preaching, as Dibelius does. A mere glance at Rabbinic sources shows that stylistic enquiries in that field would prove most valuable” (emphasis is Bultmann’s). Bultmann, History of Synoptic Tradition, 41.

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optic tradition with its rhetorical presentation.59 As such, Bultmann programmatically neglected Greco-Roman rhetorical comparisons. Bultmann is the most influential example of a trend in rhetorical criticism that expresses doubt about the relationship between the New Testament, particularly the Pauline corpus, and ancient rhetorical practices—a trend that can be traced back to the late nineteenth century. For example, Eduard Norden (1868–1941) and Gustav Adolf Deißmann (1866–1937) both concluded that Paul’s letters were lacking either in the literary qualities to render them useful for comparison or the stylistic qualities that would make them comparable to Hellenistic literature.60 With Bultmann, this trajectory became the dominant one within New Testament studies, with few exceptions until the early 1970s. To summarize, the primary challenge of rhetoric has been its capacity to persuade apart from the good or the truth meant to be conveyed. Plato saw the ability of rhetoric to convince, and so assigned qualitative designations to it depending on the truth or falsehood being expressed. For Origen and Augustine, this divide solved the problem of the divine and perfect origin of the Scriptures and, yet, the very human, Greek means of expression. For Dibelius, this division solved a textual problem by helping to fill in the historical gap between the oral tradition and the codification of the Synoptic Gospels. In one way or another, each was concerned with the unity of purpose and practice, of motive and method. But because of Bultmann’s influence, as well as for reasons outlined in the second chapter, the study of the Synoptic Gospels—particularly Matthean studies—took the rabbinic tradition as its basis for analogical comparison, even in matters of rhetoric. 4.3.3 Rhetorical Analysis from 1968: Muilenburg As with most methodologies presently available, rhetorical criticism is not a specific method with a clearly articulated, universally agreed upon definition or process. Nevertheless—as nearly every introduction to rhetorical criticism asserts61—in James Muilenburg’s 1968 presidential address to the Society of Biblical Literature, there was a kind of culmination of antecedents (e.g., an59 Bultmann, History of Synoptic Tradition, 42–45. For a discussion of rhetorical terms used, see Mack and Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion, 9. 60 For more information concerning the conclusions of Norden, Deißmann, and others, as well as relevant bibliography, see Betz, “The Literary Composition and Function of Paul’s Letter to the Galatians,” 353–379, especially 353–354; Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 42. 61 Classen, Rhetorical Criticism, 7; Trible, Rhetorical Criticism: Context, Method, and the Book of Jonah, 5; Zulick, “The Recollection of Rhetoric,” 7; Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 3–4; Hestor Amador, Academic Constraints in Rhetorical Criticism of the New Testament, 11–12. Mack, Rhetoric and the New Testament, 12.

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cient rhetoric, literary approaches, historical approaches, form criticism) into a starting point for much of what has come since.62 In this address, Muilenburg defined rhetorical criticism specifically as the heir to form criticism: What I am interested in, above all, is in understanding the nature of Hebrew literary composition, in exhibiting the structural patterns that are employed for the fashioning of a literary unit, whether in poetry or in prose, and in discerning the many and various devices by which the predications are formulated and ordered into a unified whole. Such an enterprise I should describe as rhetoric and the methodology as rhetorical criticism.63

Muilenburg’s definition builds on literary concerns and takes on both small and large units of text, their structure and arrangements, and is aimed at a better “grasp of the writer’s intent and meaning.”64 In so doing, Muilenburg hoped for a systematized approach that would sort out widespread disagreement in commentaries on the boundaries of literary units. Agreement would allow for a better understanding of literary genre and locating rhetorical emphases (i.e. literary climaxes and/or the culmination of a thought process) in texts. And to some extent over the last 40 years, rhetorical criticism has persisted with these aims.

4.4 Rhetorical Criticism: Two Schools 4.4 Rhetorical Criticism: Two Schools

While Muilenburg’s address may be a convenient singular starting point, rhetorical criticism did not and could not remain unified in its approach. Several issues have resulted in different branches with various stages of development. Watson and Hauser observed this diversity when they described the state of the discipline in their 1994 bibliographical survey: Currently, rhetorical analyses of New Testament texts exhibit a variety of methodologies. Some utilize only Greco-Roman rhetorical conventions, others only modern rhetorical conventions, and still others varying proportions of both. Even within these broad categories there is great variety. Needless to say, refinement in methodology currently occupies center stage in the discipline and will continue to do so.65

As Watson and Hauser make clear, the primary point of diversity is whether to use all kinds of rhetoric, including modern, or to restrain oneself to the ancient rhetorical understanding of the authors. Indeed, from the very first moments in 1968 of publicly recognizing rhetorical criticism as a discrete methodology, it seems to have been developed by at least two distinct schools 62

Trible, Rhetorical Criticism, 5. Muilenburg, “Form Criticism and Beyond,” 8. 64 Muilenburg, “Form Criticism and Beyond,” 9. 65 Watson and Hauser, Rhetorical Criticism of the Bible, 109. See also Mack, Rhetoric and the New Testament, 12. 63

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at opposite ends of a spectrum (i.e., modern approaches or ancient approaches), with numerous and various amalgamations between. The primary distinctions between these schools are how they conceive of the relationship between rhetoric and communication66 on the one hand, and between rhetoric and history on the other. In sorting out what definition of rhetorical criticism will be used in this project, the two schools must be brought into conversation and evaluated. 4.4.1 Ancient Rhetoric in Modern Terms Those who would study ancient rhetoric from the perspective of modern concepts of communication do so with the tools and terminology of modern rhetorical studies. The expectation is that rhetoric can and should offer more to interpretation than just submissive service to historical concerns. Paving the way for modern rhetorical criticism of the New Testament was one particularly important offering: The New Rhetoric of Lucie OlbrechtsTyteca and Chaïm Perelman.67 In The New Rhetoric, Perelman’s and Obrechts-Tyteca’s views of the most fundamental aspects of rhetoric turn on the issue of audience: “Since argumentation aims at securing the adherence of those to whom it is addressed, it is, in its entirety, relative to the audience to be influenced.”68 For modern readers of ancient texts, then, the operating presupposition is that modern rhetorical analysis (using modern categories and terminology) is entirely appropriate for assessing meaning and persuasive effect. We, as modern scholars, are the present audience. Our understanding is paramount. Also important to the background of rhetorical criticism in modern terms is the work of Kenneth Burke. Burke focused, to some extent, on how emotional effects are produced by text or speech, devising an extensive system of categories and definitions that would be at home in discussion of modern literary criticism and the more philosophical critical theory.69 As a result, Burke’s system is often cited as it provides both a structure and definitions ripe for adaptation.

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Robbins, Exploring the Texture of Texts, 1. The New Rhetoric first appeared in French as Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, La Nouvelle: Rhétorique Traité de l’Argumentation. It is available in English as Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. Other influential works on modern rhetorical criticism of the New Testament include: Brandt, The Rhetoric of Argumentation; Corbett, Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Student; Lausberg, Handbuch der Literarischen Rhetorik, available in English as Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study; Burke, Counter-Statement; Burke, Philosophy of Literary Form; Burke, Rhetoric of Religion. 68 Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, New Rhetoric, 19. 69 Burke, Counter-Statement, 123. 67

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Of the proponents of this modern approach and specifically adapting it to the New Testament, Wilhelm Wuellner and Vernon K. Robbins are among the more prolific and notable, but both are also somewhat difficult to pin down. Wuellner’s approach has, for example, been less methodical on specific issues of rhetoric. Pulling from various systems of rhetoric (such as Lausberg’s or Olbrechts-Tyteca’s and Perelman’s), he tends to highlight aspects of ancient texts in which rhetorical criticism might be useful.70 In this way, he serves both as historian of rhetorical criticism through the modern era as well as rhetorical critic, reorienting interpretive strategies toward any and all kinds of rhetorical systems as much as possible. And his ambition for rhetorical criticism is considerable, especially as it adapts to postmodernism. He expects that rhetorical criticism is “taking us beyond hermeneutics and structuralism to poststructuralism and posthermeneutics.” It has the capacity to incorporate the insights of other, diverse disciplines (e.g., linguistics, semiotics, sociology). And in so doing, it will free exegetes from the confines of “traditional science and traditional philosophy,” taking them to the imaginative progress offered by interdisciplinarity.71 More methodical in his approach than Wuellner, perhaps, is Vernon K. Robbins. With a lengthy analysis of Jesus as teacher in Mark’s Gospel first published in 1984,72 Robbins began down a complex path of rhetorical interpretation that engages ancient terminology and texts, invents new rhetorical categories, and systematically adds sociological and anthropological concerns. To this somewhat more comprehensive process he gave the name socio-rhetorical interpretation.73 And using this process, Robbins has spawned a substantial enterprise and lengthy bibliography.74 70

Thomas H. Olbricht concluded: “While Wuellner has clearly brought the insights of the ancient rhetoricians, Lausberg, Perelman, and Brant to bear in his discussion [on 1 Corinthians], he has not proposed to approach rhetorical criticism from the standpoint of a rhetoric of his own that might stand as complementary or in competition.” Olbricht, “Wilhelm Wuellner and the Promise of Rhetoric,” 81. See also page 88 for further discussion of Wuellner’s work on the history of rhetorical criticism related to John 11. 71 Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 462. 72 In fact, Robbins’s comparison of Xenophon’s Memorabilia and Mark’s Gospel is quite useful. See Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 53–74. 73 Robbins makes a distinction between interpretive analytics and methodology, see his response to reviews by Culpepper and Newby. Robbins, “Response,” 101–107. For the reviews in question, see Culpepper, “Mapping the Texture of New Testament Criticism” 71–77; and Newby, “Quranic Texture,” 93–100. 74 For example, Robbins served as the chair of “Rhetoric and the New Testament Section” at the Society of Biblical Literature annual conference between 1991 and 1996 and still serves on the steering committee. He has served as co-chair of the “Socio-Rhetorical Interpretation Seminar” at the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas annual conference since 1999. He helped to found both seminars. His bibliography includes: Robbins, Invention of Christian Discourse; Robbins, Exploring the Texture of Texts; Robbins, Tapestry of

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At its broadest level, socio-rhetorical interpretation treats a text like a “thickly textured tapestry,” with as many as five textures present in any part of the text: a) inner texture, b) intertexture, c) social and cultural texture, d) ideological texture, and e) sacred texture.75 Inner texture, in Robbins’s view, concerns the rhetorical function of language at literary and grammatical levels on an intrinsic level. Intertexture refers to use of language and ideas that have corollaries outside of the text. Such intertextural connections may occur on a linguistic level (i.e., including specific language used in other texts), on a social level (i.e., including specific concepts or details familiar from typical social life such as clothing or household hierarchy), on a cultural level (i.e., referring to ideas and/or beliefs familiar to the social world of the text), and on a historical level (i.e., referencing events outside of the text, making the text a historical witness). Social and cultural texture moves beyond connections to outside concepts and refers to the capacity of the text itself to define, shape, and act upon social and cultural convention. Ideological texture refers to the way a text invokes its readers and interpreters to interact with other groups and ideas. Finally, sacred texture refers to the way a text invokes its readers and interpreters to interact with the divine. Identifying and working with these various textures and bringing them into dialogue with one another requires observing and interpreting various structural elements called forms. While the term forms has a specific meaning within form criticism, Robbins is primarily interested by a form’s capacity to induce an action or thought in the reader. It often takes the shape of expectations set by the author for the reader and how those expectations are met (or are not met). Robbins relies here on Kenneth Burke, who described this aspect as a strategy of expectation and fulfillment: “A work has form in so far as one part of it leads a reader to anticipate another part, to be gratified by the sequence.”76 These socio-rhetorical forms are present where there is a strategy of communication that causes the reader to become an active participant in the process, anticipating sequences, gaining familiarity through repetition, and identifying with certain people and causes. Robbins goes on to delineate four kinds of forms in which this expectation/fulfillment strategy is commonly employed: a) progressive forms, b) repetitive forms, c) conventional forms, and d) minor forms. The category of progressive forms has two varieties: logical and qualitative. A logical progressive form takes the shape of a rationally conducted

Early Christian Discourse; Robbins, New Boundaries in Old Territory; Robbins, Jesus the Teacher. He has also launched a website to catalog Socio-rhetorical interpretation at http://www.religion.emory.edu/faculty/robbins/SRI/index.html. 75 Robbins, Exploring the Texture of Texts, 2. Cf. Robbins’s earlier work in which he outlines only four textures: Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, xxiii. 76 Burke, Counter-Statement, 124. This line is quoted in Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 7.

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argument in which some facet of the text prepares the reader for a subsequent facet of the text in a step-by-step, often obvious, way.77 For example, the first three verses of Mark include a quotation from Isaiah that sets a particular expectation concerning a messenger who prepares the way; this expectation is then met in the following five verses. Robbins argues throughout his analysis that the progressive logic of the Gospel of Mark has its root in promise/fulfillment logic of the Hebrew canon. The qualitative progressive form— very unlike the logical form—is one that, at least superficially, takes an unexpected turn.78 While the reader has no logical basis to expect the turn, nevertheless, the reader accepts the sequence as appropriate only after the new direction is revealed. Mark’s portrayal of the disciples’ shift from imperception to misconception to fear (which, incidentally, is quite different from Matthew’s portrayal) constitutes a qualitative progressive form according to Robbins. Repetitive forms contain sequences in which concepts are consistently presented by (possibly) varying means, the “restatement of the same thing in different ways.”79 As the main feature of this form is repetition, this type of form is most often acknowledged when outlining the structure of a text. Additionally, repetitions can be used to gain insight into what is suspected to be important to the author. Robbins points to the threefold repetition of passion and resurrection predictions in Mark 8:31, 9:31, and 10:33–34 as an example of a repetitive form.80 The category of conventional forms refers less to the expectation and fulfillment of expectations interior to a particular text, but rather more to the expectations set for the reader by evoking comparisons anterior to the text. According to Robbins, any kind of form can become conventional, as the minor forms of parables, eschatological sayings, and miracle stories did within early Christian literature. But, there were also overarching conventional 77

Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 9. Again, Robbins is drawing on Burke, who terms such forms “syllogistic progressions.” Burke, Counter-Statement, 124. 78 See Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 9–10. 79 Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 10. Again, Robbins is citing Burke: Burke, CounterStatement, 125. 80 Mark 8:31: “Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.” Mark 9:31: “for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, ‘The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” Mark 10:33–34: “…saying, ‘See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and the scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles; they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him; and after three days he will rise again.’” The three accounts have in common the “Son of Man” title, the concept of betrayal by humans (specified in two of the accounts), the prediction of death, and the prediction of resurrection.

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forms that existed prior to the construction of the Synoptic Gospels in the ancient Mediterranean world. Robbins’s primary interest was in comparing those conventional forms with the Gospel of Mark. The adjective minor, when used by Robbins to discuss minor forms, seems to refer to the scope of the setting of expectations and the fulfillment of those expectations within individual episodes—which can then become the building blocks of progressive and repetitive forms. Controversy stories, miracles, and parables constitute forms within pericopes that “arouse one or more expectations that are satisfactorily fulfilled within the span of the pericope itself.”81 Many examples of these occur in Mark’s Gospel. Chiasmus, metaphor, antithesis, and parallelism also constitute such minor forms.82 What Robbins calls minor forms really seem to be those literary devices that have been the province of form criticism. Wuellner’s preference for incorporating other disciplines and Robbins’s work on rhetorical criticism in his own modern terms both have advantages and disadvantages. Positively, these modern approaches begin with grammatical and literary analysis and place a great deal of emphasis of understanding a text on its own terms (e.g., Robbins’s inner texture). This also is the starting point of those in the historical school. This approach also encourages a robust understanding of context. When studying Mark, for example, Robbins is certainly interested in intertextual connections with the literature of the ancient Mediterranean, often expressed in his conventional forms. This kind of literary context is also upheld as useful by the historical school. But, Robbins is also interested in social context—the typical activities and events and experiences familiar to a person in the ancient world of the text, but not necessarily captured as such by intertextually related literature. While this step takes us beyond the discipline of history per se, if (and only if) the substance of these social contextual connections can be affirmed by intertextual connections, then our understanding of literary context can be deepened to great benefit. That is, the tools of sociology and anthropology can be put to use in support of a fundamentally historical enterprise. Such a variegated approach is especially useful in reconciling interpretive streams which are usually opposed and/or competing for priority of place at the other’s expense (e.g., Jewish and Hellenistic readings). One significant problem with modern approaches to the rhetoric of the New Testament is that they seem to misunderstand the idea of historical context. For example, advocates of the modern approaches—such as Lauri Thurén—have suggested that failing to embrace the much more extensive world of modern rhetorical approaches may be a matter of ignorance:

81 82

See Robbins, Jesus the Teacher, 7. A study showing interest in such minor forms is Tannehill, Sword of His Mouth.

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At a first glance, the use of ancient theorists and neglect of recent studies in argumentation analysis appears to result from ignorance; many of us are unaware of developments in the field… According to a simple explanation, the phenomenon is due to biblical scholars’ traditional familiarity with antiquity. Consequently, we study biblical rhetoric and biblical argumentation with ancient tools, believing that there is no alternative. This, of course, is an unacceptable excuse. Scientists no longer rely solely on Aristotle, or even on Galileo or Newton, despite recognizing their indebtedness to these great thinkers. 83

Thurén demonstrates the point. Her question is fundamentally of what the object—the ancient text—means to us. And if that is the question, then the argument for using modern rhetorical tools is quite sensible. But, if the issue is one of distinguishing what the author means to a modern audience and what the author meant to his first audience, modern terms become problematic. Relying solely on Aristotle for scientific conclusions today may not be good science. But in terms of making an argument about what Aristotle’s contemporaries meant by their scientific conclusions, self-restraint to only historical tools is good history. Additionally, these modern rhetorical approaches, particularly Robbins’s socio-rhetorical interpretive program, suffer from the weight of their scope and complexity. Like Wuellner’s, Robbins’s ambition is remarkable: One of the most notable contributions of socio-rhetorical criticism is to bring literary criticism (Petersen 1978; Powell 1990), social-scientific criticism, rhetorical criticism (Watson and Hauser 1994), postmodern criticism (Moore 1992, 1994; Adam 1995), and theological criticism (Schneiders 1991) together into an integrated approach to interpretation.84

83 Thurén, “Is There Biblical Interpretation?” 78. J. David Hestor Amador adds: “Nevertheless, over the last, almost three decades of the resurgence of rhetorical approaches to the Bible, in spite of their efforts (indeed, in some cases, unwittingly because of their efforts), rhetorical criticism remains a handmaid to the dominant reconstructionist paradigm of historical criticism. The full potential of a rhetorical approach to the Bible has not been achieved.” Hestor Amador, “The Wuellnerian Sublime,” 5. “Instead, we find a monotonous/ monolithic dominance of a particular constellation of methodological assumptions governing nearly the entire production of rhetorical-critical activity, particularly with respect to the New Testament. We can bring this constellation into focus by tracing current practices back to the stage-setting accomplished by the influential works coming out of the Seminar on Paul [hosted by the Society of Biblical Literature in the late 1970s and whose (since more prominent) members include Hans Dieter Betz, Robert Jewett, Wilhelm Wuellner and James Hester]. What has resulted from these powerful contributors was an assumption, now laid at the foundation of the (new) rhetorical critical effort, of ancient rhetorical models as being the [only?, normative?] appropriate methodological tools for interpretation [what I shall term the antiquarian turn], an assumption which continues to haunt the field…” Hestor Amador, Academic Constraints in Rhetorical Criticism, 25–26. 84 Robbins, Exploring the Texture of Texts, 2. The texts he references are: Petersen, Literary Criticism for New Testament Critics; Powell, What is Narrative Criticism; Watson and Hauser, Rhetorical Criticism of the Bible; S.D. Moore, Mark and Luke in Poststruc-

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With such an inclusive and comprehensive approach, the rigor of detailed analysis becomes somewhat lost and conclusions become muddled. For Robbins, one must become conversant not only in Kenneth Burke’s rhetorical terminology, but also commit to Robbins’s extensive lexicon of sociorhetorical vocabulary. As with Wuellner, one must become fluent in the categories of The New Rhetoric. And this does not even begin to scratch the surface of learning the categories of postmodern criticism or becoming conversant enough in sociology and anthropology as to make sense of Robbins’s conclusions. A difficulty, of course, is that terminology is not used consistently between these various methods, forcing one to learn as many as three or four systems in order to describe a single phenomenon. This added layer of terminology is particularly confusing when a modern system uses the same term as an ancient rhetorical system in a completely different way. In her work on 1 Corinthians, for example, Margaret Mitchell reveals a significant and intentional point of redefinition adopted by Wuellner. In the space of a couple of footnotes, Mitchell shows how Wuellner’s designation of 1 Corinthians as epideictic rhetoric is based on Perelman’s and Olbrechts-Tyteca’s redefinition of epideictic, describing it as their “conscious and deliberate revision of the ancient conceptions and uses of the genre which they deem faulty” (emphasis is Mitchell’s).85 Wuellner does not mention that he is using a new definition of the term, and so his use is, at best, confusing on historical grounds.86 Given the robust taxonomic systems of ancient rhetoric available to us from Aristotle, the progymnasmata, and other ancient sources, the additional terminology and redefinition of existing terminology by modern rhetorical systems makes such confusions unavoidable. And with such confusions, historical misrepresentations also become inevitable.

turalist Perspectives; S.D. Moore, Poststructuralism and the New Testament; Adam, What is Post-Modern Criticism?; and Schneiders, The Revelatory Text. 85 See note 23 in Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 7–8. Mitchell cites Pereleman’s and Olbrechts-Tyteca’s influence on Wuellner’s rejection of the tripartite construction of rhetorical species familiar from Aristotle. For the extended argument, see notes 19 and 23 in Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 7–8. Cf. Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca, New Rhetoric, 21, 45–51. 86 “This designation tells us nothing about the first century rhetorical genres and conventions, and only confuses because this modern redefinition merely attributes to epideictic rhetoric characteristics and functions which it was not accorded in antiquity; it thus amounts to a mistaken genre classification from an historical perspective.” Again see note 23 in Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 7–8.

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4.4.2 Ancient Rhetoric in Ancient Terms Those who would study ancient rhetoric from the perspective of history do so with the tools and terminology of the historical-critical method.87 The question is not one of how we, as modern readers, understand the communication strategy of the author, but primarily of how the author constructed arguments at a particular point in time. That is, the question is one of how the author adopted, adapted, or appropriated rhetorical techniques available to them, consciously, subconsciously, or even unconsciously. As such, the appropriate classification systems and points of comparison for ancient texts will also come from other ancient texts. Historical concerns provide obvious historical limits. While comparing the rhetoric of New Testament texts with other ancient rhetoric has been of interest throughout history, interest in this kind of comparative analysis was rekindled and greatly expanded in the last forty years by Hans Dieter Betz (and his students) as well as George Kennedy.88 Betz comes to the method fundamentally as a historian in the German tradition. His first venture—and one of the earliest, if not the earliest—into rhetorical criticism of the New Testament was a paper at the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas in Sigtuna, Sweden, in 1974. Betz’s project began with an attempt to compose a literary outline of Galatians. In the opening paragraph of the published version of the paper, he remarks: “However, despite an extensive search [in the commentaries on Galatians and introductions to the New Testament], I have not been able to find any consideration given to possible criteria and methods for determining such an outline.”89 Betz continues in the next paragraph to observe that the letter could be analyzed according to Greco-Roman rhetoric and epistolography. He proceeds from there to first make a few remarks about the literary genre in general and then to outline the 87

For a discussion of historical-critical methodology, see: Marshall, “Historical Criticism,” 126–138; Barton, “Historical-Critical Approaches,” 9–20; Hagner and S.E. Young, “The Historical-Critical Method and the Gospel of Matthew,” 11–43. 88 Kennedy is a complex figure because in his most recent projects, he dabbled in modern rhetorical analysis. That is, as a classicist, his historical approach to rhetoric within New Testament studies is generally quite valuable for a historical approach (specifically in his New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical Criticism), but this work must also be decisively separated from his more recent ventures into communication theory. See Kennedy, Comparative Rhetoric. For his history of modern rhetoric and its relationship to ancient rhetoric, see Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric & Its Christian and Secular Tradition. While his method for his studies in the New Testament remains primarily historical, hints that he will later look to what modern rhetorical systems might offer in understanding ancient rhetoric are found even there. For example, see his reference to Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca with respect to figures and arrangement. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 29. 89 Betz, “Literary Composition and Function,” 353.

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letter in Greco-Roman rhetorical terms, making brief references primarily to Quintilian and Cicero along the way. He concludes that his thesis—that Galatians is an apologetic letter—has been demonstrated successfully. Beyond a simple agenda of 1) notes on the genre, and 2) working from the New Testament text backward to classical and Hellenistic antecedents piece by piece, there is not a specific methodology at work. Betz’s subsequent bibliography ranges from work on the Sermon on the Mount and the Socratic tradition in Paul to major commentaries on Galatians and 2 Corinthians 8–9.90 Because Betz’s approach to rhetoric is so intimately tied to historical-critical concerns and because his internal grasp of both classical rhetorical literature and early Christian literature is so developed, methodological concerns are largely taken for granted in his work.91 That is, specific rhetorical constructions are treated somewhat lightly and often merely as a facet of a larger historical question. While Betz was broadly working on rhetoric in the New Testament as an Early Christian historian and theologian, George A. Kennedy began working from the perspective of a classical philologist and historian of classical rhetoric. In 1984, Kennedy published a small handbook, New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical Criticism. Fortunately, this work contained a clearly articulated and massively important methodology. Kennedy’s method consisted of five stages applied to the New Testament text: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

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Determine the rhetorical unit to be studied. Define the rhetorical situation of the unit. Determine the overriding rhetorical problem (including observing elements of stasis theory and species of rhetoric present). Analyze the arrangement and style. Look back over the entire unit and review its success in meeting the rhetorical exigence.

Betz, Galatians; Betz, 2 Corinthians 8 and 9. For example, Betz proceeds by way of example in Betz, “Literary Composition and Function,” 353–379. He is more unreflective on the particulars of his methodology than one might hope. The opening sections to his commentaries on Galatians and 2 Corinthians 8–9 in the Hermeneia series also lack substantial reflection on methodology, though inclusion of extended methodological discussion is not the convention for that series. Watson arrived at the same conclusion. “Although Betz provided the first detailed modern study of a New Testament book according to Greco-Roman rhetoric, he did not produce an accessible methodology.” Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43. See also reviews of Betz’s work in Carlston, “Betz on the Sermon on the Mount—A Critique,” 47–57; and Hagner, review of H. D. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 353–356. 91

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Given the influence of this particular methodology on subsequent work in rhetorical criticism of New Testament texts, it is worth taking a closer look at each stage. 1.

Determine the rhetorical unit to be studied. 92

Kennedy’s first concern, similar to that of Bultmann with his apophthegms or form critics with their pericopes, is to define the limits of the unit of text to be analyzed. Literary concerns will be helpful here (e.g., an inclusio, narrative brackets), but not determinative. Kennedy’s aim is to define the rhetorical unit, the unit with a coherent persuasive effect for the reader. 2.

Define the rhetorical situation of the unit.93

Here, Kennedy’s goal is like that of the form critic trying to describe a Sitz im Leben. If a rhetorical unit is meant to have a persuasive effect, it is likely doing so in the context of exigent circumstances. Of course, how this plays out in the Gospels at large in light of Bauckham’s thesis that the Gospels were not responsive to particular communities, but rather written to be circulated, is up for discussion. 94 3.

Determine the overriding rhetorical problem (including observing elements of stasis theory and species of rhetoric present).95

Kennedy’s goal in this stage of analysis is to determine what obstacles must be overcome in order for the rhetorical unit to be persuasive (e.g., a complication of the orator’s relationship with his audience, possible predispositions of the audience). In some ways, this phase is like Dibelius’s category of motive. There is something intrinsic to the situation that has caused the orator to need to persuade. Simply formulating this rhetorical need as “problem,” however, can be misleading. The goal of persuasion is not always to solve a

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Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 33–34. Wuellner, “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 455. See also Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43. 93 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 34–36, Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 455–456. See also Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43. 94 See the second chapter of this dissertation for a discussion of Bauckham’s thesis. See also Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” 9–48. 95 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 36–37. Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 456–457. See also Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43.

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problem, as Kennedy’s description makes clear. As such, it might be more helpful to think of it in terms of need. 4.

Analyze the arrangement and style.96

Kennedy refers to the process up to this point as “preliminary matters,” 97 and now sets to the most intensive of the five phases. Analysis of arrangement and style involves a line-by-line, linear study of the rhetorical unit, studying every element in light of the many rhetorical devices detailed in classical and Hellenistic rhetorical handbooks. 5.

Look back over the entire unit and review its success in meeting the rhetorical exigence.98

The end of the process is the moment of synthesis. Kennedy’s method is brought to conclusion by looking back over the previous stages of analysis and evaluating whether the arrangement and style have overcome the rhetorical problem and achieved the demands of the rhetorical situation. Kennedy, has applied this process in brief form to the Sermon on the Mount and the Sermon on the Plain (as examples of deliberative rhetoric), the Upper Room Discourse in John 13–17 (as an example of epideictic rhetoric), 2 Corinthians (as an example of judicial rhetoric), as well as the Gospels in general, the speeches in Acts, Thessalonians, Galatians, and Romans—all in his New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism. Several other scholars have also taken up his method of rhetorical criticism with varying results. For example, Duane Watson adopted it for his work on Jude and 2 Peter,99 and Wilhelm Wuellner ostensibly applied the method to 1 Corinthians 9.100 Kennedy’s rhetorical critical method can be helpful for the historical enterprise, but in a very particular way. It presupposes that the writers of the New Testament were familiar with the rhetoric of the day, whether explicitly (by formal education) or implicitly (by encountering it in literature). Therefore, the method (particularly stages two, three, and four) assumes that analogical comparison with ancient literature is part of the process. Because this 96

Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 37–38. Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 457–458. See also Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43. 97 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 37. 98 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 38. Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 458. See also Watson, “The Influence of George Kennedy on Rhetorical Criticism,” 43. 99 Watson, Invention, Arrangement, and Style. 100 Wuellner. “Where Is Rhetorical Criticism Taking Us?” 448–463.

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method opens up a substantial body of Greco-Roman literature to comparison (on stylistic grounds in stage four), it can lead to seemingly well-grounded historical conclusions. However, there are two primary dangers. The first danger is in assuming the derivation of historical or rhetorical situation from purely classical forms without recognizing the potential differences. For example, the species of classical rhetoric depend, to some degree, on the city-state as the basic structure of society (at least in Greek literature). Rhetorical situations flow from this societal structure. Can the same be said for those communities that produced the Gospels? Would not societal structures of family, household, kingdom, and the like be more appropriate?101 While the social background to the definition of rhetorical species is an important part of historical analysis, it is beyond the scope of this project. Rather, I remain open to the possibility that the writers and editors of the Gospel texts were thoughtful and creative enough to adapt rhetorical species to their own contexts. The second danger is becoming too firm in the hypotheses assumed in defining the rhetorical situation (stage two) and rhetorical problem (stage three), to the extent that those elements require historical conclusions. That is, if one assumes a rhetorical (i.e., historical) situation and problem in order to analyze rhetorical arrangement and style (in stage four), and then uses the rhetorical analysis to draw historical conclusions, one runs the risk of circular argumentation. As such, Kennedy’s method might be better served by considerable interaction with other historical-critical methodologies. Those methods can be used to form hypotheses about the rhetorical (i.e. historical) situation and problem. Rhetorical analysis can then serve as one more analytical tool in confirming such hypotheses about the historical situations behind these texts. As such, this rhetorical critical method becomes an immensely useful instrument for interpreting these texts within their historical contexts. But, what might a solution to this second danger—a solution that brings Kennedy’s method into conversation with other historical-critical methodologies—look like? The weaknesses of Kennedy’s method as it is, concern the lack of specificity. Because his method presupposes analogical comparison at various points rather than defining it, the scheme allows for a much broader range of comparisons than I believe is useful. Despite the fact that Kennedy’s examples in his New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical Criticism stay within the realm of ancient rhetoric and historical-critical analysis—a realm that 101

Robbins, Invention of Christian Discourse, Vol. 1, 2. Robbins’s point is relevant with respect to the differences between classical Greek and Christian rhetoric. The difficulty with Robbins, of course, is that Christian rhetoric is also filtered through Roman adoption and adaptation of Greek rhetoric, making the historical setting of the “city-state” less operative in Christian rhetoric.

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Betz and others would find appropriate—the ambiguities of his methodology could allow for the importation of modern rhetorical analysis in at least three of the stages. That is, Robbins in particular could easily view his sociorhetorical interpretation scheme as one that fits well within Kennedy’s method. The vagueness of his methodological statement probably explains how he is able to work from ancient rhetoric in ancient terms at certain points, while alluding to, citing, or dabbling in ancient rhetoric in modern terms at others.102 As such, Kennedy has really given us only a structure for analysis utilizing analogical comparison—one that he has used with some measure of historical-critical fidelity. For this kind of a project, however, greater clarity on the historical-critical approaches to each stage of Kennedy’s structure is required. And so, to Kennedy’s methodological structure, one could add further rigor to the historical-critical approach by considering five additional mandates proposed by Margaret Mitchell in her dissertation on 1 Corinthians: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Rhetorical criticism as employed here is an historical undertaking. Actual speeches and letters from antiquity must be consulted along with the rhetorical handbooks throughout the investigation. The designation of the rhetorical species of a text (as epideictic, deliberative, or forensic) cannot be begged in the analysis. The appropriateness of rhetorical form or genre to content must be demonstrated. The rhetorical unit to be examined should be a compositional unit that can be further substantiated by successful rhetorical analysis.103

Let us consider each. 1.

Rhetorical criticism as employed here is an historical undertaking.104

This first mandate is simply an expression of the rigor required. For Mitchell, rhetorical analysis is understood as part of historical-critical method and in service to it—not competition. Similarly, philological, literary, and historical analyses serve an overall program of historical criticism. Thus, in her work, the appropriate texts for comparison with 1 Corinthians would be contemporary texts in the Greco-Roman tradition. By appealing to rhetorical conven-

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See Kennedy, Comparative Rhetoric and Kennedy, Classical Rhetoric & Its Christian and Secular Tradition. 103 Mitchell wrote this dissertation as a student of Hans Dieter Betz at the University of Chicago. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 6. 104 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 6–8.

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tions operative at the same time as 1 Corinthians, Mitchell scrupulously avoids the historical anachronism of ancient rhetoric in modern terms. 2.

Actual speeches and letters from antiquity must be consulted along with the rhetorical handbooks throughout the investigation.105

Mitchell’s second mandate deepens the historical foundation of her arguments. She does not rely solely on the rhetorical handbooks, but also demands substantiating examples from contemporary literature. This is her way of distinguishing what might be insignificant or exceptional in a handbook from what is normative (enough) as to be relevant for the text she is comparing. In a project on narrative like the Gospel of Matthew, the selection of examples from literature (widely) available at the time of composition will be important. 3.

The designation of the rhetorical species of a text (as epideictic, deliberative, or forensic) cannot be begged in the analysis.106

Mitchell’s third mandate offers an important control on stages two and three of Kennedy’s analysis. In considering the rhetorical situation and rhetorical problem of a text, it is very tempting to assume a species of rhetoric appropriate for said situation and/or problem without demonstrating that the text does, in fact, conform to that species. Mitchell’s method demands that a comparative demonstration of the rhetorical species takes place before structural analysis commences. 4.

The appropriateness of rhetorical form or genre to content must be demonstrated.107

Following closely behind the third mandate, the fourth requires that the question of the relationship between form and substance not be assumed, but demonstrated. This mandate is especially relevant if we are to address the questions raised by Plato, Augustine, and Dibelius concerning the unity of purpose and practice in rhetorical analysis. Mitchell’s demand is that we not take this relationship for granted after having designated a rhetorical species, but instead—following from the second mandate—thoroughly establish the relationship by way of comparison with other Hellenistic literature.

105

Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 8–11. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 11–13. 107 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 13–15. 106

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5.

The rhetorical unit to be examined should be a compositional unit that can be further substantiated by successful rhetorical analysis.108

The fifth mandate requires rhetorical analysis of compositional structures defined in light of literary concerns and the literary whole, not just the consideration of rhetorical units. That is, Mitchell argues that the rhetorical function of a defined unit will be informed by the rhetorical function of successively larger rhetorical units up to and including the whole.109 Assuming that I were to adopt her mandates as they were applied to 1 Corinthians, it is worth considering whether additional mandates are necessary. As such, I would propose these four additional mandates that are certainly related to Mitchell’s in content, though the present state of Matthean scholarship demands that they are also stated explicitly. 6.

Classical and Hellenistic texts (Greek and Roman) will be read as sources for analogical comparison.

The methodologies and practices of Kennedy, Betz, and Mitchell presume that the writers of the New Testament were familiar with ancient rhetorical practices (or even rhetorical theory)—whether explicitly, because they had participated in rhetorical education formally, or implicitly, because they had encountered examples of it in contemporary literature.110 Since either familiarity is possible, and since the second could result in unconscious usage of rhetorical concepts, the extent of authorial familiarity in the case of Matthew is an issue to be argued and proved, not assumed. As such, I will treat the Greco-Roman literature simply as a pool of analogical sources in the broadest of terms. The next chapter of this study will sketch the outlines of this pool of resources, providing some historical and literary context from which Matthew could have drawn, whether consciously or unconsciously. The more specific methodologies discussed in the present chapter (e.g., rhetorical criticism, redaction criticism) are reserved for the Matthean text alone. As such, I will make every effort to read the Greco-Roman sources with historical integrity, match texts as evenly as possible, and acknowledge comparisons both of form (rhetorical and literary) and content.

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Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 15–17. The whole does not necessarily refer to the canonical text in Mitchell’s view. See note 53 in Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 16. Cf. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 4. 110 One intriguing text relevant to this issue is Paul’s supposed reference to the pagan poets Aratus and Epimenides in Acts 17:28. See Schnabel, “Contextualising Paul in Athens,” 172–190. See also Croy, “Hellenistic Philosophies and the Preaching of the Resurrection,” 21–39. 109

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Texts from antiquity used for comparison and/or arguments related to sources, must have documented traditions that are contemporary with or older than the text being analyzed.

Following from Mitchell’s first mandate, I am inclined to avoid anachronism of a slightly different sort. It is not only modern rhetorical systems that introduce later rhetorical concepts or forms into the discussion, but also the breadth of ‘historical’ documents between the text or texts in question—the Gospel of Matthew in this study—and the modern era. In Matthean studies, this kind of anachronism typically takes the form of using rabbinic texts from the third and fourth centuries (or later) as examples of Jewish rhetoric or literary invention comparable to the Gospel of Matthew. The argument generally begins with some kind of statement about how these later rabbinic texts represent an oral rabbinic culture or tradition that is roughly contemporary to the Jesus, Matthew, and/or Matthew’s sources, thus historically collapsing several hundred years.111 While this very well may be true, and while there are considerable rabbinic sources that reach back into the first century, there 111 For example, see Basser’s recent commentary on Matthew 1–14. “I now need to address my notions concerning the literature I use to illumine the images preserved in Matthew’s writings. This literature derives from a group of teachers, we now term ‘rabbinic.’ It preserves many old traditions (attested by Josephus and the New Testament) and shows us developments in manners of biblical exegesis and reformulation and systemization of inherited legal materials. These ‘Rabbis,’ for all intents and purposes, are the very group that that New Testament writers and Josephus identify as Pharisees. I prefer the term ‘Talmudic Rabbis’ as I see these people as major figures in a large corpus of works that I lump together under the name ‘Talmudic’ (expressive of an approach to law and lore exemplified in the Talmuds) for convenience rather than for precise accuracy. Throughout this book, the term ‘Rabbis’ should be understood as referring to those masters of Jewish tradition whose literary formulations expound the documents they commonly called ‘Talmud Torah.’ They are not meant to be designated as a religious group sharply set apart from pre-70 C.E. teachers or even from their later interpreters (Post-500 C.E.) or indeed from the majority of their contemporaries.” Basser, Mind Behind the Gospels, 9. Interestingly, Basser maintains that Matthew writes from a gentile perspective and seeks to explain the Jewish layer of content in the Gospel. Basser, Mind Behind the Gospels, 7. In contrast, Saldarini claims a rigorous methodology of comparing Matthew to Jewish tradition and sources limited to the first-century (page 5). By page 9, his stated limits of comparison will include the second century. Throughout, however, Saldarini continues to make even later comparisons. For example, page 82 refers to Mishnah-Tosefta, which is generally dated to the third century: “Later rabbinic literature is also instructive. It does not give gentiles an independent treatment, but catalogs and interprets them through existing biblical and rabbinic categories as relevant for rabbinic interests. ‘The rabbinic comments on the gentiles paint a varied and complex picture of the non-Israelites,’ which seems to reflect the diversity of the situation which confronted, or was imagined by the authors of Mishnah-Tosefta.” Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 5, 9, 82. The quotation is from Porton, Goyim: Gentiles and Israelites in Mishnah-Tosefta, 287.

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is a significant problem when this kind of comparison is used too liberally and without adequate acknowledgment of the historical gaps. This methodology confuses conjecture (about the relationship between a supposed oral tradition and its much later written tradition) and actual, demonstrable, historical relationship. Reflection on past events is always tempered by contemporary innovation. Given the doubtless evolution of rabbinic Judaism between the first and fifth centuries, distinguishing such innovation is something to be critically embraced, not ignored. 8.

As much as is possible, distinction between Greco-Roman analogy and Jewish/rabbinic analogy must be proven, not assumed.

This mandate may very well be the most difficult part of the methodological approach being adopted. Because this project is attempting to reconfigure the historical context in which we read Matthew’s Gospel, the ability to distinguish between what is analogically Greek (in form or in content) and what is analogically Jewish (in form or in content) in Matthew is paramount. That is, it would be quite easy to confuse a focus on Greco-Roman context with a denial of Matthew’s very obvious context in Second Temple Judaism. As I have demonstrated in the second chapter, one cannot assume a Jewish context apart from a Hellenistic context despite what many Matthean scholars might suggest. At the same time, one cannot assume a Greco-Roman context apart from a Jewish context when studying Matthew. The content of Matthew’s Gospel simply will not support such a claim. As such, attribution of a rhetorical element or idea or piece of context to a particular source should never be assumed, but rather whenever it is possible, proven. 9.

As much as is possible, apply methods of analysis consistently.

The notion that one should feel free to apply one methodology to one verse and another methodology to the next verse and a third methodology to the third verse and then synthesize the results should be categorically rejected. Such inconsistent reading makes for very subjective conclusions and moves so far from anything like authorial intent as to be completely useless. While the use of rhetorical and historical-critical methodologies are certainly less helpful in certain parts of the text and yield undoubtedly mixed data with very rough edges, it is preferable to apply them as consistently as possible. 4.4.3 Preliminary Conclusion Having considered both the historical trajectory of rhetorical analysis and the dominant question of rhetorical criticism of today—whether to restrict method to ancient rhetorical terms and definitions, or to welcome modern rhetori-

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cal tools as well—a way forward must be adopted. Given that this project began as a question about why modern Matthean scholarship tends to focus on comparison with the Jewish/rabbinic traditions and equally tends to ignore analogous Greco-Roman context, restraint with respect to historical concerns seems the most sensible way forward. As such, I will proceed in the project by means of ancient rhetoric in ancient terms, adopting the five-part analytical method of Kennedy and tempering it with further methodological concerns. By way of contrast, to follow in the path of those who use modern rhetorical methods seems to me to neglect historical context in favor of modern contextual interpretation and, in so doing, forego whatever measure of historical accuracy in assessing the author’s original might be otherwise attained. That is, while I am open to the many and varied approaches that modern rhetorics offer in studying Matthew, it seems sequentially right to begin with a historically contextual understanding of Matthew in terms of Matthew’s context. And while there is not space to delve into modern rhetorics in this project, I believe a restrained approach to Matthew in terms of ancient rhetoric will only enrich further study in terms of modern rhetoric. Or to put is more simply, the application of the text in modern rhetorical terms requires understanding the text in the rhetorical terms of the historically first audience.

4.5 Rhetorical Criticism and Other Methodologies 4.5 Rhetorical Criticism and Other Methodologies

As the chosen method of rhetorical criticism for this project is that of ancient rhetoric in ancient terms, historical-critical methodologies will necessarily come into play. As such, the various subspecies of historical-critical methodologies (e.g., text criticism, source criticism, form criticism, redaction criticism, social-scientific criticism) must be addressed. With respect to text criticism, I am adopting the text of Matthew as it is set in the Nestle-Aland 28th edition of the Greek New Testament. I will assume the critical decisions of those editors except where they are brought into question by my methodology. As I have already discussed issues concerning Matthew’s sources in the last chapter, I see no need to delve into further explanation of source criticism at this point. Given that rhetorical criticism is, in some way, the heir of form criticism—a subject I have already discussed in this present chapter—I likewise assume that matters of form criticism will be embedded in rhetorical arguments. Redaction criticism, however, does bear a particular kind of significance for rhetorical criticism of the Synoptic Gospels, and thus will be discussed in this section. Additionally, my explorations of Homeric resonances apart from rhetorical matters will depend to a significant extent on issues of redaction criticism. Finally, social-scientific criticism involves a level of complexity that is, unfortunately, also beyond the scope of this pro-

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ject. While certain rhetorical methods have made great use of social-scientific approaches (particularly Vernon K. Robbins’s “socio-rhetorical interpretation”), it seems that many deployments of this methodology rely on modern terms and modern analogies in order to draw conclusions. While it is possible to develop social-scientific approaches that more rigorously adhere to historical criticism, too few examples of such an approach with respect to the Synoptic Gospels render it an endeavor that must be pursued in a future project.112 4.5.1 Redaction Critical Approaches Because of the multifaceted nature of the Synoptic Gospels, the issue of the literary relationship of Matthew’s Gospel to the others must be factored into rhetorical analysis as well as analysis of resonances of any ancient literature within the Gospels. Over the last 60 years, Redaktionsgeschichte (redaction criticism) has assumed a central role in New Testament studies and the analysis of Matthew in general—particularly in attempting to sort out the Synoptic Problem—and it has become the dominant means of attempting to understand how Matthew appropriated his sources to his own theological ends.113 Within Matthean studies, the first redaction critics argued that Matthew not only drew from Mark, Q, and special Matthean materials, but also did so with particular theological motivation. By systematically attempting to articulate the how and why of his modifications, omissions, and additions, redaction critics have observed how Matthew shaped his sources with the hope of opening a window onto the community behind the author and presumed audience, even to the extent that the origins of traditions could be isolated (i.e. the Sitz im Leben or, in Kennedy’s terms, the rhetorical situation). While this question of the author’s editorial intent among the Synoptic Gospels was not particularly neglected prior to the 1950s, Redaktionsgeschichte nevertheless developed relatively anew along two distinct routes. First, in Germany, Redaktionsgeschichte developed as a historical discipline (as the literal term implies) and had the specific goal of isolating the historical context of texts, mainly by asking the question: what historical circumstances best explain the editorial activities of the author? The importance of this discipline became widely accepted with the first major redaction-critical 112

Examples of rigorously historical social-scientific method not necessarily indebted to modern rhetorical approaches include: Gager, Kingdom and Community; Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Christianity; Meeks, The First Urban Christians; Theissen, Social Setting of Pauline Christianity. 113 Hagner and S.E. Young, “The Historical-Critical Method and the Gospel of Matthew,” 27. See also Rothschild, “Historical Criticism,” 22, and also No. Perrin, What is Redaction Criticism? For a helpful discussion of the methodology of Redaktionsgeschichte, see Smalley, “Redaction Criticism.”

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works on Luke and Mark: Hans Conzelmann’s Die Mitte der Zeit (on LukeActs) and Willi Marxsen’s Der Evangelist Markus.114 Similar redactioncritical work on the Gospel of Matthew was being done at the same time by Günther Bornkamm, Gerhard Barth, and Heinz Joachim Held, and appeared shortly thereafter.115 Second, redaction criticism developed in the United States with an emphasis on the literary value of the overall structure and thematic unity of the final form of the text.116 This branch of redaction criticism tends to focus on how the author expanded, truncated, adopted (without change), and arranged his source material. By observing these features in comparison to a literary whole, as well as by giving special attention to new material that the author composed apart from his sources, insight can be gained as to how the author interpreted his sources and what points he is attempting to make in his use of them. Both the German and American traditions play an important role in relating redaction criticism to rhetorical criticism. The German interest in history lends itself well to rhetorical analysis in ancient terms, demanding an interpretive method that is historically appropriate. The American interest in literary style lends itself well to both schools of rhetorical thought, especially to those parts of methodologies concerned with rhetorical arrangement and style (e.g., stage four in Kennedy’s method).117 4.5.2 The Disciples’ Understanding The focus of redaction criticism in Matthean studies over the last 60 years is significant for this project and any project with rhetorical concerns, especially for those focusing on educational practices. The formative redaction criticism studies have focused on Matthew’s portrayal of the disciples compared with Mark’s (and, to a much lesser extent, compared with Q). They have focused on two intimately related aspects: the disciples’ understanding (or lack thereof)118 and how the disciples relate to the implied audience of the

114 See Stein, “What is Redaktionsgeschichte?” 46–47. See the early use of Redaktionsgeschichte in Willi Marxsen’s 1956 commentary on Mark. Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist. See also Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit. 115 Bornkamm, “End-Expectation and Church in Matthew.” Appearing in the same volume are investigations by Gerhard Barth, who wrote his dissertation under Bornkamm, and Heinz Joachim Held. G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law.” Held, “Matthew as Interpreter of the Miracle Stories.” 116 See Hagner and S.E. Young, “The Historical-Critical Method and the Gospel of Matthew,” 28. 117 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 37–38. 118 J.K. Brown, The Disciples in Narrative Perspective (Academica Biblica 9; Atlanta: SBL, 2002), 6–12.

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Gospel text119—which is a concern especially useful in determining rhetorical situations and rhetorical problems (stages two and three of Kennedy’s method).120 These two focuses are also particularly relevant in distinguishing one of the more significant differences between ancient rhetorical and modern rhetorical approaches: the issue of from which audience’s perspective (whether the disciples as audience in the text or the implied audience of the text) we are interpreting.121 Gerhardt Barth was one of the first and most influential to specifically investigate Matthew’s portrayal of the disciples in comparison with Mark’s. For G. Barth, understanding the law in Matthew’s Gospel requires “know[ing] the essence of being a disciple,”122 which, at its most basic level, involves imitating the Christ and doing the will of God. The process of making disciples in Matthew comes down to a handful of related concepts: συνιέναι (perception) as it relates to the disciples;123 the πίστις (belief) of the disciples; the disciples’ conversion, including component parts µετάνοια (repentance) and ἄφεσις (forgiveness); their unbelief and sin; and their status as µικροί (least). In G. Barth’s analysis, the first aspect—the disciples’ understanding (or lack thereof)—really comes from their συνιέναι and πίστις, and how the two relate. G. Barth observed that “Matthew has omitted or interpreted differently all the passages in Mark’s Gospel which speak of the lack of understanding on the part of the disciples.”124 G. Barth traces ten passages125 in which Matthew has made a significant change in favor of portraying the disciples as understanding Jesus’s teaching or only temporarily lacking such understanding. He also observes Matthew’s portrayal of the disciples as tending toward ὀλιγοπιστία (being of little faith). Yet here, he argues for a distinction in Matthew’s Gospel between the faith and understanding that is, according to G. Barth, absent in Mark’s Gospel. That is, understanding is no longer a part of the faith-concept in Matthew, but rather a kind of prerequisite to it. Looking at Matt 14:31–33 and 16:5–12, G. Barth argues that the disciples have knowledge or understanding in both cases. But, they still also clearly lack

119

The focus of these redaction critical studies is evident from J.K. Brown, The Disciples in Narrative Perspective, 13–18. 120 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 34–37. 121 See the discussion of audience in modern rhetorical approaches earlier in this chapter. 122 G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 105. 123 The verb is from συνίηµι. G. Barth observes the practice of referring to Greek verbs by the infinitive rather than by the first principal part. 124 G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 106. 125 See G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 106. The 10 passages are Matt 13:14, 13:19, 13:23, 13:51, 14:31, 16:9, 16:12, 17:9, 17:13, and 17:23.

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faith in both cases.126 The result of this argument, as Ulrich Luz points out, is that it becomes clear that Matthew has improved the portrayal of the disciples only as it relates to their understanding and not on any other positive characteristic, particularly faith.127 The question of the disciples’ understanding in Matthew’s Gospel then becomes a question of the origin of their understanding. On this point, Luz begins to diverge from G. Barth. G. Barth concludes very simply that the disciples were given understanding in contrast to the “obdurate multitude who do not understand.”128 Luz, however, argues that the disciples in Matthew’s account receive far more special, private times of instruction from Jesus than they do in Mark’s. The disciples, in Luz’s view, fail to understand on their own, coming to understanding only after Jesus has instructed them. The times of special, private instruction, thus, function to remove the lack of understanding of the disciples and highlight the role of Jesus as successful teacher in the disciple relationship.129 As such, Luz has qualified G. Barth’s reading by approaching more than just the simple comparisons with the crowd. This is significant because of how both the crowds and the disciples relate to the implied audience. 4.5.3 How the Disciples Relate to the Implied Audience The second aspect—how the disciples relate to the implied audience— presupposes, as a fundamental tenant of redaction criticism, that the text will, in some way, reflect a historical community, a rhetorical situation, or a rhetorical problem.130 G. Barth, Luz, and several other redaction critics, argue in no uncertain terms that the disciples function as a transparent window into a

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Mark Sheridan follows this line of thinking. See Sheridan, “Disciples and Discipleship in Matthew and Luke,” 235–255. Ulrich Luz does so as well in a 1971 essay. Luz, “The Disciples in the Gospel According to Matthew,” 115–148. 127 Luz, “The Disciples in the Gospel According to Matthew,” 119. Andrew H. Trotter disagrees to some extent, arguing for only partial understanding and on very specific subjects. Trotter, “Understanding and Stumbling: A Study of the Disciples’ Understanding of Jesus and His Teaching in the Gospel of Matthew,” 15. 128 G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 107. 129 Luz, “The Disciples in the Gospel According to Matthew,” 119–120. 130 For example, Russell Sisson argues, based in part on Mark Allan Powell’s analysis of the plot of Matthew’s Gospel, that certain literary features indicate an attempt to affect the reader. “One may reasonably suppose then that the Mission Discourse is composed to have a rhetorical effect on Matthew’s readers, more than on the audience in the narrative.” Sisson, “Instructions for ‘Broker’ Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Analysis of Matthew’s Mission Discourse,” 175. See also J.K. Brown, “Direct Engagement of the Reader in Matthew’s Discourses,” 19–35.

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historical Matthean community.131 G. Barth, for example, asserts that the Matthean insertion of a pre-resurrection understanding among the disciples confirms their status as representative of the Matthean community: By consistently removing the difference according to Mark between the disciples before the resurrection of Jesus and after it, Matthew again here writes the situation of the Church into the life of the disciples during the earthly activity of Jesus. In this way he shows a quite different relationship to the historical past of the life of Jesus from Luke, as well as being different from Mark. Such an equating of the time of the Church with the time of the earthly activity of Jesus is not possible for Luke because of his historical interest and it is completely excluded by his pattern of salvation history, for according to this in the time of Jesus the timelessly valid salvation-time is portrayed, and the time of the Church as the afflicted Church is distinguished from this as a new epoch of salvation history. Neither does Mark recognize such an equating of the time of the Church with the time of the life of Jesus. It is not right in this connexion to point to isolated sayings in which a question or a problem of the congregation is placed in the mouth of Jesus. Here it is rather a case of equating in time, which forms an element of the framework of the structure of the whole Gospel. Such an equating cannot hold for Mark because the disciples are completely lacking in understanding until the resurrection of Jesus; it is not till then that the scales fall from their eyes (cf. Mark 9.9, 32). Matthew is quite different!132

In G. Barth’s view, the reader of Matthew’s Gospel is made to become a contemporary of the author of Matthew (in distinction from the historical Jesus) and to interact with Jesus as one who already knows the end of the story. Luz affirms G. Barth’s conclusion in a slightly more circumspect way, initially calling it a “working hypothesis” in his Hermeneia commentary.133 He compares the implied reader of Matthew’s Gospel to that of John’s Gospel, “in which the past story of Jesus at the same time portrays and makes understandable the history and present situation of the church.”134 The nuance of “working hypothesis” disappears within 30 pages, at which point Luz frames the status of the implied reader in a comparison with the Markan source: For both Matthew and Mark the story of Jesus is a transparent—that is, inclusive—story for the church’s own situation. For both Matthew and Mark ‘disciples’ (µαθηταί) and ‘follow’ (ἀκολουθέω) are key concepts that describe not only the story of Jesus but also one’s own existence.135

131

G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 110–111. Luz, “The Disciples in the Gospel According to Matthew,” 128. See also Sheridan, “Disciples and Discipleship in Matthew and Luke,” 242. 132 G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 110–111. 133 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 11. 134 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 11. 135 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 42. While G. Barth and Luz seem to agree on the implied audience of Matthew’s Gospel, they also seem to disagree on the implied audience of Mark’s

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G. Barth and Luz’s arguments are clear. They—as well as Gundry for that matter—argue that Matthew’s historical community correlates precisely to the disciples in the Gospel.136 A few other redaction critics have agreed with the general premise, but suggested the slight variation that the disciples correlate only to the leadership within Matthew’s historical community. Paul S. Minear made this case by tracing the Matthean uses of ὄχλος (crowd), comparing their function in the Gospel with that of the disciples. He concluded that, in the parables, the crowds correlate to “several types of soil, both edible and inedible fish, both wheat and weeds, both sons of the Kingdom and sons of the devil.”137 The disciples, by contrast, are the sowers and fishermen, privy to special knowledge. Given this distinction in the Matthean text, Minear proceeded to argue for a comparable distinction in the Matthean community, eventually concluding that the Gospel of Matthew functioned as a kind of training manual for the disciples and their prophetic successors.138 To summarize, redaction criticism attempts to isolate the particular interests of an author by observing how the author has adopted, added to, and changed his source materials in constructing his text. Redaction critical approaches to Matthew in the German tradition have tended to focus on two related aspects of discipleship: the understanding exhibited by the disciples and how those disciples relate to the implied reader of the Gospel. While there is not universal conclusion on either of those subjects, most redaction critics have agreed that 1) Matthew has tended to insinuate more understanding among the disciples than his Markan source indicates, and 2) Matthew’s disciples represent the Matthean community (or its leaders) in a relatively transparent way. Gospel. Here, Luz lumps in Mark’s portrayal of the disciples with Matthew in that they both anticipate the Church with its Post-resurrection understanding. 136 Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution, 5. Gundry suggests: “Matthew shows great concern over the problem of a mixed church. The church has grown large through the influx of converts from all nations (28:18– 20). But these converts include false as well as true disciples (13:24–30, 36–43, 47–50; 22:11–14; 25:1–3). The distinction between them is coming to light through persecution of the church (5:10–12).” The discussion of Matthew’s contemporary church issues with the constant references to similar issues in the Matthean text throughout the entire section on Matthew’s theology only underscores the point. Gundry also suggests: “In contrast with Luke, where the start of discipleship is in view, Matthew’s teaching on discipleship has to do with its genuineness in those who already profess it. Such profession will become evident in the insertions ‘a certain [Christian] scribe’ and ‘another of the disciples.’ The first evangelist has his eye on the church as a mixed body of false and genuine Christians (see ‘Corpus Mixtum’ in the Topical Index).” Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution, 151. 137 Minear, “The Disciples and the Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew,” 35. 138 Minear, Good News According to Matthew.

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The usefulness of redaction criticism, however, for rhetorical analysis extends beyond just these two points—which both speak to isolating a rhetorical situation or a rhetorical problem (stages two and three in Kennedy’s method). Redaction criticism can also play a role in determining the rhetorical units (stage one) and in analyzing the arrangement and style of the particular texts (stage four). By observing Matthew’s narrative insertions and rearrangement of Mark’s material, for example, we can find clues to his rhetorical agenda.

4.6 Conclusion 4.6 Conclusion

To be sure, method is an important aspect of any project. Having spent time reading several recent dissertations, the state of biblical studies in the current generation seems, on the one hand, as promising and diverse as it ever has been. On the other hand, the breadth and volume of techniques can be paralyzing. There are so many methodologies available today that one hardly knows where to begin when looking at something so broad as Matthew’s Gospel. And, of course, it may even be very helpful to make use of multiple methods in synthetic fashion. As such, I intend to err on the side of a conservative approach to the number of incorporated methods with the hope that I am able to draw more compelling connections or identify more plausible resonances between Matthew’s Gospel text and his Greco-Roman backgrounds. The method I propose for the way forward builds from a foundation of rhetorical criticism—rhetorical analysis restrained to ancient rhetorical terms—in a manner following George A. Kennedy and strengthened, in part, by Margaret Mitchell’s and my own concerns for historical credibility. When necessary, I propose the secondary, but significant, use of redaction criticism to provide some limits. Of course, a five-step methodology with an additional five mandates from Mitchell along with an additional four convictions of my own are a bit complex to manage. As a result, I propose the following rearticulation of the Kennedy methodology, as a way forward. Using the only the terms set forth in the Classical and Hellenistic rhetorical handbooks and corollaries from ancient literature, and taking into account redaction critical concerns: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Determine the rhetorical unit, demonstrating also that it is a compositional unit. Demonstrate the rhetorical situation of the unit. Demonstrate the rhetorical need/motivation of the unit. Analyze the arrangement and style.

4.6 Conclusion

5.

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Synthesize, reviewing the unit’s success in meeting rhetorical exigence.

Or, for the sake of clarity, it might be easier to conceive of the methodology as a set of five questions. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

What are the rhetorical boundaries of the text? What is the rhetorical situation/context in which the text appears? What rhetorical need is the text addressing? How is the text arranged and styled to address the need? Given the text’s arrangement and style, is it successful in addressing the rhetorical need?

But, before this methodology can be employed in the Gospel of Matthew, one more background study is necessary. What is the actual Greco-Roman backdrop to the Gospel? What can we learn about the editor’s possible education and the literary sources from which he might be drawing connections— whether consciously or unconsciously?

Chapter 5

Ancient Greek and Roman Education Greece, the captive, made her savage victor captive, and brought the arts into rustic Latium.1 —Horace (Ep., 2.1.156)

The substance of the cultural, historical, and educational background of the Gospel of Matthew is, as I have suggested in previous chapters, undoubtedly and fundamentally important to understanding the text of the Gospel. In light of Hengel’s and others’ careful dismantling of the supposed conceptual division between Judaism and Hellenism, this background is also considerably more complex than most assume. Yet based on the language, provenance, sources, and genre of the Gospel the author of Matthew’s gospel was probably situated within a Hellenistic context and used a compositional method influenced by Hellenism. Given this probability and my choice to study Matthew’s Gospel within the constraints defined by ancient rhetoric, crucial corollary questions deepen the exploration of Matthew’s historical context. If one can demonstrate a principally Hellenistic context for the author, what else can one assume about the author? More specifically, what ought one to suppose about the author’s education? Accordingly, what was first-century education like? What was the curriculum? What can one reasonably assume about a first-century student’s knowledge and way of working? Is there anything in the text of Matthew’s Gospel that is informed by an understanding of the author’s educational background? How might one extrapolate the answers to these questions in order to enrich an interpretation of the Matthean text?

5.1 The Complexities of Analyzing Ancient Education 5.1 The Complexities of Analyzing Ancient Education

Critical to the study of ancient education are questions of culture, geography, and history. Attempting to reconstruct the form and content of a plausible educational context for the author of the Gospel of Matthew forces the scholar into a difficult position. One must embrace an intricate linguistic reality: contemporary sources written in Greek, Aramaic, Latin, Demotic, and a host 1

tio.

Horace, Ep., 2.1.156. Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit et artis intulit agrestic La-

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of other languages are readily available for cross-translational comparisons. One must embrace a complex political reality—namely, the dual governance by Jewish and Roman officials depending on the assumed provenance. One must embrace a difficult cultural reality: Roman fascination with Greek culture, as well as, in some places, additional and inevitable fusion with Jewish culture (which, itself, was grounded in Israelite culture). Of course, much of this complexity stems from the history of conquest in the region. The advances of Alexander on the known world in the fourth century B.C.E. paved the way for the subsequent spread of the (Athenian) Greek language, educational practices, literature, philosophy, and countless other facets of ancient Greek civilization. This spread of all things Greek beyond Greece (i.e. Hellenism) resulted in a wide spectrum of syncretisms and, frequently, the wholesale adoption of Greek practices by non-Greek cultures. Even with the decline of Greece as a political power and the simultaneous rise of Rome, Greek influence was far from fleeting. Rather, this deeply embedded and widespread Hellenization, encouraged by some Roman infatuation with all things Greek, meant that fifth-century Athens was a substantial part of the historical background for what became the expanded Roman Empire of the first century C.E.—an empire that geographically includes Syrian Antioch and every other suggested provenance for Matthew’s Gospel. As such, the reconstruction of education in the first century spans at least six centuries and, at the time of Trajan (ca. 117 C.E.), from present-day Britain to present-day Afghanistan. Significantly, the recently burgeoning academic field of the study of ancient education suggests that education across these centuries and throughout much of these areas is remarkably consistent. Nevertheless, the breadth of available data concerning educational practices over such a long period of time and so vast a geographical region also necessitates a certain amount of restraint. How might one begin to narrow and define a study of ancient education relevant to the Gospel of Matthew? First, we must consider geographical and chronological limits for Hellenism and Hellenistic influence. Or, to put it in the form of a question: what do we even mean by Hellenism? Simon Hornblower uses a helpful phrase to define the term: “Greek culture and the diffusion of that culture.”2 The Hellenistic period, then, is typically treated as the period of “diffusion” following Alexander’s death in 323 B.C.E., lasting until the Battle of Actium in 31 B.C.E. (the decisive battle of the war between the Roman Republic and the last remaining successor to Alexander’s empire: the Ptolemaic kingdom).3 For this study, the precise dates are less important than the shifts in political power. The Greek culture that was diffused after Alexander’s conquest was grounded in the Greek culture of Athens established well before Alexander’s 2 3

S. Hornblower, “Hellenism, Hellenization” OCD 677–678. S. Hornblower, “Hellenism, Hellenization” OCD 677–678.

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conquest. Similarly, the end point of Hellenistic influence extends beyond such a tightly defined Hellenistic period. Whether one marks the end of Hellenism with the battle of Actium in 31 B.C.E. (as I have), or with the defeats of Carthage and Corinth by the Roman military in 146 B.C.E., there is a considerable continuity between the Hellenistic kingdoms and the Roman occupation of those same areas because of the Romans’ inclusive attitude toward Greek culture. When exactly Romans began to accept and embrace Greek culture on a broad scale is difficult to determine. There is consistent evidence of interaction between Greece and Rome from the early Republican period (which began in 510 B.C.E.) and throughout the western Imperial period (27 B.C.E.—476 C.E.). This interaction is easily demonstrated in the uniformity of educational structures.4 Second, the geographic distribution and availability of sources from these places during these periods must be considered. Most literary sources from the Hellenistic period on the history of that period have been lost.5 These historical sources may have been lost by chance or deliberately not copied, perhaps because there was no demand or interest in them, perhaps on account of embarrassment (relative to an idealized perception of the Classical period) or even Christian censorship. Whatever the reason, late antique Greek and Byzantine communities preserved very little from this period. The exception seems to be materials related to the position of the Jewish communities within the various Hellenistic kingdoms.6 The state of educational literary sources is slightly better. Some Roman literary sources survive that are both widely attested and relevant, and which trace an understanding of the Hellenistic period to the Classical period (e.g. Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria). Some of these sources will be incorporated into this chapter. Non-literary sources are comparatively inconsistent. Because day-to-day writing during this period was most frequently done on papyrus, very little outside of the dry climate of Egypt has been preserved. This means that the most detailed picture of ancient education is situated in the context of Alexandria; it is necessary to extrapolate how other regions do or do not fit this model. As might be expected, the major scholarly works on ancient education tend to focus on 4

Morgan, Literature Education, 24, 38. See also Marrou: “It must be said at once that there was no strictly autonomous Roman education... Roman education…was only an adaptation of Hellenistic education to Latin circumstances… Furthermore, throughout the eastern half of the Mediterranean world, Hellenistic education continued unchanged and without a break for the whole of the Roman era, and even beyond; for, as we shall see later, the triumph of Christianity did not lead to the educational revolution that one might expect; the classical system of education stretched throughout the whole length of Byzantine history.” Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, 138–139. 5 For this conclusion and the following discussion of sources, see Pomeroy, Ancient Greece, 395–470. 6 2 Macc 4:13–15.

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Egypt as representative and consistent with the rest of the Hellenistic and Roman worlds.7 Third, the breadth of the geographical region and chronological history means accordingly broad variations can be seen in educational methods, content, and emphases. In fact, during the Roman Republican period, the lack of uniformity and regulation in education was seen by some as a great advantage.8 The educational system does seem more consistent during the imperial period, a fact that may be significant in my study. Insofar as I am relying on previous studies of ancient educational practices and I am working with a variety of sources (e.g., literary works on education, handbooks, papyri fragments, inscriptions), I will try to focus on those aspects of education that are generally consistent across a wide geographical area and which are witnessed in at least the first century C.E., if not consistently before. Alternatively, if a particular aspect of educational practice is constrained to a particular area of the Roman Empire or only attested early in the Classical period, I will accordingly give it little weight. For example, it would be a mistake to assume that the intensity of Quintilian’s prescription for rhetorical education is somehow universally representative when, in fact, he declares in his preface that he is aiming at a greater degree of thoroughness than his predecessors. If he is aiming to be comprehensive, then his descriptions probably go beyond the reality of educational practices in any one location.9 Fortunately much of the form and content of education was consistent across many locations.10 Fourth, ancient schooling included physical education and musical training as well as mathematics, astronomy, physics, and other disciplines at various points. Classical Greek education, in fact, focused quite a bit on music and athletics, while the Roman heirs of this educational system seemed far less 7

Morgan, Literate Education, 39–44. See also Raffaella Cribiore’s notes on Egypt: “For what concerns Greek educational practices, Egypt was in close touch with the rest of the Mediterranean. The evidence of the papyri remarkably agrees with the information transmitted by writers such as Plutarch, a Greek biographer and philosopher of the first to second century C.E. who lived in Greece, Libanius, a Greek rhetor who practiced in Syria in the fourth century C.E., and Quintilian, a Roman rhetor who had a famous school in Rome in the first century C.E.” Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 6. 8 Cicero, Resp., 4.3. 9 See the preface to the Institutio oratoria. See also Morgan, Literature Education, 51. Additionally, see Pliny the Elder’s prefatory note to Natural History: “There is no one among us who has ever attempted it, nor is there any one individual among the Greeks who has treated of all the topics. Most of us seek for nothing but amusement in our studies, while others are fond of subjects that are of excessive subtlety, and completely involved in obscurity. My object is to treat of all those things which the Greeks include in the encyclopaedia (ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία), which, however, are either not generally known or are rendered dubious from our ingenious conceits.” Pliny the Elder, Nat., 1 (Rackham, LCL). 10 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 8.

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interested in these disciplines.11 Regardless, this study’s interest in Matthew’s Gospel naturally narrows the focus to grammar, writing, literature, rhetoric, philosophy and the like.12 As such, I will only reference musical, athletic, and scientific educational practices when relevant to literate education.

5.2 Conquest and the Spread of the Greek Language 5.2 Conquest and the Spread of the Greek Language

Possibly the most important factor in the diffusion of Classical Greek educational concepts throughout the ancient Mediterranean was the spread of the Greek language.13 Given that Alexander’s conquests paved the way for Greek merchants, and by extension, the use of a ‘common’ or ‘export’ Greek language (κοινή), it is worth tracing the extent of Alexander’s empire. In the middle of the fourth century B.C.E., Philip II of the Macedonian kingdom (just north of Athens) began to capture the then-independent Greek city-states. Apparently out of a mixture of greed, fear, and politics, Philip proceeded across the Greek states, unifying them for a potential stand against the Persian kingdom. By the early 330s, Philip’s influence across the Greek states was massive, indicated in part by his ability to form a Corinthian league against Persia in 337 B.C.E. Philip’s relationship with Athens leading up to this period is of special significance. Rather than committing to a lengthy siege in order to win the support of Athens by force, Philip took a more diplomatic route. He sent both living prisoners and the dead back without ransom. Additionally, he sent Antipater (his closest general) and his son Alexander to Athens. Alexander and Antipater were made Athenian citizens. Alexander also pursued higher education. Aristotle, Alexander’s former tutor and the founder of an important school in Athens, subsequently became an important cog in the diplomatic relations between Athens and Macedon (that is, before he turned against Macedon more than a decade later). Through this nexus of relationships, Aristotle’s school—the Lyceum—naturally emerged as the model of education throughout the realm of Philip’s (and later Alexander’s) influence.14 A citizen of Athens educated in the Greek fashion, Alexander succeeded Philip in the summer of 336 B.C.E. After making an appearance in Greece 11

Barrow, Greek and Roman Education, 70. These are all aspects of what Morgan calls “literate education.” See Morgan, Literature Education, 6, on the separation of educational practices. See also Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 2–3. 13 “The final establishment and dissemination of the koinē was probably the most valuable and the most permanent fruit of Alexander’s expedition.” Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 58. 14 Pomeroy, Ancient Greece, 371–394. 12

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and consolidating his power there, he launched a campaign in the north of Greece. After the violent suppression of a Theban revolt, the other Greek states were once again unified out of fear under Alexander. This allowed Alexander and his armies to march east into Asia and the eastern Mediterranean. Of particular importance was Alexander’s conquest of Egypt, where the chief priest welcomed him as ‘son of Ammon,’ which the Greeks understood to mean ‘son of Zeus.’ After founding the great city Alexandria, he continued on his conquest east to present-day India. He died in Babylon in 323 B.C.E.15 Five interrelated results of Alexander’s conquests are relevant. 1) By unifying the Greek states, Alexander reduced the influence of any single state. 2) The Greek states had become lesser partners in ruling a vast empire. 3) Alexander eliminated the Persian Empire, creating the potential for considerable foreign influence, especially in Palestine and surrounding areas. 4) For this reason, cultural syncretism was likely. 5) The conquest paved the way for Greek-speaking merchants and cultural ambassadors to roam freely across the known world. The death of Alexander in 323 B.C.E. made the continued unity of his empire a serious question. Uncertainty about Alexander’s wishes for succession, political compromises during the regency of Perdiccas, and quarrelling among various groups and countries made for an incredibly unstable administrative situation over the span of nearly 50 years. This instability gave way to the prominence of three major Macedonian dynasties: the Ptolemies (Egypt, Palestine, Libya, Cyprus), the Seleucids (north of Palestine and remaining Middle East), and the Antigonids (Macedon and northern Greece).16 Evidence of the penetration of the Greek language and culture in these kingdoms is substantial, so much so that it became known as the Hellenistic period. The fifth consequence of Alexander’s conquests—the spread of the Greek language in Egypt and Palestine—is of great importance for examining the interactions between Jews and Greeks in this period. Martin Hengel’s study of the Greek language in Egypt and Palestine during the Hellenistic period is illustrative.17 Surveying the Zeno correspondence, Hengel finds that among approximately 2000 items, “very few are in Demotic, and there is not one single piece of writing in Aramaic.”18 Despite the demonstrable presence of Jews, Idumeans, Syrians, and Nabateans, there are “hardly two or three Aramaic or Hebrew writings from Jews in Egypt between 300 BC and AD 300.”19 While the papyrological evidence from Palestine is sparse, the inscriptions paint a similar picture. In fact, the dominance of the Greek lan15

Pomeroy, Ancient Greece, 395–426. Pomeroy, Ancient Greece, 427–470. 17 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 58–106. 18 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 58. 19 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 58. Cf. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 5. 16

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guage in the political and economic life of Palestine was quite extensive, especially when compared to evidence from Phoenicia of coins minted in multiple languages and a series of non-Greek inscriptions from this period. Literary evidence from Palestine is also suggestive. For example, the correspondence between Tobias, a Jew, and Apollonius (a finance officer under Ptolemy II) in 257 B.C.E. is indicative. Hengel also concludes that the high priest and temple officials in Jerusalem would have needed secretaries who were literate in Greek to execute correspondence with the government. “If one goes on to include members of the Ptolemaic garrison, officials and merchants, even the Jerusalem of the third century BC may be assumed to have had a considerable Greek-speaking minority.”20 As we shall see later, this minority undoubtedly grew under the influence of the high priest Jason in the next century. Hengel goes on to consider the composition of the LXX, itself a Hellenistic document.21 While known accounts of the translation may be unhistorical, a letter attributed to Aristeas from the second century B.C.E. sheds light on a Hellenistic perspective concerning the translator’s education: The High Priest selected men of the finest character and the highest culture [παιδεία], such as one would expect from their noble parentage. They were men who had not only acquired proficiency in Jewish literature, but had studied most carefully that of the Greeks as well.22

According to tradition, these men were chosen from among the Jewish tribes to translate the Hebrew Scriptures into Greek in Alexandria. They were educated in Greek. As Hengel proceeds to point out, even a few Greek loanwords make their way into the LXX.23 The remainder of Hengel’s survey takes a similar linguistic path using the inscriptions, tracing the vast migration of Greek names into Jewish communities in the Diaspora and Palestine. If Hengel’s assessment of the spread of the Greek language is correct— and I know of no scholarly work that suggests otherwise on this point—then conditions were suitable for the export of Greek literature and educational practices.

20

Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 59. Scholarship on the LXX is an incredibly complex and challenging field, in part because of the Hellenistic nature of the Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures. I am treating the subject with simplicity here, possibly to the point of oversimplification. Please see chapter 3 for a fuller discussion. 22 Let. Aris. 121–122. A second century B.C.E. date is more likely than the traditional early third century date. For notes on the disputed date, see Metzger, The Bible in Translation, 15. 23 For example: drachmae or appiryōn. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 60. 21

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5.3 General Hellenistic Education 5.3 General Hellenistic Education

As has just been seen in the letter from Ps.-Aristeas, the spread of the Greek language was tied to education (παιδεία). This is the key term. That is, for the study of ancient education, perhaps the most important concept is παιδεία, or more fully, ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία. Literally, this extended term can be defined as the cycle or regular ‘requirement’ of education. But from its earliest uses in the Hellenistic period, it refers to a kind of general, ordinary, or even broad education in contrast to technical or specialized training.24 These uses in the literary sources of the Hellenistic and Roman periods suggest that the ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία was a kind of basic education that preceded work in philosophy or architecture or other pursuits on a professional level.25 The fullest description of the ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία—translated literally as the orbis doctrinae—comes from Quintilian in the first century C.E.: I have made my remarks on this stage of education as brief as possible, making no attempt to say everything (for the theme is infinite), but confining myself to the most necessary points. I will now proceed briefly to discuss the remaining arts in which I think boys ought to be instructed before being handed over to the teacher of rhetoric: for it is by such studies that the course of education described by the Greeks as ἐγκύκλικος παιδεία or general education [orbis ille doctrinae] will be brought to its full completion.26

He goes on to give a lengthy description of numerous aspects of the educational system. Notice how Quintilian connects the Greek concept of education to what he is proposing in the Roman period. Quintilian proceeds to argue that the subjects comprising general education may not create the perfect orator (or describe any particular orator who has existed), but that they 24

Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 123. For example, Vitruvius Pollio, De Architectura, 6.preface.1 (Granger, LCL): “Hence, I am very much obliged and infinitely grateful to my parents for their approval of this Athenian law, and for having taken care that I should be taught an art, and that of a sort which cannot be brought to perfection without learning and a liberal education in all branches of instruction. Thanks, therefore, to the attention of my parents and the instruction given by my teachers, I obtained a wide range of knowledge, and by the pleasure which I take in literary and artistic subjects, and in the writing of treatises, I have acquired intellectual possessions whose chief fruits are these thoughts: that superfluity is useless, and that not to feel the want of anything is true riches. There may be some people, however, who deem all this of no consequence, and think that the wise are those who have plenty of money. Hence it is that very many, in pursuit of that end, take upon themselves impudent assurance, and attain notoriety and wealth at the same time.” See also PseudoPlutarch’s On Music where training in the performance of instruments seems to be separate from general musical education. [Plutarch], Mus., 1135d. 26 Quintilian, Inst., 1.10.1: haec de Grammatice, quam brevissime potui, non ut omnia dicerem sectatus, quod infinitum erat, sed ut maxime necessaria; nunc de ceteris artibus, quibus instituendos, priusquam rhetori tradantur, pueros existimo, strictim subiungam, ut efficiatur orbis ille doctrinae, quem Graeci ἐγκύκλιον παιδείαν vocant. 25

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will assist in the perfection of the ideal orator. 27 These additional subjects include geometry, playing the lyre (or music generally), logic, literature, and astronomy.28 Quintilian’s list is mostly consistent with Cicero’s list (literature, grammar, geometry, astronomy, music, and rhetoric) and Seneca’s (grammar, literature, geometry, music, and astrology).29 These subjects were generally studied formally by students beginning at age seven and lasted until the pupil was approximately twenty or so. Of course, not every student was educated for this length of time and not all of these subjects were studied for the entire duration. Rather, there was something of particular structure to the ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία. As is commonly suggested, literate education in the Hellenistic territories was tripartite, organized around three instructors or sets of instructors: the elementary instructor(s), the grammarian(s), and the rhetor(s).30 Recent studies suggest, however, that the first stage may have been less formal than previously thought.31 While the various stages were not without overlap and the boundaries were certainly permeable, it does seem that each stage of education was focused on the acquisition of a new skill or set of skills.32 5.3.1 Stage 1: Primary School In the Classical and Hellenistic periods, παιδεία (education) often began for children of wealthy families prior to primary school,33 and a student’s first teacher was the παιδαγωγός. Generally, a family servant or hired tutor, the παιδαγωγός was the critical link between the family and the student’s education. Prior to formal schooling, the παιδαγωγός initiated rudimentary intellectual and moral training with the child. In many ways, the παιδαγωγός was an extension of parental authority when the parents were not present. Importantly, the function of the παιδαγωγός did not cease when formal education began. Rather, the παιδαγωγός continued moral training and also provided supervision for the student as he (or sometimes she) traveled to school and spent time on homework. The παιδαγωγός would continue to look after and

27

See especially Quintilian, Inst., 1.10.5–6. Quintilian, Inst., 1.10.3–21. 29 Morgan, Literate Education, 36. 30 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 147. Morgan, Literate Education, 9–39. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 45–59. 31 Hock and O’Neil, Chreia and Ancient Rhetoric, 1–2. 32 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 2. 33 It is worth stating that the logical implication—that education for children from less wealthy families started later—is not necessarily true. While the economic spectrum of the educated in Rome was wider than that in the Classical and Hellenistic periods, education was often limited to only the wealthy class(es) of people through the Hellenistic and Roman periods. 28

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assist the student throughout each stage of formal education, providing a kind of continuity to the stages of education. In the Hellenistic period, the first stage of formal literate education began around age seven34 and was focused on the most basic skills: reading, writing, and counting. Letters gave way to syllables, and syllables to words, and words to sentences, and sentences to short passages—although the precise order of these activities was undoubtedly subject to variation. 35 In the school, this stage of education was overseen by a διδάσκαλος or γραµµατιστής (sometimes a γραµµατοδιδάσκαλος) in conjunction with the παιδαγωγός.36 In Roman territories during the early Roman Republican period and before substantial influence from Hellenistic imports, primary education sometimes took place completely in the home. Plutarch’s biography of Cato the Elder captures something of what this kind of family-based education might have been, at least among the more affluent class. Cato the Elder taught his son to read and write, despite employing an accomplished γραµµατιστής.37 In fact, Cato was extremely suspicious of Greek instructors in Rome. Report[s] spread far and wide that a Greek of amazing talent, who disarmed all opposition by the magic of his eloquence, had infused a tremendous passion into the youth of the city, in consequence of which they forsook their other pleasures and pursuits and were “possessed” about philosophy. The other Romans were pleased at this, and glad to see their young men lay hold of Greek culture and consort with such admirable men. But Cato, at the very outset, when this zeal for discussion came pouring into the city, was distressed, fearing lest the young men, by giving this direction to their ambition, should come to love a reputation based on mere words more than one achieved by martial deeds. And when the fame of the visiting philosophers rose yet higher in the city, and their first speeches before the Senate were interpreted, at his own instance and request, by so conspicuous a man as Gaius Acilius, Cato determined, on some decent pretext or other, to rid and purge the city of them all.38

Similarly, but in a somewhat exaggerated fashion, Tacitus lamented the increasing prevalence of Greek teachers: But in our day we entrust the infant to a little Greek servant-girl who is attended by one or two, commonly the worst of all the slaves, creatures utterly unfit for any important work.

34

Plato, [Ax.], 366d–366e. This is how Dionysius of Halicarnassus organizes On Literary Composition as well as how he describes it in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Dem., 52. See also Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 210–222. However, students were likely practicing their handwriting by copying whole sentences before they engaged in reading comprehension, even with regard to individual words. See Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, 43–44. See also Hock and O’Neil, Chreia, 3. 36 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 202. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 51. 37 Plutarch, Cat. Maj., 20.4–7 (B. Perrin, LCL). 38 Plutarch, Cat. Maj., 22.3–4. 35

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Their stories and their prejudices from the very first fill the child’s tender and uninstructed mind.39

Cato’s and Tacitus’s preferences for parental responsibility, however, did not prevent the use of Greek tutors during and after primary education by other wealthy families. Cicero’s accounts of the education of Tiberius Gracchus demonstrate a kind of partnership between the mother and the tutor.40 While some families chose to implement primary education entirely within the home, formal educational institutions were established in Rome as well. Primary schools in Rome date back to at least the third century B.C.E., as attested by Plutarch in the Roman Questions.41 The content of literate education in the primary school during the Roman Imperial period was, as in the Hellenistic period, focused on the most basic skills: reading, writing, and counting.42 5.3.2 Stage 2: Secondary School After finishing the primary curriculum at around the age of 14, the sons (and a few daughters) of wealthy families would proceed to study under the γραµµατικός (sometimes the καθηγητής, though this term frequently connotes a traveling instructor for pay and is just as often associated with the third stage of education).43 The substance of this stage of literate education was twofold: critical reading of literature and apprehension of grammar. Because of the emphasis on literature in this stage of education, certain texts (e.g. Homer and a range of dramas or dialogues from the Classical period) were used so frequently and widely that they became a kind of canon. I will return to the content of this canon later in the chapter. As knowledge of literature and grammar are indispensable building blocks of later rhetorical education, it is important to understand the method of teaching both of these subjects. First, the critical reading of literature began where exegesis typically begins. The students were taught to mark up their texts. They were shown how to punctuate a text they were copying. If they were studying a drama, they were shown how to mark a change in speaker. If poetry, they were shown how to mark out sections of hexameter. They some39

Tacitus, Dial., 29. Cicero, Brut., 104. Plutarch, Ti. C. Gracch., 1.6–7. 41 Plutarch, Quaest. rom., 59: “Why did Hercules and the Muses have an altar in common? Is it because Hercules taught Evander’s people the use of letters, as Juba has recorded? And this action was held to be noble on the part of men who taught their friends and relatives. It was a long time before they began to teach for pay, and the first to open an elementary school was Spurius Carvilius, a freedman of the Carvilius who was the first to divorce his wife.” For issues of dating, see Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome, 34–35. 42 Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome, 165–188. 43 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 53–54. 40

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times marked a text with breathing marks for later oral performance.44 Students often performed dramatic recitations, committing the text to memory.45 In other words, they began to interact at a somewhat technical level with the literature they were reading and copying. After marking up and reading a text, a student would then be taught to explain the text, first in literal fashion and then interpretively. This literal explanation would often include constructing lists of vocabulary when dealing with archaic texts.46 Explanation of vocabulary was one of the important roles of the γραµµατικός.47 This kind of literal explanation also involved collecting basic information about the characters, places, history, and other trivia of the literature.48 Epictetus provides a literary window into these practices, of which there is considerable comparable papyrological and handbook evidence.49 I was not born for this purpose, to test my own impression, to compare the statements people make, and to form an opinion of my own on the subject. For this reason, I am just like the teacher [γραµµατικός]: Who was Hector’s father? Priam. Who were his brothers? Alexander and Deiphobus. Who was their mother? Hecuba. This story was handed down to me. By whom? By Homer. Hellanicus also writes on the same topics, I believe, and perhaps others.50

The basic information of the story was drilled. As might be expected, memory played a major role in secondary education as well. Emphasis on word-for-word recitation was common as were looser forms of recitation.51 Once this information had been collected and understood, the students were taught to interpret the literary text. Interpretation at this stage was primarily related to the content of the literature and largely consisted of moral interpretation (whereas stylistic or aesthetic analysis would come later in rhetorical education).52 Quintilian, once again, gives the fullest prescription for an orderly engagement with the one of the canonical texts:

44

Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 191. Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 231. 46 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 231. 47 Cribiore, Gymnastics, 207. 48 For example, two catechisms that ask for the names of characters in Homer based on their descriptions have been discovered. See Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 233. See also Quintilian, Inst., 1.8.18–21. Cf. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 208. 49 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 17–18. Morgan, Literate Education, 39–49. 50 Epictetus, Diatr., 2.19.6–7. This translation comes from Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 199–200. 51 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 213. 52 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 234–235. 45

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Their pupils should learn to paraphrase Aesop’s fables, the natural successors of the fairy stories of the nursery, in simple and restrained language and subsequently to set down this paraphrase in writing with the same simplicity of style: they should begin by analyzing each verse, then give its meaning in different language, and finally proceed to a freer paraphrase in which they will be permitted now to abridge and now to embellish the original, so far as this may be done without losing the poet’s meaning. This is no easy task even for the expert instructor, and the pupil who handles it successfully will be capable of learning everything. He should also be set to write aphorisms, moral essays [chriae] and delineations of character [ethologiae], of which the teacher [grammaticos] will first give the general scheme, since such themes will be drawn from their reading. In all of these exercises the general idea is the same, but the form differs.53

As this passage from Quintilian shows, there was systematic engagement with a text in a variety of forms. Before a student was introduced to a Homeric epic, for example, a student was first given a paraphrase or synopsis or small portion of a text. Next, a student learned to explain and then to paraphrase the text verbally. Written analysis was a further, more detailed level of education. Probably for the purpose of practicing composition, students were asked to provide summaries and written interpretations of the literature they had read.54 Finally, the students wrote interpretive essays responding to the moral ideas and characters drawn from the literature. Notice also how Quintilian situates these exercises with the grammaticus. In the Classical and Hellenistic periods, the composition portion of the scheme, at least, probably occurred in the third stage of education. In fact, grammar and rhetoric were probably studied simultaneously. But in the Roman Imperial period, the trend was that teachers of rhetoric were content to let grammar teachers take on more and more areas of instruction, including declamations in deliberative rhetoric.55 Quintilian found this lazy practice of the rhetorical teachers distasteful.56

53

Quintilian, Inst., 1.9.1–3: et finitae quidem sunt partes duae, quas haec professio pollicetur, id est ratio loquendi et enarratio auctorum, quarum illam methodicen hanc historicen vocant. adiiciamus tamen eorum curae quaedam dicendi primordia, quibus aetates nondum rhetorem capientes instituant. igitur Aesopi fabellas, quae fabulis nutricularum proxime succedunt, narrare sermone puro et nihil se supra modum extollente, deinde eandem gracilitatem stilo exigere condiscant; versus primo solvere, mox mutatis verbis interpretari, tum paraphrasi audacius vertere, qua et breviare quaedam et exornare salvo modo poetae sensu permittitur. quod opus etiam consummatis professoribus difficile qui commode tractaverit, cuicunque discendo sufficiet. sententiae quoque et chriae et ethologiae subiectis dictorum rationibus apud grammaticos scribantur, quia initium ex lectione ducunt; quorum omnium similis est ratio, forma diversa, quia sententia universalis est vox, ethologia personis continetur. The English translation comes from Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 211–212. 54 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 229. Cribiore, Gymnastics, 215–219. 55 Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome, 252–253. 56 Quintilian, Inst., 2.1.1–3.

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Second, the formalized study of grammar in secondary education seems to be a comparatively later activity, dating to probably the first century B.C.E., possibly not even until the first century C.E. That is, there seems to be very little evidence in either the literary or papyrological sources suggesting that the formal study of grammar (as we know it in the first century C.E.) existed during the Hellenistic period. Additionally, the complete absence of grammatical exercises in the handbooks must be explained. The complexity of the linguistic situation for students throughout this period may partially illuminate this absence. Early in the period in Egypt, for example, students would speak κοινή in the classroom and at home. This κοινή was still evolving and shared some similarities with the Attic Greek they read at school. Grammar, as such, could be more evenly and subtly distributed among linguistic exercises. Later in the period, however, κοινή had evolved and deviated further from the Attic of their literary exercises. There was also something of a resurgence of native Egyptian languages being spoken alongside κοινή. These three linguistic layers provided just enough difficulty that formal instruction in grammar became a necessity. As such it appears in force in the later sources.57 The content of grammatical instruction involved the identification and manipulation of the basic parts of the Greek language. School exercises included the parts of speech (proper nouns, common nouns, verbs, articles, and conjunctions), the classification of nouns by gender, conjugations, declensions, and a variety of other morphological exercises.58 That is, the lists of syllables and words developed in primary education became organized, categorized, and analyzed in secondary education. 5.3.3 Stage 3: Rhetorical School As is mentioned above, the precise content of rhetorical education and how it overlapped (or not) with secondary education was in flux throughout the Hellenistic and Roman periods. As rhetoric is of special interest to this project, I will give only a brief sketch of this third stage of the ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία here and treat the history and content of rhetorical education more in depth later in the chapter. Rhetorical education was the least uniform stage of education. Because it required the completion of secondary school, it was only studied by an elite few.59 It seems to have been one (out of a few choices) way of proceeding in

57

Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 210. Hock and O’Neil, Chreia, 79–359. See also Cribiore, Gymnastics, 220–244. 59 So few students progressed to this stage of education that, by the first century C.E.— as we saw in the preface to Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria above—training in rhetoric could be considered a separate enterprise beyond ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία. See also Cribiore, 58

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training. In Athens, for example, secondary education—which started around age fourteen—might last around four years until the young (male) student was an ἔφηβος. As an ἔφηβος, he would be required by the state to engage in physical and military training for one or two years at the ἐφηβεῖον (a special facility for physical training). If he had finished his secondary training before reaching the age of the ἔφηβος, he might study rhetoric after his training at the ἐφηβεῖον or even simultaneously. There does not seem to have been a standard age for training in rhetoric or a specific duration for which one studied.60 Whether the complexity introduced by the ἐφηβεῖον existed outside of Athens is difficult to determine, as there is little evidence beyond Athens.61 Additionally, that this complexity existed throughout the Hellenistic period is also questionable. The conquests of Alexander and his Macedonian military rendered the state militia insignificant. Indeed, the evidence suggests that the schools once given exclusively to physical training—both inside and outside of Athens—became increasingly the home of lectures by visiting instructors and local teachers of rhetoric.62 But military training was not the only possible path. Some students ready for the third stage of education proceeded directly to philosophy. The overwhelming majority, however, chose to study rhetoric.63 If a student was engaged in formal rhetorical training, he was overseen by a ῥήτωρ and/or a σοφιστής.64 The curriculum seems to have focused on the creative side of speaking and writing, not merely the analytical. From our wealth of later rhetorical handbooks, it seems much attention was paid to style and theory. The literary sources from the Hellenistic and Roman periods, especially Quintilian, confirm these emphases. 5.3.4 School Buildings The physical space where education took place was as important and widespread as the tripartite structure of the educational curriculum. During the Gymnastics of the Mind, 17–18. Nevertheless, it was consistently approached. See Hock and O’Neil, Chreia, 2. 60 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 151–157. Cf. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 56, on the length of rhetorical education. 61 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 153. Hengel argues, on the basis of Nilsson’s work, that outside of Athens, the ephebate functioned in place of secondary education, starting around age fourteen. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 66. For inscription evidence of the ephebate in Teos, see the excerpt from SIG3 578 in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 134–135. 62 See papyrus fragments IG II2 1006, lines 16–20, 58–65, and IG II2 1009, lines 6–9, in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 148–149. 63 Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 267. 64 Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 56–59. Libanius, a much later text, suggests the differentiation along the lines of theory and exercises.

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Hellenistic and Roman Imperial periods, ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία took place in a variety of locations. It started in the home, but when the student entered formal education, his education became situated within a school (διδασκαλεῖον or γραµµατοδιδασκαλεῖον), the palaistra (παλαίστρα), possibly a gymnasium (γυµνάσιον), or a variety of public spaces throughout the various stages.65 As is mentioned above, early education often took place in the home under the guidance of parents and/or a παιδαγωγός. For families with financial means, the entirety of a child’s education could be completed using private tutors in the home. But for many families, formal primary and secondary education necessarily took place in schools. It would be far too neat to assume that certain terms for schools corresponded to certain stages of education. But, a general trend in Hellenistic education suggests that primary and secondary students tended to study in the διδασκαλεῖον while the ἔφηβος, because of his physical training, tended to study in the παλαίστρα and γυµνάσιον. In the Roman contexts, however, this division is absent. Rhetoric was also studied in schools.66 In the early Hellenistic period, the schools themselves would often consist of simple rooms with no desks. The students probably sat on benches. There could have been just a few students.67 While the later stages tended to be dominated by boys, for whom oratory was a valid professional pursuit, primary and even secondary education included both boys and girls.68 Those who reached the later stages of education would often study in a γυµνάσιον. But even from the Classical period, the παλαίστρα and γυµνάσιον were more than merely venues for physical training. Rather, possibly because of the large numbers of potential students, traveling teachers and private tutors would assemble there. They very quickly became places of intellectual pursuits, hosting athletic competitions side-by-side with poetry, music, and oratory competitions.69 Evidence from the inscriptions suggests that, as early as the third century B.C.E., even secondary education took place at the

65

On palaistra in general, see Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 10. On the school, see Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 20. The evidence of schools shows up quite early, even pre-Alexander: 1) a room in the house in Antiphon, On the Choreutes, 6.11, 2) Thracians burned a school with the children in it in Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 7.29.3–4) schools are listed with gymnasia in Plato, Leg., 764c, 4) schools are referenced in Aeschines, Against Timarchus, 1.9, and 5) schools are referenced in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Dem., 2. 66 See Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome, 126–145. 67 Martial, Epigrammata, 10.60. Quintilian, Inst., 1.2.1, 2.9.15, 2.9.16, 2.9.29. Juvenal, Sat., 7.240. 68 Martial, Epigrammata, 9.68.1–2. 69 For inscription evidence, see the excerpt from SIG 959 in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 145.

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γυµνάσιον.70 This is probably due, in part, to increases in state sponsorship of the γυµνάσιον combined with increased state interest in public education.71 The γυµνάσια during the later Hellenistic and Roman periods also tended to be much larger physical establishments than the school of the earlier Hellenistic period, often with multiple enclosed classrooms. Increased focus on intellectual pursuits and increased enrollments from the addition of the secondary students demanded additional indoor space for instruction.72 Additionally, increases in enrollment came from other sources as well. That is, in the later Hellenistic period, education seems to have included non-Greeks. In Alexandria, for example, Persians and Jews studied the Greek curriculum alongside the children of expatriated Greeks.73 As the home of secondary and advanced education—public lectures, private tutors, local athletic contests as well as competitions in the liberal arts— it is clear that the γυµνάσιον was the center not only of education, but also of Greek intellectual life. This remained so until very late in the Roman Imperial period, as Libanius demonstrates.74 Importantly, the presence of γυµνάσια outside of Greece suggests the spread of Greek educational influence to the foundations of Christianity. We know of γυµνάσια in Cyrene, Alexandria, and a massive complex in Pergamum.75 In the first century B.C.E., according to Josephus, Herod the Great built γυµνάσια in Damascus and Coos.76 But for the study of Greek education’s influence in early Christianity, probably the most important γυµνάσιον is the one that was founded in Jerusalem in the first quarter of the second century B.C.E. It is described in 2 Macc 4:11–17: When Seleucus died and Antiochus, who was called Epiphanes, succeeded to the kingdom, Jason the brother of Onias obtained the high priesthood by corruption, promising the king at an interview three hundred sixty talents of silver, and from another source of revenue eighty talents. In addition to this he promised to pay one hundred fifty more if permission were given to establish by his authority a gymnasium [γυµνάσιον] and a body of youth for 70 Likewise, for inscription evidence of the ephebate in Teos, see the excerpt from SIG3 578 in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 134–135. 71 Interestingly, the παλαίστρα—also a place for both physical and intellectual training—may have been privately owned. Theophrastus, Char., 5.7–10. Bonner suggests that education was mainly private. Bonner, Education in Ancient Rome, 47. 72 R.A. Tomlinson, “gymnasium” OCD 659–660. 73 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 66. See also Peremans, Vreemdelingen en Egyptenaaren in Vroeg-Ptolemaeisch Egypte, 173–199. 74 See the papyrus fragments POxy 1202 and POxy 2186 as well as the inscription IG 12.5.292 in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 253–255. Libanius, Autobiography, 16– 25. 75 R.A. Tomlinson, “gymnasium” OCD 659–660. See also Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 145. 76 Josephus, J.W., 1.422, 1.424. For discussion of Herod’s building programs, see Rocca, Herod’s Judea, 45.

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it, and to enroll the people of Jerusalem as citizens of Antioch. When the king assented and Jason came to office, he at once shifted his compatriots over to the Greek way of life. He set aside the existing royal concessions to the Jews, secured through John the father of Eupolemus, who went on the mission to establish friendship and alliance with the Romans; and he destroyed the lawful ways of living and introduced new customs contrary to the law. He took delight in establishing a gymnasium [γυµνάσιον] right under the citadel, and he induced the noblest of the young men to wear the Greek hat. There was such an extreme of Hellenization [Ἑλληνισµοῦ] and increase in the adoption of foreign ways because of the surpassing wickedness of Jason, who was ungodly and no true high priest, that the priests were no longer intent upon their service at the altar. Despising the sanctuary and neglecting the sacrifices, they hurried to take part in the unlawful proceedings in the wrestling arena after the signal for the discus-throwing, disdaining the honors prized by their ancestors and putting the highest value upon Greek forms of prestige.

Three important cultural shifts are brought into focus by 2 Maccabees. First, the introduction of Hellenistic educational and cultural practices came through the highest echelon of society. This was not a grassroots or popular adoption of culture, but rather a scheme introduced by a high priest, which systematically brought constituencies within the society to a kind of syncretism through education. Second, it was a substantial shift. This was not an idiosyncratic adoption of Greek customs by a few individuals in that upper echelon. Instead, it was a sizeable adoption by a generation through education. Third, it was sizeable enough that it resulted in a public conflict between significant constituencies within the society. Jason and generation of young men being educated in his γυµνάσιον were pitted against the priests and their followers. Regardless of whether this particular incident resulted in any definitive actions that had a lasting effect, the presence of Greek educational practices within this otherwise Jewish population was now and would be an unavoidable facet of this society. Given that Herod the Great built two more γυµνάσια in the succeeding century, it seems unlikely that the issue of conflict between Greek and non-Greek educational practices disappeared.

5.4 Rhetorical Education and Rhetorical Composition 5.4 Rhetorical Education and Rhetorical Composition

The purpose of this chapter is to investigate the possible range of educational backgrounds for the author of the Gospel of Matthew. Given the general educational structures briefly sketched above, it is not necessary to posit that Matthew had a rhetorical education. Rather, since Matthew used the Hebrew Bible (and its Greek translation) and the Gospel of Mark, in addition to other possible sources (possibly the Gospel of Luke, the Q document, and/or oral tradition), he would only have needed to be a reasonably skilled editor to produce his Gospel text. These skills would likely have been acquired during the second stage of education. Yet, this raises an important question: is it possible to detect any rhetorical skills that would have been acquired during

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the third stage of education in Matthew’s Gospel? This question becomes central to the rest of the project. Here, the goal is to investigate the content and methods of rhetorical education in the first century C.E. 5.4.1 Sources For the purpose of understanding rhetorical education in the first century C.E., the two most important literary sources are Cicero’s De Oratore (circa 55 B.C.E.) and Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria (circa 95 C.E.). Cicero’s goals were fairly broad: to argue for the value of oratory for society, to describe the ideal orator, to argue for the orator’s moral responsibility (in addition to stylistic ability), and to describe the education an orator must have in order to be both skilled and morally responsible. Cicero argued for a fairly broad education. Quintilian shared the goal of describing the ideal orator and his education. In fact, Quintilian was an avid admirer of Cicero and appears to have wanted a return to Ciceronian ideals. But, in contrast, Quintilian argued for a narrower education focused on rhetorical training in order to arrive at such ideals. Accordingly, Quintilian’s work focused most heavily on the practical education of the orator in rhetorical skills. Other important literary works that treat rhetorical education include Aristotle’s Rhetoric and Poetics, an earlier work of Cicero called De Inventione, the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium, and also Rhetorica ad Alexandrum (attributed to Aristotle, but likely the work of Anaximenes of Lampsacus). Beyond the literary works, the rhetorical handbooks, or progymnasmata, are quite useful in affirming the general structure and practices of ancient rhetorical education. The earliest of the handbooks is that of Aelius Theon (probably assembled sometime in the first century C.E.). Also important are the exercises attributed to Hermogenes (late second century C.E.), Libanius (late fourth century C.E.), Aphthonius of Antioch (late fourth century C.E. and a student of Libanius), and Nicolaus of Myra (late fifth century C.E.). While several of the handbooks are substantially later than the first century C.E., they are remarkably similar to each other and also consistent with Theon and Quintilian (both first century C.E.) in the structure of education that they describe. Finally, there are about 25 school texts on papyrus fragments that have been identified as rhetorical exercises. These exercise texts were found mostly in Lower Egypt and originate from between the second century B.C.E. and the seventh century C.E.77

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Morgan, Literate Education, 199.

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5.4.2 Rhetorical Composition As Aristotle defined it, rhetoric’s function is “not so much to persuade, as to find out in each case the existing means of persuasion.”78 For Aristotle, rhetoric was analytical. Its goal was to discover the available routes to logically convincing the audience, regardless of moral purpose.79 Over time, it seems, the emphasis shifted slightly. By the time Quintilian offers a definition, rhetoric was simply “speaking well.” What I say will not necessarily be my own invention, but it will be what I believe to be the right view, as for instance that oratory [rhetoricen] is the science [scientiam] of speaking well [bene dicendi]. For when the most satisfactory definition has been found, he who seeks another, is merely looking for a worse one. Thus much being admitted we are now in a position to see clearly what is the end, the highest aim, the ultimate goal of rhetoric [rhetorice], that end [τέλος] in fact which every art must possess. For if rhetoric is the science of speaking well, its end and highest aim is to speak well.80

The goal of persuading the audience was consistent. For Quintilian, however, the processes of rhetoric were driven primarily by creative or stylistic concerns. The philosophical rigor of logic was now partnered with art. In the first century C.E., then, the structure of rhetorical education was organized around five parts and the corresponding apprehension of a robust technical vocabulary. The five parts mirror the five stages of composing a speech.81 The first three stages—invention, arrangement, and style—relate to both oral and written rhetorical composition. The fourth stage (memory) and the fifth stage (delivery) relate specifically to performance. As this project is

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Aristotle, Rhet., 1.1.14 (Freese, LCL). Aristotle, Top., 7.12 (149b25). “The same holds good in respect to all the other arts. For instance, it is not the function of medicine to restore a patient to health, but only to promote this end as far as possible; for even those whose recovery is impossible may be properly treated. It is further evident that it belongs to Rhetoric to discover the real and apparent means of persuasion, just as it belongs to Dialectic to discover the real and apparent syllogism. For what makes the sophist is not the faculty but the moral purpose. But there is a difference: in Rhetoric, one who acts in accordance with sound argument, and one who acts in accordance with moral purpose, are both called rhetoricians; but in Dialectic it is the moral purpose that makes the sophist, the dialectician being one whose arguments rest, not on moral purpose but on the faculty. Let us now endeavor to treat of the method itself, to see how and by what means we shall be able to attain our objects. And so let us as it were start again, and having defined Rhetoric anew, pass on to the remainder of the subject.” Aristotle, Rhet., 1.1.14 (Freese, LCL). 80 Quintilian, Inst., 2.15.38 (Butler, LCL). 81 Quintilian, Inst., 3.3.1. Marrou, Education in Antiquity, 271. Cf. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 13. 79

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addressing intentionally written discourses and narratives, I will not consider the last two stages here.82 5.4.2.1 Invention The first stage was invention (inventio). A student began by planning the discourse and the arguments to be used in it. That is, he collected information. And in this stage, he had to consider several things. A first element is stasis, a procedure by which a student asked questions to arrive at the central issue. Every subject which contains in itself a controversy to be resolved by speech and debate involves a question about a fact, or about a definition, or about the nature of an act, or about legal processes. This question, then, from which the whole case arises, is called constitution or the “issue.”83

A student asked himself a set of diagnostic questions in order to arrive at the central question. Without one of these four items in dispute—a fact, a definition, the nature of an act, or a legal process—an oration could not be composed. The second essential element of oratory involved the purpose of the rhetoric. That is, information was collected according to the species of rhetoric to be employed. Aristotle divided rhetoric into three species (γένη): judicial (δικανικόν), epideictic (ἐπιδεικτικόν), and deliberative (συµβουλευτικόν).84 While Cicero and his contemporaries argued for more categories, Quintilian defended Aristotle’s tripartite scheme.85 Judicial or forensic rhetoric was focused on accusing or defending and was most often associated with the public legal system. 86 Epideictic rhetoric was focused on praising or blaming and was generally used for demonstration or ceremony.87 Deliberative rhetoric was focused on exhorting or dissuading the audience to

82

The fourth stage is memory (memoria) or preparing and revising the text for performance. The fifth and last stage was delivery or action (pronuntiatio sive actio). Here, a student would practice the controlling the voice and making the appropriate gestures for the performance of the speech. Given that these stages focus on performance, they were typically omitted from the progymnasmata. Quintilian, Inst., 3.3.1, See also Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 13–14. 83 Cicero, Inv., 1.8 (Hubbell, LCL). It should be noted that this seems to be an element of invention that postdates Aristotle’s work on rhetoric. [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.18– 1.17.27; Cicero, Inv., 1.8–14, 2.15–115; Cicero, Top., 24.93–95; Quintilian, Inst., 3.6. Cf. Aristotle, Rhet., 3.17.1. 84 Aristotle, Rhet., 1.3.3. 85 Quintilian, Inst., 3.4.1–2. 86 Aristotle, Rhet., 1.10–15. Cicero argues, however, that what can be learned in judicial rhetoric can also be applied to other kinds of rhetoric. Cicero, Inv., 2.4–51. 87 Following Aristotle, Cicero identified the identification and rumination on virtue and vice as of particular value in epideictic rhetoric. Cicero, Inv., 2.59; Aristotle, Rhet., 1.9.

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some action or belief.88 Each of these species had characteristic arrangements and stylistic features. A third element of oratory was the origin of the information and arguments incorporated within the speech. The student could internally derive the arguments artistically or logically, or they could be externally adapted from the evidence of witnesses, authoritative documents, or historical circumstances. Accordingly, Aristotle identified and collected a large body of common and special topics (τόπος) of invention, or categories of relationships, that a student could draw upon as templates. There was no need to stray from these predefined sets and invent new ones. Cicero also offered his own version of the topics.89 As one might expect, certain topics naturally correspond to certain situations or even genera of rhetoric. 5.4.2.2 Arrangement The second stage of rhetorical composition was arrangement (dispositio) or the organization of the arguments for an efficacious purpose. The most basic structure is derived from Aristotle: introduction (προοίµιον), statement of the argument (διήγησις), proof or refutation (πίστις or ἀντιδίκους), and epilogue (ἐπίλογος).90 Cicero expanded this structure. I had also been taught that, before speaking on the issue, we must [1] first secure the goodwill of our audience; that next we must [2] state our case; afterwards [3] define the dispute; then [4] establish our own allegations; subsequently [5] disprove those of the other side; and [6] in our peroration expand and reinforce all that was in our favour, while we weakened and demolished whatever went to support our opponents. 91

Cicero’s structure for the orator, then, consisted of six parts. The Rhetorica ad Herennium concurs and gives technical terms for the parts.

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Aristotle, Rhet., 1.4–8; Cicero, Inv., 2.52–58. Cf. Quintilian, Inst., 2.4.22. 90 Aristotle, Rhet., 3.13 (Freese, LCL): “These divisions are appropriate to every speech, and at the most the parts are four in number—exordium, statement, proof, epilogue.” ἴδια µὲν οὖν ταῦτα, τὰ δὲ πλεῖστα προοίµιον πρόθεσις πίστις ἐπίλογος. Cf. Diogenes Laertius’s account of Stoic structure in Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, 7.43 (Hicks, LCL): “Rhetoric according to them may be divided into invention of arguments, their expression in words, their arrangement, and delivery; and a rhetorical speech into introduction, narrative, replies to opponents, and peroration.” Εἶναι δ᾽ αὐτῆς τὴν διαίρεσιν εἴς τε τὴν εὕρεσιν καὶ εἰς τὴν φράσιν καὶ εἰς τὴν τάξιν καὶ εἰς τὴν ὑπόκρισιν. τὸν δὲ ῥητορικὸν λόγον εἴς τε τὸ προοίµιον καὶ εἰς τὴν διήγησιν καὶ τὰ πρὸς τοὺς ἀντιδίκους καὶ τὸν ἐπίλογον. The Rhetorica ad Herennium cites six elements which roughly correspond: exordium, narrationem, divisionem, confirmationem, confutationem, conclusionem. [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.3. See also Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 23– 25. 91 Cicero, De or., 1.31.143 (Sutton, LCL). 89

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1.

2.

3.

4.

5. 6.

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Exordium: The exordium is the introduction that prepares the audience, or ‘secures their goodwill.’92 According to the Rhetorica ad Herennium, there are two kinds of introduction. The most common type is a direct appeal called a prooimion (which corresponds to Aristotle’s προοίµιον) and draws upon the ethos of the orator. A second type introduced much later in the Rhetorica ad Herennium is the ephodos, or subtle approach. Narratio or Propositio: The propositio is the main proposition or statement of facts at the beginning of the speech.93 According to the Rhetorica ad Herennium (which prefers the term narratio), the statement of facts should be brief, clear, and state something plausible. According to Quintilian (who preferred the term propositio) it may, in some cases, be so obvious as to be left unstated. Partitio: The partitio is a kind of summary point that brings the full introductory section (including exordium and propositio) to a close. It covers what is agreed upon and sets out what is contested. Quintilian argued that it should be blended with the propositio. It may include a kind of outline and may even include a statement about how many points will follow.94 Confirmatio: The confirmatio is the main body of the discourse and consists of arguments (or proofs) and corroborating statements. 95 It is characterized by an appeal to logos. The Rhetorica ad Herennium takes the confirmatio together with the refutatio. Refutatio: The refutatio generally consists of counterarguments to expected points of contention with one’s opponents.96 Peroratio: The peroratio is a conclusion to the discourse including a summary of the arguments.97 As such, it will generally be linguisti-

[Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.4.6–1.7.11; Cicero. Inv., 1.15–18. Quintilian, Inst., 4.1. [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.8.11–1.9.16; Cicero. Inv., 1.19–21; Cicero, De or., 2.80.326– 2.81.330; Quintilian, Inst., 4.2–4. “A Narrative [narratio] is an exposition, designed to be persuasive, of an action done or deemed to be done; alternatively (as Apollodorus defines it) it is a speech instructing the hearer on what is in dispute.” Quintilian, Inst., 4.2.31 (Butler, LCL). 94 [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.17; Cicero. Inv., 1.22–23; Quintilian, Inst., 4.5. “Partition [partitio] is the orderly enumeration of our Propositions, or those of our opponent, or both.” Quintilian, Inst., 4.5.1 (Butler, LCL). 95 [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.18. cf. Cicero. Inv., 1.24–41; Cicero, De or., 3.52–201; Quintilian, Inst., 5.1–12. 96 Cicero. Inv., 1.42–51; Quintilian, Inst., 5.13.1–56. 97 Cicero. Inv., 1.52–56; Quintilian, Inst., 6.1. “The next subject was to be the Peroration [peroratio], which some call the Culmination, some the Conclusion. There are two aspects of it: the factual and the emotional.” Quintilian, Inst., 6.1.1 (Butler, LCL). “The peroration is an easier matter to explain. It falls into two divisions, amplification and recapitulation.” Cicero, Part. or., 15.52 (Rackham, LCL). 93

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cally close to the proposition.98 It employs pathos. Interestingly, the Rhetorica ad Herennium and Cicero do not use the word peroratio, preferring instead conclusio. This distinction suggests a conceptual difference between a peroratio (summary of the argument) and the conclusion; the latter may be wider in scope and more general, possibly including practical concerns or seemingly unrelated statements meant to stir up the crowd (e.g. Cato the Elder on Carthage).99 Cicero divides the conclusion into three parts, which may also help explain the distinction in vocabulary. While variations on these parts exist (e.g. Quintilian’s preference for combining the propositio and the partitio), this basic structure is remarkably consistent among the literary sources. That this structure was abundantly used as an arrangement for written discourses is obvious from the large number of examples we have, including many documents that became part of the New Testament. 5.4.2.3 Style The third stage was style or expression (elocutio). Style is a large and multifaceted stage in rhetorical composition. A student would choose words and phrases to compose the final form of the discourse. Invention was the process of choosing what to say. Style was choosing how to say it. According to George A. Kennedy, a student would have probably started by selecting particular words (lexis). Particular words would be chosen based upon how precise or accurate they were, as well as the kind of effect that could be created by choosing rare, archaic, newly invented, or foreign words. Particular words could also be chosen because they carried a great deal of cultural, technical, historical, or other significance (e.g. John’s use of λόγος in John 1:1 is loaded with Greek philosophical weight).100 After words were chosen, they were strung together in order to form phrases and sentences (synthesis), strategically drawing upon figures of speech.101 98

Cicero, De or., 1.52–56. Plutarch, Cat. Maj., 27; Pliny the Elder, Nat., 15.74; [Aurelius Victor], De viris illustribus, 47.8; Livy, Ab urbe condita libri, XLIX; Florus, Epitoma de Tito Livio bellorum omnium annorum DCC, Liber primus, XXXI. 100 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 26. 101 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 27. The Silva Rhetorica project at Brigham Young University and overseen by Gideon O. Burton (http://rhetoric.byu.edu) identified 301 rhetorical figures from Greek terms (from Aristotle, Hermogenes, etc.) and another 134 corresponding or distinct rhetorical figures from Latin terms (from Cicero, Quintilian, etc.). The methodology of collection is unclear and, so, these totals may include Renaissance notions superimposed on Greek or Latin terms rather than strictly Classical or Hellenistic Greco-Roman concepts. Additionally, the distinction between related figures of 99

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Another aspect of style, from a methodological perspective, involved the various agenda a student kept in mind when choosing words and phrases. These agenda were first developed by two of Aristotle’s students, Theophrastus and Demetrius, and were later adapted by Cicero and Quintilian. While not uniform in their use, especially after the first century C.E., the agenda or goals of rhetoric as stated by the Rhetorica ad Herrenium, as well as in the works of Cicero and Quintilian, seem particularly relevant for this project, namely because they were articulated at a point contemporary to or within 150 years preceding the writing of the Gospel of Matthew.102 §

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Accuracy: For Quintilian, a first goal was correctness. At its most basic level, correctness simply meant using language correctly. This required a certain precision of language and an understanding of grammar. This aspect inevitably displayed the difference between an educated person and uneducated person. The Rhetorica ad Herennium categorizes correctness along with a second goal, clarity, under a broader category called taste.103 Perspicuitas: A second goal was lucidity or clarity. A student was to render his language both plainly and intelligibly, calling everything by its standard name. According to the Rhetoric ad Herrenium, the uses of common terminology as well as specialized terminology appropriate to the topic at hand were both means of arriving at clarity.104 For Quintilian, clarity was opposed to obscurity.105 Ornatus: A third goal was ornamentation. A student was to use an abundance of rhetorical figures in order to please the ears of his audience. According to Quintilian, ornamentation had a pragmatic value. “For when our audience find it a pleasure to listen, their attention and their readiness to believe what they hear are both alike increased, while they are generally filled with delight, and sometimes even transported by admiration.” 106 Decorum: A fourth goal was propriety or the appropriateness of style to the subject matter. This concept is broader than merely a concern for stylistic appropriateness in both Cicero and Quintilian, who give it an ethical dimension. However, for the purpose of rhetorical style,

speech (style) and figures of thought (or topics of invention) is not always clear in this resource. A significant and nearly comprehensive written resource on rhetorical figures, though with similar methodological problems, is Lausberg’s handbook. Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric. 102 These four goals (or virtues) are also thought to follow Theophrastus’s model. 103 Quintilian, Inst., 8.1.1–3; [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.12.17. 104 Quintilian, Inst., 8.2.1–11; [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.12.17. 105 Quintilian, Inst., 8.2.12–24. 106 Quintilian, Inst., 8.3.1–89.

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propriety meant utilizing tact in adopting a particular set of figures or working in a particular genre appropriate to the content.107 While these goals vary slightly in how they are organized within the overall process of rhetorical composition among the various literary sources, they do appear consistently and with remarkably similar descriptions up to and including the first century C.E. 5.4.3 Exercises Absolutely instrumental to rhetorical education were the preliminary exercises, or progymnasmata: written exercises that were used to prepare students for oratory. As such, they may have been used both between grammatical and rhetorical stages of education and throughout rhetorical education. The exercises were categorized by type (about fourteen different types in all) and arranged so as to increase in difficulty as one progressed. These exercises were collected in handbooks, of which we have a handful of good examples ranging from the first century C.E. to the late fifth century C.E. The arrangement of the exercises in the handbooks is remarkably similar, again affirming the consistency of education through the period. While the later handbooks— attributed to Hermogenes (late second century C.E.), Libanius (late fourth century C.E.), Aphthonius of Antioch (late fourth century C.E.), and Nicolaus of Myra (late fifth century C.E.)—are consistent, the progymnasmata attributed to Theon are especially important as they are roughly contemporary to Quintilian.108 Theon’s work is also important as it is addressed to the teacher (and not students) and contains definitions and notes on pedagogy in addition to instructions for the exercises. The progymnasmata attributed to Theon outlines ten categories of exercises that follow his general pattern of education, consisting of a process that moves from oral reading to listening to memorizing to paraphrasing to elaborating to contradicting. His ten exercises include: §

Chreia: “A chreia (khreia) is a brief saying or action making a point, attributed to some specified person or something corresponding to a person, and maxim (gnômê) and reminiscence (apomnêmoneuma) are connected with it… Chreias are practiced by restatement, grammatical inflection, comment and contradiction, and we expand and

107 Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.13, 10.1.9. Cf. Cicero, De or., 3.208; Aristotle, Rhet., 3.7; Horace, Ars, 1.81–106. 108 For notes on the date of Theon, see Kennedy’s introduction. Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 1–2.

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compress the chreia, and in addition (at a later stage in study) we refuted and confirm.”109 Mythos: “A fable (mythos) is a fictitious story giving an image of truth… As an exercise, mythos is treated in a variety of ways, for we state the fable and inflect its grammatical form and weave it into a narrative, and we expand it and compress it.”110 Diegema: “Narrative (diêgêma) is language descriptive of things that have happened or as though they had happened… The exercise of narrative is not uniform; as in fable the narrative is stated and inflected and interwoven and compressed and expanded. Furthermore, in the statement of it we alter the order of the headings, and in addition it is possible also to keep the same order and to vary the expressions in many ways. Moreover, while narrating it is possible to add a comment and to weave two or three narrations into the statement. In addition to all this, there is refuting and confirming.”111 Topos: “Topos (topos) is language amplifying something that is acknowledged to be either a fault or a brave deed….It is called a topos because starting from it as a ‘place’ we easily find arguments against those not admitting that they are in the wrong.”112 Ecphrasis: “Ecphrasis (ekphrasis) is descriptive language, bringing what is portrayed clearly before the sight… This exercise shares a characteristic with what has been said earlier (about topos). In so far as neither is concerned with a particular and both are common and general they are alike, but they differ, first, in that topos is concerned with matters of moral choice, while ecphrasis is, for the most part, about lifeless things and those without choice; second, when describing things in a topos we add our own judgment, saying something is good or bad, but in ecphrasis there is only a plain description of the subject.”113 Prosopopoeia: “Personification (prosôpopoeia) is the introduction of a person to whom words are attributed that are suitable to the speaker and have an indisputable application to the subject discussed… This exercise is most receptive of characters and emotions. A simple treatment is sufficient at the introductory level if the young are given practice in use of topics such as these, but for those who want to put their hands to prosopopoeia in a more accurate and complete way it

Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 15, 19. Cf. Hock and O’Neil, Chreia, 63–112; Morgan, Literate Education, 185–188. 110 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 23, 24. Cf. Morgan, Literature Education, 221–223. 111 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 28, 34. 112 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 42, 43. 113 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 45, 46.

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is possible to make use of the materials for epicheiremes in theses, to be discussed by us a little later.”114 Encomium: “Encomion (enkômion) is language revealing the greatness of virtuous actions and other good qualities belonging to a particular person. The term is now specifically applied to praise of living persons whereas praise of the dead is called an epitaphios and praise of the gods a hymn; but whether one praises the living or the dead or heroes or gods, the method of speaking is one and the same.”115 Synkrisis: “Syncrisis (synkrisis) is language setting the better or the worse side by side… There are two ways of arranging theses discourses: either we give an account separately of each of the things being compared, or combine them in one account, judging one better than the other, as Xenophon, when making a comparison in the Symposium (8.12–36), judges love of the soul superior to love of the body.”116 Thesis: “Thesis (thesis) is verbal inquiry admitting controversy without specifying any person and circumstance… Thesis differs from topos in that the latter is an amplification of some matter of agreement, while the former is concerned with something in doubt… And we shall compose amplifications and digressions as the parts of the thesis permit. Similarly we shall make use of emotions and characterizations and exhortations and nearly all the kinds (ideai) of discourse. We shall introduce many circumstances of life and speak fitting words about each.”117 Nomos: “Law (nomos) is a decision of a political nature by the people or by a leading man, regulating how all those in the city should live, not limited to a certain period of time. Scrutiny of laws is twofold; for either they are being introduced and proposed or they are already in effect… Since our discussion now is about refutation and confirmation of a law…” 118

As in Quintilian, Theon’s exercises often explicitly require the use of earlier literary works in addition to various types of imitation and adaptation in order to be effective educational tools. Nearly every type of exercise listed assumes that the activity of the student should in some way “amplify” or adapt a say114

Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 47, 49. Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 50. Interestingly, Socrates is mentioned as possible object of encomion. 116 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 52, 55. 117 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 55, 61. 118 Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 62. 115

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ing or text. In Theon’s text, nearly every definition and description of exercises includes several examples of adapting literature or treating stories about famous individuals, from Homer and Socrates to Plato and Xenophon. 5.4.4 µίµησις/Imitatio As this analysis of educational exercises in rhetoric suggests, one of the most prominent and important concepts of ancient education was µίµησις, or imitation. It began as a philosophical concept in the writings of Plato, who regarded µίµησις as a somewhat suspect activity.119 Plato’s understanding of µίµησις was the process of copying (to two or three degrees) nature, a concept that played an important role in his theory of eternal forms. For example, there exists an eternal form of something (e.g., a bed) that contains truth. An artisan creates a physical object representing that eternal form in a physical representation. Then, an artist depicts the work of the artisan. The depiction is then twice removed from the eternal form and thus contains only a tiny amount of the truth contained within the original archetype. As such, for Plato, the goal of representing truth is impossible to achieve in this way, and artists or poets, whose job is to imitate, could easily lead their audience away from truth. Plato’s understanding of µίµησις focused on the imperfect attainment, and was, thus, negative. Rather, reasoning was the valid path to truth. Aristotle similarly regarded µίµησις as the copying of nature, but took a more positive view of it.120 The differences between reality and the depiction of reality made for more effective poetry or drama, as they produced empathy and, in the case of tragedy, a satisfaction in each audience member that the tragic events were not happening to them. The philosophical concept of µίµησις as the imitation of nature and the associated positive and negative views of this concept gave rise to the use of a literary concept of µίµησις as part of rhetorical education. By the time of Philodemus of Gadara in the first century B.C.E., µίµησις was regarded as the literary dependence of contemporary prose on the poetic work of Homer in the past. Similarly, Dionysius of Halicarnassus confirms a complete shift in the understanding of µίµησις as the imitation of literature rather than the imitation of nature in the surviving fragments of his work On Mimesis. With this specific understanding, µίµησις was, then, a virtuous activity in which one created on the basis of the expertise and beauty of the great poets of the 119 Plato, Resp., 376e–398b, 595a–606b. Cf. Plato, Leg., 811c–d. On the metaphor of the bed, see specifically Plato, Resp., 595c–599d. 120 “Epic poetry, then, and the poetry of tragic drama, and, moreover, comedy and dithyrambic poetry, and most flute-playing and harp-playing, these, speaking generally, may all be said to be ‘representations [µίµησις] of life.’” Aristotle, Poet., 1447a (Halliwell, LCL). Of course, Aristotle’s Poetics, in general, may be considered his treatise in favor of mimesis.

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past. It was respectful. It was necessary in order to evoke the virtue of the original. And more importantly, it was useful for educating someone in rhetoric. The most robust view of µίµησις in rhetorical education comes from book 10 of Quintilian’s Institutio Oratorio.121 If the goal of the student of rhetoric was eloquence, then the student would need a stock of ideas from which he could draw.122 The primary means of gathering this stock was reading the literature of the previous generations.123 In 10.1.20–131, Quintilian offers a fairly lengthy list of authors worth reading, organized by category. It is from these and other authors worth reading that we must draw our stock of words, the variety of our Figures, and our system of Composition, and also guide our minds by the patterns they provide of all the virtues. It cannot be doubted that a large part of art consists of imitation [imitatio].124

Just as a child learns to write by tracing letters, a rhetorician learned to compose by reading and imitating literature. While there was certain freedom in adaptation, rhetorical composition should still follow certain patterns of imitation.125 In particular, one had to respect the genre of the work being imitated: “Each genre has its own law, and its own standard of appropriateness.”126 In other words, an adaptation of a biographical work would presumably remain a kind of biographical work and the closest stock of materials to synthesize while adapting would presumably be additional biographical works.

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If literary analysis and creative adaptation are hallmarks of the second and third stages of formal education in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, and if µίµησις or imitatio is as central as it seems, then the question of source material for these exercises is of immense significance. Are there pieces of literature that appear with some frequency in the literature, handbooks, and papyri 121

Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.15–19, 10.2.1–26. “Without the models supplied by reading, the whole effort will be adrift, and there will be no one at the helm.” Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.2 (Russell, LCL); “Is there any doubt, then, that he must acquire some capital, as it were, which he can draw on whenever it is needed?” Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.6 (Russell, LCL); Cf. Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.1. 123 “In reading, on the other hand, judgment is surer, because a listener’s reactions are frequently distorted by personal inclination or by the noisy cries of the applauding audience.” Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.19 (Russell, LCL). 124 Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.1 (Russell, LCL). 125 Yet, it must also be creative. Quintilian warns against merely copying rather than adapting or progressing. Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.4–12. This advice is not limited to words. Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.27. 126 Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.21–22. 122

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fragments of exercises? If so, what can we deduce about an educated person’s familiarity with these literary sources in the first century C.E.? 5.5.1 Homeric Epics One of the most prominent literary figures throughout antiquity was certainly Homer. His epic works came to dominate the attention of literary critics at a time when literary analysis was first being developed in Classical Athens. His work permeated all types of literature, especially educational texts. An early reference from Xenophanes demonstrates as much: Homer and Hesiod have attributed to the gods all the things that are a source of criticism and reproach among human beings: theft, adultery, and mutual deception…since all from the beginning have learned from Homer.127

While Xenophanes suggests that Homer is universally present from very early in education, he also uncovers the primary controversy that will keep Homer at the center of discussions about education: the attribution of vices to the gods. In fact, this aspect of the Homeric texts certainly caused Plato to question the exposure of Homer to children.128 Isocrates, one of Plato’s chief rivals, paints a very different picture. For some of my friends met me and related to me how, as they were sitting together in the Lyceum, three or four of the sophists of no repute—men who claim to know everything and are prompt to show their presence everywhere—were discussing the poets, especially the poetry of Hesiod and Homer, saying nothing original about them, but merely chanting their verses and repeating from memory the cleverest things which certain others had said about them in the past.129

Isocrates’s friends had visited the Lyceum (a γυµνάσιον) and listened to a discussion on Homeric and Hesiodic poetry. The problem was not the lack of virtue in Homer’s and Hesiod’s presentation of the gods, but the lack of fresh interpretations. Isocrates’s hope for the educational activities was new and continued analysis. He even expected that he was fit for the task.130 It was not merely practice in literary analysis that made Homer valuable, there was an intrinsic, pragmatic value as well. The content, not just the form, was educational.

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See Xenophanes, frgs., 10–11, in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 8. Plato, Resp., 376c–412b. Cf. Plato, Resp., 595b–c. 129 Isocrates, Panath., 18 (Norlin, LCL). 130 “These then are the views which I hold regarding educated men. As to the poetry of Homer and Hesiod and the rest, I would fain speak—for I think that I could silence those who chant their verses and prate about these poets in the Lyceum—but I perceive that I am being carried beyond the due limits which have been assigned to an introduction.” Isocrates, Panath., 33 (Norlin, LCL). 128

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“Well then,” said Socrates, “once each of you has specified what he possess to the benefit of others, I will happily reveal the craft I have by which I produce this effect. But what about you, Niceratus? What sort of knowledge produces your feeling of pride?” “My father focused his care on ensuring that I would turn out to be a good man,” he replied, “and forced me to learn every line of poetry Homer wrote. Even now I could recite the whole of the Iliad and the Odyssey by heart.”131

Xenophon presents a character here who sincerely believes there is a direct connection between learning from Homer, “that paragon of wisdom,”132 and being successful in life. Niceratus later proposes specific ways in which observing the human activities of Homer’s character will enrich his own life.133 As these passages from Xenophon and Isocrates demonstrate, Xenophanes and Plato—united in their skepticism of Homer’s value to education— ultimately failed to convince. Nowhere is this clearer than in the Hellenistic evidence. The most important evidence for the Hellenistic and Roman periods, perhaps, comes from the statistical evaluation of papyri fragments. Raffaella Cribiore and Teresa Morgan both give compelling analyses in their respective works on ancient education. Cribiore takes on the issue from the perspective of authors being cited: About a thousand Homeric papyri have been discovered, with the figures assuming some significance from a comparison with papyri of Euripides—the next favored author—which are rough one-tenth as voluminous.134

Homer’s dominance is clear. And Morgan’s work suggests that this dominance extends to the papyri of school texts and exercises. Of the 400 or so that have been discovered, about 250 are classified as gnomic (memorable sayings). Of the remaining 150 or so, 97 are extracts from Homer. Again, by comparison, only 20 cite Euripides.135 Of the seven surviving anthologies from the Hellenistic and Roman periods, six include portions of Homer.136 Importantly, Cribiore and Morgan both also discuss a relative imbalance in the citations of Homer. The Iliad seems to be far more commonly used than the Odyssey, and the earlier portions of each book seem to be far more com-

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Xenophon, Symp., 3.5. This translation comes from Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 41–42. 132 Xenophon, Symp., 4.6. This translation comes from Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 41–42. 133 Xenophon, Symp., 4.6–7. This translation comes from Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 41–42. 134 Cribiore, Gymnastics, 194. 135 Morgan, Literate Education, 68–70. Cf. Morgan, Literate Education, 105–106. 136 Morgan, Literate Education, 316.

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mon than the later portions.137 The content of these school texts ranges from lists of characters to lengthy passages meant to be copied or interpreted.138 Morgan’s statistics from literary sources are equally suggestive. Of the Greek authors cited by Quintilian, Homer ranks second with 41 references. Demosthenes is cited 60 times and Plato 40 times. Totals drop to less than half the total of Homeric references after Plato. In Plutarch, Homer again ranks second. He cites Homer 889 times compared with Plato’s 915. Additional positions on the list, again, fall to less than half the total of Homeric references.139 With this kind of saturation in Homer during the Hellenistic and Roman periods, then, the expectation that an educated person was familiar with Homer is confirmed by literary sources. Plutarch’s Hellenistic (and possibly anachronistic) account of Alcibiades captures this expectation: Once, as he [Alcibiades] was getting on past boyhood, he accosted a school-teacher [γραµµατοδιδάσκαλος], and asked him for a book of Homer. The teacher replied that he had nothing of Homer’s, whereupon Alcibiades fetched him a blow with his fist, and went his way. Another teacher said he had a Homer which he had corrected himself. ‘What!’ said Alcibiades, ‘are you teaching boys to read when you are competent to edit Homer? You should be training [παιδεύω] young men.’ 140

Homer was required reading. And what one did with Homer was somehow indicative of what stage in education a person had achieved. Merely being familiar with Homer or possibly reading someone else’s copy earned you a spot as a primary teacher at best and possibly a pummeling. But, editing your own copy meant you were educated enough to be teaching at the secondary level. Homer’s value at the third stage of education was also apparent. His works served as an essential source of inspiration for poetic and oratorical endeavors. I shall, I think, be right in following the principle laid down by Aratus in the line, “With Jove let us begin,” and in beginning with Homer. He is like his own conception of Ocean, which he describes as the source of every stream and river; for he has given us a model and an inspiration for every department of eloquence. It will be generally admitted that no one has ever surpassed him in the sublimity with which he invests great themes or the propriety with which he handles small. He is at once luxuriant and concise, sprightly and

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Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 194–197. Morgan, Literate Education, 105–109, 318–320. 138 For an interesting example, see the papyrus fragment of Homer’s Iliad in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 132. 139 Morgan, Literate Education, 318. 140 Plutarch, Alc., 7.1. See also Morgan, Literate Education, 15.

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serious, remarkable at once for his fullness and his brevity, and supreme not merely for poetic, but for oratorical power as well.141

If Quintilian is right and his belief that Homer was so valuable for the study of themes, style, and eloquence, then the abundance of references to his works in the school exercises and papyrus fragments makes good sense. The presence of Homer in the heart of the Jewish world—that is, Palestine—is also demonstrable from this period. Hengel, once again, offers a curious piece of evidence. He cites Targumic materials from the first century C.E. in which the Sadducees criticize the Pharisees: “ We object against you Pharisees that you say that the holy scriptures make the hands unclean whereas the books of Homer do not make the hands unclean.”142 This dispute over whether Homer’s presentation of immoral characters tarnishes the faithful Jew seems to be grounded in older arguments. In the second century B.C.E., Aristobulus used Homer positively in his letter to Ptolemy VI Philometor.143 Not long after, the Jewish Sibyl condemned Homer, as did Josephus.144 5.5.2 Socratic Dialogues Beyond Homer, of course, the most dominant figure of ancient Greek literature would certainly have been Socrates. Known primarily through one of his students, Plato (and to a lesser extent, Xenophon, as well as satirically by the dramatist Aristophanes), his imprint on literature and education through the Roman period is both undeniable and complex.145 One of the complicating factors is reconciling Plato’s evolving views of rhetoric with the use of Plato in later rhetorical education.146 One need not necessarily agree with the object of µίµησις in order to practice µίµησις on that person. In other words, whereas Plato’s view of rhetoric was inconsistently negative and he was skeptical of µίµησις (as it argued above), he was still routinely imitated in rhetorical education. Another complicating factor is that Plato (and Xenophon) wrote about Socrates in the form of a dialogue. Prose works in the first century C.E. necessarily focused on the element of µίµησις that goes beyond simple words 141

Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.46 (Butler, LCL). Quintilian cites Aratus, Phaen. 1. This is Hengel’s translation of Yad. 4.6, as found in Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 75. Hengel places this text in the first century C.E. 143 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 75. 144 Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 75. 145 Aeschines of Sphettus was also a young follower of Socrates whose dialogues had some ongoing influence (based on known papyrus fragments and lengthy quotations in later authors such as Publius Aelius Aristides). Nevertheless, Plato and Xenophon were considerably more influential. 146 See the introductions to Plato’s works from the second and sixth centuries C.E. in Joyal, Greek and Roman Education, 262–263. 142

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or genre specifications. A third complication is that Plato was considered primarily by students of philosophy. Whether a student chose to study philosophy after rhetoric or instead of rhetoric, if at all, Plato’s writings may have been considered appropriate for a completely separate field from rhetoric proper. Nevertheless, Plato and Xenophon were still central to rhetorical education. Quintilian’s catalog of literary works worth imitating gives them the highest positions. As to the philosophers, from whom Cicero confesses that he derived much of his own eloquence, who would doubt that Plato is supreme either for acuteness of argument or for his divine, Homeric gifts of style? He soars high above prose—”pedestrian language” as the Greeks call it—and seems to me to be inspired not by human genius, but as it were by the oracle of Delphi. I need hardly mention Xenophon’s charm—effortless, but such as no effort could achieve. The Graces themselves seem to have moulded his style, and we may justly apply to him what a writer of Old Comedy said of Pericles, that some goddess of Persuasion sat upon his lips. And why dwell on the elegance of the other Socratics?

While his goal is imitation of eloquence, Quintilian’s choices are important. He very simply categorizes Plato and Xenophon as Socratics, and the best two examples at that. As such, the imitation of philosophy in rhetorical education begins with them. Quintilian’s emphasis on Plato and Xenophon as the objects of imitation is similarly affirmed in the notes accompanying the exercises in Theon’s progymnasmata. When he turns to the “good examples of each exercise from ancient prose works” to be assigned to students, he begins with Plato’s Republic. He cites several authors as different types of examples, but returns to the Socratics most frequently, mentioning six works by Plato and three by Xenophon. The statistical evidence compiled by Teresa Morgan is, again, compelling. In Quintilian’s work, Plato is cited 40 times (compared to Homer’s 41, Demosthenes’s 60, and no others with more than half of Plato’s total). In Plutarch (a Middle-Platonist), Plato holds the top spot with 915 citations (compared with Homer’s 889 and no others with more than half of Homer’s). In Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Plato is cited the second most times at 44 (compared to Demosthenes’s 73, Isocrates’s 43, and Homer’s 37).147 The engagement with Plato by Jews of the early first century C.E. is also demonstrable. The primary example would be Philo’s interaction and adoption of Platonic philosophy (as well as elements of Stoicism, NeoPythagoreanism, and even Aristotelianism). For example, Philo’s account of creation follows quite closely Plato’s account in the Timaeus. Additionally, one of the most important references to the importance of Plato and his philosophy for first century Greeks comes from Josephus: 147

Morgan, Literate Education, 318–319.

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And here I will say nothing of those other philosophers who have undertaken anything of this nature in their writings. But even Plato himself, who is so admired by the Greeks on account of that gravity in his manners, and force in his words, and that ability he had to persuade men beyond all other philosophers, is little better than laughed at and exposed to ridicule on that account, by those that pretend to sagacity in political affairs; although he that shall diligently peruse his writings will find his precepts to be somewhat gentle, and pretty near to the customs of the generality of mankind. Nay, Plato himself confesseth that it is not safe to publish the true notion concerning God among the ignorant multitude. Yet do some men look upon Plato’s discourses as no better than certain idle words set off with great artifice. 148

Josephus both affirms that Plato was apparently quite influential among the Greeks and found his philosophy worth engaging. Importantly, while Josephus disagrees with Plato on some fundamental philosophical issues, he appeals to Plato’s ‘confession’ as a support for his own point.

5.6 Conclusion 5.6 Conclusion

Having surveyed ancient educational practices in this chapter, several things should now be clear. First, it seems that Greek language education was widespread, certainly wide enough to include all areas in which the author of the Gospel of Matthew might have been written. Second, someone educated in the Greek language would have practiced, even at the most elementary levels, by copying and adapting and improvising on existing literary patterns and famous literary works of the era. Third, these mimetic exercises would have occurred across a variety of genres, but, again, focused on source materials within just a few famous literary works. Fourth, if the author of the Gospel of Matthew were educated not only in Greek literature but also in rhetoric, we might expect to see traces of the distinctive rhetorical structures and stylistic elements common in ancient Greek rhetoric. Fifth, and finally, we might expect to see traces of those categories of literary works most commonly imitated in the educational process: the Homeric corpus and the works of the Socratics. In other words, if the author of the Gospel of Matthew was educated in a Hellenistic context—as his facility with Greek seems to visibly demonstrate—then a first-century audience would expect him to use language and style and literary structure in a way that very possibly echoes Homer’s works or the Socratics.

148 Josephus, Ag. Ap., 2.32. For the English text, see Whiston, The Works of Flavius Josephus, 221.

Chapter 6

Socratic Resonances But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students.1 —Matt 23:8

The goal, so far, has been to argue for the plausibility of a broadly GrecoRoman backdrop for the Gospel of Matthew—a setting divergent from the conventional assumption of a rather more limited Jewish backdrop. The goal of this chapter is to examine specific rhetorical units from the Gospel of Matthew in relation to the Greco-Roman educational background sketched out in the last chapter—particularly in light of the dominant figure(s) found in the works most commonly assigned for adaptive exercises. In this endeavor, the methodologies discussed in the third chapter will be employed. For the purpose of delving into rhetorical analysis, our primary Matthean rhetorical unit will be the first discourse, often called the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7). I have chosen this unit for a variety of reasons. First, it is the first of the five discourses in Matthew’s Gospel.2 Second it is the longest. Third, there are no narrative breaks nor are there interactions with other individuals within the discourse itself, although it has a clear rhetorical situation. Fourth, it appears to be a compendium of Jesus’s teaching, possibly with a summative quality, and fifth, it also plays a significant role in the greater rhetorical structure of the whole Gospel (both of these features should not be taken for granted, and so will be discussed in this chapter). Sixth, there are numerous elements of the discourse and surrounding narratives that beg comparison with both the common topoi of Greco-Roman rhetorical invention as well as Greco-Roman rhetorical style. Seventh, and on the basis of these other six, the Sermon on the Mount is one of the few passages from the New Testament Gospels that has already been subjected to rhetorical criticism in ancient terms—most notably from George A. Kennedy and Hans Dieter Betz. For these reasons, I believe the first discourse will serve as a good test case for analysis. 1

Matt 23:8. Ὑµεῖς δὲ µὴ κληθῆτε ῥαββί· εἷς γάρ ἐστιν ὑµῶν ὁ διδάσκαλος, πάντες δὲ ὑµεῖς ἀδελφοί ἐστε. 2 While some have argued for six discourses, separating chapter 23 from the eschatological discourse in chapters 24–25, the fixed formula closing each discourse appears only five times. See footnote 61 in Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 61.

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6.1 What Are the Rhetorical Boundaries of the Text? 6.1 What Are the Rhetorical Boundaries of the Text?

The first step of our rhetorical analysis is to determine the beginning and ending of the primary rhetorical unit. On the surface, the first line of the discourse seems to be introduced with a clear marker in Matt 5:1–2: When Jesus saw the crowds (τοὺς ὄχλους), he went up (ἀνέβη εἰς) the mountain (τὸ ὄρος); and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he opened his mouth (καὶ ἀνοίξας τὸ στόµα αὐτοῦ), and taught them (ἐδίδασκεν αὐτοὺς), saying (λέγων)…

Likewise, the final line of the discourse—Matt 7:27—is followed by what seems to be a clear marker in Matt 7:28–8:1: Now when Jesus had finished (ἐτέλεσεν) the words (τοὺς λόγους), the crowds (οἱ ὄχλοι) were astounded at his teaching (διδαχῇ), for he taught them (διδάσκων αὐτοὺς) as one having authority, and not as their scribes. When Jesus had come down (καταβάντος) from the mountain (ὄρους), great crowds (πολλοί ὄχλοι) followed him.

Several features of both markers are important: they are both in the voice of the narrator (in contrast to the discourse in the voice of Jesus), they both appear to be summative, and they use common, related vocabulary. The crowds (ὄχλοι) and Jesus (Ἰησοῦς) and the mountain (ὄρος) are present in both. Whereas he went up in the first (ἀναβαίνω) and he came down in the second (καταβαίνω). He spoke (λέγω) in the first and his words (λόγος) were finished in the second. He taught (διδάσκω) in the first, and they responded to the teaching (διδάσκω) of his teaching (διδαχή) in the second. Given the similarity in vocabulary, these brackets form an inclusio. As such, we might understand the discourse to be a unified block of text with a particular rhetorical function intended by the author of the Gospel of Matthew.3 While the brackets of the discourse may be clear, this feature does not, however, preclude the discourse from functioning within a larger rhetorical unit, nor does it suggest that the rhetorical function of the discourse within the Gospel (or its meaning for that matter) can be grasped apart from its literary context. Neither does it preclude the author from making use of smaller rhetorical structures within the discourse. It might be helpful here to also determine a larger rhetorical unit of which the Sermon is a part. Rhetorical function need not be confined to a single pericope. Rather, rhetorical units can overlap with or even exist entirely within other rhetorical units. Nowhere would this be more expected than in a text 3

I use the term author here and throughout this chapter loosely. I do not mean by it that the text of the Gospel of Matthew or the Sermon on the Mount are an original composition by a single author named Matthew. I am just as satisfied to refer here to an editor or a compiler of the Matthean text and to debate the editor’s or compiler’s identity. For the sake of ease and consistency when referring to secondary materials, I will simply refer to the editorial mind behind the final form of the text as an author or designate him Matthew.

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in which ring structures or chiasmus are commonly found.4 In fact, a survey of scholarly positions on the structure of the Gospel of Matthew may be divided into various categories, such as geographical and chronological structure, topical structure, thematic or conceptual structure, and no structure at all, often with a large subsection of topical structures devoted to chiasmus.5 Charles H. Lohr, H.B. Green, and Peter F. Ellis each argue that the entire Gospel is structured as a set of concentric rings forming a macro-chiasm.6 While only a few scholars—none of them among the most recent—would argue for a macro-chiastic structure, many would acknowledge micro-chiastic structures within the Gospel.7 Ulrich Luz states it clearly: “Even if we cannot see this compositional principle for the entire Gospel, as the ‘center model’ assumes, we can certainly see it in individual sections.”8 While Luz and others argue for a chiastic structure for the Sermon on the Mount itself, the pressing question with regard to determining rhetorical units is not its structure (a topic to be addressed in the next chapter). Rather, the next largest concentric ring of rhetorical structure is the issue. In determining a slightly larger rhetorical unit in which the Sermon on the Mount is embedded, the inclusio of Matt 4:23 and 9:35 becomes necessarily important. Jesus went throughout (περιῆγεν ἐν ὅλῃ) Galilee, teaching (διδάσκων) in their synagogues and proclaiming (κηρύσσων) the good news of the kingdom and curing (θεραπεύων) every disease and every sickness among the people. Then Jesus went about (περιῆγεν) all the cities (πόλεις) and villages, teaching (διδάσκων) in their synagogues, and proclaiming (κηρύσσων) the good news of the kingdom, and curing (θεραπεύων) every disease and every sickness.9

The similarity of these two statements suggests a rhetorical bracketing, an idea worth considering. It is worth noting that these statements are in the voice of a narrator and summative. But, it is necessary to take one step further in order to analyze the content of this first concentric ring.

4 Aune, Westminster Dictionary, 93–96 and 427–428. D.R. Bauer, Structure of Matthew’s Gospel, 39–40. 5 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 58–72. D.R. Bauer, Structure of Matthew’s Gospel, 21–55. Weren, “Macrostructure of Matthew’s Gospel,” 171–200. 6 Lohr, “Oral Techniques in the Gospel of Matthew,” 403–435. Green, “Structure of St. Matthew’s Gospel,” 47–59. Ellis, Matthew, 12–14. 7 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 7. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 26. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 93. 8 Luz, Matthew 1–7, 7. 9 Note the similarity to Matt 11:1: “Now when Jesus had finished instructing (διατάσσων) his twelve disciples, he went on from there to teach (διδάσκειν) and proclaim (κηρύσσειν) his message in their cities (πόλεσιν).”

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In both of these narrative summaries provided by the author of the Gospel, Jesus is described as engaging in three activities: teaching, preaching, and healing. If we look at the material provided by the author between these two statements, it neatly flows from two of those three designated activities. First, as I observed above, chapters 5–7 are marked by introductory and closing statements. The primary activity in both statements was teaching (διδάσκω; Matt 5:2 and 7:29) and the content of his teaching was described using a related term (διδαχή; Matt 7:28).10 Secondly, chapters 8–9 may be described as examples of Jesus’s healing (θεραπεύω). The opening narrative summary in Matt 4:23 continues with a further explanation of θεραπεύω: So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought to him all the sick [κακῶς], those who were afflicted with various diseases [νόσοις, cf. Matt 8:17] and pains, demoniacs [δαιµονιζοµένους, cf. Matt 8:16, 28, 33, and 9:32], epileptics, and paralytics [παραλυτικούς, cf. Matt 8:6 and 9:2, 6], and he cured them [θεραπεύω αὐτός].11

Jesus’s healing was not restricted simply to diseases, but includes his reversal of various pains, demon possessions, etc. In Matthew 8–9, at least 10 specific individuals and an indeterminate number of others (described as πολύς or many in Matt 8:16) were healed from various diseases, birth defects, demonic possession, and even death.12 Several of the specific terms for afflictions from Matt 4:24 are expressed: κακῶς νόσος 10

Matt 8:16 and 9:12 Matt 8:17

It should probably be noted here that I have reservations about the usual title of the first discourse: Sermon on the Mount. Setting aside the issue of whether there was a particular mountain in view here or whether τὸ ὄρος could be referring to a mountainous region or set of hills (which might include a level place, bringing the discourse into greater resonance with Luke’s version and potentially offering or drawing clues from discussions of the Synoptic Problem), I am actually uncertain about the term sermon. At least in modern usage, the term sermon is generally associated with the concept of preaching or proclamation and, thus, the Biblical term κηρύσσω. The discourse, however, is explicitly identified with διδάσκω in Matt 5:2 and 7:29, not κηρύσσω. In Matthew and the Synoptic Gospels, if κηρύσσω takes an object, it is most frequently the εὐαγγέλιον or gospel (see Matt 4:23, 9:35, 24:14, 26:13). Less frequently, it either does not take an object (see Matt 10:7, 11:1, cf. 10:27) or takes baptism as its object (see Matt 3:1, cf. 4:17). Nowhere does it take διδαχή as the object, but this is how the first discourse is described in Matt 7:28. As such, I feel the term sermon is a little misleading. I would prefer something like the Lecture on the Mount. But of course, the overwhelming majority of references in secondary literature refer to this discourse as the “Sermon on the Mount” and I will, for the sake of ease, conform to this convention, sometimes truncating it to merely “the Sermon.” 11 Matt 4:24. 12 Jesus heals a man with leprosy (8:2), a centurion’s servant (8:6), two demon possessed men (8:28), a paralytic (9:2), a woman (9:19), a ruler’s daughter (9:23), two blind men (9:27), and a mute man (9:32).

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δαιµονίζοµαι παραλυτικός

Matt 8:16, 8:28, 8:33, and 9:32 Matt 8:6, 9:2, and 9:6

The summary term, θεραπεύω, is used twice to describe the activities, once as a potentially representative declaration in the second specific healing in Matt 8:7, and once in a summary statement regarding “the many” in Matt 8:16.13 For our purposes, it is also important that Matt 4:23 is the first time either term—διδάσκω or θεραπεύω—is mentioned. As such, the Sermon on the Mount may be considered a kind of explanatory example of Matthew’s summary statement concerning Jesus’s teaching in 4:23. Likewise, Matthew 8–9 are explanatory examples of his summary statement concerning Jesus’s healing in 4:23. Interestingly, the missing term—κηρύσσω (proclaim)—has already been introduced. The Baptist proclaims in Matt 3:1. Jesus picks up this activity in a summary statement in Matt 4:17. As such, we might assume that an example of κηρύσσω was unnecessary in this rhetorical unit or, at least, assumed to be part of Jesus’s regular activities based on the summary in 4:17. Also important for determining the bounds of these rhetorical units is the beginning of the next rhetorical unit in chapter 10 and the partial summary statement in Matt 11:1. With chapter 10 (the second discourse), there is a demonstrable shift of focus from Jesus’s representative activities to the disciples, which makes the summary statement in 11:1 all the more curious. Jesus, who is described as having authority because of his teaching (Matt 7:29) and because of his healing miracles (Matt 9:8), seems to be transferring that authority to his disciples with this first commissioning (Matt 10:1–15). The activities in which the disciples are meant to engage are, once again, two of three activities from the summary statements in Matt 4:23 and 9:35. Surprisingly, it is not the same two activities that Jesus had just demonstrated. Rather, they are to “proclaim” (κηρύσσω) in Matt 10:7 and “heal” (θεραπεύω) in Matt 10:8. They are not commissioned to “teach” (διδάσκω) until the final commission after the resurrection in Matt 28:16–20. Jesus continues to give them directions concerning their preaching and healing, described as instructing (διατάσσω) in Matt 11:1.14 The author concludes this section of the Gospel, before reintroducing the Baptist, with a partial summary statement. The focus returns to Jesus’s activities and two of the three summary terms are used: διδάσκω and κηρύσσω—though not separated from the content of the

13 Interestingly, the related term ἰάοµαι is also used twice, once as a parallel to θεραπεύω in Matt 8:8 (cf. Matt 8:7), and once as a summary of the second specific healing in Matt 8:13. 14 The term διατάσσω here probably does not mean the educational process that the English word instructing implies; given its usage in other Greek literature, it probably means something like “making arrangements.” See especially Luke 3:13 and Acts 7:44, cf. Xenophon, Cyr., 8.5.16, and Aristotle, Eth. nic., 1.2.6.

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healing ministry (as Jesus asks the disciples to bear witness to the Baptist concerning such in Matt 11:4–6). The location for these activities is also repeated in 11:1: the πόλις (cf. Matt 9:35). Fortunately, the beginning and end of the first discourse as well as the relevant narrative brackets and the larger rhetorical unit bounded by the inclusio of Matt 4:23 and 9:35 seem fairly clear.15 The larger concentric circle from Matt 4:23 to 11:1 is also present, though less compelling as it now includes the second discourse and there are fewer linguistic parallels. As such, for the purpose of rhetorical analysis, I will consider the primary rhetorical unit of the Sermon on the Mount as Matt 5:3–7:27. I will also consider the larger rhetorical unit of Matt 4:23–9:35 as it provides a helpful context for determining the rhetorical need being addressed by the Sermon.16 6.1.1 Greco-Roman Corollaries While the determination of a rhetorical unit is typically a matter merely of obvious internal structures, it is worth noting that this kind of rhetorical unit should be expected of a Greek biography. According to Richard Burridge, “a mixture of literary units make up βίοι, including anecdotes, sayings, stories, discourses and speeches.”17 Of the early narrative βίοι that Burridge analyzed, indeed anecdotes comprised the majority of the textual units.18 These anecdotes, however, were often interspersed with lengthy speeches.19 Whether a speech may be set apart with a summary inclusio is a separate question worthy of consideration. While the notion of inclusio is not uniquely Greek, it was an important part of Greek rhetorical style for larger units of speech. The very structure of oratorical arrangement, discussed in the last chapter, incorporates this notion. A propositio (the statement of a main point) at the beginning of a speech (after an exordium) and a peroratio (the summary of argument in support of the main point) at the end of the speech should be quite similar, including common vocabulary and phrasing. The propositio and peroratio might even be related terms in a chiasm.20 Of course, this beginning and ending feature of Greek oratory generally refers prescriptively to elements within a discourse, not necessarily the external 15 There seems to be a considerable unity among Matthean scholars on these divisions. Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 192 and 406. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 411–413. 16 I will also consider Matt 4:23–11:1, but only insofar as it helps demonstrate rhetorical exigence. 17 Burridge, What are the Gospels?, 137. 18 Burridge, What are the Gospels?, 137–138. 19 For an example from one of the biographies identified by Burridge, see Galgacus’s speech in Tacitus, Agr., 29–33. Agricola gives a responding speech in Tacitus, Agr., 33– 35. See also Walbank, “Speeches in the Greek Historians,” 242–261. 20 Aune, Westminster Dictionary, 93–96.

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narrative brackets I have identified in a literary presentation of a discourse. Indeed, internal oratorical structures will be explored in the next chapter. For now, the similarity of concepts is worth noting as well as the possibility that this feature is being used within the narrative itself. Beyond the similarity in vocabulary necessary to constitute an inclusio or any parallels to oratorical arrangement, there is the question of both Jewish and Greco-Roman corollaries. There exist examples in both Jewish and Greco-Roman literature, in which a discourse is bracketed with a summary of the speaker, the speaker’s activity, and the situation, just as Matthew does with the Sermon on the Mount. The Sermon both opens and closes with a narrative introduction of the speaker, the audience, the location and a basic description of the discourse as teaching in Matt 5:1–2 and Matt 7:28–8:1: When Jesus saw the crowds [τοὺς ὄχλους], he went up [ἀνέβη εἰς] the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he opened his mouth [καὶ ἀνοίξας τὸ στόµα αὐτοῦ], and taught them [ἐδίδασκεν αὐτοὺς], saying [λέγων]… Now when Jesus had finished [ἐτέλεσεν] the words [τοὺς λόγους], the crowds [οἱ ὄχλοι] were astounded at his teaching [διδαχῇ], for he taught them [διδάσκων αὐτοὺς] as one having authority, and not as their scribes. When Jesus had come down [καταβάντος] from the mountain, great crowds followed him.

This bracketing feature seems to be maintained in Jesus’s other discourses in Matthew’s Gospel, though often with less detail in the closing bracket.21 Nevertheless, it is the presence of this closing bracket that is especially important. Matthew’s formula for closing discourses—comprised of “and when Jesus finished [the sayings/parables]…” (καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν) and a transition to narrative—is what led Benjamin Bacon to his structural hypothesis for the whole Gospel.22 Interestingly, examples of this feature in Greek literature are abundant. One of the easiest places to note summary bracketing of discourses is in Thucydides, who wrote one of the earliest works to include substantive speeches in historical narrative. In his History of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides records 39 distinct speeches, varying in orator and length.23 In 38 of those 21

Both opening and closing narrative brackets are used in the second discourse (Matt 10:1, 11:1), the third discourse (Matt 13:1–3, 13:53), the fourth discourse (Matt 18:1, 19:1), and the fifth discourse (Matt 24:3–4, 26:1–2). 22 Bacon, Studies in Matthew, 80–90. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 59. 23 Not including the Melian-Athenian dialogue (5.84–5.113), which shows some of the same narrative summary bracketing, the 39 speeches found in Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War are: Corcyrean before the Athenian assembly (1.31–1.36), Corinthians before the Athenian assembly (1.36–1.43), Corinthians in the first congress of Sparta (1.67–1.72), Athenians in the first congress of Sparta (1.72–1.79), Archidamas to the Spartan assembly (1.79–1.85), Ephor Sthenelaides to the Spartan assembly (1.85–1.87), Corinthians in the second congress of Sparta (1.120–1.124), Pericles to the Athenian as-

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speeches, the speech is both introduced and closed with a narrative summary, a notation of who was about to speak, details about the circumstances in which the person was speaking, and/or additional information about the speaker. For example, when Pericles is introduced before he addresses the Athenian assembly, we are told of his lineage, his social importance, and his capacity for oratory. At last Pericles the son of Xanthippus, who was the first man of his day at Athens, and the greatest orator and statesman, came forward and advised as follows.24

And when the speech is concluded, the narrator describes the reaction of the audience and their commitments to follow the orator’s advice. Such were the words of Pericles. The Athenians, approving, voted as he told them, and on his motion answered the Lacedaemonians in detail as he had suggested, and on the whole question to the effect “that they would do nothing upon compulsion, but were ready to settle their differences by arbitration upon fair terms according to the treaty.” So the ambassadors went home and came no more.25

sembly (1.139–1.45), Archidamas to the Peloponnesians (2.10–2.12), Pericles’s funeral oration (2.34–2.48), Pericles to the Athenian assembly (2.64–2.70), Peloponnesian commanders to crews in the Corinthian gulf (2.86–2.88), Phormio to the Athenian crews in the Corinthian gulf (2.88–2.89), Mityleneans to the Peloponnesians at Olympia (3.8–3.14), Cleon to the Athenian assembly (3.36–3.41), Diodotus to the Athenian assembly (3.41– 3.49), Plataeans to the Spartan judges (3.52–3.60), Thebans to the Spartan judges (3.60– 3.68), Demosthenes to his troops (4.9–4.11), Lacedaemonians to the Athenian assembly (4.16–4.21), Hermocrates in the Sicilian congress at Gela (4.58–4.65), Brasidas to the Acanthians (4.84–4.88), Pagondas to the Boeotians at Delium (4.91–4.93), Hippocrates to the Athenians at Delium (4.94–4.96), Brasidas to his troops against Arrhibaeus (4.125– 4.127), Brasidas to his troops before Amphipolis (5.8–5.10), Nicias to the Athenian assembly (6.8–6.15), Alcibiades to the Athenian assembly (6.15–6.19), Nicias to the Athenian assembly (6.19–6.24), Hermocrates to the Syracusan assembly (6.32–6.35), Athenagoras to the Syracusan assembly (6.35–6.41), Syracusan general to the Syracusan assembly (6.41), Nicias before the first battle at Syracuse (6.67–6.69), Hermocrates at Camarina (6.75–6.81), Euphemus at Camarina (6.81–88), Alcibiades at Sparta (6.88–6.93), Nicias before the last sea battle (7.60–7.65), Gylippus before the last sea battle (7.65– 7.69), Nicias before the retreat from Syracuse (7.76–7.78) 24 καὶ παρελθὼν Περικλῆς ὁ Ξανθίππου, ἀνὴρ κατ᾽ ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον πρῶτος Ἀθηναίων, λέγειν τε καὶ πράσσειν δυνατώτατος, παρῄνει τοιάδε. Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1.139. For the English translation, see Hobbes, English Works. 25 ὁ µὲν Περικλῆς τοιαῦτα εἶπεν, οἱ δὲ Ἀθηναῖοι νοµίσαντες ἄριστα σφίσι παραινεῖν αὐτὸν ἐψηφίσαντο ἃ ἐκέλευε, καὶ τοῖς Λακεδαιµονίοις ἀπεκρίναντο τῇ ἐκείνου γνώµῃ, καθ᾽ ἕκαστά τε ὡς ἔφρασε καὶ τὸ ξύµπαν, οὐδὲν κελευόµενοι ποιήσειν, δίκῃ δὲ κατὰ τὰς ξυνθήκας ἑτοῖµοι εἶναι διαλύεσθαι περὶ τῶν ἐγκληµάτων ἐπὶ ἴσῃ καὶ ὁµοίᾳ. καὶ οἱ µὲν ἀπεχώρησαν ἐπ᾽ οἴκου καὶ οὐκέτι ὕστερον ἐπρεσβεύοντο. Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1.145. For the English text, see Jowett’s translation of The Peloponnesian War.

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While most of the speeches begin with this kind of opening and closing narrative summary, especially clear examples are found in the speeches of Nicias (6.19, 24), Archidamus (2.10, 12), and Demosthenes (4.9, 11). Thucydides is not unique in his use of narrative brackets. The Homeric epics, famous for their inclusion of numerous speeches, use a similar and similarly consistent pattern.26 For example, when Odysseus spoke to the Argives in book 2 of the Iliad, we learn a bit about him, including his intent: But up rose Odysseus, sacker of cities, the sceptre in his hand, and by his side flashingeyed Athene, in the likeness of a herald, bade the host keep silence, that the sons of the Achaeans, both the nearest and the farthest, might hear his words, and lay to heart his counsel. He with good intent addressed their gathering and spake among them.27

And when the speech is concluded, the narrator describes the audience’s response: So spake he, and the Argives shouted aloud, and all round about them the ships echoed wondrously beneath the shouting of the Achaeans, as they praised the words of godlike Odysseus.28

The similarity of this discourse-bracketing feature in Homer and Thucydides to the same feature in Matthew’s Gospel is not particularly remarkable in itself. However, it may be significant that this feature appears to be Greek in its origin. For example, the discourses of the prophets in the Hebrew Bible often have narrative summary brackets at their opening, as do the speeches in Deuteronomy and the other historical books. Likewise, every speech in Job has a narrative summary introduction, presumably to distinguish who is talking (as much of the book takes the form of a dialogue comprising extended poetic speeches). Closing brackets, however, seem to be quite rare. I have only found two possible exceptions: Deut 31:1 (which seems to be a transition from one of Moses’s speeches to the next) and Job 31:40 (which simply states that Job’s words had ended—a comment from the narrator that heightens the drama of Job’s closing defense—and which completely lacks a transition to the next speech or narrative). New Testament corollaries, on the other hand, tend to include closing narrative brackets (e.g., John 18:1, Acts 7:54– 55). 26 See especially the cycle of speeches in book 9. Homer, Il., 9.14, 9.30–50, etc. Also see the description of the assemblies in Homer, Il., 2.110–41, 2.284–332, and 2.337–368. See also Homer, Od., 2.40–256. 27 Homer, Il., 2.278–283 (Murray, LCL). ἀνὰ δ᾽ ὃ πτολίπορθος Ὀδυσσεὺς, ἔστη σκῆπτρον ἔχων: παρὰ δὲ γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη, εἰδοµένη κήρυκι σιωπᾶν λαὸν ἀνώγει, ὡς ἅµα θ᾽ οἳ πρῶτοί τε καὶ ὕστατοι υἷες Ἀχαιῶν, µῦθον ἀκούσειαν καὶ ἐπιφρασσαίατο βουλήν: ὅ σφιν ἐὺ φρονέων ἀγορήσατο καὶ µετέειπεν: 28 Homer, Il., 2.334–335, (Murray, LCL). ὣς ἔφατ᾽, Ἀργεῖοι δὲ µέγ᾽ ἴαχον, ἀµφὶ δὲ νῆες, σµερδαλέον κονάβησαν ἀϋσάντων ὑπ᾽ Ἀχαιῶν, µῦθον ἐπαινήσαντες Ὀδυσσῆος θείοιο:

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For reasons beyond simple linguistic transitions between narrative and discourse, one of the more obvious Old Testament corollaries to the Sermon on the Mount (particularly with regard to the symmetry of the brackets) is the Sinai discourse of Exod 20:1–31:18. While this particular discourse does seem to have narrative summary brackets, the actual content of both the brackets and the discourse render it far more complicated. Several curious aspects of the Sinai discourse make analyzing it difficult. First, while the narrative brackets specify Moses’s presence and movements, the discourse itself is delivered by Yahweh. Additionally, it is not really a single discourse, but a series of discourses reportedly given over 40 days (cf. Exod 24:18). The discourse actually resembles dialogue with other narrative interruptions more closely than it does a proper discourse. 29 Finally, the discourse ends not with a narrative transition to a chronologically subsequent event, but to a presentation of what had been going on simultaneously at the foot of the mountain (cf. Exod 32:1–35), a fact which further undermines the transitional value of the closing narrative bracket. Thus, purely based on the mechanisms for transitioning in and out of discourse, the Sinai speech in Exodus seems to be a comparatively underwhelming corollary to the Sermon on the Mount. As a result, the abundance of this summary bracketing feature in Greek literature, including the New Testament, and its relative rarity in the Hebrew canon should not be underestimated. At the same time, the rhetorical value of this feature should not be overestimated. The addition of closing brackets makes for a more fluid style when a speaker narrates the story of a prominent figure and must smoothly transition from narrative anecdote to discourse and back to anecdote. This aspect in itself does not really confirm Matthew’s saturation in Greek literature. But could it be one small argument in a series of arguments that, taken together, have critical mass?

6.2 What Is the Rhetorical Situation/Context in Which the Text Appears? 6.2 What Is the Rhetorical Situation/Context in Which the Text Appears?

The second step of our rhetorical analysis is to determine the rhetorical situation of the unit. This is, perhaps, the most complex step when considering the Synoptic Gospels. The complexity comes from the distinctions between and the overlap of the analytical categories of literary context and historical context.30 29

E.g., Exod 20:18–22, 24:1–2, 24:9–11, 24:18, 30:11, 30:17, 30:22, 30:34, 31:1, 31:12, 31:18–32:1. 30 By literary and historical context, I am not referring to social scientific categories. Rather, with the term literary context, I am referring to the context of adjacent passages which are possibly part of a larger rhetorical unit. With the term historical context, I am

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Matthew presents his story as events from his historical past. His concern may be for history in the modern sense, but it may also be tempered by theological or other concerns. While these additional concerns may or may not undermine his fidelity to history in the modern sense, they necessarily influence his rhetoric. As such, there is a rhetorical situation constructed by the literary context of the Sermon on the Mount. That is, Matthew has given the primary rhetorical unit a rhetorical function within its literary context. This rhetorical function may be present regardless of historical circumstances. It is a function of story, of the narrative that the author has composed. In this way, the literary context is of primary concern when looking at the function of the Sermon on the Mount within its larger narrative rhetorical unit. At the same time, the author is presenting his Gospel as a series of historical events, demanding a kind of historical context.31 If a modern notion of history is applied to the text in order to reconstruct something of the rhetoric of the historical Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, then the historical clues from the sequence of events in the Gospel must also be considered. Certain events occurred prior to the Sermon. Certain events had not yet happened. How this is presented in Matthew’s Gospel as opposed to the other Evangelists’ Gospels becomes a relevant question for debate. Historical Jesus studies, the Synoptic Problem, a position on the existence of Q, the possibility that something like a Sermon on the Mount existed in Matthew’s special materials, and certainly redaction criticism all become factors. Likewise, whether the Sermon on the Mount is even being presented as a single discourse or an epitome of discourses that Jesus delivered becomes a significant factor. Who the audience or audiences were and what they could or could not have known during the actual teaching and how these questions might affect the internal rhetoric of the speech are likewise factors. In this way, historical context is not concerned with Matthew at all, but with Jesus’s rhetorical purpose within the Sermon. It is necessary to examine the interplay of these various contexts. Literary context is significant when considering Matthew’s intended rhetorical function of the Sermon on the Mount in the larger narrative. The historical context is significant when considering Jesus’s rhetorical purpose within the Sermon. But while the literary and historical contexts do seem to have different uses and ranges of concern, there is also considerable overlap. An understanding of the historical context is informed by an understanding of the

referring to cultural context and the historical setting of events described. This second category does, however, involve elements of social scientific theory, particularly aspects of social context and spatial context. See Wenell, “A Markan “Context” Kingdom?” 123– 132. 31 See Sanders, Historical Figure of Jesus, 1–9; Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 1–11.

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literary context. That is, an understanding of the rhetorical purpose of the Sermon on the Mount must take the historical circumstances of the Sermon into account, and the highest concentration of reliable historical details is in the Gospel of Matthew. Likewise, if one wishes to understand much about the rhetorical function of the discourse in the larger narrative, it is also necessary to understand what the author thought the speaker’s rhetorical purpose was. In other words, in order to understand how Matthew rhetorically places the Sermon on the Mount in his Gospel, it is necessary to understand what he thought Jesus’s rhetorical purpose was. The two purposes need not be identical. But given that Matthew has chosen to use the Sermon on the Mount in his Gospel, the purposes will most likely be related. As such, in determining the rhetorical situation of the Sermon on the Mount, both literary and historical contexts must be considered, as well as both Matthew’s rhetorical agenda and Jesus’s. 6.2.1 The Sermon on the Mount as Compendium or Epitome One way through the complexity is to posit that the Sermon on the Mount, as Matthew has presented it, is a compendium or epitome. That is, analysis of interplay between historical and literary contexts is useless, on the one hand, if one does not assume that the author is presenting a historical discourse, but instead an edited and purposefully arranged compendium of discourses and other teaching material. On the other hand, such analysis is far more helpful—though still challenging—if we assume the Sermon presented in Matthew’s Gospel is an epitome of a historical discourse. In either case, isolating the historical Jesus’s potentially independent rhetorical purpose becomes the goal. But, can it be demonstrated that the Sermon on the Mount is an epitome or a compendium? How will the literary and historical contexts be affected? Three factors are relevant: 6.2.1.1 Matthew’s Context Suggests Repetition In Matt 4:23–25, Jesus is described as an itinerant preacher going throughout Galilee (καί περιῆγεν ἐν ὅλῃ τῇ Γαλιλαίᾳ) teaching, preaching, and healing. That these activities are summarized again in 9:35 is significant. It gives the impression that this was a repeated set of activities in several contexts. In 4:23, the context for preaching—synagogues (συναγωγαῖς)—is plural. The occasions for healing are also plural (as is demonstrated in 8:2–9:34). Likewise, one may assume that the teaching captured in the Sermon on the Mount occurred on several occasions. Nevertheless, unlike the series of healings in chapters 8 and 9, the Sermon on the Mount is presented as a single speech with no narrative interruptions or changes in audience. Ultimately, the suggestion of repeated activities may be more useful in explaining the Synoptic relationship with Luke’s Sermon on the Plain or the repetition of phrases or

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ideas from the Sermon elsewhere in Matthew than it is in explaining the sources of the Sermon. 6.2.1.2 Matthew’s Presentation Suggests a Particular Setting Here, Matthew seems to present the discourse as occurring on a particular historical occasion. Both Matt 5:1–2 and 7:28–8:1 seem to suggest that the crowd and the disciples witnessed the teaching at a particular time and in a particular place. The setting seems clear: ὁ ὄρος (5:1, 8:1). Some of the time markers are a little more ambiguous, mostly because they make use of conjunctions tied to specific actions of Jesus: δέ + Jesus went up, καί + he sat down, καί + he began to speak (5:1) and δέ + he came down (8:1). The clearest time marker occurs in the account of the crowd’s reaction in 7:28: “Καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς τοὺς λόγους τούτους…” (7:28a). For the purposes of this study, the key word is the aorist indicative form of τελέω, “to finish.” Jesus had finished “these words,” referring back to the discourse he had just spoken. Importantly, Matthew seems to place each of the discourses in particular historical contexts by using a form of τελέω (cf. Matt 11:1, 13:53, 19:1, and 26:1). Further, Matthew records the reaction of the crowd to the sermon just before Jesus descends the mountain and begins traveling again. Time and location markers are clear. 6.2.1.3 The Content and Structure of the Sermon In order to avoid circular reasoning, it is not possible to argue or conclude a particular structure or organization of content at this point. 6.2.1.4 Possible Positions With these factors in play, three positions are commonly held. First, most scholars, especially those in the last hundred years, conclude that the Sermon is a compendium of sayings from Jesus found in Matthew’s possible sources, including: 1) a sayings gospel (i.e., Q) and/or other written gospels, 2) oral tradition, and 3) later church materials, in addition to 4) his own creative interpolations.32 In this case, the editor’s rhetorical purpose is completely in the foreground and the historical Jesus’s rhetorical purpose would be impossible to recreate. Second, some scholars conclude that the Sermon as we have

32

That the Sermon on the Mount is a compendium of Jesus’s teaching has a long history in critical scholarship including figures like John Calvin (see Calvin, Complete Commentary, vol. 16., 258–259). Betz argues extensively that the Sermon is an epitome constructed from an early version of Q that had evolved into separate sources and is supplemented by other sources, and that it is typical of a group of documents that includes the Didache. See Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 1–44, especially 1, 7–8, 23–24.

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it in Matthew’s Gospel is an epitome or summary of a single source.33 Whether that source can be traced back to a particular occasion in the life of Jesus or makes use of several sermons from this period in Jesus’s life (the historical period bounded by Matt 4:23 and 9:35, at least) is ultimately irrelevant.34 In this scenario, the rhetorical purpose of the editor is still in the foreground. Yet, it may be possible to detect a glimmer of the historical Jesus’s rhetorical purpose behind it, if one assumes (or can demonstrate) that the editor has somewhat accurately summarized the full discourse in the extant Sermon. A third position is also possible: the extant Sermon could be the product of one single occasion in the life of the historical Jesus; it could have been transcribed or memorized and recorded here as it was delivered, no more and no less. Given the way Matthew has presented the Sermon on the Mount, I find the first option (broad compendium) improbable. In order to argue this option, one must assume that the editor has mistakenly or deceptively—at the very least, incorrectly—attributed the teaching to a specific setting. At this point, aside from possibly Q, no additional sources can be independently and definitively identified for the material in the final form of the Sermon. To hypothesize additional sources at the expense of Matthew’s own narrative brackets seems both superfluous and flawed.35 Why should modern assumptions about the quality and length of the Sermon—supposing it too intricate and elegant to have been uttered by Jesus or understood by his audience—carry more weight than the narrative brackets that Matthew has included? At the same time, to assume that the Sermon represents a single historical occasion of preaching in its entirety (that is, not a summary), also seems flawed. Such a position over-interprets the narrative brackets in a larger rhetorical unit filled with summarizing statements and clear historical gaps (especially in chapters 8 and 9). One need not ignore the way Matthew presents the Sermon in order

33

See Carson, Matthew, 122–126. I would argue that both are possible and still make sense of the way Matthew presents the Sermon. One must be careful not to apply our modern (and more scientific) sense of history to first-century documents. In this case, it would be conceivable that, given Matthew’s clear purpose of summarizing the overall ministry in Galilee, the Sermon on the Mount also represents a summary of Jesus’s teaching during this period. In fact, this might help make sense of the plural crowds (plural forms of ὄχλος) in what seem to be summary statements and points at which the crowds’ response is summarized (Matt 4:23, 5:1, 7:28, 8:1, 9:8, 9:33, 9:36) in contrast to the singular crowd present on particular occasions (Matt 8:18, 9:23, 9:25). 35 Betz argues for a convoluted process in which the Sermon evolved through several separate stages to produce the Sermon on the Mount and the Sermon on the Plain. See Allison, review of H.D. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 136–138; Carlston, “Betz on the Sermon on the Mount—A Critique,” 47–57; and Hagner, review of H.D. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 353–356. 34

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to argue that it is an epitome of his teaching on a particular occasion or even during that period of his ministry. As such, I will assume the second option— the epitome option—as a working hypothesis for the remainder of this chapter. Analysis of the content and structure of the Sermon on the Mount may provide data that question this conclusion, but for now, I believe an analysis of the Sermon as an epitome is a reasonable way to proceed in this chapter. 6.2.2 Literary Genre: The Sermon on the Mount as Epitome The question of the composition of the Sermon on the Mount naturally raises the question of genre. Hans Dieter Betz has argued that the Sermon on the Mount is an epitome in a technical sense. As with the whole Gospel, there are a variety of choices for the specific genre of the Sermon on the Mount available in modern scholarship. The most general categories are the least helpful: discourse, narrative and Gospel. More specific and more helpful taxonomic designations include midrash, paraenesis (applied to portions of the Sermon on the Mount, but generally not the whole), a collection of wisdom sayings, and epitome. While the first three options are inviting, especially given the apparent Judaic qualities of the Sermon, a comparison of the Sermon with Greco-Roman epitome, as suggested by Hans Dieter Betz, seems most consistent with the literary genre of the whole Gospel.36 Betz begins his study of the genre of the Sermon on the Mount by looking at the concluding words to find an immediate application. Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.37

The point of the Sermon is that the followers of Jesus would both hear and do those things that Jesus commands. Acquisition of knowledge by means of perception (i.e., hearing, observing, seeing) and exhortation to carry out Jesus’s commandments (or God’s commandments, the commandments of the Torah) are central features of the Sermon. This knowledge is established as the characteristic object of reflection for those on “narrow way” or “the wise man.” The strong emphasis on these terms of perception and their results is

36

Logically, the prevalence of Hebrew Bible quotations indicates midrash, Hagner, Matthew 1–13, 156, 162; Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 641. Williams promotes paraenesis and offers two useful critiques. Williams, “Paraenesis, Excess and Ethics,” 163–187. 37 Matt 7:24–27, emphasis is mine.

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remarkably similar to those commonly used in Hellenistic ethical literature, specifically diatribe in the style of Epictetus.38 Betz proceeds to compare the method of Epictetus’s educational philosophy, concluding that the person hearing the Sermon would be a person who is engaged in ἄσκησις (training) or who µελετᾷ (from µελετάω, an “almost untranslatable verb combining philosophical-ethical reflection and practical experience,” for which Socrates is the prototype).39 Betz also notices Epictetus’s emphasis on a clear understanding of previously stipulated guidelines as a requirement for proper µελετᾶν.40 The diatribes—or Dissertations—of Epictetus are not identical with his philosophy, but rather presuppose it. Betz concludes that the purpose of the diatribes is not to inform his hearers about his philosophy, “but is to make them philosophize, so that they can develop the wisdom necessary to meet the challenges of Tyche.”41 Given the similarity of terminology between Epictetus’s diatribes and the Sermon on the Mount, Betz concludes that the Sermon would fit comfortably into a Greek rhetorical tradition promoting ἄσκησις and µελετᾶν. Betz goes on to discuss Epictetus’s Enchiridion as an even closer comparison to the Sermon on the Mount with respect to genre. The Enchiridion is a group of sayings collected by Arrian from his larger work, the Dissertations (which transcribes the teaching of Epictetus). While the Enchiridion is preceded by the Dissertations in composition, it contains those “fundamental doctrines which serve as the basis for discussion in the Dissertations.”42 Betz determines that the genre of the Enchiridion is epitome,43 demonstrating that its purpose was pedagogical.44 The creator of an epitome (whether the author or a redactor), does not merely summarize and condense for his readers,45 but 38

Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 287–290. Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 290. Betz is citing Epict. diss. 1.25.31. for the comment on Socrates. 40 Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 291. Betz is citing Epict. diss. 1.1.21; cf. 2.1.29. 41 Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 291. 42 Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 292. 43 There are several types of epitome in the ancient world and so this term by itself is not terribly helpful. Betz specifies that the Sermon on the Mount is a type of epitome that is functionally close to Epictetus’s Enchiridion and other such texts. 44 Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 293–294. Betz also considers the Letter to Herodotus (from Epicurus’s Kyriai Doxai) an epitome in epistolary form, for those unable to read the larger works. 45 Williams argues against this point. Williams, “Paraenesis, Excess and Ethics,” 165. France has no difficulty calling the Sermon on the Mount an “anthology of the teaching of Jesus relating to discipleship, compiled by Matthew into his own distinctive structure (though using as a basis the sermon outline of Luke 6:20–49), but aiming to provide an overview of the authoritative teaching of the Messiah himself.” France, Gospel of Matthew, 155. 39

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rather constructs general principles, which are meant to be used as tools by the readers.46 For Betz, the Sermon on the Mount is an epitome systematically presenting the theology of Jesus, carefully constructed by thematically grouping Jesus’s sayings according to the most important points of doctrine. He also highlights the didactic nature of the Sermon: Correspondingly, its function is to provide the disciple of Jesus with the necessary tool for becoming a Jesus theologian. “Hearing and doing the sayings of Jesus,” therefore, means the enabling of the disciple to theologize creatively along the lines of the theology of the master. To say it pointedly: The SM is not “law” to be obeyed, but theology to be intellectually appropriated and internalized, in order then to be creatively developed and implemented in concrete situations of life.47

Betz has argued strongly that the Sermon is within the genre of epitome in the style of Epictetus. However, Efroymson, Carlston, Meier and Hagner have each found fault in Betz’s assertions that the Sermon should be studied apart from the rest of the Gospel because 1) it consists of pre-Matthean material independent of Q, material that came to Matthew and Luke in different forms and 2) the Sermon contains no Christology.48 Hagner’s observation concerning the danger of arguing from silence is especially noteworthy. But Betz’s conclusion concerning whether the Sermon fits the function of a GrecoRoman epitome (such as Kyriai Doxai or Enchiridion) does not depend on the Sermon on the Mount consisting of an earlier, pre-Matthean source. Betz did not suggest that the connection between the Sermon and the genre of epitome was linguistic. He argued that the connection was one of function. As such, Carlston and Meier both seem generally positive toward the notion of the Sermon as an epitome. Their dissent is limited to the argument concerning pre-Matthean sources.

46

In support of his point, Betz quotes Epicurus’s Epistle to Menoeceus, as it appears in Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, 10.35. Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 294. 47 Betz, “Sermon on the Mount: Its Literary Genre and Function,” 296. 48 Efroymson, review of H.D. Betz, Essays on the Sermon on the Mount, 462–463. Carlston, “Betz on the Sermon on the Mount—A Critique” (review of Hans Dieter Betz, Essays on the Sermon the Mount), 47–57. Meier, review of H.D. Betz, Essays on the Sermon on the Mount, 202–203. Hagner, review of H.D. Betz, The Sermon on the Mount, 353–356. Richard A. Edwards observes that the wide variety of types of epitome in ancient literature, however, forces Betz’s argument to be unfortunately narrow. He argues that while the Sermon on the Mount could have been an epitome, it could just as easily have been a summary of Jesus’s teaching. See R.A. Edwards, review of H.D. Betz, Essays on the Sermon on the Mount, 132–134.

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6.2.3 Literary Context: The Rhetorical Setting In his description of his methodology, Kennedy cites Lloyd F. Bitzer on the parameters for determining the rhetorical situation (i.e., Sitz im Leben) of the discourse to be analyzed. Bitzer suggests that a variety of elements— including persons, events, objects, and relations—should be considered. The purpose of determining the rhetorical situation is the first step in answering the question of exigence. What has prompted this discourse? To what events or situations does this discourse respond? Basically, what in the context can help answer the question of “why” this discourse is occurring? In the case of the Sermon on the Mount, one may look at the context in two ways. First, one may examine the broad literary structure of the Gospel of Matthew to identify a preceding rhetorical prompt for the Sermon; additionally, one may consider whether the Sermon functions itself as a rhetorical prompt or foundation for some later bit of Matthew’s text. As one might expect, the texts used to determine the rhetorical limits of the discourse can also establish some aspect of rhetorical situation. I have suggested earlier in this chapter that the Sermon seems to be positioned as an illustration of the teaching aspect of the summary statements in 4:23–25 and 9:35–38. The summary statements are, at their simplest level, descriptions of Jesus’s activities for some period at the beginning of his ministry (in this case, focused mainly on Galilee). Second, one may also look at the immediate literary context for Bitzer’s categories—persons, events, objects, relations—in order to see if there are any further clues to rhetorical exigence. I will focus on four elements within three passages: the opening and closing narrative brackets of the Sermon and the brackets of the larger rhetorical unit in Matt 4:23–5:2, Matt 7:28–8:1, and Matt 9:35–38: Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people. So his fame spread throughout all Syria, and they brought to him all the sick, those who were afflicted with various diseases and pains, demoniacs, epileptics, and paralytics, and he cured them. And great crowds followed him from Galilee, the Decapolis, Jerusalem, Judea, and from beyond the Jordan. When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying… Now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as their scribes. When Jesus had come down from the mountain, great crowds followed him. Then Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is

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plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

6.2.3.1 Went In Matt 4:23, Jesus is described as going about (περιάγω) the countryside of Galilee in order to teach (διδάσκω), preach (κηρύσσω), and heal (θεραπεύω). This description of travel, of course, points to a depiction of Jesus as an itinerant preacher. Interestingly, Matthew goes on to state that Jesus taught in the synagogues, a notion he repeats in the summaries at 9:35 and 13:54. But Matthew only once describes Jesus entering a synagogue. Rather, he tends to portray Jesus teaching in other private and semi-public spaces, as a reader might expect of an itinerant preacher.49 Additionally, his status as intentionally itinerant is confirmed in his response to the scribe who pledged to follow him: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”50 The precedent for this kind of traveling teacher is most likely GrecoRoman in origin. Even Davies and Allison acknowledge that Matthew’s presentation is conspicuous: “It makes Jesus, unlike the typical prophets of Israel and rabbis but not certain Hellenistic philosophers, an itinerant wanderer.”51 The Sophists were depicted as traveling teachers who, unlike Socrates, would even venture beyond Athens.52 For example, Plato’s Socrates describes these philosophical teachers as wandering around in the Protagoras: For among the provisions, you know, in which these men deal, not only are they themselves ignorant what is good or bad for the body, since in selling they commend them all, but the people who buy from them are so too, unless one happens to be a trainer or a doctor. And in the same way, those who take their doctrines the round (περιάγω) of our cities, hawking them about to any odd purchaser who desires them, commend everything that they sell, and there may well be some of these too, my good sir, who are ignorant which of their wares is good or bad for the soul.53

49

For an interesting discussion of private and public spaces for teaching in the New Testament, see Neyrey, “Teaching You in Public and from House to House,” 69–102. 50 Matt 8:20. 51 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 412. 52 See Kraut, Socrates and the State, 228–229, especially note 67. Plato also describes the Sophists as itinerant teachers in the Protagoras and the Gorgias. Also see Scott. Plato’s Socrates as Educator, 5. A survey of the Socratic dialogues reveals that Socrates taught in numerous locations, according to Plato and Xenophon, but was conspicuously tied to Athens. 53 Plat. Prot., 313d–313e (Lamb, LCL). Xenophon articulates a similar notion by way of a hypothetical illustration of a flute player in Xenophon, Mem., 1.7.2.

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In the course of travel, it was expected that illuminating discussion would follow.54 In fact, the connection between a wandering teacher and his discussion is so common that, in the Laches, the discussion itself is humorously described as wandering: You strike me as not being aware that, whoever comes into close contact with Socrates and has any talk with him face to face, is bound to be drawn round and round by him in the course of the argument—though it may have started at first on a quite different theme— and cannot stop until he is led into giving an account of himself, of the manner in which he now spends his days, and of the kind of life he has lived hitherto.55

This combination of wandering (usually physically but also metaphorically) and discussion with a philosophical teacher is a common picture in GrecoRoman literature, common enough that the contrast with Socrates is significant. 6.2.3.2 Sat Down In Matt 5:1, Jesus is described as sitting in order to teach (καὶ καθίσαντος αὐτοῦ). This is typically treated as consistent with contemporary rabbinic practices and so used to confirm Matthew’s portrayal of Jesus as a rabbinic figure. On the surface, this argument seems enticingly simple. At the beginning of the discipleship discourse in Matt 13:1–2, Jesus once again sits to teach (ἐκάθητο παρὰ τὴν θάλασσαν and καθῆσθαι). In the last discourse, he reminds the crowds that he sat and taught every day in the synagogues (καθʼ ἡµέραν ἐν τῷ ἱερῷ ἐκαθεζόµην διδάσκων).56 The scribes and Pharisees are similarly described by Jesus in the fifth discourse as seated on Moses’s seat 54

The prospects of discussion in the manner of Socrates are discussed by Epictetus. “If a man has frequent intercourse with others either for talk, or drinking together, or generally for social purposes, he must either become like them, or change them to his own fashion. For if a man places a piece of quenched charcoal close to a piece that is burning, either the quenched charcoal will quench the other, or the burning charcoal will light that which is quenched. Since then the danger is so great, we must cautiously enter into such intimacies with those of the common sort, and remember that it is impossible that a man can keep company with one who is covered with soot without being partaker of the soot himself. For what will you do if a man speaks about gladiators, about horses, about athletes, or what is worse about men? Such a person is bad, such a person is good: this was well done, this was done badly. Further, if he scoff, or ridicule, or show an ill-natured disposition? Is any man among us prepared like a lute-player when he takes a lute, so that as soon as he has touched the strings, he discovers which are discordant, and tunes the instrument? such a power as Socrates had who in all his social intercourse could lead his companions to his own purpose? How should you have this power? It is therefore a necessary consequence that you are carried about by the common kind of people.” Epictetus, Diatr., 3.16. For the English translation, see Long, Discourses of Epictetus. 55 Plato, Lach., 187e–188a (Lamb, LCL). 56 Matt 26:55.

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(ἐπὶ τῆς Μωϋσέως καθέδρας ἐκάθισαν οἱ γραµµατεῖς καὶ οἱ Φαρισαῖοι), a position of instructive authority.57 Luke’s Gospel seems to make an important distinction: Jesus stands to read the Hebrew Scriptures as a matter of custom (εἴωθα) in Luke 4:16, and in Luke 4:20, he sits down before he speaks again. Add to this the considerable midrashic and mishnaic evidence, and Jesus’s sitting appears to be a matter of rabbinic convention.58 The selected evidence “fits expected patterns of Jewish instruction,” and so, may be used as a foundation for further arguments.59 But is it this simple? With respect to the Matthean passages identified above, two points are important. First, Jesus is described in the narrative as sitting to teach at only two of the five large discourses. Second, in those two situations, Matthew uses two different—albeit semantically related—words: καθίζω (Matt 5:1) and κάθηµαι (Matt 13:1–2). Jesus’s own reference to sitting brings the count to three (καθέζοµαι, Matt 26:55). If a particular rabbinic setting were consciously being implied by Matthew, the variance and relative sparseness of the vocabulary does seem odd. Yet, this facet should not be weighted too heavily, but rather considered in light of other evidence. Luke 4:16, for example, suggests that Jesus stands to read the Hebrew Scriptures as a matter of custom.60 This interpretation presumes that the phrase “κατὰ τὸ εἰωθὸς” implicitly applies to the description of him standing to teach, not merely his attendance at the synagogue (contrary to the way several English versions present the verse). The Greek text, however, seems to bury that phrase in the clause pertaining only to attendance at the synagogue.61 The possessive pronoun here is also significant. Luke identifies the custom as “τὸ εἰωθὸς αὐτῷ.” It was distinctly Jesus’s custom to visit the synagogues. After reading, Jesus sits. But here, the sitting is not identified as a custom; it may simply be an indication that he had finished reading. Did he then explicitly intend to teach and so the eyes of the audience were fixed on him as a matter of convention? Or were people simply staring at him and so, as a result, he was unexpectedly prompted to speak? Luke’s narrative does not offer a definitive answer one way or the other. In addition to the matter of Matthew’s intent in stating that Jesus sat to teach, one must also consider the cultural or social context. As most commentators present it, including Keener, the intertextual connection here is

57

Matt 23:2. Pesiq. Rab Kah. 18:5; b. Beṣah 15b; b. Pesaḥ. 26b; b. Sanh. 99b. See Keener, Gospel of Matthew, 164. 59 Keener, Gospel of Matthew, 164. 60 For this interpretation, see Keener, Gospel of Matthew, 164. 61 Καὶ ἦλθεν εἰς Ναζαρά, οὗ ἦν τεθραµµένος, καὶ εἰσῆλθεν κατὰ τὸ εἰωθὸς αὐτῷ ἐν τῇ ἡµέρᾳ τῶν σαββάτων εἰς τὴν συναγωγὴν καὶ ἀνέστη ἀναγνῶναι. (Luke 4:16) 58

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Jewish.62 The commentators frequently cite only Old Testament or rabbinic sources, leaving an impression that this was somehow a uniquely Jewish teaching practice. But was it? A brief survey of Greco-Roman philosophical texts also demonstrates that it was, in fact, customary for Greek philosophical teachers to teach their pupils or disciples while seated.63 For example, Plato’s great dialogue on education, the Republic, begins with a description of Socrates: He was sitting on a sort of couch with cushions and he had a chaplet on his head, for he had just finished sacrificing in the court. So we went and sat down beside him, for there were seats there disposed in a circle.64

The students found their teacher sitting and decided to sit with him and engage him in discussion. Likewise, passages in Plato’s Protagoras also show that a common practice of philosophical instructors was to sit and teach students who were also sitting.65 As might be expected, this practice was main62 See Keener, Gospel of Matthew, 164. This is especially surprising as Keener is writing a Socio-rhetorical commentary and seems rather open to the influence of Greco-Roman culture at other points. See also Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 424–425. 63 Jan Bremmer also observes acts of ritual sitting as a form of self-abasement. See Bremmer, “Walking, Standing, and Sitting in Ancient Greek Literature,” 25–26. 64 Plato, Resp., 328c. καθῆστο δὲ ἐστεφανωµένος ἐπί τινος προσκεφαλαίου τε καὶ δίφρου: τεθυκὼς γὰρ ἐτύγχανεν ἐν τῇ αὐλῇ. ἐκαθεζόµεθα οὖν παρ᾽ αὐτόν: ἔκειντο γὰρ δίφροι τινὲς αὐτόθι κύκλῳ. That they sat around Socrates in a circle is potentially interesting. It may have a precedent from Homer (see Homer, Il., 9.200 and Od., 3.32). It may also have expression in Mark 3:32, in which the crowd is said to be seated all around Jesus as he speaks to them. Matthew does not retain this passage from Mark. 65 Plato, Prot., 315a–e (Lamb, CLC). “The persons who followed in their rear, listening to what they could of the talk, seemed to be mostly strangers, brought by the great Protagoras from the several cities which he traverses, enchanting them with his voice like Orpheus, while they follow where the voice sounds, enchanted; and some of our own inhabitants were also dancing attendance. As for me, when I saw their evolutions I was delighted with the admirable care they took not to hinder Protagoras at any moment by getting in front; but whenever the master turned about and those with him, it was fine to see the orderly manner in which his train of listeners split up into two parties on this side and on that, and wheeling round formed up again each time in his rear most admirably. ‘And next did I mark,’ as Homer says, Hippias of Elis, seated high on a chair in the doorway opposite; and sitting around him on benches were Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, Phaedrus of Myrrhinous, Andron son of Androtion and a number of strangers—fellow-citizens of Hippias and some others. They seemed to be asking him a series of astronomical questions on nature and the heavenly bodies, while he, seated in his chair, was distinguishing and expounding to each in turn the subjects of their questions. ‘Nay more, Tantalus also did I there behold.’—for you know Prodicus of Ceos is in Athens too: he was in a certain apartment formerly used by Hipponieus as a strong-room, but now cleared out by Callias to make more space for his numerous visitors, and turned into a guest-chamber. Well, Prodicus was still abed, wrapped up in sundry fleeces and rugs, and plenty of them too, it seemed; and near him on the beds hard by lay Pausanias from Cerames, and with Pausani-

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tained in Roman literature as well. For example, Cicero describes the custom of Scaevola this way: Quintus Mucius Scaevola, the augur, used to relate with an accurate memory and in a pleasing way many incidents about his father-in-law, Gaius Laelius, and, in every mention of him, did not hesitate to call him “the Wise.” Now, I, upon assuming the toga virilis, had been introduced by my father to Scaevola with the understanding that, so far as I could and he would permit, I should never leave the old man’s side. And so it came to pass that, in my desire to gain greater profit from his legal skill, I made it a practice to commit to as a lad who was still quite young, of good birth and breeding, I should say, and at all events a very good-looking person. I fancied I heard his name was Agathon, and I should not be surprised to find he is Pausanias’s favorite. Besides this youth there were the two Adeimantuses, sons of Cepis and Leucolophidas, and there seemed to be some others.” τούτων δὲ οἳ ὄπισθεν ἠκολούθουν ἐπακούοντες τῶν λεγοµένων τὸ µὲν πολὺ ξένοι ἐφαίνοντο—οὓς ἄγει ἐξ ἑκάστων τῶν πόλεων ὁ Πρωταγόρας, δι᾽ ὧν διεξέρχεται, κηλῶν τῇ φωνῇ ὥσπερ Ὀρφεύς, οἱ δὲ κατὰ τὴν φωνὴν ἕπονται κεκηληµένοι— ἦσαν δέ τινες καὶ τῶν ἐπιχωρίων ἐν τῷ χορῷ. τοῦτον τὸν χορὸν µάλιστα ἔγωγε ἰδὼν ἥσθην, ὡς καλῶς ηὐλαβοῦντο µηδέποτε ἐµποδὼν ἐν τῷ πρόσθεν εἶναι Πρωταγόρου, ἀλλ᾽ ἐπειδὴ αὐτὸς ἀναστρέφοι καὶ οἱ µετ᾽ ἐκείνου, εὖ πως καὶ ἐν κόσµῳ περιεσχίζοντο οὗτοι οἱ ἐπήκοοι ἔνθεν καὶ ἔνθεν, καὶ ἐν κύκλῳ περιιόντες ἀεὶ εἰς τὸ ὄπισθεν καθίσταντο κάλλιστα. “τὸν δὲ µετ᾽ εἰσενόησα,” ἔφη Ὅµηρος, Ἱππίαν τὸν Ἠλεῖον, καθήµενον ἐν τῷ κατ᾽ ἀντικρὺ προστῴῳ ἐν θρόνῳ: περὶ αὐτὸν δ᾽ ἐκάθηντο ἐπὶ βάθρων Ἐρυξίµαχός τε ὁ Ἀκουµενοῦ καὶ Φαῖδρος ὁ Μυρρινούσιος καὶ Ἄνδρων ὁ Ἀνδροτίωνος καὶ τῶν ξένων πολῖταί τε αὐτοῦ καὶ ἄλλοι τινές. ἐφαίνοντο δὲ περὶ φύσεώς τε καὶ τῶν µετεώρων ἀστρονοµικὰ ἄττα διερωτᾶν τὸν Ἱππίαν, ὁ δ᾽ ἐν θρόνῳ καθήµενος ἑκάστοις αὐτῶν διέκρινεν καὶ διεξῄει τὰ ἐρωτώµενα. καὶ µὲν δὴ “καὶ Τάνταλόν” γε “εἰσεῖδον”—ἐπεδήµει γὰρ ἄρα καὶ Πρόδικος ὁ Κεῖος—ἦν δὲ ἐν οἰκήµατί τινι, ᾧ πρὸ τοῦ µὲν ὡς ταµιείῳ ἐχρῆτο Ἱππόνικος, νῦν δὲ ὑπὸ τοῦ πλήθους τῶν καταλυόντων ὁ Καλλίας καὶ τοῦτο ἐκκενώσας ξένοις κατάλυσιν πεποίηκεν. ὁ µὲν οὖν Πρόδικος ἔτι κατέκειτο, ἐγκεκαλυµµένος ἐν κῳδίοις τισὶν καὶ στρώµασιν καὶ µάλα πολλοῖς, ὡς ἐφαίνετο: παρεκάθηντο δὲ αὐτῷ ἐπὶ ταῖς πλησίον κλίναις Παυσανίας τε ὁ ἐκ Κεραµέων καὶ µετὰ Παυσανίου νέον τι ἔτι µειράκιον, ὡς µὲν ἐγᾦµαι καλόν τε κἀγαθὸν τὴν φύσιν, τὴν δ᾽ οὖν ἰδέαν πάνυ καλός. ἔδοξα ἀκοῦσαι ὄνοµα αὐτῷ εἶναι Ἀγάθωνα, καὶ οὐκ ἂν θαυµάζοιµι εἰ παιδικὰ Παυσανίου τυγχάνει ὤν. τοῦτό τ᾽ ἦν τὸ µειράκιον, καὶ τὼ Ἀδειµάντω ἀµφοτέρω, ὅ τε Κήπιδος καὶ ὁ Λευκολοφίδου, καὶ ἄλλοι τινὲς ἐφαίνοντο. Plato, Prot., 317d–e (Lamb, CLC). “‘Then surely we must call Prodicus and Hippias and their followers to come and listen to us.’ ‘By all means,’ said Protagoras. ‘Then do you agree,’ said Callias, ‘to our making a session of it, so that we may sit at ease for our conversation?’ The proposal was accepted; and all of us, delighted at the prospect of listening to wise men, took hold of the benches and couches ourselves and arranged them where Hippias was, since the benches were there already. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades came, bringing with them Prodicus, whom they had induced to rise from his couch, and Prodicus’s circle also.” τί οὖν, ἔφην ἐγώ, οὐ καὶ πρόδικον καὶ Ἱππίαν ἐκαλέσαµεν καὶ τοὺς µετ᾽ αὐτῶν, ἵνα ἐπακούσωσιν ἡµῶν; πάνυ µὲν οὖν, ἔφη ὁ Πρωταγόρας. βούλεσθε οὖν, ὁ Καλλίας ἔφη, συνέδριον κατασκευάσωµεν, ἵνα καθεζόµενοι διαλέγησθε; ἐδόκει χρῆναι: ἅσµενοι δὲ πάντες ἡµεῖς, ὡς ἀκουσόµενοι ἀνδρῶν σοφῶν, καὶ αὐτοί τε ἀντιλαβόµενοι τῶν βάθρων καὶ τῶν κλινῶν κατεσκευάζοµεν παρὰ τῷ Ἱππίᾳ—ἐκεῖ γὰρ προϋπῆρχε τὰ βάθρα— ἐν δὲ τούτῳ Καλλίας τε καὶ Ἀλκιβιάδης ἡκέτην ἄγοντε τὸν πρόδικον, ἀναστήσαντες ἐκ τῆς κλίνης, καὶ τοὺς µετὰ τοῦ Προδίκου.

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memory many of his learned opinions and many, too, of his brief and pointed sayings. After his death I betook myself to the pontiff, Scaevola, who, both in intellect and in integrity, was, I venture to assert, quite the most distinguished man of our State. But of him I shall speak at another time; now I return to the augur. Numerous events in the latter’s life often recur to me, but the most memorable one of all occurred at his home, as he was sitting, according to his custom, on a semi-circular garden bench, when I and only a few of his intimate friends were with him, and he happened to fall upon a topic which, just about that time, was in many people’s mouths.66

Cicero clearly portrays himself as a disciple under Scaevola, learning the practice of law through his instructive oratory. The context, here described as the custom for such educational discussion, was sitting. As such, it seems that Matthew’s context for the Sermon on the Mount—a seated teacher teaching his seated disciples—might be equally or even better explained by GrecoRoman philosophical sitting than by the rabbinic or even Mosaic context mentioned in Matthean scholarship. 6.2.3.3 Opened His Mouth In Matt 5:2, the author uses a peculiar phrase to describe Jesus as he begins to speak: “And he opened (ἀνοίγω) his mouth (στόµα) and taught them, saying…”67 Matthean scholars typically attribute the combination of terms opened and mouth as well as the redundancy of opening a mouth and teaching and speaking to Jewish influence on the text.68 The grounds are clear: the Hebrew equivalent of this combination (pātaḥ + peh) occurs about 40 times in the Old Testament (according to Davies and Allison), though not with the verb to teach.69 Yet again, is it that simple? Is Jewish influence the only possible source for this phrasing, the only explanation? Greek uses of this combination of terms outside of the Scriptures (LXX and New Testament) are

66 Cicero, Amic., 1–2 (Falconer, LCL). Q. Mucius augur multa narrare de C. Laelio socero suo memoriter et iucunde solebat nec dubitare illum in omni sermone appellare sapientem. ego autem a patre ita eram deductus ad Scaevolam sumpta virili toga, ut, quoad possem et liceret, a senis latere numquam discederem. itaque multa ab eo prudenter disputata, multa etiam breviter et commode dicta memoriae mandabam, fierique studebam eius prudentia doctior. quo mortuo me ad pontificem Scaevolam contuli, quem unum nostrae civitatis et ingenio et iustitia praestantissimum audeo dicere. sed de hoc alias, nunc redeo ad augurem. cum saepe multa, tum memini domi in hemicyclio sedentem, ut solebat, cum et ego essem una et pauci admodum familiares, in eum sermonem illum incidere, qui tum fere multis erat in ore. 67 Matt 5:2 (ESV). 68 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 425–426. Nolland, Matthew, 193. 69 Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 426. This combination of the terms open and mouth occurs in the LXX versions of Prov 31:8, 31:9, 31:28; Job 35:16; Isa 53:7; Nah 3:13; and Ps 37:14.

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abundant, particularly in the works of medical writers and historians.70 Given the availability of this phrasing in Greek literature as well as the fact that there are no Old Testament uses with verbs for teaching, it seems problematic to state definitively that Semitic influence alone must be responsible for this phrasing. 6.2.3.4 Disciples/Teach/Authority In opening and closing the rhetorical unit, Matthew uses important terminology related to discipleship and teaching. This vocabulary is important because, as many have suggested, Matthew’s Gospel exhibits a special focus on themes of discipleship and teaching.71 A lengthy chapter that surveys Matthew’s uses of discipleship and teaching vocabulary follows this chapter. Two conclusions are important. First, Matthew’s use of discipleship vocabulary (i.e., µαθητής, µανθάνω, and µαθητεύω) is characterized by two mutually conflicting tendencies. On the one hand, he wants to include these terms frequently. He adopts such terms from his Synoptic source(s) about twice as often as he omits them.72 He also frequently inserts discipleship terms into material adapted from his Synoptic source(s). These uses include routine clarifications (presumably where he felt his sources were ambiguous), as well as more sophisticated editing in order to reshape or revise his sources. In these cases, he highlights the disciples’ understanding. The result is that Matthew has systematically adapted his sources to focus on discipleship. Beyond Matthew’s apparent focus on discipleship and its corresponding vocabulary, the context of this concept is clear. The remarkable infrequency of this vocabulary in Jewish sources compared with the widespread and varied use of the vocabulary in Greco-Roman sources suggests a very particular backdrop for Matthew’s focus.73 70

A simple TLG search for ἀνοίγω + στόµα within the same line will return dozens of occurrences at the end of the first century or beginning of the second century, including references from Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Plutarch, Lucian, Galen, and others. A particularly interesting comic reference is found in Aristophanes, Av., 1719. ὁδὶ δὲ καὐτός ἐστιν. ἀλλὰ χρὴ θεᾶς Μούσης ἀνοίγειν ἱερὸν εὔφηµον στόµα. 71 K. Barth, The Call to Discipleship; J.K. Brown, Disciples in Narrative Perspective; R.A. Edwards, Matthew’s Narrative Portrait of Disciples; Luz, “Disciples in the Gospel According to Matthew;” Minear, “Disciples and the Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew;” Schweizer, Lordship and Discipleship; Segovia, ed. Discipleship in the New Testament; Sheridan, “Disciples and Discipleship in Matthew and Luke;” Trotter, “Understanding and Stumbling;” Wilkins, Concept of Disciple in Matthew’s Gospel; Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel. 72 See the next chapter for additional data. 73 Of particular importance on this point: µαθητής and µαθητεύω are not used in standard readings of the LXX. Forms of µανθάνω are used infrequently. Additionally, µαθητής is not used in the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha or the Qumran documents. The terms,

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Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary (i.e., διδάσκω, διδάσκαλος, διδαχή, διδασκαλία, and καθηγητής) is less peculiar than his use of discipleship vocabulary, though there are particular terms—such as διδάσκαλος and καθηγητής—which imply a particular emphasis. Beyond Matthew’s apparent focus on teaching vocabulary, the context of this concept is, again, somewhat less clear than that of discipleship. While the spectrum and frequency of this vocabulary is relatively similar between Jewish and Greco-Roman sources, where the two diverge, Matthew’s use of the terminology clearly emerges from the Greco-Roman side of the spectrum.74 The considerable dearth of this vocabulary in Jewish sources compared with the widespread and varied use of the vocabulary in Greco-Roman sources, just as with his use of discipleship language, suggests a particularly Hellenistic backdrop for Matthew’s Gospel. Beyond the simple use of this vocabulary, which is by itself compelling enough, Matthew pairs the teaching vocabulary with a notion of authority in Matt 7:28–29: “Now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority (ἐξουσία), and not as their scribes.” The author is clear that authority is the key distinction between Jesus’s teaching and any other teaching in the Gospel of Matthew. While authority tends to be applied to Jesus (and others) with respect to a variety of activities (including forgiving sins, miraculous healing, and turning tables in the temple), Matthew adopts Mark’s uses of authority to describe teaching as well.75 This is especially important in Matthew’s Gospel because it is authority that Jesus claims in all of heaven and earth when he commissions his closest associates to go and make disciples by means of teaching (and baptism).76 In the Gospels of Matthew and Mark, the word authority is used of Jesus, his disciples (only in moments in which Jesus is conferring his authority to them), and only one other person. In this singular instance, a centurion claims that he is both a man under authority and yet has the command of men who will do what he says.77 Jesus interprets this statement as one of faith that Jesus’s words, just like the man’s, will result in certain action. It is peculiar that the man claims to be under authority, while he proceeds to describe the authority he has over others; yet ultimately his claim to authority is not problematic.78 Since the man claims authority (imhowever, are very common in Greco-Roman literature, particularly philosophical literature. 74 Again, see the next chapter for the data concerning this conclusion. 75 For instances where authority is tied to activities other than teaching, see Matt 9:6, 9:8, 10:1, 21:23–27. For Mark’s use of authority in conjunction with teaching, see Mark 1:22. 76 Matt 28:16–20. 77 Matt 8:5–13. 78 See Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 355–356.

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plicitly) by his command of men, the comparison points to Jesus’s authority over his disciples. But with respect to an authority in teaching, we must ask for what purpose Jesus has this authority. It is in this respect that the content of his actual teaching comes into focus. What can one say about the Greco-Roman concept of authority in teaching? The connection between teaching and authority in Matthew’s Gospel isolates a significant difference between the figures of Jesus and Socrates. Namely, Socrates denies any authority in teaching or even the fact that he is a teacher. He is portrayed with a sort of humility that results in frequent denials of his own understanding or authority to speak regarding any matter. The inherent difficulty with these claims of ignorance or failure to understand is in determining whether they are genuine statements of ignorance or whether Socrates is feigning ignorance for the sake of dialectical progress (in which case, the statements are often called Socratic irony). Is Socrates like the modern scientist, motivated to test ideas and see where the discussion will go? Or does he have an agenda and a presumed, though covert, authority in the discussion? Is Socrates self-deprecating out of an understanding of his own inferiority, or is he claiming inferiority as a kind of ironic superiority? And if it is the second possibility—an ironic statement of inferiority—is it intended to be deceptive or is it intended to be a kind of transparent or complex irony?79 The words of Socrates and the words of his companions certainly raise thorny questions such as these. In the Gorgias, for example, Socrates states that being refuted has a greater benefit than refuting another.80 Similarly, in the Apology, Socrates claims to be a gadfly, a pest attached to the city to challenge it.81 Yet, in this claim, he also asserts his uniqueness in this divine appointment to serve as a kind of conscience for the city. As such, while the image seems humble, the actual contention seems far from it. Earlier in the same dialogue, Socrates had claimed to be unique by virtue of his status as wisest in Athens.82 In addition to his self-definition as gadfly, Socrates also describes himself as nothing more than a midwife, one who cannot himself give birth to wisdom, but rather 79 On the deception associated with irony, see Vlastos, “Socratic Irony,” 79–96. See also Vlastos, “Socrates’ Disavowal of Knowledge,” 231–260. 80 “I therefore, if you are a person of the same sort as myself, should be glad to continue questioning you: if not, I can let it drop. Of what sort am I? One of those who would be glad to be refuted if I say anything untrue, and glad to refute anyone else who might speak untruly; but just as glad, mind you, to be refuted as to refute, since I regard the former as the greater benefit, in proportion as it is a greater benefit for oneself to be delivered from the greatest evil than to deliver someone else. For I consider that a man cannot suffer any evil so great as a false opinion on the subjects of our actual argument.” Plato, Gorg., 458a (Lamb, LCL). 81 Plato, Apol., 30e–31a. 82 Plato, Apol., 23a–23b.

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is constrained to help others give birth to many truths.83 Yet, his supposed claim to inferiority prevents him from performing even this function at times. At the very end of the Laches, for example, after being asked if he would tutor Lysimachus’s and Nicias’s sons, Socrates says: Why, how strange it would be, Lysimachus, to refuse to lend one’s endeavors for the highest improvement of anybody! Now if in the debates that we have just held I had been found to know what our two friends did not know, it would be right to make a point of inviting me to take up this work: but as it is, we have all got into the same difficulty, so why should one of us be preferred to another? In my own opinion, none of us should; and this being so, perhaps you will allow me to give you a piece of advice. I tell you, gentlemen—and this is confidential—that we ought all alike to seek out the best teacher we can find, first for ourselves—for we need one—and then for our boys, sparing neither expense nor anything else we can do: but to leave ourselves as we now are, this I do not advise. And if anyone makes fun of us for seeing fit to go to school at our time of life, I think we should appeal to Homer, who said that “shame is no good mate for a needy man.” So let us not mind what anyone may say, but join together in arranging for our own and the boys’ tuition.84

It seems as though that if Socrates is to be taken seriously here in his refusal to serve as the boys’ teacher on account of his own lack of knowledge, then his exhortation that they should all find a teacher is significant. If Socrates is not to be taken seriously, then he has implicitly asserted himself as the only worthwhile teacher. The words of Socrates’s companions tend toward the assumption of a simple deceptive irony in Socrates’s statements. Alcibiades’s statement about Socrates in the Symposium is complex: Observe how Socrates is amorously inclined to handsome persons; with these he is always busy and enraptured. Again, he is utterly stupid and ignorant, as he affects… he spends his whole life in chaffing and making game of his fellow-men. Whether anyone else has caught him in a serious moment and opened him, and seen the images inside, I know not; but I saw them one day, and thought them so divine and golden, so perfectly fair and wondrous, that I simply had to do as Socrates bade me. 85

With that statement, Alcibiades expresses frustration at Socrates’s statements of ignorance, and yet professes to have seen something in Socrates that converted him to an admiring adherent. In the Republic, Thrasymachus is certainly more pointed: And he on hearing this gave a great guffaw and laughed sardonically and said, “Ye gods! Here we have the well-known irony of Socrates, and I knew it and predicted that when it

83

Plato, Theaet., 150b–150c. Plato, Lach., 200e–201b (Lamb, LCL). 85 Plato, Symp., 216d–217a (Lamb, LCL). 84

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came to replying you would refuse and dissemble and do anything rather than answer any question that anyone asked you.”86

The companions of Socrates certainly tend to assume that his statements of ignorance are insincere. Whether they are ironic in a deceptive sense, or in the more complex sense of transparent methodology for his dialectic, is harder to determine. While this Socratic irony may signal a departure in Matthew with respect to the conscious claim of authority, it highlights the important similarity in agenda. In both Plato and Matthew, both Jesus and Socrates, respectively, not only aimed to persuade in an oratorical sense, but they aimed at education in a broader and more comprehensive sense. For Jesus, the program of discipleship in the Sermon on the Mount is for all of life, from virtues and cultic expressions of righteousness, to worries about daily life and pragmatic wisdom. For Socrates, the primary agenda of education was the instilling of virtue. Whether Socrates consciously participated in this education as a teacher is harder to determine in Plato, though he clearly did so implicitly, albeit through his peculiar pedagogical methods.87 Importantly, it seems somewhat probable that Socratic dialectic depended on a central figure, namely a teacher or authority, particularly one claiming the authority to educate. This much should be clear in Xenophon’s model of calling a disciple (discussed later in this chapter), which depends completely on Euthydemus’s following Socrates and spending time with him. The importance of the central figure is also prominently underscored in Plato’s Republic. Book 7 of the Republic begins with the parable of the cave, wherein a discussion of seeing is obviously significant. The parable itself rests on the idea that a series of events or ideas can have multiple interpretations and some interpretations are better than others (more true to their eternal form rather than the imperfection of imitations). The revelation of this better, more real, interpretation depends on the mediation of the one man who was freed and left the cave to see the light itself (that is, reality), and went back to teach 86

Plato, Resp., 337a (Shorey, LCL). This educational agenda is most clearly observed in the Meno, wherein Socrates initially suggests to Meno that virtue is knowledge and that to teach Meno knowledge is to teach him virtue(s). See especially Plato, Meno, 77e–78b, 84e–85a, and 87e–88e. Of course, Socrates is vexingly skeptical of teaching and learning in his presentation as, according to his argument, learning is more or less remembering or discovering rather than receiving something imparted (Plato, Meno, 80a–85e). He even later questions the assumption that virtue is knowledge and therefore impartible (see Plato, Meno, 97a–98e). Nevertheless, the activity in which Socrates is engaged throughout most of the dialogue is that of one who teaches (or reminds) his student in the direction of imparting virtue. Socrates implicitly acknowledges such a person can exist in the form of a superior statesman who teaches virtue (see Plato, Meno, 100a; cf. Plato, Gorg., 520b–521e). Why is Socrates not such a person? 87

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his chained companions. Trained or educated men, Socrates argues, must return to the cave and, once their eyes have readjusted to the dark, will be in a far better position to discern the shadows on the walls as they will know what the shadows represent.88 They will be in possession of true interpretations. Later in book 7, Socrates speaks of the necessity of a director or supervisor to convince the people in the city what subjects are important to study and to lead them in such study.89 He also speaks of dialecticians—philosopherkings—who will be educated and tested and then rule. And when they are done ruling the city (fulfilling their duties to interpret the laws, instruct the next generation of philosopher-kings, etc.) and die, they will then be worshipped as divinities.90 Interestingly, Socrates asserts himself as such an educated authority. In the same book, Socrates states that Glaucon could not follow him (that is, Socrates) on the path of pure dialectic, as then he would see the truth itself, not an imperfect image.91 Socrates is implicitly taking on the persona of the escaped man in the cave, leading his companions to a greater sight of the truth, except that Glaucon is simply not ready.92 Likewise, as we saw above, Socrates describes himself as a barren midwife, who helps the souls of men to give birth to truth through dialectic. His function, then, is to relentlessly and authoritatively compel his companions to follow and live out rationally derived virtues—virtues that already exist but would be misunderstood or perhaps never delivered apart from his mediation. Given the intricacy of didactic authority in the world of Socrates, the apparent contrast between Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel and Socrates is perhaps not so significant. While it would be premature at this point to conclude some kind of connection between the two, it seems at least plausible that the concept of teaching with authority is not all that different between them.

6.3 What Rhetorical Need Is the Text Addressing? 6.3 What Rhetorical Need Is the Text Addressing?

The third step of the methodology described in chapter 4 is the determination of the rhetorical need being addressed by the text. The goal of this stage of analysis is to determine, in one sense, what obstacles must be overcome in 88

Plato, Resp., 520c. Plato, Resp., 528b. Socrates suggests that the whole city should become jointdirector, but this idea is not developed. 90 Plato, Resp., 540b–540c. Remember, of course, that Socrates himself claims a divine inspiration for his philosophical and educational tasks. 91 Socrates’s use of rhetorical questions here is functionally reminiscent of Jesus’s questions to the sons of Zebedee about drinking from Jesus’s cup. See Matt 20:20–28. 92 Plato, Resp., 533a. 89

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order for the text to be persuasive. Obstacles include a complication of the orator’s relationship with his audience, possible predispositions of the audience, or, in very simple terms, an agenda rising from within the orator. One might imagine this need as demonstrating the conditions that require rhetorical exigence. As a matter of determining the rhetorical need, a couple things will be necessary. First, we must consider a few points within the text and context that might indicate some rhetorical exigence. As such, I will consider four points: 1) a rhetorical problem stated in Matt 5:11–12, 2) a rhetorical thesis stated in Matt 5:17, 3) a context of discipleship (and calling to discipleship) in which the recipients of teaching are trained in virtue, and 4) Matthew’s apologetic context. Second, once we have considered these points, then we can make a preliminary determination of the rhetorical species of the text.93 Additionally, we must remember that, in the most basic terms, the Sermon on the Mount is a monologue. The disciples and crowds are present, but they do not ask questions or interrupt or advance the dialogue at any point (at least not in Matthew’s presentation). Neither do other people prompt the Sermon by any particular action or discussion. As such, the rhetorical exigence must come from within Jesus himself or Matthew’s presentation of him, and the best clues to this exigence lie in the content of the Sermon and the narrative comments that Matthew provides.94 6.3.1 The Problems of Persecution and Reward The first indicator of a problem that Jesus is going to address with the Sermon on the Mount comes in Matt 5:11–12: Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.95

The statement is striking because, after eight beatitudes in the third person, Jesus abruptly changes to the second person. The first eight, while certainly engendering sympathy from the disciples and/or crowd, could be understood in the abstract. This statement, on the other hand, is unavoidable. The reward

93

As stated in chapter 4, the species will not be assumed, but demonstrated on the basis of the points showing rhetorical exigence. 94 It is worth considering both, though distinctly, the exigence of Jesus in preaching and the exigence of Matthew in including the Sermon where he does. The two needs may overlap considerably, but are not necessarily identical. For some discussion, see Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 44–66. 95 Matt 5:11–12. For more on the discussion in this section, see Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 43–44.

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in heaven—one of the clearest prizes articulated in the Sermon, one associated with particular behaviors commended by Jesus—includes a necessary obstacle.96 Persecution will arise and it will be because of their discipleship relationship with Jesus. The nature of the persecution will be like that of the Prophets, a class of people whose primary task was (didactically) proclaiming the Word of God. In any case, the problem of persecution emerges as one tentative piece of the rhetorical exigence of the Sermon. As the theme of persecution emerges completely from within the Sermon, we must consider it in light of other possible rhetorical needs as well as analysis of the arrangement and style. 6.3.2 The Fulfillment of the Law and Prophets A second indicator of exigence comes from the thesis statement of the Sermon found in Matt 5:17–20: Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.97

I will briefly consider the use of the rhetorical figure of προκατάληψις (refutation) in the next chapter.98 It is clear, however, that Jesus’s agenda in fulfilling the Law—a turn of phrase rather significant in Matthew—address something of his perceived need in preaching the Sermon. That is, the disciples must begin to understand that Jesus has come to fulfill the Law and that their relationship to him fundamentally changes their relationship to the Law (a point Jesus makes with the antitheses and discussion of cultic practices in Matt 5:21–48 and 6:1–18). Redefining the Law and/or the disciples’ relationship to it, then, seems to be a matter of rhetorical exigence. Just as the theme of persecution, it emerges entirely from within the Sermon.

96 The motif of a reward from heaven is significant in the Sermon on the Mount. It is included here in Matt 5:11–12. It also factors heavily into the thesis in 5:17–20 (those who “will be called great in the kingdom of heaven”), the cultic righteousness section in 6:1–18 (repeated uses of reward from the Father in heaven), the statement about storing up treasures in heaven in 6:19–21, the statement about good gifts from the Father in heaven in 7:7– 11, and a statement about entering the kingdom of heaven in 7:21–23. 97 Matt 5:17–20. For more on refutation, see Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 48–49. 98 The rhetorical figure of προκατάληψις or πρόληψις, a kind of anticipation and refutation of objections is discussed in Quintilian, Inst., 9.2.16–17. He calls it praesumptio.

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6.3.3 The Call to Discipleship A third indicator of exigence emerges from the Matthean context and the presentation of Jesus as a teacher who has gathered his disciples. The uncertainty here, however, comes from whether this particular presentation correlates to a Greco-Roman context. As we saw earlier in this chapter, the Socrates of Plato and Xenophon, like the Jesus of the Gospels, is a disciple-gathering instructor. Both Plato and Xenophon use the specific terminology of discipleship extensively. Plato, for example, frames the pursuit of the good in this kind of language in the last book of the Republic; at the climax of his argument for why they should all seek the good, he says they must become disciples of it.99 In human terms, even when Socrates is denying being a teacher, he cannot help but admit that those who have followed him around, those whom he cross-examined in the street and at parties, are generally known as his disciples.100 But, however one understands the uses of this terminology, Plato also places a great deal of importance on the development of a discipleship relationship. It is, in this setting, the primary means by which a young man can learn to apprehend the good life. Plato outlines a rather involved process by which a disciple is called in his example of the sophists in the Apology or in his accounts of Socrates compelling students to learn from him in the Theaetetus and the Charmides.101 But arguably the clearest example of how this process worked among the Socratics is found in Xenophon’s Memorabilia, book 4 (if for no other reason than it also includes Xenophon’s comments on the process). It is here that we find the courtship of Euthydemus by Socrates.102 The first stage in courting a disciple simply consisted of the approach. A Sophistic disciple-gathering philosopher in Classical Athens would wander from city to city, giving exhibition lectures with the hope of attracting disciples.103 Socrates, however, remained stationed in Athens for his gathering of disciples. Whether traveling merely inside or even outside of Athens, some of the disciples would accompany the teacher as a sort of ready-made audience. One aspect of the approach was certainly the perceived value of being near that particular philosophical teacher. Xenophon’s summary assumes such a high value for Socrates:

99

Plato, Resp., 618c. Plato, Apol., 33e. 101 Plato, Apol., 19e; Plato, Theaet., 144d–151d; Plato, Charm., 155a–158e. 102 Xenophon, Mem., 4. Especially helpful in outlining the process is Morrison, “Xenophon’s Socrates as Teacher,” 181–208. 103 Plato, Prot., 313d and 315a. 100

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Socrates was so useful in all circumstances and in all ways, that any observer gifted with ordinary perception can see that nothing was more useful than the companionship of Socrates, and time spent with him in any place and in any circumstances.104

Attraction was a necessary component of the initial approach. Beyond this general setting, the interaction between the philosopher and the audience in the approach stage was critical. Socrates seeks out the pupil, Euthydemus in Xenophon’s example, among his friends at the leatherworker’s shop. He proceeds to speak to Euthydemus’s friends, though the words are actually intended for Euthydemus. Socrates mentions him by name in an example, though still does not address him directly. He makes fun of him, even mocking him, but not so harshly as to drive him away. He now has Euthydemus’s attention. Socrates backs off a bit and continues addressing him indirectly. That is, though Socrates addresses the group, it is now clear to everyone that he is addressing Euthydemus. The parallel in Matthew starts with the narrative beginning of Jesus’s ministry. Almost immediately he begins to call particular individuals, likely teaching them first in crowds (if we follow the Gospel of Mark’s chronology), calling them by name. In Matt 4:18–22, Jesus calls Peter, Andrew, James, and John all to follow him. In Matt 4:23–25, we have the first narrative summary of his teaching and healing ministry. With Matt 5:1, the first teaching discourse commences. Note that before any substantive teaching is detailed in Matthew’s Gospel, the recruitment of disciples takes place. There is no record of their initial interaction, just a statement that Jesus makes to them, and then a summative statement about Jesus’s teaching. In Matt 5:1, there is a slight, but very relevant, difficulty in the text. Jesus opens his mouth and begins teaching them, but it is unclear as to who the them (from αὐτός) is. The crowds are present, but it is the disciples who have come to him. Most commentators acknowledge the unclear antecedent here and then assume, on the basis of the rest of the Gospel, that the primary audience of the teaching is the disciples. This becomes even less clear when, at the end of the Sermon (Matt 7:28), it is the crowd who responds to the teaching. Matthew has then, it seems, indicated a kind of two-tier audience, just as Xenophon’s Socrates does in Memorabilia, book 4. After the Sermon on the Mount, but still within the larger rhetorical unit, Jesus insults the disciples at various points for their lack of faith (see Matt 8:26) and challenges them. This initiates a pattern of Jesus revealing himself and his identity through his teaching, while the disciples struggle to understand and the crowds completely lack understanding. This pattern in the Gospel is maintained throughout. The second stage in the call to discipleship is the critical moment of testing. In the Xenophon narrative, Socrates finds Euthydemus alone and engages him directly. He establishes premises and definitions to which Euthydemus 104

Xenophon, Mem., 4.1.1 (Marchant, LCL).

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agrees and then refutes them, leaving Euthydemus discouraged and helpless. Euthydemus realizes he is “dependent on Socrates’s help and guidance.”105 Euthydemus issues a plea for help, but Socrates tests him, offering no guidance, only aporia or perplexity. Xenophon clarifies this approach at the end of the section: Whenever anyone argued with him on any point without being able to make himself clear, asserting but not proving, that so and so was wiser or an abler politician or braver or what not, he would lead the whole discussion back to the definition required, much in this way…[he gives an example]… By this process of leading back the argument even his adversary came to see the truth clearly. And whenever he himself argued out a question, he advanced by steps that gained general assent, holding this to be the only sure method. Accordingly, whenever he argued, he gained a greater measure of assent from his hearers than any man I have known… I think that I have said enough to show that Socrates stated his own opinion plainly to those who consorted with him: I will now show that he also took pains to make them independent in doing the work that they were fitted for. For I never knew a man who was so careful to discover what each of his companions knew. Whatever it befits a gentleman to know he taught most zealously, so far as his own knowledge extended; if he was not entirely familiar with a subject, he took them to those who knew.106

This type of interaction with Socrates is familiar from the Platonic dialogues, to the extent that it has become, perhaps, his most widely known characteristic. But again, this aporia or perplexity is squarely aimed at Socrates’s educational agenda of imparting virtue (however indirectly for the self-conscious Socrates). In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus also affirms commonly held ideas only then to refute them, driving his followers into a crisis. This occurs in a legal sense with the antitheses in Matt 5:21–48 as well as with his teaching on discipleship in Matt 8:18–22. The lack of understanding of the disciples also appears explicitly in Matt 13:10, 13:36, 15:10–20, 16:5–12, among other examples. Yet, the disciples continue to follow Jesus and regard him with a large degree of awe.107 As with Socrates, particularly the aporia achieved in the Sermon on the Mount serves an educational function that pushes the disciple toward the virtue espoused by the teacher. The third stage brings the pupil into a closer relationship, reversing the sense of crisis from the previous stage. In the Xenophon narrative, Euthydemus continues beyond the crisis of aporia, spending as much time as possible following Socrates and even beginning to imitate his lifestyle. He becomes, in a fuller way, a disciple. Accordingly, somewhere along the way, Socrates becomes less harsh in his refutations and offers help and guidance. That is, after this period of testing, after seeing that Euthydemus follows him despite 105

Morrison, “Xenophon’s Socrates as Teacher,” 187. Xenophon, Mem., 4.6.13–16 (Marchant, LCL). 107 See Matt 7:28, 13:54, 19:25, 22:33. 106

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difficulties, Socrates confirms him as a close associate, a student and disciple.108 And while Xenophon does not make it explicit here, the implication is that Euthydemus is working toward a further stage, a stage at which he can take on students of his own. Indeed, this seems to have been the practice for the Socratics.109 In Matthew, the pattern of not understanding eventually culminates with a moment of profound understanding: particularly when Peter confesses Jesus to be the Christ in Matt 16:13–19. For the first time, a disciple is commended for his understanding. At that moment, Jesus begins a commissioning process that includes instructions for the next three chapters on the authority that Peter and the apostles will have. This third stage is fully realized as Jesus’s followers are confirmed as disciples and commissioned as apostles, partially in chapter 10 and fully in the post-resurrection narrative of Matthew 28. There, Jesus meets the disciples at a mountain in Galilee at which they had earlier agreed to meet. The last time they all assembled together on a mountain in Galilee was when Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount; this time they are there commissioned to “make disciples” of all nations by means of baptizing and teaching.110 What was the point of this call to discipleship? In the Memorabilia, the goal was the virtue that comes from wisdom. This much becomes clear when, at the end of the process, Socrates affirms Euthydemus: “By Hera,” retorted Socrates, “I do admire you for valuing the treasures of wisdom above gold and silver. For you are evidently of opinion that, while gold and silver cannot make men better, the thoughts of the wise enrich their possessors with virtue.” Now Euthydemus was glad to hear this, for he guessed that in the opinion of Socrates he was on the road to wisdom.111

The comment is meant to be humorous. Euthydemus had been collecting books written by the wise men of the past.112 Socrates, without denying the goal of virtue, teases him for thinking it would be found in books. Further into the discussion, Socrates forces Euthydemus to narrow down the kind of virtue he is pursuing to that of statesmen and rulers. And on that basis, Socrates redirects the entire conversation toward justice (δικαιοσύνη), the nature of justice, and whether one can attain the sort of virtue Euthydemus desires without justice.113 108

Xenophon, Mem., 4.2.9. Famously, the Socratic disciple Plato founded a school and took on his own students. One of those students, Aristotle, continued the tradition as well after founding his own school. 110 See Matt 28:16–20. 111 Xenophon, Mem., 4.2.9 (Marchant, LCL). 112 Xenophon, Mem., 4.2.8. See also Morgan, Literate Education, 10. 113 Xenophon, Mem., 4.2.11. 109

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As I have discussed, the educational goals of discipleship in the Gospel of Matthew revolve around strengthening virtue in order to withstand persecution and commissioning additional disciples by means of, among other things, teaching.114 And as will be clear in the next chapter, the argument of the Sermon on the Mount will compel the disciples toward these goals by means of righteousness (δικαιοσύνη) newly understood. 6.3.4 A Matthean Apologetic Having addressed three aspects of rhetorical exigencies that emerge from Jesus and his particular setting in the text, it is now worth considering what we might understand of Matthew’s agenda outside of the historical context of the Sermon. This is a somewhat broader consideration as it requires asking questions about the purpose of the Gospel in general. As with many of the more minute aspects of the rhetoric of the Gospel, observing an analogue with Socrates is helpful. Fundamentally, Jesus and Socrates are both disciple-gathering teachers who were executed by the State for something to do with their teaching or claims. And we know both figures predominantly through the writings of disciples of theirs who, naturally, might have had an apologetic agenda regarding the circumstances of their deaths. For Socrates, the argument is persuasively raised by Gabriel Danzig. In his volume, Apologizing for Socrates, he cleverly uses aspects of Xenophon’s portrait of Socrates to begin to answer the questions raised by inconsistencies in Plato’s portrait. Drawing on a brief example from the Crito, Danzig’s agenda is clearly stated: Crito was not written for Crito. While Crito’s questions and character may provide the literary justification for the speech of the Laws, they do not provide the authorial purpose. From the author’s point of view, Crito is not the cause of the speech, he is its excuse. And the crucial question is not, ‘Does the speech provide a good answer to Crito?’ but ‘Why was Plato interested in publishing this speech?’ 115

Affirming that the best evidence we will have in determining the publishing agenda of Plato is the dialogue itself, Danzig continues to ask the question of authorial purpose: In order to determine the orientation of a dialogue the most important question is, ‘What focus provides unity to its various components?’ To take the case of Crito again, the most pressing question I had to answer was, ‘Why does Plato spend so much time telling Crito not to pay attention to popular opinion (41b–d; 46c–48d)?’ The discussion is perfectly well motivated by the dramatic circumstances as described; but why did Plato create circum-

114

Again, see Matt 5:11 and 28:16–20. See the previous section for additional support of these goals. 115 Danzig, Apologizing for Socrates, 4.

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stances which would lead to this discussion? What connection does it bear to the central theme of the work as a whole?116

Ultimately, Danzig argues that the circumstances compelling Plato to invent the circumstances for Crito were defensive in nature. Plato was attempting to combat the charges against and defamation of Socrates in the years following his execution.117 Working through Plato’s Apology, Crito, Euthyphro, and Lysis, as well as Xenophon’s Apology, Memorabilia and Oeconomicus, Danzig repeatedly shows that the internal inconsistencies and tensions between the various presentations of Socrates can be resolved by seeing how they are addressing post-execution controversies (concerning his lackluster defense and the problems faced by those who continued to associate with his name). Taking a similar approach to Danzig’s with Matthew’s Gospel, particularly the Sermon on the Mount, yields similar results. As with Plato and Xenophon’s abundant attention to the death of Socrates and surrounding controversies, all the Evangelists and especially Paul make it clear that the central incident in the portraits of Jesus they wish to paint was his death (and resurrection). The implications of this death for those who continued to associate with his ministry after his departure from earth were, obviously, quite important. We already saw in the second chapter that one of the central questions emerging from Matthew’s Gospel is that of Matthew’s audience’s relationship to Judaism. If there were a Matthean community and it were as focused on the continuing applicability of Jewish laws and whether to mingle with those who do not keep to them, then Jesus’s statement in Matt 5:17 (“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.”) and Matthew’s conclusion in Matt 7:28–29 (that Jesus taught with authority) are quite significant. But even setting aside the question of Matthew’s audience, it is clear that the question of to what extent followers of Jesus Christ were still required to follow Jewish law was being asked widely. Acts 15 records the discussion and concluding letter of a council in Jerusalem assembled to deal with this question. Paul certainly continues to deal with it in many of his letters as does the author of Hebrews.118 That Jesus addresses this question throughout the Sermon (especially in Matt 5:17–20, 5:21–48, and 6:1–18) is telling. Matthew’s Jesus takes up matters of

116

Danzig, Apologizing for Socrates, 4–5. Having observed Xenophon’s use of a narrator to address the controversy surrounding Socrates’s death, Danzig is especially keen to demonstrate the apologetic agenda of Plato in relationship to Xenophon. He concludes: “When one returns to Plato after reading Xenophon, it is not difficult to see that Plato also is engaged in apologetics on behalf of Socrates, even if his methods are more indirect.” Danzig, Apologizing for Socrates, 6. 118 For Paul’s most robust thoughts on this issue, see especially 1 Corinthians 8–10 and Romans 14. 117

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the applicability of Jewish laws in other places as well.119 And as Jesus’s death is ultimately the result of the blasphemy provisions of the Jewish Law (see Matt 26:57–68, cf. Lev 24:10–23), his followers’ relationship to the Law is of central importance. Additionally, Matthew’s Jesus also takes up matters of forgiveness among the Church (ἐκκλησία) and even an outline of church discipline in Matt 18:15–22. Given Matthew’s focus on Jesus’s complicated relationship to and fulfillment of the Jewish Law, and given first-century Christianity’s constant questioning of the applicability of the Jewish Law, it seems quite clear that Matthew likely had an apologetic purpose in his Gospel.120 Agreeing with the uniform apostolic witness, Matthew vindicates Jesus of destroying the Law or transgressing it (2 Cor 5:21, Heb 4:15, 1 Pet 2:22, and 1 John 3:5) by constantly showing that he, in fact, fulfills it (again, see especially Matt 5:17). Such a defense frees the Christians from lingering charges that Jesus was rightly executed as well as the binding punishment of the Law upon themselves (see 2 Cor 5:21, cf. Rom 7:1–8:17). 6.3.5 Rhetorical Species Having explored some possible avenues in determining the rhetorical need addressed by our text, we can now turn to the question of rhetorical species. Ancient rhetoricians, following Aristotle, identify three primary rhetorical species: forensic, epideictic, and deliberative.121 Forensic or judicial rhetoric is suitable for the legal court. A forensic speech attempts to exonerate or defend a person in the context of some past event, compelling a judgment (according to the law) of some sort. Epideictic rhetoric is suitable for a public ceremony or display (e.g., a funeral, a religious ceremony). An epideictic speech praises or blames a person, describing them in terms of honor or shame and does not necessarily specify a result for the audience. Deliberative rhetoric is suitable for the assembly. A deliberative speech attempts to advise 119

For example, see Matt 12:1–8 on the Sabbath and Matt 19:1–12 on divorce. The approach Jesus’s followers would take on these laws became important after and in light of his death. 120 It is also entirely likely that Matthew has an educational agenda apart from Jesus’s particular agenda in the Sermon on the Mount. While I do not think the primary genre of the Gospel is anything other than biography, aspects of other genres could be relevant. In this case, the notion that the Gospel is a handbook for a school (Stendahl, School of St. Matthew, 20–29; Gundry Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church Under Persecution), for example, or a discipleship manual, would suggest that the Sermon itself is an instructive discourse on character and righteousness not just for Jesus’s audience, but also Matthew’s. Additionally, given the use of certain rhetorical elements (discussed in this chapter and the next chapter), I would even consider that it is an instructive discourse on rhetoric and literary imitation. 121 Aristotle, Rhet., 1.1.4–10.

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or warn the audience concerning some future event or condition, compelling an action or result of some sort. That the Sermon on the Mount is deliberative rhetoric seems relatively clear, though Matthew’s apologetic interests might also introduce elements of judicial rhetoric.122 It certainly does not appear in a forensic context and the specifics of the Sermon itself are not overtly judicial. Additionally, the concentration of ethical commands throughout the Sermon, generally commending particular action in light of a future situation, is suggestive. While the beatitudes display elements of epideictic, they function as an exordium (which a rhetorician would expect to display elements of epideictic). Nevertheless, the broad and repeated use of imperatives and comments made in the second person are most consistent with deliberative rhetoric. The tentative result, at this point in my analysis, is that the Sermon on the Mount is deliberative. 6.3.6 Preliminary Conclusion It is helpful at this point to review a few of our observations thus far. First, concerning the limits of the rhetorical unit, it seems clear that the primary unit is the Sermon on the Mount itself, Matt 5:3–7:27. The sermon is situated, importantly in a wider rhetorical unit Matt 4:23–9:35, which begins and ends with a narrative summary statement of Jesus’s activities. Second, the Sermon seems to be an epitome of Jesus’s teaching in that period of his life, compiled by an editor and, therefore, probably lending itself to rhetorical invention. Certain elements with the presentation of the Sermon—particularly the phrases concerning Jesus traveling around and opening his mouth, as well as the distinctive uses of discipleship and teaching vocabulary along with authority—suggest that the rhetorical context is one of a Greco-Roman philosophical disciple-gathering teacher. Third, the rhetorical need of the Sermon on the Mount appears to focus on a few simple aspects of Jesus’s relationship to his audience and Matthew’s relationship to his. These aspects of rhetorical exigence suggest that the Sermon is of the deliberative species of rhetoric. As such, the Sermon on the Mount is a piece of deliberative rhetoric aimed at commending certain behaviors (which are akin to righteousness) in light of a redefined relationship with the Law through the mediation of Jesus (who fulfills the Law) in order to both withstand persecution and obtain some kind of reward from heaven. In other words, the Sermon is fundamentally a piece of deliberative rhetoric that is commending a certain course of conduct (righteousness) for the purpose of reward; within this piece of rhetoric, Jesus is presented as the mediator of that conduct. Of course, this description of the 122 Kennedy likewise argues that the rhetorical species of the Sermon on the Mount is deliberative. See Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 39–72, especially 45–48 and 66.

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Sermon’s main idea(s) is preliminary at this point. Analysis of the style and arrangement, and a concluding synthesis are still necessary.

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This fourth guiding methodological question builds on the observations we made in the sixth chapter concerning the rhetorical need the text is meant to address. In this stage of analysis, I will briefly examine the structure of the Sermon, its major theme(s), and its literary features in the context of GrecoRoman rhetoric and, once again, alongside the writings of the Socratics. I will then assess whether these rhetorical aspects confirm our preliminary conclusion concerning rhetorical exigence—namely, that the Sermon is fundamentally about discipleship, in the sense of following a particular authoritative instructor’s prescriptive teachings. 6.4.1 Structure One of the first exegetes to propose a comprehensive structure for the Sermon on the Mount was Augustine. He observed, in somewhat arbitrary fashion, a pattern of sevens: seven beatitudes, seven petitions in the Lord’s Prayer, and ultimately seven sections in Matt 5:21–7:23.123 Since then, there have been about as many distinct proposals as there have been exegetes. Even Rudolf Bultmann and Martin Dibelius, who are known for focusing on the individual logia rather than on larger units of composition, wrestled with the question of a comprehensive structure.124 More recently, Hans Dieter Betz proposed a structure that he states was the product of multiple, but otherwise unspecified, historical-critical methodologies. Betz’s proposal is relevant here because he presents it according to Greco-Roman rhetorical categories.125 It is also unique, though certain aspects are independently argued by others, including George A. Kennedy.126 Kennedy’s structure, unlike Betz’s, conforms entirely to Greco-Roman oratorical categories.

123 Augustine’s observations are of course problematic because there are at least eight beatitudes and he omits Matt 5:10–20 from his structure. Nevertheless, he attempts to explain how the beatitudes, which he sees as foundational, correspond to the rest of the Sermon. See Augustine, Commentary, 19–108. Also see Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 45– 46. 124 See Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 48. 125 See the description of a Greco-Roman rhetorical model in chapter 5. 126 See especially Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 39–72. Several scholars seem to adopt the argument (common to both Betz and Kennedy) that the beatitudes form an exordium. See Green, Matthew, 77.

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6.4.1.1 Exordium (Matt 5:3–16) As discussed in the fifth chapter, an exordium introduces an oration; it prepares the audience or attempts to elicit goodwill.127 In the Sermon on the Mount, the exordium consists of the beatitudes (Matt 5:3–12) and tribute statements accompanied by metaphorical warnings (Matt 5:13–16). The form of the beatitudes is quite simple, consisting of two lines: in the first line is the adjective “blessed” (µακάριος, which is the source of the word makarism, a synonym for beatitude) and in the second line is a reason (introduced by ὅτι). Though similar literary forms (focusing on the blessed word and its synonyms) are common enough across various cultures and languages so as to be a distinct genre, the beatitude has a particularly rich history in Greek literature.128 Because of the consistency of language, it is this literature that serves as the most compelling precursor to Matthew’s beatitudes. While Betz states that the beatitudes have “developed out of a Jewish matrix”129 without defending this presupposition, it can be rather challenging to demonstrate a sense of linguistic antecedence across languages. Accordingly, beatitudes appear as early as Pindar and are frequent in Classical Greek literature.130 Based on their availability and structure, David E. Aune concludes: In the Greco-Roman world makarisms are found in epitaphs as well as in wisdom and oracular settings. Although the terminology in Greco-Roman oracular beatitudes varies considerably, there is a striking formal similarity to Judeo-Christian beatitudes: invariably the term of blessing, happiness, or joy is the first significant word in the oracle.131

Beyond the particular emphasis on the term of blessing that Aune identifies, the content of the beatitudes is similar. The Matthean beatitudes elicit goodwill, according to Kennedy, by suggesting that the audience should identify with the categories mentioned (e.g., meek, merciful, mourning, peacemaking).132 The audience’s aspirations are described as meriting particular rewards. As Kennedy observes, the distinctive form (µακάριος + ὅτι) makes 127

[Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.4.6–1.7.11; Cicero. Inv., 1.15–18. Quintilian, Inst., 4.1. According to the Rhetorica ad Herennium, there are two kinds of introduction: a direct appeal called a prooimion (which corresponds to Aristotle’s προοίµιον), which draws upon the ethos of the orator, and a second type called an ephodos, or subtle approach. 128 The beatitude form is found in many cultures and languages, including Egyptian and Hebrew. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 92–93. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 431–442. 129 Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 93. 130 Pindar, Pyth., 5.46; see also the fragments of Menander and Euripides cited by Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 431. Beatitudes using synonyms of µακάριος (e.g., ὄβλιος, τρισµακάριος) appear in Hesiod, Theog., 95, 954–955; Theocritus, Id., 12.34; Pindar, Ol., 7.11; Aristophanes, Ach., 400; et al. 131 Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity, 64. 132 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 49–50. Kennedy prefers the Greek term proem to the Latin term exordium throughout his chapter on the Sermon the Mount.

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each beatitude an enthymeme.133 An enthymeme is a common rhetorical figure, according to Aristotle, in which a three-part syllogism (consisting of a major premise, minor premise, and conclusion) is informally stated by omitting one of the two premises.134 In the Matthean beatitudes, the major premise is always omitted. Using the first beatitude as an example: Major premise: [Blessed are those who inherit the kingdom of heaven] Minor premise: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, Conclusion: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Kennedy also hypothesizes that the minor premise is made more palatable to the audience by framing the conclusion in the future tense and avoiding any attempt to justify the minor premise, as well as by the inherent ethos (authority) of the speaker.135 The tribute statements in Matt 5:13–14 (“You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world…”) are accompanied by metaphorical warnings. Just as salt can lose its power to season and light can be hidden, so the positive virtues enumerated in the beatitudes can be diminished. The disciples (and crowds) must commit themselves to “good works” (Matt 5:16) in order to maintain their claim to the rewards promised in the beatitudes. 6.4.1.2 Narratio (Matt 5:17–20) The narratio is the main proposition or statement of facts at the beginning of the speech.136 According to the Rhetorica ad Herennium, the statement of facts should be brief, clear, and plausible. If the exordium has won the allegiance of the audience and prepared them to understand the necessity of good works in attaining the promised rewards, the main proposition of the sermon should naturally follow. Kennedy argues that it does in Matt 5:17–20: Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be

133

Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 49–50. See especially Aristotle, Rhet., 1.2.8. See also [Cicero] Rhet. Her., 4.30.41; Quintilian, Inst., 5.14.24. 135 Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 50–51 136 [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.8.11–1.9.16; Cicero. Inv., 1.19–21; Cicero, De or., 2.80.326– 2.81.330; Quintilian, Inst., 4.2–4. “A Narrative [narratio] is an exposition, designed to be persuasive, of an action done or deemed to be done; alternatively (as Apollodorus defines it), it is a speech instructing the hearer on what is in dispute.” Quintilian, Inst., 4.2.31 (Butler, LCL). 134

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called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.137

Kennedy identifies the proposition in two parts: 1) the law is to be observed by the audience, and 2) the righteousness of the audience is to exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees.138 Kennedy’s two-part summary of the proposition is, I think, close. His separation of the discussion about following and fulfilling the law from the discussion of righteousness is unnecessary. It becomes clear in the next section (Matt 5:21–48) that matters of legal interpretation (or even matters of interpreting traditions connected to the law) and matters of righteousness are intimately connected. Additionally, in Matthew’s Gospel, the verb fulfill (πληρόω) is nearly always attached to some statement from the prophets. But, one of the few exceptions, following John the Baptist’s reluctance to baptize Jesus, connects the verb directly to righteousness: “But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness’” (Matt 3:15). Righteousness is also the primary concern in the behavior of the piety provisions in Matt 6:1–18, and the remainder of the Sermon can be read as interacting with various ethical demands of the law. As such, it seems that the comment on the fulfillment of the law in Matt 5:17 and the fact that it is nevertheless applicable in every way in Matt 5:18 is part of the demand for righteousness in 5:19. Kennedy does, however, note that the rewards are reiterated in this propositional statement. Where rewards were initially connected to virtues in the beatitudes, they have now become the product of righteousness. Both verses 19 and 20 end with a reference to the kingdom of heaven in the emphatic position. If one fulfills the commands of Jesus, he will be great in the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:19). Indeed, if his righteousness exceeds that of the Pharisees, he will enter the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:20). Fundamentally, this propositional section raises the intensified and reinterpreted demand of righteousness and sets it in relationship to the promise of eschatological reward. Importantly, these two concepts—righteousness and rewards—account for every verse of the Sermon on the Mount, including the less clearly organized bits in Matt 6:19–7:20. As such, it seems clear that these verses function as a proposition should in Greco-Roman oratory.

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Matt 5:17–20. Betz stops short of calling these verses a proposition, but rather refers to them as four hermeneutical principles (to which a fifth is added in Matt 7:12). Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 62–63 and 167–173. In Betz’s view, the four principles listed in Matt 5:17–20 primarily guide the interpretation of the Torah as demonstrated by Jesus in Matt 5:21–48, and are less directly applicable to the remainder of the body of the text. Likewise, France calls them principles rather than a proposition and limits the scope of their application to Matt 5:21–48. See France, Gospel of Matthew, 178–191. 138

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6.4.1.3 Partitio/Confirmatio/Refutatio (Matt 5:21–7:20) The main body of an oration consists of three parts: 1) a partitio, which is a kind of summary point that brings the full introductory section to a close, including what is agreed upon and what is contested;139 2) a confirmatio, which is the main body of the discourse and consists of arguments (or proofs) and corroborating statements;140 and 3) a refutatio, which generally entails counterarguments to anticipated points of contention with one’s opponents.141 If the main proposition is in Matt 5:17–20, one should expect a series of arguments that support the proposition. It seems as though Matthew bypasses the partitio and begins directly with supporting statements in the form of a confirmatio.142 When Jesus claims to fulfill the law, thereby asserting that it will not pass away (Matt 5:17–18), he declares himself to be an interpretive mediator of the law. That is, the audience is to follow a new law as interpreted through him. In Matt 5:21–48, Jesus demonstrates this principle by taking six statements of the law or of traditions around the law and re-interpreting them according to his fulfillment of the law. He uses an antithetical formula, six times stating “You have heard that it was said…” and “But I say to you…,” thereby demonstrating his authority to revise the law. In each case, the requirement is increased and the law is intensified. These six sections, with their identical shape, together form a microstructure. When Jesus states that the audience’s righteousness must exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees (Matt 5:20), he reaches beyond mere observance of the law into daily life. That is, the audience is to pursue righteousness comprehensively. In Matt 6:1–18, Jesus offers guidelines on practicing righteousness in the sense of piety (i.e., almsgiving, prayer, and fasting). Again, he uses a distinctive microstructure here. Matt 6:1 serves as a general enthymematic thesis, warning that practicing righteousness in order to be seen by others results in no reward from God. Each of the pious acts mentioned is set out, once again, as an antithesis. ‘Whenever you do [pious act], don’t do it to be seen by men, but do it privately, so that the Father (who sees in secret) will reward you.’ In each example, he contrasts the new standard of righteousness with that of the hypo139

[Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.17; Cicero. Inv., 1.22–23; Quintilian, Inst., 4.5. “Partition [partitio] is the orderly enumeration of our propositions, or those of our opponent, or both.” Quintilian, Inst., 4.5.1 (Butler, LCL). 140 [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.18. cf. Quintilian 5.1–12], Cicero. Inv., 1.24–41; Cicero, De or., 3.52–201; Quintilian, Inst., 5.1–12. 141 Cicero. Inv., 1.42–51; Quintilian, Inst., 5.13.1–56. 142 It is not at all troubling that Matthew seems to omit a partitio as Quintilian argues that it should be blended with the propositio. In Matt 5:17–20, such an argument can be made. See [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 1.10.17; Cicero. Inv., 1.22–23; Quintilian, Inst., 4.5.

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crites (who are presumably equivalent to the scribes and Pharisees of 5:19). Each element is present in the same order in all three descriptions. Only the Lord’s Prayer (Matt 6:7–15), which is an amplification of the second pious act, breaks up the structure. In the rest of the Sermon, Jesus continues to elaborate on how to live in a way that merits a reward for righteous, non-hypocritical behavior. This section of the Sermon, unlike the previous two, does not have a clear microstructure. Rather, it seems to be topically oriented. Matt 6:19–34 focuses on contrasting earthly treasure and material wealth with heavenly treasure. Matt 7:1–20 seems to broadly address human relationships and hypocrisy. Interestingly, Jesus includes elements of refutatio (or προκατάληψις) in his Sermon, including at the beginning of the main proposition: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets” (Matt 5:17). An additional statement that anticipates the objections of the audience comes in Matt 6:31: “Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’” Jesus goes on to address this anticipated objection in the rest of the Sermon. 6.4.1.4 Peroratio (Matt 7:21–27) The peroratio is a conclusion to the discourse, often including a summary of the arguments.143 As such, it will generally be linguistically close to the propositio.144 This section, more than any other, should employ pathos (or an appeal to the emotions of the audience).145 In the Sermon on the Mount, the peroratio is found in the form of a direct statement about doing the will of the father and in a parable concerning two houses (one built on rock and the other built on sand), which serves to underscore the direct statement.146 In 143

Cicero, Inv., 1.52–56; Quintilian, Inst., 6.1. “The next subject was to be the Peroration [peroratio], which some call the Culmination, some the Conclusion. There are two aspects of it: the factual and the emotional.” Quintilian, Inst., 6.1.1 (Butler, LCL). “The peroration is an easier matter to explain. It falls into two divisions, amplification and recapitulation.” Cicero, Part. or., 15.52 (Rackham, LCL). 144 Cicero, De or., 1.52–56. As I stated in chapter 5, the Rhetorica ad Herennium and Cicero do not use the word peroratio, preferring conclusio. This distinction suggests a conceptual difference between a peroratio (summary of the argument) and the conclusion, which may be wider in scope, more general, and could include practical concerns or seemingly unrelated statements meant to stir up the crowd (e.g. Cato the Elder on Carthage). See Plutarch, Cat. Maj., 27; Pliny the Elder, Nat., 15.74; [Aurelius Victor], De viris illustribus, 47.8; Livy, Ab urbe condita libri, XLIX; Florus, Epitoma de Tito Livio bellorum omnium annorum DCC, Liber primus, XXXI. 145 Aristotle, Rhet., 1.2.5, 2.1.8, 2.2–11. 146 Kennedy uses the term epilogue rather than peroratio. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 61–62. Betz, on the other hand, uses term peroratio, but breaks up the text slightly differently than Kennedy. Betz, Sermon on the Mount, 58 and 557–567.

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Matt 7:21–23, Jesus states that only those who do the will of his father will enter the kingdom of heaven. He then separates doing the will of his father from doing powerful deeds in his name, concluding that powerful deeds alone are not enough. In the context of the Sermon, it is clear that he is referring to the ongoing theme of righteous conduct that was introduced in the narratio and explicated in the body of the Sermon (confirmatio). The parable of the two houses repeats the notion (doing the will of the Father) twice, but in the form of hearing (ἀκούω) Jesus’s words (λόγος) and acting (ποιέω) on them. The grammatical construction of that statement (in both verses 24 and 26) is remarkably similar to that of Matt 5:19: “Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments (ἐντολή), and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does (ποιέω) them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” Doing and teaching his commands is parallel to hearing and doing his words. The parable, rather than setting out rewards per se (such as entering the kingdom of heaven, which was already mentioned in Matt 7:21), marks out eschatological consequences in the form of a warning. Following Jesus’s prescriptions for righteousness is a matter of survival or total disaster. 6.4.1.5 Summary of Structure To be sure, Betz and Kennedy are in a small minority of commentators who see the Sermon on the Mount as conforming to a Greco-Roman rhetorical structure, and they do not even completely agree on what that structure is. Nevertheless, it seems that the Sermon does follow the basic structure associated with Greco-Roman oratory. The beatitudes and tribute statements do seem to function as something like an exordium. The statement in Matt 5:17– 20 seems to function as a narratio (main proposition) that serves to explain the remainder of the Sermon. That is, the rest of the Sermon flows out of the argument of those verses. Finally, Matt 7:21–27 appears to function as a peroratio, summarizing the main point in the form of an exhortation to hear and do the teaching of Jesus. As such, it reinforces the rhetorical situation of deliberative oratory in an educational setting. Regardless of whether GrecoRoman rhetoric is the sole explanation for the Sermon’s structure—and such rhetorical influence certainly does not preclude other microstructures throughout the Sermon—its influence is distinctive enough to warrant further analysis. 6.4.2 Major Theme(s) Having observed a rhetorical structure to the Sermon on the Mount, it becomes important to consider the actual content of the Sermon. As I have already suggested in the context of analyzing the rhetorical structure, this oration seems to focus on the related themes of righteousness and reward. As

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a piece of rhetoric, the choice of content is a matter of rhetorical invention. An orator in the process of producing a new piece of rhetoric would need to choose the central issue to be addressed and then plan the supporting arguments. These arguments would generally consist of topics or topoi (τόποι) drawn from a relatively limited collection. Aristotle identified and collected a large body of common and special topics of invention that a student could use as templates.147 Later, Cicero also offered his own version of standard topics.148 One need not stray from these predefined sets and invent new ones. Accordingly, the compiler of the Sermon on the Mount may also have considered various topics in support of the Sermon’s central issue: righteousness (δικαιοσύνη). An obvious place to start looking, then, would be the famed Socratic discussions on the related concept of justice (δίκαιον) found in Plato’s Republic and Xenophon’s Memorabilia.149 Interestingly, many topics in the Sermon on the Mount do have corresponding notions in these two works. We can observe these resonances through the lexical choices made in the style stage of rhetorical composition.150 Of course, literary imitation in GrecoRoman education does not require comprehensive or even coherent reproduction. That is, Matthew can draw on the Socratics for ideas or topics without being beholden to the arguments of Socrates or duplicating his logic. Imitation includes adaptation, elaboration, and alteration of ideas as well as words. 6.4.2.1 General Context: Kingdom of Heaven It is very clear from the Sermon on the Mount that eschatological reward is a key feature in the context of the whole. This reward is often associated with one of Matthew’s common phrases, the kingdom of heaven. The kingdom is the reward in the first and eighth beatitudes (Matt 5:3, 5:10). Rewards are great in heaven in the ninth beatitude (Matt 5:12). Entering the kingdom of heaven and being called great within it are matters of principle in the proposi147

Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 42, 43. Cf. Quintilian, Inst., 2.4.22. 149 The relationship between Matthew’s δικαιοσύνη and Plato’s δίκαιος is one of linguistic evolution. The two terms are etymologically related. That δικαιοσύνη comes from δίκαιος + σύνη is clear on the basis of similar examples: ἁγιωσύνη (ἅγιος), ἀγαθωσύνη (ἀγαθός), ἀσχηµοσύνη (ἀσχήµων), εὐσχηµοσύνη (εὐσχήµων), ἀφροσύνη (ἄφρων), µεγαλωσύνη (µέγας), σωφροσύνη (σώφρων), ἐλεηµοσύνη (εὐφραίνω), ἱερωσύνη (ἱερός). Additionally, Smyth uses ὁ δίκαιος (the just man) and δίκαιος (a just man) as an example of an adjective used substantively. Smyth, Greek Grammar, 273. 150 As was discussed in the fifth chapter, the third stage of rhetorical composition is style or expression (elocutio). In this multifaceted stage, a student chooses words and phrases to actually compose the final form of the discourse. In the invention stage, he chooses what to say. In the style stage, he chooses how to say it. According to Kennedy, a student would most likely begin by selecting particular words (lexis). Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 26. 148

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tion (Matt 5:19–20). Rewards from the Father in heaven are promised in the section on pious righteousness (Matt 6:1). The audience is commended to lay up treasures in heaven (Matt 6:20). The Father in heaven gives good gifts (Matt 7:11) and, once again, those who do the will of the Father will be welcomed into the kingdom of heaven (Matt 7:21). The parable at the end of the Sermon (Matt 7:24–27) metaphorically describes eschatological judgment. This eschatological concern is also the general context for the discussion on justice that emerges in Plato’s Republic. The entire conversation on the nature of justice and the creation of the just city is prompted by Cephalus’s chief concern in the first few pages. He is an old man, nearing death, and feels compelled to reconcile with people before dying. “For let me tell you, Socrates,” he said, “that when a man begins to realize that he is going to die, he is filled with apprehensions and concern about matters that before did not occur to him. The tales that are told of the world below and how the men who have done wrong here must pay the penalty there, though he may have laughed them down hitherto, then begin to torture his soul with the doubt that there may be some truth in them.” 151

For Cephalus, the pursuit of justice in his final season of life is a concern because of eschatological fears. Where Jesus’s kingdom of heaven frames it positively—a reward for a life lived righteously—Cephalus fears the alternative. A life lived unjustly will result in paying a penalty in Hades. 6.4.2.2 Beatitudes and Tributes (Matt 5:3–16) In the beatitudes, Jesus lays out a series of nine enthymemes in which an eschatological reward is promised to those who display a particular virtue: 1) poor in spirit, 2) mourning, 3) meekness, 4) hungering and thirsting for righteousness, 5) mercy, 6) pureness of heart, 7) peacemaking, 8) persecution for the sake of righteousness, 9) and persecution on the account of Jesus. In both the fourth and eighth beatitudes, the virtue is specifically framed as righteousness (δικαιοσύνη), though others are presumably related, given that the eschatological reward for the first, eighth, and ninth beatitudes is the kingdom of heaven (or a reward in heaven). In other words, a summary of the beatitudes may be stated that virtuous living (or living well) demonstrates a kind of righteousness that deserves a reward from heaven. In an attempt to define justice (δίκαιος) toward the end of the first book of the Republic, Socrates makes an important turn in the argument concerning virtuous living. While it is not the end of his argument by any means, he first frames it as a question: “And did we not agree that the excellence or virtue of soul is justice and its defect injustice?”152 The argument to that point is that, just as an instrument has a particular function and its virtue (ἀρετή) resides in its ability 151 152

Plato, Resp., 330d–330e (Shorey, LCL). Plato, Resp., 353e (Shorey, LCL).

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to perform that function,153 the soul has particular virtue of excellence. The expression of this excellence is itself just, and the result of the soul expressing its virtue of excellence results in the happiness of the possessor of that soul. This becomes abundantly clear when Socrates states it positively: “But furthermore, he who lives well is blessed [µακάριος] and happy, and he who does not the contrary.”154 The gnomic phrasing is significant here. In the next line, Socrates states the conclusion to Thrasymachus: “Then the just is happy and the unjust miserable.”155 Like Jesus, Socrates articulates a beatitude defining virtuous living as righteousness, the result of which is happiness. Indeed, it seems as though Socrates’s beatitude could serve as the summary of the minor premise of all nine of Jesus’s beatitudes: ‘Blessed are those who are righteous/just, for they will receive rewards in/from the kingdom of heaven.’ Finally, an important minor phrase in the tributes section (Matt 5:13–16) is also anticipated in the Republic. The point of the second tribute is that the people who practice the righteousness Jesus commends will be seen by others and thereby inspire glory to God. The significant phrase, squeezed between two statements about light, makes this point clearly: “A city built on a hill cannot be hid.” Metaphorically, Jesus has compared the group who truly practices righteousness to a city. Ultimately, this becomes the objective in Socrates’s discussion in the Republic.156 He sets out to found a city in speech, a city ideally suited for the perfect practice of justice. 6.4.2.3 Antitheses (Matt 5:21–48) In the first series of arguments in the main body of the Sermon, Jesus raises six matters of Jewish law or traditions concerning Jewish law and practice. He states them antithetically (“You have heard it said…”) and then introduces his own authoritative intensification (“But I say to you…”). Given the consistent rhetorical structure in this section, this would be an ideal place to look for a distinctive selection of topics. Jesus chooses six: 1) issues of murder, anger, and reconciliation with others, 2) adultery and lust, 3) divorce, 4) oaths, 5) retaliation, and 6) loving neighbors and hating enemies.

153 Plato, Resp., 353a. Cf. Aristotle Eth. nic., 1.7.14. In book 4, Plato specifically defines the virtues necessary in the city as wisdom, courage, moderation, and justice. 154 Plato, Resp., 354a (Shorey, LCL). ἀλλὰ µὴν ὅ γε εὖ ζῶν µακάριός τε καὶ εὐδαίµων, ὁ δὲ µὴ τἀναντία. Cf. Plato, Charm., 172a and 173d. 155 Plato, Resp., 354a (Shorey, LCL). 156 Socrates begins the analogy of the city in Plato, Resp., 368e. The discussion of the city lasts through book 9.

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With the first antithesis, Jesus quickly moves beyond murder to discuss anger as an equivalent.157 Interestingly, he frames the issue of anger entirely in terms of a dispute with one’s metaphorical brother: But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire. So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny.158

For Jesus, the issue is one of defrauding or being defrauded by one’s friend leading a dispute characterized by anger and insults. Jesus places it in a judicial context, referencing the council, the court, an accuser, judges, guards, and a payoff. Jesus makes a similar point in the fifth and sixth antitheses.159 The fifth frames it negatively: do not carry out retaliation to those who harm you. The sixth frames it positively: one is not only to love one’s neighbor (or brother or friend), but also to love one’s enemy rather than hating him (which, presumably, would result in anger or even murder). Both of these antitheses are remarkably similar in content to the discussion concerning justice between Socrates and Cephalus (who is later defended by Polemarchus) in the first book of the Republic. In that argument, speaking the truth and giving what is owed is generally likened to doing good to friends and harm to enemies.160 Socrates states the notion tentatively at a few different points, attributing it to Simonides: “to render to each his due.”161 Polemarchus maintains this notion throughout the discussion, exclaiming at one point: “I no longer know what I did mean. Yet this I still believe, that justice benefits friends and harms enemies.”162 The argument is also framed in terms

157

Matt 5:21–26. Matt 5:22–26. ἐγὼ δὲ λέγω ὑµῖν ὅτι πᾶς ὁ ὀργιζόµενος τῷ ἀδελφῷ αὐτοῦ ἔνοχος ἔσται τῇ κρίσει· ὃς δʼ ἂν εἴπῃ τῷ ἀδελφῷ αὐτοῦ· ῥακά, ἔνοχος ἔσται τῷ συνεδρίῳ· ὃς δʼ ἂν εἴπῃ· µωρέ, ἔνοχος ἔσται εἰς τὴν γέενναν τοῦ πυρός. ἐὰν οὖν προσφέρῃς τὸ δῶρόν σου ἐπὶ τὸ θυσιαστήριον κἀκεῖ µνησθῇς ὅτι ὁ ἀδελφός σου ἔχει τι κατὰ σοῦ, ἄφες ἐκεῖ τὸ δῶρόν σου ἔµπροσθεν τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου καὶ ὕπαγε πρῶτον διαλλάγηθι τῷ ἀδελφῷ σου, καὶ τότε ἐλθὼν πρόσφερε τὸ δῶρόν σου. ἴσθι εὐνοῶν τῷ ἀντιδίκῳ σου ταχύ, ἕως ὅτου εἶ µετʼ αὐτοῦ ἐν τῇ ὁδῷ, µήποτέ σε παραδῷ ὁ ἀντίδικος τῷ κριτῇ καὶ ὁ κριτὴς τῷ ὑπηρέτῃ καὶ εἰς φυλακὴν βληθήσῃ· ἀµὴν λέγω σοι, οὐ µὴ ἐξέλθῃς ἐκεῖθεν, ἕως ἂν ἀποδῷς τὸν ἔσχατον κοδράντην.158 159 Matt 5:43–48. 160 Plato, Resp., 331d–332c and 334b–335b. 161 Plato, Resp., 331e (Shorey, LCL). 162 Plato, Resp., 334b (Shorey, LCL). 158

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of justice by Socrates: “‘Then,’ said I, ‘it is just to harm the unjust and benefit the just.’”163 Jesus’s first, fifth, and sixth antitheses, particularly the fifth and sixth, take this argument as the premise. Rather than reasoning out the contrary—that it can also be just to do harm to one’s friends and good to one’s enemies, depending on definitions of course—Jesus simply and authoritatively reverses the premise: “But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”164 In the second antithesis, Jesus addresses adultery (µοιχεύω or µοιχός) and lust (ἐπιθυµέω) in the same way as he addresses murder and anger in the first.165 Sexual lust or desire leads to intemperance, and so is to be radically rejected. Given the context of adultery, it is clear that Jesus is referring specifically to sexual lust. However, the same notion could be applied more broadly to a variety of physical desires, including hunger and thirst. Here, the discussion with Adeimantus in the fourth book of the Republic becomes relevant.166 In that discussion, Socrates reasons Adeimantus to a position in which the just man will sometimes submit his desires (or lusts) to a rational restraint, once again supporting Socrates’s ultimate aim of the triumph of the intellect. Jesus wrestles with the same premise of unrestrained carnal desire, but Jesus simply and authoritatively exhorts abstinence in contrast to Socrates’s notion of mastering desire through moderation.167 An earlier discussion with Glaucon in book 2 also addresses this topic. There, Socrates and Glaucon discuss desire (ἐπιθυµία) in relationship to selfadvantage and what happens when the consequences of acting on one’s desires are set aside.168 That is, one might very well act with injustice except for the consequences of being seen to be unjust. Socrates develops the argument using a parable of a ring which, when worn with the collet facing inward, makes its wearer invisible. In the parable, the unjust man with such a ring 163

Plato, Resp., 334d (Shorey, LCL). Matt 5:44. 165 The second antithesis is found in Matt 5:27–30. 166 Plato, Resp., 437b–439e. 167 Plato, Resp., 431a–b. See also 386a–389e. “And for the multitude are not the main points of self-control these—to be obedient to their rulers and themselves to be rulers over the bodily appetites and pleasures of food, drink, and the rest? [i.e., sex]?” Plato, Resp., 389d–389e. Cf. Xenophon’s comments on self-restraint in Xenophon, Mem., 1.3.5–1.3.14. “He ate just sufficient food to make eating a pleasure, and he was so ready for his food that he found appetite the best sauce: and any kind of drink he found pleasant, because he drank only when he was thirsty. Whenever he accepted an invitation to dinner, he resisted without difficulty the common temptation to exceed the limit of satiety; and he advised those who could not do likewise to avoid appetizers that encouraged them to eat and drink what they did not want: for such trash was the ruin of stomach and brain and soul… Of sensual passion he would say: ‘Avoid it resolutely: it is not easy to control yourself once you meddle with that sort of thing.’” Xenophon, Mem., 1.3.5–6, 1.8 (Marchant, LCL). 168 Plato, Resp.359c–360e. 164

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would immediately take possessions from the market place, commit adultery with the king’s wife (µοιχεύω), and even slay the king. In other words, unrestrained desire (ἐπιθυµία) leads to, among other things, adultery (µοιχεύω), rendering the man who does such things unjust. It is unlikely that the topics of the third antithesis (divorce and fornication and marriage) come from Plato or Xenophon. Both rarely speak about issues of marriage and divorce. Likewise, it is unlikely that the fourth antithesis emerges from the Socratics, as the swearing of oaths was generally a judicial act. 6.4.2.4 Righteous Piety (Matt 6:1–18) Following his discussion with Glaucon on whether one is just or unjust for the sake of the consequences, Socrates narrows the discussion to whether one is seen to be just or unjust and the attending consequences. The parable of the ring makes it clear that the audience factors into matters of justice and injustice. Socrates then frames this notion in very precise terms: But to come now to the decision between our two kinds of life, if we separate the most completely just and the most completely unjust man…How, then, is this separation to be made? Thus: we must subtract nothing of his injustice from the unjust man or of his justice from the just, but assume the perfection of each in his own mode of conduct. In the first place, the unjust man must act as clever craftsmen do… Similarly, the unjust man who attempts injustice rightly must be supposed to escape detection if he is to be altogether unjust, and we must regard the man who is caught as a bungler. For the height of injustice is to seem just without being so. To the perfectly unjust man, then, we must assign perfect injustice and withhold nothing of it, but we must allow him, while committing the greatest wrongs, to have secured for himself the greatest reputation for justice; and if he does happen to trip, we must concede to him the power to correct his mistakes by his ability to speak persuasively if any of his misdeeds come to light, and when force is needed, to employ force by reason of his manly spirit and vigor and his provision of friends and money; and when we have set up an unjust man of this character, our theory must set the just man at his side—a simple and noble man, who, in the phrase of Aeschylus, does not wish to seem but be good. Then we must deprive him of the seeming. For if he is going to be thought just he will have honors and gifts because of that esteem. We cannot be sure in that case whether he is just for justice’s sake or for the sake of the gifts and the honors. So we must strip him bare of everything but justice and make his state the opposite of his imagined counterpart. Though doing no wrong, he must have the repute of the greatest injustice, so that he may be put to the test as regards justice through not softening because of ill repute and the consequences thereof. But let him hold on his course unchangeable even unto death, seeming all his life to be unjust though being just, that so, both men attaining to the limit, the one of injustice, the other of justice, we may pass judgment which of the two is the happier.”169

169

Plato, Resp., 360e–361d (Shorey, LCL).

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Socrates’s argument pits the state of being just while seeming to be unjust against the state of being unjust while seeming just. In other words, the truly just man can be just for the sake of justice and has no need to be seen to be just. Likewise, the unjust man better fulfills his embodiment of injustice by seeming to be just. In Matt 6:1–18, Jesus takes up an argument about pious righteousness (δικαιοσύνη).170 In each of his three examples—almsgiving, praying, and fasting—he focuses upon the difference between practicing one’s righteousness in private (before only the eyes of God, who sees in secret) versus practicing one’s righteousness before men. He states the second part four different ways: 1) “practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them,” 2) “do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others,” 3) “do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others,” and 4) “do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting.”171 Seeming righteous in order to receive favor from an audience is its own reward and has nothing to do with true righteousness. Rather, righteousness that may seem unrighteous (or at least is inconspicuous) but which is done for the sake of righteousness shall receive the reward from the Father in heaven. Finally, in the Republic, the next step of Socrates’s argument is to consider the activities of the unjust man who seems just. Interestingly, Socrates mentions specifically that this man will commit himself to a reputation of ritualistic piety, setting up offerings to the gods.172 That is, just as in Matthew, the unrighteous man not only needs to seem righteous, but piously, exceptionally so. 6.4.2.5 Wealth and Relationships (Matt 6:19–7:20) The final two sections of the main body of the Sermon on the Mount focus on two topics: the correspondence between wealth and eternal rewards, and integrity within human relationships. As these two sections are less clearly structured (by whatever means one ascertains structure, including GrecoRoman rhetorical structure), it is harder to determine specific limits or groupings of the gnomic logia. Nevertheless, certain phrases do appear to have counterparts in the works of the Socratics. A few examples include the section on eyes and sight in Matt 6:22–23, which may relate to the usefulness of

170 The NRSV translates δικαιοσύνη here as piety. Xenophon discusses Socrates’s approach to righteous piety in somewhat similar terms in Xenophon, Mem., 1.3.1–3. 171 Matt 6:1, 6:2, 6:5, 6:16. 172 Plato, Resp., 362c.

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the eye for sight in book 1 of the Republic,173 and the sections on treasure and money in Matt 6:19–21 and 6:24, which may relate to Socrates’s statement about justice being far more precious than much gold, a contrast at home in Jesus’s comments about storing up earthly treasure.174 Another interesting point of correlation comes in Matt 7:9–11: Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone? Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!175

Jesus uses a series of rhetorical questions about giving gifts to talk about what it means to ask the Father in heaven for good gifts. The rhetorical questions, however, beg the question as to what constitutes a good gift. The assumed answers of the rhetorical questions throw the question of what the Father’s gifts will be into doubt. Will they be earthly treasure? The preceding context would suggest otherwise. Xenophon’s memory of Socrates seems to supply something of an answer: And again, when he prayed he asked simply for good gifts, “for the gods know best what things are good.” To pray for gold or silver or sovereignty or any other such thing, was just like praying for a gamble or a fight or anything of which the result is obviously uncertain.176

Praying for good gifts, for Socrates, means praying in faith that the deities will supply what is necessary. In Matthew’s text, perhaps it meant praying for the supply of daily needs. In the Lord’s Prayer, the audience is commended to ask the Father in Heaven for daily bread. 177 Then they are told to not be overly concerned for the provision of the day’s concerns (i.e., eating, drinking, or clothing), a statement which ends with an exhortation: “But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.”178 6.4.3 Literary Features Having observed the structure and major theme(s) of the Sermon, I now wish to consider what Quintilian calls ornamentation.179 Matthew’s Jesus uses 173

Plato, Resp., 353c. Plato, Resp., 336e. 175 Matt 7:7–11. 176 Xenophon, Mem., 1.3.2 (Marchant, LCL). 177 Matt 6:11. 178 Matt 6:33. The full statement is found in Matt 6:25–34. 179 Quintilian, Inst., 8.3.1–89. 174

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several literary features or rhetorical figures in the course of his oration. An exhaustive study of these features would be compelling, but for the sake of space, I will briefly comment on only five. It is worth noting, however, that these figures (apart from, perhaps, aporia) are not foreign to the Hebrew Bible. Identifying precise literary parallels is challenging because of the translation from Hebrew to Greek, although most of the examples in the Hebrew Bible are represented in the LXX. Yet, Greco-Roman authors were the ones to catalogue these literary ornaments and make them a matter of conscious rhetorical artistry. And so, while it cannot be argued that their appearance in the Hebrew Scriptures is a matter of Hellenistic influence, it is probable that a Greek-writing author in the first century (such as the author of Matthew) would be influenced by Greco-Roman perceptions and examples of rhetorical ornamentation. 6.4.3.1 Rhetorical Questions: Aporia Perhaps the most characteristic element of Socrates’s dialectic is his capacity to drive his disciples or companion to aporia (ἀπορία), a feeling of doubt or frustration.180 And his primary means of driving someone to aporia is the use of rhetorical questions. Particularly in Plato’s early dialogues, Socrates often proceeds to question a companion about the nature or definition of a concept. Then, through his stylistic questioning, he shows that the companion’s answers (or lack of answers) are erroneous. Socrates comments on the value of this process in the Meno: And we have certainly given him some assistance, it would seem, towards finding out the truth of the matter: for now he will push on in the search gladly, as lacking knowledge; whereas then he would have been only too ready to suppose he was right in saying, before any number of people any number of times that the double space must have a line of double the length for its side.181

In this particular situation, as with most cases, Socrates counts on incorrect answers (or no answers at all) to his questions in order to challenge and motivate his disciples. Jesus demonstrates elements of this kind of dialectical questioning throughout the Gospel of Matthew, but also engages in something quite like it in monological form in the Sermon on the Mount.182 He frequently asks questions designed to elicit specific responses of agreement 180

[Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.29.40; Quintilian, Inst., 9.2.19. Both use the Latin dubitatio. Plato, Meno, 84b–84c. 182 The distinction between monologue and dialogue in this comparison is misleading. As Daniel Boyarin has pointed out, two of the most famous dialogical bodies of work— Plato’s and the Babylonian Talmud—both present the two parts of the dialogue in a single voice, creating a kind of monological dialogue. Boyarin, Jesus and the Fat Rabbis, 140– 146. Boyarin draws heavily on Bakhtin, “Discourse in the Novel,” 325. In this case, Jesus’s rhetorical questioning forms a kind of dialogical monologue. 181

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or specific responses of frustration. For example, in Matt 5:13, Jesus asks: “You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored?” The question has no answer. And so Jesus concludes: “It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.” Similarly, in Matt 5:46–47, he unleashes a series of rhetorical questions: For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?183

The questions are designed to frustrate, forcing the listeners to recognize their similarity to the Gentiles. They are meant to feel the impossibility of the righteousness to which he is calling them. The conclusion in verse 48 seals that impossibility: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”184 Jesus goes on to rhetorically question his disciples a total of nineteen times in the course of the Sermon. 6.4.3.2 Hyperbole A simple rhetorical figure used frequently by many ancient orators, including Jesus, is hyperbole. Hyperbole is, of course, unrealistic exaggeration for a particular effect. It is well attested in ancient literature as an oratorical ornamentation.185 References in the Sermon to cutting off one’s hand or plucking out one’s eye serve as obvious examples of hyperbole in response to a metaphorical problem (namely that one’s hand or eye causes one to sin). Likewise, Socrates’s dialectical method is one that hyperbolically pushes his discussion partner’s view to such an extreme that it forms a kind of reductio ad absurdam.186 In both cases, it heightens the sense of urgency to become a disciple. 6.4.3.3 Parables A third rhetorical figure, parable, is less commonly used, apart from narrowly defined wisdom literature. Parables are simple stories (concerning third parties, usually fictional) to demonstrate or illustrate an abstract or spiritual concept. While Jesus tends to make more frequent use of parables elsewhere (e.g., Matt 13:1–52), the final section of his peroration in the Sermon on the Mount is a parable (Matt 7:24–27). Socrates, somewhat uncommonly for Greek philosophers of the Attic era, also made use of parables. He recounted a parable involving a chariot to describe the human soul in the Phaedrus.187 183

Matt 5:46–47. Matt 5:48. 185 Aristotle, Rhet., 3.11.15–16; [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.33.44. 186 See Scott, Plato’s Socrates as Educator, 141. 187 Plato, Phaedr., 246a–254e. 184

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He also uses multiple parables in the Republic, including the parable of the divided line and the famed parable of the cave.188 In both cases, parables increase the sense of belonging to the band of disciples through the sharing of secret or hidden meaning. Jesus articulates this very notion in Matt 13:10–13: Then the disciples came and asked him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” He answered, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.’

6.4.3.4 Anaphora A fourth rhetorical figure used by Jesus is that of anaphora. Anaphora is the repetition of a sequence of words at the beginning or end of adjacent clauses for the purpose of emphasis. As a rhetorical concept, it is described in both Quintilian and the Rhetorica ad Herennium.189 Jesus uses this type of repetition in succinct form in the beatitudes through the repetition of µακάριος (Matt 5:3–12). This technique is also used in with the formulaic repetitions of “you have heard it said” and “but, I say to you” in the antitheses (Matt 5:21– 48) and with the sequence of “when you,” “do not,” “truly I tell you, they have received,” and “your Father who sees in secret will reward you” in the piety provisions section of the Sermon (Matt 6:1–18). This feature is, of course, not uncommon in Plato’s work. For example, Socrates unleashes a rather forceful repetition of καθοράω in the Phaedrus, shortly after that parable of the chariot.190 6.4.3.5 Synechdoche A fifth rhetorical device is that of synechdoche, or using a term for a part of something to refer to the whole of that something or using a term for the

188

For the parable of the divided line, see Plato, Resp., 509d–510a. For the parable of the cave, see Plato, Resp., 514a–520a. 189 See Quintilian, Inst., 9.1.33 (Butler, LCL). “For example, sometimes the repetition of words will produce an impression of force, at other times of grace. Again, slight changes and alterations may be made in words, the same word may be repeated sometimes at the beginning of a sentence and sometimes at the end, or the sentence may be made to open and close with the same phrase. One verb may be made to serve the purpose of a number of clauses, our words may be worked up to a climax, the same word may be repeated with a different meaning or reiterated at the opening of one sentence from the close of the preceding, while we may introduce words with similar terminations or in the same cases or balancing or resembling each other.” See also [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.12.19. 190 Plato, Phaedr., 247d. See also Denniston, Greek Prose Style, 84–87 for additional examples of Plato’s use of anaphora.

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whole of something to refer to a specific part. Like anaphora, it is noted as an oratorical ornamentation by both Quintilian and in the Rhetorica ad Herennium.191 Jesus uses synechdoche in the Lord’s Prayer (Matt 6:9–13) when he uses the phrase “daily bread” to refer to God’s provision in general. According to Carl D. DuBois, there are 13 instance of synechdoche in just the Sermon on the Mount and dozens of others in the rest of the Gospel.192 Socratic examples of synechdoche include references to those arts or skills frequently made by Socrates in the Platonic dialogues. For example, he refers to painting and painters in the Republic in order to say something about the figurative arts in general.193

6.5 Conclusion: Is It Successful in Addressing the Rhetorical Need? 6.5 Conclusion: Is It Successful in Addressing the Rhetorical Need?

The final step of my proposed method is one of synthesis and assessment. I have argued for a clearly defined unit of oratory in Matt 5:3–7:27, along with narrative brackets serving as helpful context (extending the passage to Matt 4:23–9:35). The Sermon itself seems to be an epitome of the teaching of Jesus, compiled according to the conventions of Greco-Roman rhetoric. The rhetorical need addressed by the Sermon is found entirely within the Sermon, and focuses on the demand for righteousness with the hope of attaining some kind of eschatological reward (thereby exhorting the audience to endure persecution). As such, the rhetorical species of the Sermon is deliberative. As I have argued in this chapter, the arrangement and style of the Sermon also correspond to the conventions of Greco-Roman rhetoric. Specifically, the structure of the Sermon follows oratorical arrangement and the style draws from an assortment of rhetorical figures widely known by and available to ancient rhetoricians. Likewise, the content of the Sermon on the Mount seems to draw from topics widely available in the first century, particularly those of the Socratics. The rhetoric of the Sermon on the Mount is, in my mind, successful. As Kennedy notes, the Sermon has unity of thought and diversity of tone. The 191

See Quintilian, Inst., 8.6.19–22 (Butler, LCL). “For while metaphor is designed to move the feelings, give special distinction to things and place them vividly before the eye, synecdocheè has the power to give variety to our language by making us realise many things from one, the whole from a part, the genus from a species, things which follow from things which have preceded; or, on the other hand, the whole procedure may be reversed. It may, however, be more freely employed by poets than by orators.” See also [Cicero], Rhet. Her., 4.33.44–45. 192 DuBois, “Metonymy and Synecdoche,” 16–17. 193 Plato, Resp., 598c2.

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goodwill won by the beatitudes and the encouragement of the Lord’s Prayer is interspersed with the aporia of rigorous law keeping and exhortations to perfection as well as the “unmitigating severity of the concluding section.”194 Kennedy also notes that the ethos of Jesus is presented as one of total authority, the arguments are logical, and the ornamentation is functional. I am, of course, also willing to go farther than Kennedy and suggest that the source texts that the Matthean editor might have used in constructing this sermon are Socratic, particularly Plato’s Republic. The result is that the Sermon is not only successful in presenting Jesus as an authoritative mediator of both law and heavenly reward for those who follow his exhortations to righteousness; it is also successful in presenting Jesus as a Socratic figure—one who gathers disciples, teaches disciples, and so mediates their development for the good.

194

Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation, 63.

Chapter 7

Matthew’s Use of Education Vocabulary When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying…1 —Matt 5:1–2

The task of analyzing discipleship and teaching vocabulary in Matthew’s Gospel focuses on two particular questions: 1.

2.

What expectations are set by Matthew’s particular use of discipleship and teaching vocabulary and how are these expectations met or not met in the way that Matthew portrays discipleship and teaching? To what extent does Matthew’s use of discipleship and teaching vocabulary reflect a uniquely Matthean concept of discipleship and teaching?

7.1 Discipleship Vocabulary 7.1 Discipleship Vocabulary

The noun µαθητής is used seventy-two times within the Gospel of Matthew (of which three are singular and sixty-nine are plural).2 The term is used both 1

Matt 5:1–2. Ἰδὼν δὲ τοὺς ὄχλους ἀνέβη εἰς τὸ ὄρος, καὶ καθίσαντος αὐτοῦ προσῆλθαν αὐτῷ οἱ µαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ· καὶ ἀνοίξας τὸ στόµα αὐτοῦ ἐδίδασκεν αὐτοὺς λέγων· 2 There are 72 uses of µαθητής in the NA27 version of the Greek New Testament. Michael J. Wilkins, in his Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, routinely refers to 73 uses. With reference to Matt 26:20, Wilkins argues: “The external evidence weighs in favor of excluding the term in the view of Metzger’s Textual Commentary (p. 64) (p37 vid, 45 vid B Koine D Γ λ φ 565. 700pm sys; Eus). But internal evidence, that Matthew habitually completes οἱ δώδεκα with µαθητής (10:1; 11:1; 20:17) and that Matthew always qualifies οἱ δώδεκα with a noun, possessive case, or possessive pronoun, and certain external evidence (Sin A L W Δ Θ φ (074). 33 al lat sys a bo), have produced the conclusion in this paper that the term should be included (cf. Gundry, Ματηεω, p. 526; Elliott, “Mathėtės”, p. 304.).” Michael J. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 252, note 1. This text is consistent with his 1986 dissertation at Fuller Theological Seminary, of which this volume is a second revised version (the first revised version was by Brill in 1988). That Matthew frequently uses ἀπόστολοι to complete οἱ δώδεκα, even in close proximity to uses of οἱ δώδεκα µαθητής (cf. Matt 10:1 and Matt

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in the narrative by the author (sixty-one times) and as part of direct discourse (eleven times). Of the sixty-one uses in the narrative, fifty-eight refer to the disciples of Jesus. Of those, fifty-seven uses of the disciples are identical with the twelve.3 The term is additionally used twice to refer to the disciples of John the Baptist (Matt 9:14 and 11:2) and once to the disciples of the Pharisees (Matt 22:16). Of the uses in direct discourse, four are of Jesus’s disciples by the Jewish leaders (Matt 12:2, 15:2, 27:64, 28:13—each of which is used in a context of anger or disapproval toward the disciples) and four are of Jesus’s disciples by others (the disciples of John in Matt 9:14, the man whose son was possessed by a demon in Matt 17:16, Jesus himself in Matt 26:18, and the angel at the tomb of Jesus in Matt 28:7). The remaining three uses (Matt 10:25–26, 10:42) were also by Jesus himself, but referred to a disciple in principle, not to particular disciples. These three uses appear in sayings by Jesus and constitute the three uses of µαθητής in the singular in Matthew’s Gospel. The verb µανθάνω is used only three times in the Gospel of Matthew (Matt 9:13, 11:29, and 24:32). Each instance is uttered by Jesus and is in the imperative.4 He tells the Pharisees in Matt 9:13 to go and ‘learn’ (µάθετε) what the phrase “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice,” means.5 The term is used in chapter 11 as part of a series of Jesus’s saying which began as a prayer. The intention of the sayings is to comfort Jesus’s followers and the term is used in the context of an exhortation to “Take my [Jesus’s] yoke upon you [followers], and learn (µάθετε) from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will 10:2), I find Wilkins’s rationale insufficient in a case where the manuscript tradition is so weak. A third-century scribe could just as easily have presumed the habits of Matthew as Wilkins has in this case. Ulrich Luz sides with the NA27’s total of 72 as well. Luz, Matthew 1–7, 32. 3 According to Jeannine K. Brown, only in Matt 8:21 is there a reference to “disciples” of Jesus where the reference indicates followers not among “the twelve.” J.K. Brown argues: “Given that this text precedes the formal introduction of the ‘twelve disciples’ at 10:1 and that there is no attempt by Matthew to connect either of these characters with the twelve [J.K. Brown is referring also to the scribe in Matt 8:19], it would seem best to view these disciples (or potential disciples) as outside of the character group, disciples. In other words, ‘the disciples’ in Matthew refers specifically to the character group that consists of the twelve disciples of Jesus.” J.K. Brown, Disciples in Narrative Perspective, 13–18. Given that the formal introduction of “the twelve” has not yet occurred—and that in that formal introduction they are called “apostles”—the reference to a µαθητής in Matt 8:21 is more ambiguous than J.K. Brown suggests. Nevertheless, at least 57 of the 58 uses of the term to reference Jesus’s disciples are clearly referring to “the twelve.” Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 166, especially note 187. 4 In fact, each instance of µανθάνω is in the second person, plural, aorist, active, imperative: µάθετε. 5 Jesus is referring to Hos 6:6: “For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt-offerings.”

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find rest for your souls.” The third use of µανθάνω comes in the context of the last of the discourses (Matthew 24–25) in which the disciples are instructed to learn (µάθετε) from a fig tree concerning the coming season.6 The term µαθητεύω is also used three times in the Gospel of Matthew: once as a participle, once as a passive indicative verb, and once as an active imperative verb. The participle in Matt 13:52 comes in the context of Jesus teaching his disciples through parables. Jesus states: “Therefore every scribe who has been trained (µαθητευθεὶς) for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.” The other two uses are references to being or becoming disciples. Matt 27:57 refers to Joseph of Arimathea who is declared to be a disciple of Jesus (ἐµαθητεύθη τῷ Ἰησοῦ) and Matt 28:19 is part of Jesus’s post-resurrection commissioning of his disciples to go and “make disciples” (µαθητεύσατε) of others. Matthew’s use of the term µαθητής and the related verbs µανθάνω and µαθητεύω suggest that Matthew has a particular interest in the concept of discipleship. As such, we seem to have both a breadth of uses (conceptual and specific uses as well as uses with respect to a variety of groups) and a depth of use (the overwhelming majority refer to “the twelve” disciples of Jesus). The task of reconstructing Matthew’s concept of discipleship, however, begs the question of how Matthew uses the term, and the above summary begins to isolate which of the instances of discipleship vocabulary are more likely to yield insight into the Matthean concept: 1.

2.

3.

6

First, the repetition of disciple terminology to refer to the twelve (57 of 61 uses in the narrative) is significant. If there is a pattern to the redactional use of the term in this way, it should be given weight. Second, uses of the terms to refer to the Baptist’s followers, the Pharisees’ followers, or followers of Jesus beyond the twelve, are useful insofar as they define who may become disciples and what kinds of relationships are considered discipleship relationships. Third, placement of the terms in discourse (rather than in the narrative) may not indicate historical significance, but does indicate conceptual significance. For example: § The three instances in which Jesus seems to discuss discipleship in principle—the only three instances in which the noun is used in the singular—should be given weight. § The three uses of the verb µανθάνω should be given weight as they appear as commands from Jesus and, as such, reveal something of the author’s concept of discipleship (via Jesus as a character).

Matt 24:32–35.

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§

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The two of the three uses of the verb µαθητεύω should be given weight. The parabolic use and the use in the commissioning in the last chapter are significant as they, again, reveal something of the author’s concept of discipleship (via Jesus as a character). The instance of the verb identifying Joseph of Arimathea as a disciple is significant in that it contributes to the definition of who may become a disciple.

Given this brief overview of discipleship vocabulary, the question becomes: to what extent does Matthew’s use of discipleship/teaching vocabulary reflect a uniquely Matthean concept of discipleship? The second guiding question for Matthew’s approach to discipleship terminology is one exploring the ways in which that vocabulary reflects a uniquely Matthean concept of discipleship. Here, we will explore the data with a redaction-critical approach. Of particular interest is when Matthew has inserted the term into his source material. On the importance of such insertions, Gundry writes: Insertions of words in paralleled materials show with utmost clarity Matthew’s fondness for the words inserted. Occurrences of words in unparalleled passages occupy a place of secondary importance; for though they might come from an unshared tradition, these passages often turn out to be constructs of the first evangelist himself. If he inserts his pet expressions in the tradition, he would naturally use them when writing creatively.7

Matthew uses the noun µαθητής seventy-two times, only three of which are instance of unique Matthean materials. Of the remaining sixty-nine uses, sixty-three appear in passages sourced by Mark’s Gospel and six appear in passages related to Q materials (the word µαθητής does not necessarily appear in his sources). Of the Markan parallels, Matthew has adopted Mark’s use of µαθητής on twenty-eight occasions and altered or changed Mark’s use on thirty-five. Of the six Q parallels, Matthew has adopted the Q usage of µαθητής three times8 and inserted the term into his source three times.9 Of Matthew’s three uses of µανθάνω: one is unique to Matthew,10 one is potentially adopted from Markan source material,11 and one is added to Markan

7 Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution, 3. 8 Matt 5:1/Luke 6:20, Matt 10:24/Luke 6:40, Matt 11:2/Luke 7:18–19. 9 Matt 8:21/Luke 9:59, Matt 9:37/Luke 10:2, Matt 10:25/Luke 6:40. Comparison with Q material poses certain conceptual problems that will be explored later in this essay. 10 Matt 11:29. 11 Matt 24:32.

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source material.12 Similarly, of Matthew’s three uses of µαθητεύω, one is unique to Matthew13 and two are added to Markan source material.14 Some work on building a taxonomy of Matthew’s redactional activities with respect to the noun µαθητής, µανθάνω, and µαθητεύω has already been done by Michael J. Wilkins in his dissertation.15 Wilkins’s taxonomy, at its most basic level, is organized to show how Matthew’s use of the terminology compares with his source materials: 1.

2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

Inclusions in Parallel Sections (including purposeful identification, when οἱ δώδεκα is completed, inclusions of unique Matthean material, defining their relationship to οἱ ὄχλοι, and defining their relationship to Peter)16 Occurrences in Unique Material Expansions from Matthew’s Sources Parallel Occurrences with Matthew’s Sources (including distinction between the µαθηταί and ὄχλοι, solidarity with Jesus, a different attitude toward the µαθηταί, and general references to µαθηταί) Matthew’s Omissions of µαθητής (including when Jesus is alone, a different attitude toward the µαθηταί, and Jesus and the ὄχλοι) Matthew’s Use of µανθάνω, and µαθητεύω

Starting with Wilkins’s categories at a foundational level, additional analysis reveals several strategies in Matthew’s editing. 7.1.1 Clarifying Sources Matthew tends to include references to the disciples in places where Mark does not. This is consistent with an often-observed feature of the Matthean text in which he tends to clarify Mark by using more specific terms.17 For example, Mark 5:21–43 describes Jesus following a synagogue official to the official’s dying daughter. In Mark’s account, only the crowd follows Jesus. Matthew’s presentation of the story in Matt 9:18–26, however, describes

12

Matt 9:13. Matt 13:52. 14 Matt 27:57, 28:19. The second reference (Matt 28:19) is related to disputed Markan source material. 15 Wilkins, “The Concept of Disciple in Matthew’s Gospel.” The dissertation has been reprinted twice, including Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel. 16 Wilkins prefers “inclusion” to “insertion,” arguing that it is a more neutral term. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 129, especially note 17. 17 See Bonnard, Evangile selon Saint Matthieu, 8. See also Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 129. 13

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Jesus following the synagogue official with only the disciples following him. Matthew has taken the somewhat indistinct crowd and narrowed it down to the disciples, a more intimate category of followers. The result is that in Matthew’s account, the general healing story carries an element of discipleship. By comparison, Luke maintains Mark’s account in that only the crowd followed. The result is, in each case, that Matthew heightens the focus on the discipleship relationship. Another important example can be found in the clarification in Matt 12:46–50 of Mark 3:32–35: And a crowd was sitting around him, and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers are outside, seeking you.” And he answered them, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking about at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of God, he is my brother and sister and mother.”

In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus takes an opportunity of unintended provocation to redefine his family as ‘those who do the will of God.’ Matthew follows the structure of the pericope precisely and the language very closely. The difference comes in response to the question: to whom was Jesus referring when he redefined his family? In verse 34, Mark uses the seemingly ambiguous phrase: “and looking about (καὶ περιβλεψάµενος) at those who sat around him (τοὺς περὶ αὐτὸν κύκλῳ καθηµένους).” The second part of the phrase— τοὺς περὶ αὐτὸν κύκλῳ καθηµένους (“those who sat around him”)—however, is not as ambiguous as it seems when compared with καὶ ἐκάθητο περὶ αὐτὸν (“sitting around him”), which had been used two verses earlier. The question of who was sitting around Jesus in verse 34, then, is answered very clearly by Mark in verse 32: ὄχλος (a crowd).18 Matthew, in his version, specifies to whom Jesus was referring in 12:49: “And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said…” Matthew leaves no opportunity for ambiguity. The examples of those ‘who do the will of God’ and are, as a result, part of Jesus’s redefined family are the disciples. In his clarification, Matthew narrows the scope of who is considered part of Jesus’s redefined family and, in the process, gives the reader another insight into his concept of discipleship.19 This clarifying feature of the Matthean redaction also applies to his use of Q material, though examples are rarer (cf. Luke 9:59 and Matt 8:21, which, 18

G. Barth, “Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,” 102, especially note 1. G. Barth seems to assume that crowd is not a technical term with an implied ecclesiological status. Cf. Minear, “The Disciples and the Crowds in the Gospel of Matthew,” 35. 19 G. Barth argues that Jesus, in the Markan text, redefines “family” here as those who ‘do the will of God,’ which is a much broader category than is “disciples.” Presuming that the reference to “disciples” in the Matthean version is a reference to “the twelve,” the redefinition is not to “family” as much as it is to “disciples,” in which case Matthew is narrowing the definition by differentiating the disciples from the crowd.

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itself, is a clarification but contributes to a reshaping strategy to be discussed in the next section). In total, 29 (or 40 percent) of the 72 uses of µαθητής in Matthew’s Gospel are clarifications.20 The abundant use of this term to clarify his sources suggests not just a routine literary program of clarification, but a Matthean rhetorical strategy of employing a repetitive form. Matthew, at least on twenty-nine occasions, takes the opportunity to shape a reference to an interaction between Jesus and a potentially ambiguous group of followers into a reference to disciples. 7.1.2 Reshaping Sources Matthew’s clarifying additions of discipleship vocabulary, when grouped together with additional editing (usually in the form of re-ordering the action of the text), can have a cumulative effect of reshaping Markan pericopes beyond just making an ambiguous noun more precise. For example, Matthew’s account of the stilling of the storm in Matt 8:23– 27 has the cumulative effect of turning what seems to be a miracle story in Mark to a discipleship story in Matthew. Günther Bornkamm argued this point by exploring the context: Matthew has taken miracles from Mark 1, 2, 4 and 5 and arranged them as a set—a second section in Matthew 8–9 to follow the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5–7.21 These two blocks are bounded by a summary statement inclusio in 4:23 and 9:35. “Jesus was going through all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every kind of disease and every kind of sickness.”22 Jesus preaches and teaches in the Sermon on the Mount and heals in the set of miracles that follow. It is in the midst of the healing stories that Matthew has chosen to give his account of the stilling of the storm. Furthermore, Matthew has placed the story immediately after two discipleship sayings in which he has twice inserted µαθητής into Markan material. The first of those sayings—“The foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, 20

Matt 8:21, 8:23, 10:1, 11:1, 12:2, 12:49, 13:10, 14:19, 14:22, 14:26, 15:36, 16:5, 16:20, 16:21, 17:10, 18:1, 19:25, 20:17, 21:6, 23:1, 24:3, 26:1, 26:8, 26:26, 26:35, 26:36, 26:40, 26:45, 26:56. Cf. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 129, 250–252. Wilkins concluded that 33 (32 if you discount Matt 26:20, see note 31) of Matthew’s uses of µαθητής are “inclusions,” by which he means attempts by the Matthean redactor to clarify the characters in his source materials (31 from Markan source material and two—Matt 8:21/Luke 9:59 and Matt 16:5/Luke 8:14—from Q source material). Wilkins argues for six “insertions” (Matt 9:19, 9:37, 10:42, 17:6, 17:32, 21:20) in which I’ve found there to be more than clarification in the Matthean strategy. Similarly, I have classified five uses of the term as clarifications (Matt 11:1, 14:19, 14:22, 15:36, 26:36) where Wilkins sees some other strategy employed. For more on these disagreements, see the appendix. 21 Bornkamm, “End-Expectation and Church in Matthew,” 53. 22 Matt 9:35.

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but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.”—comes as a response to a scribe’s offer to follow (ἀκολουθέω) Jesus. The second saying from Jesus is a response from a disciple who requests to bury his father. Jesus’s response is: “Follow [ἀκολουθέω] Me, and allow the dead to bury their own dead.” Again, Bornkamm has noticed here that this is how storm pericope is connected: “When He got into the boat, His disciples followed Him.” In the storm pericope itself, Matthew has also reversed Jesus’s response to the storm and Jesus’s response to his disciples from Mark’s order. In Mark, Jesus hears the plea from his disciples and immediately calms the storm with his words. Only after he has calmed the storm does he rebuke the disciples for having no faith. The miracle is the climax. In Matthew, however, Jesus pauses to rebuke the disciples before performing the miracle.23 This shifts the focus of the story away from the actual miracle and to the question of whether the disciples were learning anything. Mark’s story about a miracle becomes Matthew’s story about a lesson in faith. Another example comes in Mark 14:1 and Matt 26:1. Mark’s narrative indicates: “It was now two days before the Passover and the Feast of Unleavened Bread.”24 Matthew reshapes the Markan information into a statement from Jesus, identifying his audience as the disciples in the process: “When Jesus had finished all these sayings, he said to his disciples, ‘You know that after two days the Passover is coming, and the Son of Man will be delivered up to be crucified.’” It is already significant that in Matthew’s version, Jesus reveals his expectation of crucifixion, though this prediction has already been made in Mark’s Gospel on three occasions as well.25 Matthew, never one to leave the recipients of such a significant statement ambiguous, clearly defines them as the disciples. A third example is that of Joseph of Arimathea. In the Markan source (Mark 15:42–47), Joseph is described as being ἀπὸ Ἁριµαθαίας (“the one from Arimathea”) and as εὐσχήµων βουλευτής (“a prominent member of the Council”). Given that he had both the courage to approach Pilate and the means to buy a linen shroud (the purchase of which is mentioned separately from when the body is wrapped in the shroud) as well as a tomb, he was clearly a man of wealth and power. Luke, in Luke 23:50–54, maintains Mark’s descriptions of Joseph being from Arimathea, adding that it was a city of the Jews (ἀπὸ Ἁριµαθαίας πόλεως τῶν Ἰουδαίων). Luke also maintains that Joseph was a member of the Council, describing him as a good and righteous man rather than prominent (βουλευτὴς ὑπάρχων [καὶ] ἀνὴρ ἀγαθὸς καὶ δίκαιος). But in Matthew’s account (Matt 27:57–61), Joseph is simply described as ἄνθρωπος πλούσιος ἀπὸ Ἁριµαθαίας (“a rich man of Arima23

Interestingly, Luke maintains Mark’s ordering. Mark 14:1. 25 Mark 8:31, 9:31, 10:33–34. 24

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thea”). Matthew has simplified Mark’s slightly lengthier description of Joseph by omitting that he was a prominent member of the Council and a man who could purchase a linen shroud, preferring instead to describe him with just one adjective: πλούσιος (wealthy). Matthew then adds that Joseph αὐτὸς ἐµαθητεύθη τῷ Ἰησοῦ (“a disciple of Jesus”).26 This is significant as Mark, through much of his Gospel, tends to equate the disciples and the twelve, of whom Joseph was not a part. Bultmann observed this: Originally perhaps µαθηταί does not mean the particular group of the Twelve, but an unspecified number of followers. That seems to be behind the expression in Mk. 410, where Mark finds in his source ἠρώτων αὐτὸν οἱ περὶ αὐτὸν, and added the words σὺν τοῖς δώδεκα, while later copyists, for whom the equation of the µαθηταί with the Twelve is self-evident, have instead simply written οἱ µαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ. This same identification is also self-evident for Matthew, and it explains why in 241 he makes the whole band of the µαθηταί question Jesus instead of εἷς τῶν µαθητῶν αὐτοῦ (Mk. 131).27

The idea that the term disciples is interchangeable with the twelve in the Synoptics—at least after Mark 3:13—has been maintained by several scholars.28 Particularly in Matthew, Georg Strecker argued that the term disciples was essentially restricted to the twelve.29 Evidence to the contrary includes the conceptual statements in Matt 10:24, 10:25, and 10:42 (implying a wider concept of discipleship than just those attending), the implication that the scribe in Matt 8:19 is a disciple—possibly not among the twelve—by virtue of the ἕτερος statement in 8:21 (“another of his disciples”),30 and the reference to Joseph of Arimathea as being a disciple. While this example is a 26

John also describes Joseph as a “disciple of Jesus,” though secretly, in John 19:38– 42. The Acts of Pilate is a much later (circa mid-fourth-century) apocryphal text that gives considerably more detail about Joseph’s activities in Jerusalem. Though he is not specifically called a disciple (in accordance with Luke functioning as a primary source for the Acts of Pilate), he is clearly identified with and functioning in the same way as the other disciples of Jesus. 27 Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition, 67. 28 See particularly Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 166, note 187. See also Hengel, Charismatic Leader and His Followers, 81–82, note 163. Hengel argues against Bultmann and against the improbability of the interchangeability of “disciples” and “the twelve” on the basis of an apparent increase in the number of disciples in Mark 1:16, 1:29; 2:13, and 2:14. Hengel also cites other secondary literature on the matter. 29 See Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit: Untersuchung zur Theologie des Matthäus, 191–192. “Daß Matthäus den Plural µαθηταί mehrfach mit οἱ δώδεκα verbindet, erläutert nicht nur das Verständnis des letzteren, sondern scheint auch den Begriff des „Jüngers‟ zu bestimmen, ihn nämlich auf den Zwölferkreis einzugrenzen. So stimmt es zur nachgewiesenen historischen Tendenz der Redaktion, die sich auch in der Verarbeitung der überlieferten δώδεκα-Aussagen äußert.” 30 Przybylski, Righteousness in Matthew and His World of Thought, 108–110. This disciple could be among “the twelve,” though.

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simple clarification at a grammatical level, the use of the verb µαθητεύω significantly indicates a broader definition of “disciple” than just “the twelve.” 7.1.3 Revising Sources When it comes to the disciples as characters, Matthew also seems to change non-understanding in Mark to understanding in his own Gospel.31 As such, he changes his source material in a significant way on ten occasions. In these examples, Matthew goes well beyond reshaping for emphasis and actually alters or adds to his source material in such a way as to portray the disciples in a qualitatively different way. For example, after the feeding of the multitudes in Mark 6, Mark briefly describes Jesus walking on the water and concludes: “Then He got into the boat with them, and the wind stopped; and they were utterly astonished, for they had not gained any insight from the incident of the loaves, but their heart was hardened.” Mark adds in chapter 8: Having eyes, do you not see? And having ears, do you not hear? And do you not remember, when I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces you picked up?”32 They said to Him, “Twelve.” “When I broke the seven for the four thousand, how many large baskets full of broken pieces did you pick up?” And they said to Him, “Seven.” And He was saying to them, “Do you not yet understand? 33

Matthew takes a somewhat kinder approach in Matt 16:11–12, concluding the feeding of the multitudes with Jesus exclaiming: “How is it that you do not understand that I did not speak to you concerning bread? But beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.”34 Matthew’s conclusion comes in the next verse: “Then they understood (συνῆκαν) that He did not say to beware of the leaven of bread, but of the teaching of the Pharisees and Sadducees.”35 Another example can be found by comparing how much the disciples understand of resurrection and John the Baptist in the transfiguration accounts. Mark’s version simply ends with Jesus’s statement: “But I tell you that Elijah has come, and they did to him whatever they pleased, as it is written of 31

Wilkins argues that Matthew adds a considerable amount of material at the points of non-understanding in Mark in order to shift the focus from what the disciples did not understand to what they did after being taught further. This justifies his conclusions that the disciples understood. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 134. 32 Jesus is recounting the episode recorded by Mark in Mark 6:3–44. Mark also records in Mark 6:52 that “they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.” 33 Mark 8:18–21. 34 Matt 16:11. 35 Matt 16:12.

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him.”36 Matthew repeats the statement nearly exactly and then adds in the narrative: “Then the disciples understood that he was speaking to them of John the Baptist.”37 7.1.4 Removing from Sources It should also be noted here that Matthew is not just inserting the terms into Mark and Q, he also seems to have removed the term µαθητής from his sources on twenty-two occasions (fifteen from Mark and seven from Q).38 Significantly, Mark and Luke have independent uses of neither µανθάνω nor µαθητεύω.39 On the surface, of course, the repeated omission of µαθητής would seem to undermine a special Matthean interest in discipleship. But, what might be the significance of these omissions? Put another way, what do

36

Mark 9:13. Matt 17:13. 38 Mark: Mark 2:18/Matt 9:14 (two uses), Mark 3:7/Matt 12:15, Mark 3:9/Matt 12:15, Mark 5:31/Matt 9:21–22, Mark 6:1/Matt 13:54, Mark 7:1/Matt 15:1, Mark 8:10/Matt 15:39, Mark 8:27/Matt 16:13 (only omitted one use), Mark 8:33/Matt 16:23, Mark 9:14/Matt 17:14, Mark 9:31/Matt 17:22, Mark 10:46/Matt 20:29, Mark 14:13/Matt 26:18, Mark 12:43/Matt 23:39–24:1; Q: Luke 7:18/Matt 11:2, Luke 10:23/Matt 13:16, Luke 12:22/Matt 6:25, Luke 14:26/Matt 10:37, Luke 14:27/Matt 10:38, Luke 17:1/Matt 18:7, Luke 17:22/Matt 24:26–28. Wilkins states that Matthew omits eighteen uses of µαθητής from his Markan source material. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 154. However, Wilkins lists only sixteen of those omissions in Appendix C. In fact, Wilkins lists only twenty total omissions of µαθητής from both the Markan and Q source materials in Appendices B–D (sixteen from Mark in Appendix C and four from Q in Appendix D). Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 250– 255. First, he includes Mark 10:24/Matt 19:24 as Matthew omits µαθητής in Matt 19:24. I am not including it in my list as Matthew has moved µαθητής to the disciples’ initial reaction in Matt 19:25. Their reaction in verse 25 is ἐκπλήσσω, which Mark uses to describe their second reaction in Mark 10:26. Matthew omits this second reaction, having already used both µαθητής and ἐκπλήσσω in the first reaction. The result is that Matthew eliminated a redundancy while at the same time using µαθητής the exact same number of times as Mark. Second, Wilkins seems to have mislabeled Luke 10:23/Matt 13:16 in Appendix D as an “inclusion” wherein he meant “omission.” The NA27 text of Matt 13:16 has no occurrence of the word µαθητής. In fact, Wilkins himself does not list Matt 13:16 as an “inclusion” in Appendix B. Third, Wilkins also does not list the uses of µαθητής in Luke 17:1 (cf. Matt 18:7) or 17:22 (cf. Matt 24:26–28). It is unclear if he has simply omitted these references or does not consider them Q material. In either case, the Lukan text includes the term µαθητής and the corresponding Matthean text does not. Both are listed as Q material in major reference works on Q. Robinson, Hoffman, and Kloppenborg, eds., Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English, 140–146. Miller, ed., Complete Gospels, 294– 295. 39 In fact, Mark has only one instance of µανθάνω at 13:28 (cf. Matt 24:32) and lacks µαθητεύω. Luke lacks both words entirely. 37

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these specific omissions reveal about Matthew’s attitude concerning the concept of discipleship? They fall into just a few different categories: 7.1.4.1 Extensive Omissions of Markan Source Material On two occasions, Matthew omits a portion of the—or even the entire— pericope containing µαθητής in his editing of his source material. First, in Mark 5:24–34 (cf. Matt 9:20–22), Mark recounts a story in which Jesus heals a woman who surreptitiously grasped his cloak. Jesus perceived that “power had gone out from him” and so asked who had touched him. Mark then writes in verse 31: “And his disciples (µαθηταί) said to him, ‘You see the crowd pressing around you, and yet you say, ‘Who touched me?’” The woman reveals herself and Jesus responds with assurance that her faith had made her well. Matthew, in his typical fashion, goes about shortening the pericope.40 In his version, Matthew omits several details (e.g. the presence of the crowd) as well as part of the action (i.e., he omits Jesus’s question about who touched him and the disciples’ response). It is unclear why Matthew has removed the omission of Jesus’s question, but doing so makes the reference to the disciples’ response unnecessary.41 As such, Matthew has omitted a reference to the disciples probably as the result of an editorial decision completely unrelated to the disciples. Second, in Mark 12:41–44, Mark recounts Jesus’s object lesson for the disciples upon observing a widow placing two small copper coins in the offering box at the treasury. While Luke maintains the pericope almost exactly (cf. Luke 21:1–4), Matthew omits it entirely, including the use of µαθητής. We may only speculate as to why Matthew has made this editorial choice.42 In both of these cases, the omission of µαθητής is not especially significant. 40

See Hagner, Matthew 1–13, 248–249; Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 396–397. France, Gospel of Matthew, 362–363. 41 There are a few reasons as to why Matthew may have been shortening the account of this healing. From a literary perspective, he may have been trying to reduce its impact as a distraction from the healing of the ruler’s daughter in which the story is embedded. Alternatively, as Gundry has suggested, Matthew may have felt the uncertainty or lack of control over his power that Jesus displayed in Mark’s version—as well the response from the disciples—was unflattering to both. “The elimination of Jesus’s loss to know who had touched him and of the disciples’ almost ridiculing comment about the senselessness of asking who touched him when a whole crowd of people were touching him—these omissions keep Jesus’s majesty intact.” Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution, 174. 42 Based on the ordering of the material, if Matthew had included it, it would have come between chapters 22 and 23. I propose that Matthew has omitted this pericope with a specific purpose, as it would have interrupted the flow of the discussion between Jesus and the Pharisees at the end of chapter 22 and the rebuke of the Pharisees that begins in chapter 23.

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7.1.4.2 Economic Omissions of Markan Source Material On eleven occasions, Matthew omits µαθητής as a simple matter of removing Mark’s redundant uses or because the disciples’ presence can simply be assumed in the context. An example of Matthew’s tendency to remove redundant uses can be found in Mark 2:18: “Now John’s disciples (µαθηταί) and the Pharisees were fasting. And people came and said to him, ‘Why do John’s disciples (µαθηταί) and the disciples (µαθηταί) of the Pharisees fast, but your disciples (µαθηταί) do not fast?’” Matthew apparently recognizes the tension between Mark’s introductory statement concerning the fasting of the Pharisees and the peculiar reference to the disciples of the Pharisees in the question (not the Pharisees themselves). Matthew edits on the basis of the introductory statement in Mark and removes the disciples of the Pharisees entirely. He also reframes the question as though it came from John’s disciples (rather than an ambiguous crowd), eliminating the necessity for the second reference to them. Matt 9:14 states: “Then the disciples (µαθηταί) of John came to him, saying, ‘Why do we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples (µαθηταί) do not fast?’” The result is that Matthew’s version contains two fewer uses of µαθητής than Mark’s. Similar redundancies are removed from Mark 8:27 (cf. Matt 16:13), Mark 8:33 (cf. Matt 16:23), and Mark 14:13 (cf. Matt 26:18). An example of Matthew’s tendency to casually remove µαθητής when the presence of disciples can be assumed is found in Mark 6:1 (cf. Matt 13:54). Mark is leading up to the rejection of Jesus in Nazareth. He introduces the pericope in 6:1–2: “He went away from there and came to his hometown, and his disciples (µαθηταί) followed him. And on the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astonished, saying, ‘Where did this man get these things? What is the wisdom given to him? How are such mighty works done by his hands?’” Matthew, characteristically, abbreviates Mark by eliminating the reference to the disciples and combining the two questions asked by the crowds: “And coming to his hometown he taught them in their synagogue, so that they were astonished, and said, ‘Where did this man get this wisdom and these mighty works?’” The disciples had been explicitly referenced back in Matt 13:36 and the discussion between 13:36 and 13:54 is entirely between Jesus and his disciples. As such, it may be safely assumed that the disciples are still with Jesus when he begins teaching again in 13:54. This omission of µαθητής, then, is nothing more than Matthew’s economizing of Mark’s language. Similar instances of the casual omission of references to the µαθηταί as their presence can be assumed from the context are found in Mark 7:1 (cf. Matt 15:1), Mark 8:10 (cf. Matt 15:39),

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Mark 9:14 (cf. Matt 17:14), Mark 9:31 (cf. Matt 17:22), and Mark 10:46 (cf. Matt 20:29).43 7.1.4.3 Revisions Including Omissions of Markan Source Material The final two omissions of µαθητής from Markan source material reveal what appear to be somewhat more significant revisions. First, in Mark 3:7–11, Mark uses µαθητής twice: Jesus withdrew with his disciples [αὐτοῦ τῶν µαθητῶν] to the sea, and a great crowd followed, from Galilee and Judea and Jerusalem and Idumea and from beyond the Jordan and from around Tyre and Sidon. When the great crowd heard all that he was doing, they came to him. And he told his disciples [αὐτοῦ τοῖς µαθηταῖς] to have a boat ready for him because of the crowd [τὸν ὄχλον], lest they crush him, for he had healed many, so that all who had diseases pressed around him to touch him. And whenever the unclean spirits [τὰ ἀκάθαρτα πνεύµατα] saw him, they fell down before him and cried out, “You are the Son of God.” And he strictly ordered them not to make him known.

It is a simple transition from a report of an encounter with the Pharisees to the appointment of the twelve, broadly describing Jesus’s activities in narrative form and foreshadowing the miracles of the next few chapters.44 Matthew reports the same encounter with the Pharisees and a very similar— though significantly shorter—transitional statement in Matt 12:15: “Jesus, aware of this, withdrew from there.45 And many followed him, and he healed them all and ordered them not to make him known.” Many of the specific details are omitted (e.g. the particular locations) as are the disciples, the unclean spirits, and specific references to the crowds. The result is a distinct focus on Jesus alone.46 This focus is confirmed as Matthew connects the summary statement to Isa 42:1–3 with a fulfillment statement. Interestingly, specific references to the disciples were unnecessary in Matthew’s version as he had already included the appointment of the twelve two chapters earlier. Compared to the omission of the other characters, then, the omission of the references to the disciples is not any more conspicuous. As such, there is no 43

Wilkins suggests that many of these omissions—which I am calling casual omissions—reveal an intention in Matthew to remove the disciples in order to focus more overtly on Jesus alone. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 155–156. As the presence of the disciples can easily be assumed from the context in each of these cases, I see no reason to follow Wilkins’s assumption. Specific references to the disciples are not necessary to suppose that they continued to follow Jesus, especially as they are specifically referenced later without any suggestion that they were absent at any point. In fact, constant unnecessary references to the disciples might undermine a broader Matthean strategy of portraying all of Jesus’s actions and words as training material for the disciples. But again, this moves us well into speculation. 44 Mark 3:1–6, 3:13–21. 45 Matt 12:9–14. 46 Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 155–156.

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basis to assume that these omissions reflect anything of Matthew’s attitude— positive or negative—concerning the disciples. 7.1.4.4 Omissions of Q Source Material The seven omissions of µαθητής from Q materials pose a conceptual problem. At the center of the problem is the hypothetical nature of Q.47 Beyond the question of what material qualifies as Q is the question of which version—Matthew’s or Luke’s—is most likely to be Q. Without independent source material, then, a scholarly edition of Q will ultimately still be derivative of Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels. The relatively recent introduction of Thomas into the mix and the presence of Markan parallels—always lurking in the background—only complicate the reproduction of Q. From a sourcecritical perspective, factoring in the manuscript traditions of Matthew and Luke makes a definitive reproduction even less likely. As a result, the comparison of Matthean omissions of µαθητής with Q source becomes an endeavor crippled by a dubious degree of certainty. Our comparative analysis, then, must begin with Luke (as opposed to Q), a concession to those who would argue for Farrer’s hypothesis. Luke uses µαθητής thirty-seven times in his Gospel, twenty-four of which are shared with Mark and/or Matthew (usually within triple-tradition material). Approximately six times, Luke uses the word independently of Mark and Matthew.48 The remaining seven uses of µαθητής appear in passages generally considered to be Q material and where Matthew has omitted the word.49 Setting aside, then, the difficulty of whether comparing Matthew’s text with Luke is the same as comparing Matthew’s text with Q, the question becomes: why does Matthew omit µαθητής when Luke either adopts or inserts it in his source material? The answer, in each case, is quite similar to the casual omission strategy discussed above. In each of these seven instances, the presence of the disciples can be assumed. For example, Luke recounts a story in which Jesus tells a parable concerning a rich fool in Luke 12:13–21. Jesus then goes on to instruct his disciples in Luke 12:22: “And he said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on.’” Matthew, however, places this particular teaching in the middle of the Sermon on the Mount (cf. Matt 6:25). Not only can the disciples’ presence be safely assumed, they are the primary audience (see 47

This difficulties of Q are discussed in chapter 3. Luke 6:13, 6:17, 7:11, 9:54, 12:1, 16:1. These passages are generally not considered Q material. 49 Luke 7:18/Matt 11:1, Luke 10:23/Matt 13:16 (referring back to Matt 13:10), Luke 12:22/Matt 6:25, Luke 14:26/Matt 10:37, Luke 14:27/Matt 10:37, Luke 17:1/Matt 18:7, and Luke 17:22/Matt 24:26–28. 48

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Matt 5:1–2). Given that the Sermon on the Mount is a lengthy discourse with a carefully constructed narrative opening and closing, asserting the presence of the disciples in the middle would have been somewhat intrusive. As with the casual omissions of µαθητής from Markan material, the omissions of µαθητής from this Q/Luke material are rather insignificant and ultimately do not inform Matthew’s concept of discipleship.

7.2 The Greek Context of Discipleship Vocabulary 7.2 The Greek Context of Discipleship Vocabulary

Having considered Matthew’s particular interest in the concept of discipleship and his use of discipleship vocabulary, we must now look to contemporary and antecedent uses of the vocabulary in order to focus upon the possible background(s) of his use. As we shall see, the Classical and Hellenistic backgrounds provide rich ground for drawing comparisons. At the same time, the abundance of discipleship vocabulary in this period makes drawing specific comparisons difficult without first narrowing the field. The goal of this essay, then, is to sketch broadly how the vocabulary is used in Classical and Hellenistic literature and then begin focusing in on a subset of uses of this vocabulary from which we can draw specific comparisons. The comparisons themselves will be taken up in future chapters. Before we delve into Classical and Hellenistic literature, it is important to explore that literature which is typically taken as antecedent to—or drawing upon the same background as—Matthew’s Gospel. First, the term µαθητής is not used in the epistles or Revelation. Among the Synoptic Gospels, it is used forty-six times in Mark and thirty-seven times in Luke (approximately ten of which are Q material),50 compared with the seventy-two uses in Matthew.51 The verb µανθάνω is used twenty-two times outside of Matthew in the New Testament, of which only one instance occurs in the Synoptics (Mark 13:28). The verb µαθητεύω is used three times in Matthew, once in Acts 14:21, and nowhere else in the New Testament. Explorations of how uses of these terms in the Synoptics compare with Matthew’s can be found earlier in this chapter.

50

Luke also uses the term twenty-eight times in the book of Acts. µαθητής is used seventy-eight times in John’s Gospel. The relationship between John’s Gospel and the Synoptic Gospels is beyond the scope of this project. It is unlikely that the construction of John’s Gospel was early enough to influence the Synoptic traditions. See Morris, Gospel According to John, 25–30. Morris, though he proceeds to dissent, begins: “Conservatives and radicals alike generally hold that the Fourth Gospel is of comparatively late date.” See Morris, Gospel According to John, 25. Despite his dissent, he does not explicitly argue for an early date for John’s Gospel and at no point does he suggest a particular relationship between the Synoptic Gospels and John’s Gospel. 51

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Second, the term µαθητής is not used in the LXX except in alternate readings of some passages in Jeremiah.52 The Hebrew equivalent, talmîdh (‫)תלמיד‬, is used only once in 1 Chron 25:8. Forms of µανθάνω are used fifty-five times in the LXX and µαθητεύω is not used at all. Third, the term µαθητής and its Hebrew equivalent do not appear to be common terms at all, showing up neither in the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha nor the Qumran documents. Wilkins states this plainly: “The terms do not appear in any extant Jewish literature until the time of Philo, at approximately the same time as Jesus.”53 Philo and Josephus both use forms of µαθητής about fifteen times each (compared with Mathew’s seventy-two in corpus comparatively much smaller). Given the relative shortage of disciple vocabulary in the Hebrew tradition and the comparatively Hellenistic flavor of the uses of µαθητής in Jewish literature contemporary to Matthew,54 the Classical Greek and Hellenistic literature provides a much richer backdrop to Matthew’s use of µαθητής. There are several facets of the words µαθητής, µανθάνω, and µαθητεύω in Classical and Hellenistic literature that are worth considering. One of the fullest explorations suited for Biblical studies comes from Karl Heinrich Rengstorf’s august entry in the TDNT.55 In the article Rengstorf surveys Classical and Hellenistic literature and finds varying degrees of generality. As such, we may begin to consider three somewhat open categories: 1) the most general sense of the terms in which they are frequently used to describe someone who is learning; 2) a more technical sense of the terms in which they are used to describe a student of a particular person, which can imply “a direct dependence of the one under instruction upon an authority superior in knowledge,”56 and 3) a broad sense of the term in which the student is substantially removed in time or relationship from the master, and so the discipleship relationship is characterized by mimesis. Also important across these categories is the increasingly widespread use of the vocabulary in specifically philosophical and educational situations (during the Classical and Hellenistic periods), as well as the varying degrees to which the vocabulary is used to connote religious education and adherence.

52

See Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 95. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 124. 54 Philo uses the term both in a general sense of learner and in a more technical sense of committed follower. Josephus, similarly, uses the term in both a general sense of learner and in a technical sense of pupil in a school or intellectual follower. These categories of use, as I will argue, are parallel to Hellenistic uses. 55 K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:390–461. 56 K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:416. 53

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7.2.1 General Use: Learner The verb µανθάνω has the earliest attestations of the discipleship vocabulary. Found three times in Homer,57 it carries the broadest sense: “to have accustomed oneself to something.”58 While there is some element of control over the process indicated in Homer, the intellectual concern is largely absent. Entering the Classical period, Herodotus uses the verb µανθάνω also in a general way, though with a distinctly intellectual flavor: “Men have long ago made wise rules from which one ought to learn (µανθάνειν); one of these is that one should mind (σκοπέειν) one’s own business.”59 Herodotus is also responsible for the first extant use of the noun µαθητής:60 It is true that I have heard another story told by the Peloponnesians; namely, that Anacharsis had been sent by the king of Scythia and had been [γένοιτο] a student [µαθητὴς] of the ways of Hellas, and after his return told the king who sent him that all Greeks were keen for every kind of learning [σοφίην], except the Lacedaemonians; but that these were the only Greeks who spoke and listened with discretion.61

Here, Herodotus pairs the noun with a state of being verb to function like the verb µανθάνω. The verbal phrase (µαθητὴς γένοιτο) is then held in parallel to learning (σοφίην) or perhaps practical wisdom, wisdom, or even cunning.62 With Herodotus, there is still some flexibility in the range of meanings of these terms. Yet, this example suggests intentional program for “learning” with a defined body of content to be “learned,” indicating that the intellectual and educational senses of the vocabulary are becoming more prevalent. By later authors, the verb µανθάνω could also be used to designate understanding (or non-understanding). For example, in Plato’s Theaetetus, Socrates questions Theodorus: For really such a man pays no attention to his next door neighbor; he is not only ignorant of what he is doing, but he hardly knows whether he is a human being or some other kind of a creature; but what a human being is and what is proper for such a nature to do or bear

57 Homer, Il., 6.444 and Homer, Od., 17:226ff, 18:362ff. See also K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:390–461: 391. Strangely, Wilkins notes that “µανθάνω occurs as early as Herodotus…but only three times,” citing Rengstorf. Presumably he meant Homer and not Herodotus. Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 11. 58 K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:390–461: 391. 59 Herodotus, Hist., 1.8 (Godley, LCL). 60 See Wilkins, Discipleship in the Ancient World and Matthew’s Gospel, 11. 61 Herodotus, Hist., 4.77 (Godley, LCL). 62 These options are suggested in the LSJ, citing Herodotus’s use in Herodotus, Hist., 1.30, 1.60 and 1.68.

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different from any other, this he inquires and exerts himself to find out. Do you understand [µανθάνεις], Theodorus, or not?63

Theodorus responds positively, suggesting that he heard the question to be asking whether or not he understood.64 A similar example can be found in Aristophanes’s Frogs in which Dionysus, Xanthias, and Charon are having a rapid conversation. Dionysus poses the simple question: “µανθάνεις;” to Xanthias. Xanthias responds: “πάνυ µανθάνω.”65 Contextually, there is nothing to suggest that this interchange meant anything specific beyond “did you understand?” or even “did you hear?” with an affirmative response. 7.2.2 Technical Use: Student/Pupil In keeping with Herodotus’s increasingly more specific uses of the vocabulary, the terms took on a more technical sense in which they indicated a particular student-teacher relationship. This relationship, formal or informal, was often indicated in educational contexts and demanded the presence of both parties. For example, Xenophon used the verb µανθάνω to designate such a relationship: If you are resolved to get wealth from flocks, you must care for those flocks: if you essay to grow great through war and want power to liberate your friends and subdue your foes, you must learn [µαθητέον] the arts of war from those who know them and must practise their right use: and if you want your body to be strong, you must accustom your body to be the servant of your mind, and train [γυµναστέον] it with toil and sweat.66

This passage is important for two reasons. First, we have an example of the verb µανθάνω with assuming a very particular relationship: one in which the student depends on the instruction of a knowledgeable master. Second, this process of passing such knowledge is compared, metaphorically, to physical training as though in a gymnasium. Uses of the noun form are also plentiful. A pre-Socratic use of µαθητής comes from Aristophanes’s Clouds. In it, Aristophanes satirically portrays the students of Socrates in a school setting,67 with Strepsiades declaring: “Why then do we admire Thales? Open. Open quickly the thinking-shop (φροντιστήριον), and show to me Socrates as quickly as possible. For I desire

63

Plato, Theaet., 174b (H.N. Fowler, LCL). K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:390–461: 392. 65 Aristophanes, Ran., 196ff. 66 Xenophon, Mem., 2.1.28 (Marchant, LCL). 67 McPherran, Religion of Socrates. This work addresses both Socrates’s language and Aristophanes’s depiction of Socrates’s think-tank as a kind of mystery cult. 64

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to be a disciple (µαθητιῶ). Come, open the door.”68 In this case, the process of becoming a disciple begins with the potential disciple. Martin Hengel also observed a few similar occasions in the fragments of Aristotle. The Axiothea of Arcadia, Nerinthos of Corinth, and Zenon of Kition were all compelled to follow Plato from reading or being read his works (the Republic, Gorgias, and Apology, respectively). Hengel observed this further in the early Academy and among the Cynics. For example, Polemo was in attendance at a lecture on σοφροσύνη by Xenocrates and was so taken that he became a disciple of Xenocrates and eventually succeeded him as head of the Academy.69 Again, the process of becoming a disciple in each of these cases begins with the student listening to the words of the teacher. Of the Socratics, Plato and Xenophon both used the terms µαθητής, µανθάνω and µαθητεύω frequently. Plato, for example, frames the pursuit of “the good” in this kind of language in the Republic: And this is the chief reason why it should be our main concern that each of us, neglecting all other studies, should seek after and study this thing [µαθητής ἔσται]—if in any way he may be able to learn of and discover the man who will give him the ability and the knowledge to distinguish the life that is good from that which is bad, and always and everywhere to choose the best that the conditions allow… 70

Like the above examples, Plato places a great deal of importance on the development of a discipleship relationship—it is, in this setting, the primary means by which a young man can learn to apprehend the “good life.” The process for initiating this discipleship relationship is far more complex a process than Plato indicates here. The best example of how this process worked among the Socratics is the courtship of Euthydemus by Socrates in book 4 of the Memorabilia. Donald Morrison argues that for one type of companion, “those who believed that they had the finest education and were conceited because of their wisdom,” the Socratic courtship of a disciple takes place in seven stages.71 7.2.3 Broad Use: Adherent Uses of this vocabulary in the philosophical works, including Plato’s, tend to fall in the general and technical categories already explored. However, there is another category worth considering, one that removes the notion of proximity. Rengstorf argues that µαθητής is used in this broader sense “when the reference is to an intellectual link between those who are considerably re68

Aristophanes, Nub., 180ff. Aristophanes also uses the term on three occasions in this comedy to refer to the students of the Sophists. See also lines 133, 142, 502. 69 See Hengel, Charismatic Leader and His Followers, 25–33. 70 Plato, Resp., 618c2 (Shorey, LCL). 71 Morrison, “Xenophon’s Socrates as Teacher,” 184.

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moved in time.” He adds: “In this connection we should mention especially the widespread view that Socrates is the true µαθητής of Homer because he is his ζηλωτής and imitates him.”72 Importantly, the thing that connects the master and the disciple in these non-proximate relationships is mimesis. Though Rengstorf does not elaborate on that notion in his article, the discussion in book 10 of the Republic, when Socrates returns to the question of banishing the poets from his ideal city, gives substance to it: “And truly,” I said, “many other considerations assure me that we were entirely right in our organization of the state, and especially, I think, in the matter of poetry.” “What about it?” he said. “In refusing to admit at all so much of it as is imitative; for that it is certainly not to be received is, I think, still more plainly apparent now that we have distinguished the several parts of the soul.” “What do you mean?” “Why, between ourselves—for you will not betray me to the tragic poets and all other imitators—that kind of art seems to be a corruption of the mind of all listeners who do not possess, as an antidote a knowledge of its real nature.” “What is your idea in saying this?” he said. “I must speak out,” I said, “though a certain love and reverence for Homer that has possessed me from a boy would stay me from speaking. For he appears to have been the first teacher and beginner of all these beauties of tragedy. Yet all the same we must not honor a man above truth, but, as I say, speak our minds.” “By all means,” he said. “Listen, then, or rather, answer my question.” “Ask it,” he said. “Could you tell me in general what imitation is? For neither do I myself quite apprehend what it would be at.” “It is likely, then,” he said, “that I should apprehend!” “It would be nothing strange,” said I, “since it often happens that the dimmer vision sees things in advance of the keener.”73

Socrates acknowledges that Homer was the first “teacher” and many are his students by virtue of mimesis. Whether Socrates wants Homer to be imitated in his city—and clearly he does not—this mimetic discipleship relationship crosses the centuries between Homer and Socrates. 7.2.4 Preliminary Conclusion To summarize, Matthew’s use of µαθητής and other discipleship vocabulary is characterized by two conflicting tendencies.74 On the one hand, he wants to include the term frequently. He adopts it from his Markan and Q sources about twice as often as he omits it. He also inserts the term into his source materials frequently. His uses include both routine clarifications where he apparently felt his sources were ambiguous, as well as more sophisticated editing in order to reshape or revise his sources with the aim of emphasizing the concept of discipleship and highlighting the disciples’ understanding. On 72

K.H. Rengstorf, “µανθάνω, καταµανθάνω, µαθητής, συµµαθητής, µαθήτρια, µαθητεύω” TDNT 4:416–417. This notion is described in Plato, Resp., 606e. Xenophon, Symp., 4.6. 73 Plato, Resp., 595a–595d (Shorey, LCL). 74 Matthew’s rare uses of the verbs µανθάνω and µαθητεύω are consistent with his use of µαθητής, just with far fewer examples.

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the other hand, Matthew appears to be a somewhat parsimonious editor, frequently summarizing or removing significant amounts of his source material. The vast majority of his comparatively few omissions of µαθητής may be categorized as insignificant omissions within the context of a simple economizing of his sources. That is, from a redaction critical perspective, Matthew has systematically adapted his sources to focus on discipleship while clearing the ground of ambiguous or superfluous references that may have only served to dilute his focus.

7.3 Teaching Vocabulary 7.3 Teaching Vocabulary

As with discipleship vocabulary, an exploration of Matthew’s interest in the concept of teaching must begin with looking at his use of teaching vocabulary in both rhetorical critical and redaction critical ways. To restate the guiding questions: 1.

2.

What expectations are set by Matthew’s particular use of teaching vocabulary and how are these expectations met or not met in the way that Matthew portrays teaching? To what extent does Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary reflect a uniquely Matthean concept of teaching or instruction?

The goal here is to sketch a broad overview of Matthew’s grammatical approach to teaching terminology. The noun διδάσκαλος is used twelve times within the Gospel of Matthew (all of which are singular).75 The word is used exclusively in direct discourse. Nine of the twelve occurrences refer to Jesus, six of which are vocative addresses to Jesus,76 and three of which explicitly refer to Jesus in statements made to the disciples.77 In seven of these nine uses, the speaker is a representative of the Jewish leadership78 (who are generally portrayed as Jesus’s opponents in Matthew’s Gospel). In the other two, the speaker is a “young man” who is portrayed neutrally (Matt 19:16), or Jesus himself (Matt 26:18). The final three occurrences of διδάσκαλος (which do not explicitly refer to Jesus) come in statements by Jesus about the concept of “teacher” in principle. As such, they likely refer to Jesus implicitly. 75

Matt 8:19, 9:11, 10:24, 10:25, 12:38, 17:24, 19:16, 22:16, 22:24, 22:36, 23:8, 26:18. See Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher, 202. 76 Matt 8:19, 12:38, 19:16, 22:16, 22:24, 22:36. 77 Matt 9:11, 17:24, 26:18. 78 Matt 8:19, 9:11, 10:24, 10:25, 12:38, 17:24, 19:16, 22:16, 22:24, 22:36. The speakers are described as scribes, Pharisees, Sadducees, tax collectors, or Pharisaic lawyers.

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The noun διδαχή is used only three times in Matthew’s Gospel (each of which is singular). Each instance also appears as a narrative comment by the author, twice referring to the astonishment with which the crowd is reacting to the teaching79 of Jesus. The third instance refers to the disciples’ understanding that they are to be wary of the teaching of the Pharisees and Sadducees.80 Likewise, the noun διδασκαλία is used only once in Matthew’s Gospel. It also is used negatively in a rebuke from Jesus to refer to the teaching of the Pharisees and scribes: “in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines (διδασκαλία) the commandments of men.”81 This statement from Jesus makes use of a quotation from the LXX version of Isa 29:13 in which διδασκαλία appears.82 The verb διδάσκω is used fourteen times within the Gospel of Matthew.83 Eight uses are in the narrative comments of the author and six appear in direct discourse. Nine of the fourteen uses refer directly to Jesus as the one teaching. Two of the remaining five come in statements by Jesus in which he is discussing the concept of teaching.84 Two other uses refer to the teaching of the Pharisees or chief priests and appear in obviously negative contexts. The final use comes as part of the commissioning of the disciples at the end of Matthew 28. Additionally, five of the uses of the term appear in summary statements (e.g. “And he went throughout all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom and healing every disease and every affliction among the people.”) that are structurally significant either to the entire Gospel or to one of the major teaching discourses. The noun καθηγητής is used only twice in Matthew’s Gospel, both in the same verse: “Neither be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Christ.”85 The term is plural in the first clause and singular in the second. The two instances suggest a juxtaposition of an appropriate title for the disciples and what is deemed to be, by Jesus, an appropriate title for the Christ. Matthew alone among the New Testament authors (as well as the LXX, Philo, and the Apostolic Fathers) uses this noun. Matthew’s use of the terms διδάσκαλος; the related nouns διδαχή, διδασκαλία, and καθηγητής; and the related verb διδάσκω, suggests that Matthew also has a particular interest in the concept of teaching. As such, we 79

Matt 7:28, 22:33. Matt 16:12. 81 Matt 15:9. 82 Isa 29:13: “The Lord said: Because these people draw near with their mouths and honour me with their lips, while their hearts are far from me, and their worship of me is a human commandment learned by rote.” 83 Matt 4:23, 5:2, 5:19 (twice), 7:29, 9:35, 11:1, 13:54, 15:9, 21:23, 22:16, 26:55, 28:15, 28:20. 84 Both occur in Matt 5:19. 85 Matt 23:10. 80

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seem to have both a breadth of uses (conceptual and specific uses as well as uses concerning the teaching of various groups) and a depth of use (the majority refer to the teaching of Jesus). The task of reconstructing Matthew’s concept of teaching, however, begs the question of how Matthew uses the vocabulary. The above summary begins to isolate which of the instances of didactic vocabulary are more likely to yield insight into the Matthean concept: 1.

2.

3.

4. 5.

First, the relative abundance of teaching vocabulary is significant. If there is a pattern to the redactional use of the term in this way, it should be given weight. Second, uses of the terms to refer to the teaching of other individuals (disciples or Jesus’s opponents) are infrequent and useful only insofar as they broaden the definition of who may be considered a teacher. Third, it is significant that the negative uses of the terms uniformly refer to teaching by those other than Jesus (hence the disciples should be wary) and the positive uses of the terms refer exclusively to the teaching of Jesus (hence the crowds are astonished). Fourth, use of the terms in summary statements or structural markers in the Gospel should be given weight. Fifth, placement of the terms in discourse (rather than in the narrative) may not indicate historical significance, but may indicate conceptual significance. For example: § The frequency with which Jesus is referred to as teacher, not by his disciples but by his opponents, is suggestive. § The six instances in which Jesus uses teaching vocabulary to discuss the concept or principle of teaching or the role of a teacher should be given weight. § The commissioning in the last chapter of Matthew’s Gospel is also significant as it also reveals something of the author’s concept of teaching (via Jesus as a character), or at least the significance of teaching to the commission. § The unique use of καθηγητής should be given weight.

Given this overview of teaching vocabulary, the question becomes: to what extent does Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary reflect a uniquely Matthean concept of discipleship? In recent scholarship, the Matthean use of some didactic vocabulary— particularly the title διδάσκαλε (the vocative teacher)—is considered problematic. This often-cited sentiment, at least within the modern discipline of redaction criticism, begins with Günther Bornkamm’s 1963 article “End-

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Expectation and Church in Matthew.”86 His conclusion was simply that διδάσκαλε is an inadequate title for Jesus from the perspective of the disciples in Matthew’s Gospel. That is, Matthew consistently alters his sources such that the disciples only address Jesus as κύριε (the vocative Lord). While Bornkamm’s study—which remains the fullest study on this idea—is quite intriguing, his conclusion is misleading. As such, Bornkamm’s evidence is worth exploring in depth in order to evaluate the validity of his conclusion, and such exploration will simultaneously serve as an opportunity to investigate much of the Matthean data. Bornkamm’s argument reduces to a few very important observations: 1. 2. 3.

The disciples do not refer to Jesus as teacher in Matthew’s Gospel.87 Rather, only strangers and opponents refer to Jesus as teacher. On the previous two points, Matthew is peculiar among the Evangelists.

Bornkamm’s argument depends quite extensively on Matthew’s redaction of the vocative form διδάσκαλε. Matthew uses the vocative form six times. First, Matthew maintains Mark’s use of the vocative on three occasions (Matt 19:16, 22:16, 22:24), each of which is uttered by someone not within Jesus’s inner circle (a rich young man, the disciples of the Pharisees, and the Sadducees, respectively).88 Second, Matthew inserts the vocative διδάσκαλε into his source materials on three occasions, though in contexts which demonstrate varying degrees of editing. In the first example, Matt 8:19, Matthew’s text states: “And a scribe came up and said to him, ‘Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go.’” The Lukan parallel revises: “As they were going along the road, someone said to him, ‘I will follow you wherever you go.’”89 Scholars tend to agree that this text is Q material in which Matthew has apparently clarified the Lukan someone as a scribe and in which the Matthean version has gained a vocative teacher.90 The second insertion also comes in apparent Q material.91 Matt 12:38 states: “Then some of the scribes and Pharisees answered him, saying, ‘Teacher, we wish to see a sign from you.’” Jesus’s response includes a re86 D.R. Bauer, Structure of Matthew’s Gospel, 35. See also Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher, 200–201. Bornkamm, “End-Expectation and Church in Matthew.” 87 Bornkamm allows for an exception in the form of a statement from Judas Iscariot is Matt 26:25 in which he calls Jesus rabbi. 88 Matt 19:16/Mark 10:17; Matt 22:16/Mark12:14; Matt 22:24/Mark 12:19. 89 Luke 9:57. 90 Robinson, Hoffman, and Kloppenborg, eds., Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English, 96–97. Miller, ed., Complete Gospels, 266. 91 Robinson, Hoffman, and Kloppenborg, eds., Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English, 108–109. Miller, ed., Complete Gospels, 274.

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buke and a reference to the sign of Jonah. The Lukan parallel to the response comes in Luke 11:29–30, suggesting then that the Lukan parallel to Matt 12:38 is the similar statement thirteen verses earlier: “while others, to test him, kept seeking from him a sign from heaven.”92 The third insertion, Matt 22:36, includes a lawyer asking: “Teacher, which is the great commandment in the Law?” The Markan parallel states: “And one of the scribes came up and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, asked him, ‘Which commandment is the most important of all?’”93 Matthew inserted the vocative as well as clarified other aspects of the question (e.g. that the commandments under discussion are of the Law). Third, significant to this line of reasoning is also that Matthew drops Mark’s use of the vocative on seven occasions. Of these seven, twice Matthew omits a significant amount of Mark’s text (the entire Mark 9:38–40 pericope is omitted by Matthew, and the entire response of the scribe in Mark 12:32–34 is likewise omitted). Three other times, Matthew drops just the vocative address from the Markan text,94 once even changing the speaker (the sons of Zebedee inquiring of Jesus in Mark 10:35 and their mother inquiring of Jesus in Matt 20:20). The other two uses of διδάσκαλε in the Markan text are changed to κύριε in the Matthean text and are uttered by disciples on both occasions. Additionally, only two times are there definitive Q passages in which the term is used.95 At this point in the exploration, the evidence somewhat affirms Bornkamm’s argument. While there is no rhyme or reason to how often Matthew uses the vocative διδάσκαλε—maintaining, inserting, and dropping it with no apparent preference—he does seem to prefer that only individuals outside of the circle of disciples use the term in reference to Jesus. Nevertheless, Bornkamm’s conclusion is too simplistic to stand as it is. That is, there are simply too many presuppositions and ignored pieces of evidence. 7.3.1 The Added Weight of ῥαββί Bornkamm’s argument included data concerning a supposed Matthean consistency in replacing the vocative ῥαββί—a Hebraism—in the mouths of the disciples in his sources with κύριε. While the added data lends some weight to the overall argument, collapsing the two streams of data together seems to 92

Luke 11:16. Mark 12:28. I’ve called it a parallel and not a source here as the Lukan parallel (10:25) in this triple-tradition material complicates matters considerably. See below for more discussion on the issue. 94 Matt 19:20/Mark 10:20; Matt 20:20/Mark 10:35; Matt 24:1/Mark 13:1. 95 Luke 11:45, Luke 12:13; On both occasions, the Matthean text has no parallel. In neither omitted passage is the speaker a disciple or close associate of Jesus, which implies that he did not drop these passage on the basis of the use of διδάσκαλε. 93

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ignore the significant linguistic and cultural differences between the two terms. Matthew’s reasons for preferring κύριε over διδάσκαλε in the mouths of the disciples or systematically removing διδάσκαλε from his text in particular situations may be very different from his reasons for preferring to avoid ῥαββί in the mouths of Jesus’s disciples. My objective here is not to argue against Bornkamm’s conclusion on the basis of the ῥαββί evidence (for which his conclusion may be perfectly valid). Rather, I am attempting to demonstrate the weakness of his διδάσκαλε evidence. 7.3.2 The Insertions of διδάσκαλε Matthew does not simply remove the term διδάσκαλε systematically. On three occasions, he adds the term.96 Each of these additions is complicated for varying reasons. The first addition, Matt 8:19 states: “And a scribe came up and said to him, ‘Teacher, I will follow you wherever you go.’”97 While scribes are generally portrayed as opponent-types in Matthew,98 there is nothing to suggest that this particular scribe was perceived as an opponent. Indeed, there are no human opponents to Jesus’s teaching or activities even in the wider context of Matthew 5–10. The scribe only received the enigmatic statement from Jesus: “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.”99 The next sentence in Matthew’s Gospel begins: ἕτερος δὲ τῶν µαθητῶν [αὐτοῦ]… (“Another of his disciples...”). The significance of ἕτερος should not be underestimated. Bruce Metzger’s commentary on the manuscript sources of the passage explains it succinctly: Although the support of ‫[ א‬aleph] B 33 ita copsa for the omission of αὐτοῦ would usually be regarded as exceptionally strong evidence, in this case a majority of the Committee was impressed by the possibility that αὐτοῦ may have been deleted in order to prevent the reader from inferring that the γραµµατεὺς of ver. 19 was one of Jesus’s disciples. On the other hand, it can be argued that it is because of the word ἕτερος, not αὐτοῦ, that a reader might infer that γραµµατεὺς of ver. 19 was a disciple of Jesus. Actually the absence of αὐτοῦ does not improve the sense, but rather makes the text more ambiguous. In order to represent these two opposing arguments the Committee decided to retain αὐτοῦ enclosed within square brackets.100

The use of ἕτερος implies in the strongest of terms that the scribe was a disciple of Jesus. Given that there are no opponents in view and given that Mat-

96

Matt 8:19/Mark 4:35; Matt 12:38/Mark 8:11; Matt 22:36/Mark 12:28. Matt 8:19. 98 Samuel Byrskog notes the important exceptions to this general premise and begins to argue against it as a fundamental premise. Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher, 238–245. 99 Matt 8:20. 100 Metzger, Textual Commentary, 17–18. 97

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thew seems to be counting this scribe among the disciples, this use of διδάσκαλε seems to contradict Bornkamm’s main proposition. The second addition comes in the apparent Q passage in Matt 12:38. While treated as a typical Q passage, this text is complicated by the different ways in which Luke’s and Matthew’s versions are similar to Mark 8:11–12: “The Pharisees came and began to argue with him, seeking from him a sign from heaven to test him. And he sighed deeply in his spirit and said, ‘Why does this generation seek a sign? Truly, I say to you, no sign will be given to this generation.’” Luke and Mark agree on the desired sign being τοῦ οὐρανοῦ (from heaven) and have both described the seeking of the sign in indirect discourse. Yet, on the other hand, Matthew and Mark agree on the sign being sought by Pharisees. And yet, on the third hand, Luke and Matthew agree with each other against Mark on the exception of the sign of Jonah. To Bornkamm’s point, Matthew has inserted direct discourse that includes the vocative διδάσκαλε. How this insertion has come about and to which source the term has been added is unclear. The third addition in Matt 22:36 is complicated by the presence of the Lukan parallel—a parallel in which Matthew and Luke agree on certain details against their Markan source. Mark 12:28 And one of the scribes (γραµµατέων) came up and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, asked him, “Which commandment is the most important of all?” Matt 22:35–36 And one of them, a lawyer (νοµικός), asked him a question to test (πειράζων) him. “Teacher (διδάσκαλε), which is the great commandment in the Law?” Luke 10:25 And behold, a lawyer (νοµικός) stood up to put him to the test (ἐκπειράζων), saying, “Teacher (διδάσκαλε), what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”

The nature of the question in Mark’s text bears a greater resemblance to Matthew’s than does Luke’s. Nevertheless, Luke and Matthew agree on who was asking the question (a νοµικὸς compared with Mark’s γραµµατεύς) and the idea that the question was being asked in order to test (πειράζω) Jesus. It should also be noted that Jesus’s response in all three versions (including Luke’s, where the question seems to have been altered significantly) is the same: a paraphrase of Deut 6:5 and Lev 19:18. Most important, however, is the presence of the vocative in the Lukan parallel at that point. The result of these varying agreements and disagreements is for one to conclude that Matthew has independently inserted the term into his Markan source material here requires either a presence of this passage in Q—which is presently not

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considered Q material in standard scholarship101—or a literary dependence of Luke on Matthew. Given the unlikeliness of these scenarios, it is thus improbable that Matthew added the vocative to his source; it is far more plausible that he adopted it. Further complicating the intertextuality of this passage and suggesting that Matthew adopted the term from his source rather than uniquely inserting it is the fact that Mark alone includes an affirmative reply from the questioner: “And the scribe said to him, ‘You are right, Teacher. You have truly said that he is one, and there is no other besides him.’”102 The vocative, absent from the question in Mark’s Gospel, clearly appears in the reply. The result is that Matthew’s (and Luke’s) use of the vocative here is possibly (and quite remarkably) a simple relocation of the term into the question, as they both omit the questioner’s reply to Jesus’s response. 7.3.3 The Uses of Other Forms of διδάσκαλος Bornkamm’s argument is limited to only those instances in which διδάσκαλος is used in the vocative form. While Bornkamm clearly identifies the limits of his argument to those occasions in which the term is used as a title for Jesus, he neglects one significant occasion in which the term is used as a title, but in the nominative. Jesus in fact uses the term to refer to himself. For English speakers, the NRSV translation even helpfully capitalizes “Teacher” as to indicate that it is being used as a title: Now on the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Where will you have us prepare for you to eat the Passover?” He said, “Go into the city to a certain man and say to him, ‘The Teacher [διδάσκαλος] says, My time is at hand. I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.’” And the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover.103

If, as Bornkamm supposes, there is some qualitative reason as to why Matthew should reject the titles teacher and rabbi in reference to Jesus on behalf of the disciples, it seems wholly strange that Jesus defines himself in relationship to his disciples as the Teacher. The discomfort meant to be indicated by Matthew’s systematic removal of the title teacher in the mouths of the disciples is substantially weakened by a lack of discomfort with placing the title in the mouth of Jesus. Possible explanations include 1) that the shift away from teacher as a title used of Jesus by the disciples was at the hand of a much later editor who sloppily missed this nominative reference; 2) the shift away from using teacher is not meant to reflect the relationship between 101 Robinson, Hoffman, and Kloppenborg, eds., Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English, 102–103. Miller, ed., Complete Gospels, 270. 102 Mark 12:32. 103 Matt 26:17–19.

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Jesus and the disciples, and the shift away from it at other points is only incidental; and 3) Matthew is actually deeply ambivalent about the term and this is only one example of a positive use that reflects the disciple-teacher relationship. These explanations, of course, move us well into the realm of speculation. Matthew presents Jesus as using the nominative and accusative forms of διδάσκαλος in a positive way in Matt 10:24–25: “A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master. It is enough for the disciple to be like his teacher, and the servant like his master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household.”104 Matthew has maintained these uses of διδάσκαλος from the Q materials (Luke 6:40: “A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher.”), but his presentation is substantially different from Luke’s. Matthew presents a parallel comparison—a servant (δοῦλος) and master (κύριος)—related to the teacher/disciple comparison. There is no qualitative preference here for κύριος over and against διδάσκαλος. In fact, if we are to take Luke’s text as the Q material,105 Matthew has specifically added the equative statement in the mouth of Jesus. 7.3.4 The Uses of Other Nouns (διδαχή and διδασκαλία) Matthew is entirely comfortable inserting the other semantically related nouns διδαχή and διδασκαλία. He uses διδαχή three times in the narrative, inserting it once to refer to the Pharisees’ “teaching” (of which the disciples should be wary).106 Twice he uses the term in positive summary statements concerning the activities of Jesus, noting the crowds’ astonishment at Jesus’s words. In the first instance, Matt 7:28, he maintains Mark’s account of the crowd’s reaction.107 In the second, Matt 22:33, Matthew adds the word to his source,108 indicating some amount of comfort with the concept. 7.3.5 The Uses of the Verb διδάσκω Bornkamm’s argument is limited only to the noun διδάσκαλος. Matthew uses the verb διδάσκω fourteen times, nine of which refer to the activities of Je-

104

Matt 10:24–25. Robinson, Hoffman, and Kloppenborg, eds., Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English, 86–87. Miller, ed., Complete Gospels, 259. 106 Matt 16:12/Mark 8:21. 107 Matt 7:28/Mark 1:21–22/Luke 4:32. 108 Matt 22:33: “And when the crowd heard it, they were astounded at his teaching.” Mark 12:27 omits the crowd’s reaction. Luke 20:39–40 also omits the reaction of the crowd, but does include a response from the scribes (who use the vocative διδάσκαλε). 105

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sus.109 Of those nine, five are adopted from Markan or Q materials,110 three are insertions, and one is an instance in a unique Matthean passage. Interestingly, Luke omits the verb three of the four times that Matthew adopts it from Mark.111 The result is that in triple-tradition material, Matthew is significantly more likely to use the verb. More importantly, Matthew uses διδάσκω in passages of structural significance, usually to refer to Jesus’s activities in general.112 The summary opening and closing of the Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5:2, 7:29), in addition to the inclusio of both Matt 4:23 and Matt 9:35 (as well as the partial third reference in Matt 11:1), are all structurally important passages. To summarize, Bornkamm’s argument fails on several fronts. His neglect of the noun in forms other than the vocative, his neglect of the related nouns διδαχή and διδασκαλία, and his neglect of the verb διδάσκω all severely undermine his argument concerning the redaction of the vocative διδάσκαλε. His corresponding focus on the redaction of the only superficially related Hebraism ῥαββί is also curious. That Matthew both adds and subtracts the vocative διδάσκαλε also undermines Bornkamm’s argument, especially when in Matt 8:19 the insertion seems to be in the mouth of one who belongs to the broader category of “disciples.” That Matthew inserts the Q statement— which essentially equates διδάσκαλος and κύριος—further breaks down Bornkamm’s conclusion. Finally, the abundance of uses of διδάσκω to positively refer to Jesus’s preaching activities in Matthew’s Gospel also deflates Bornkamm’s argument. The issue, it seems, is that the concept is held positively in the Gospel of Matthew. To Bornkamm’s credit, Matthew does maintain some reluctance to use διδάσκαλε of Jesus. But Bornkamm grossly overestimates the significance of this reluctance and perhaps misunderstands why Matthew might be exhibiting such reluctance. Beyond the uses of vocabulary related to διδάσκαλος discussed above are two additional sets of redaction data which require exploration: Matthew’s uses of διδάσκαλος and related vocabulary in reference to people other than Jesus, and Matthew’s omissions of διδάσκαλος and related vocabulary from his sources.

109 Matt 4:23, 5:2, 5:19 (twice), 7:29, 9:35, 11:1, 13:54, 15:9, 21:23, 22:16, 26:55, 28:15, 28:20. See Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher, 203. 110 Mark 1:22/Matt 7:29, Mark 6:2/Matt 13:54, Mark 6:6/Matt 9:35, Mark 12:14/Matt 22:16, and Luke 20:1/Matt 21:23. 111 Matt 7:29/Mark1:22/Luke 4:32, Matt 9:35/Mark 6:6, Matt 26:55/Mark 14:49/Luke 22:53. 112 Such as at Matt 4:23, 7:29, 9:35 and 11:1.

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7.3.6 The Other Uses of διδάσκαλος and Related Vocabulary Matthew uses didactic vocabulary on only five occasions in reference to someone other than Jesus. He does not use διδάσκαλος to refer to anyone other than Jesus (directly or indirectly). He uses διδαχή113 and διδασκαλία114 (each once) to refer to the teaching of the Jewish leaders. Additionally, he uses διδάσκω twice115 to refer to the teaching of the Jewish leaders and once116 to refer to the commissioned activity of the disciples. Only in Matt 15:9—which includes the single use of διδασκαλία and one of the uses of διδάσκω—does Matthew adopt his Markan source. In the other cases, Matthew has inserted the vocabulary into his Markan source117 or the vocabulary appears as part of a lengthy passage unique to Matthew. 7.3.7 καθηγητής and Other Vocabulary In addition to διδάσκαλος and related vocabulary, Matthew uses καθηγητής twice in Matt 23:10. Again, Matthew alone among the Evangelists uses the term. With no other New Testament occurrences of the word along with its absence from the LXX, it is unclear from where Matthew adopted the term. Redaction critics, understandably, have been reluctant to hypothesize. Matthew’s omission of other teaching vocabulary is insignificant given that such vocabulary does not appear with frequency in the Synoptics. 1. Forms of κατηχέω appear twice in Luke 1:4, but not in Matthew’s Gospel. This is not considered Q material, and so uses would not be expected in Matthew. 2. Forms of παιδεύω appear twice in Luke, once in Luke 23:16 and once in Luke 23:22, but not in Matthew’s Gospel. Neither instance is considered Q material, and so uses would not be expected in Matthew. 3. Forms of παιδεία, παιδευτής, γυµνάζω, γυµνασία,118 and ἐντρέφω119 do not appear in the Synoptics at all and only rarely in the New Testament. To summarize, Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary reveals a complex picture. Importantly, Matthew very rarely uses teaching vocabulary to refer to 113

Matt 16:12. Matt 15:9. 115 Matt 15:9, 28:15. 116 Matt 28:20. 117 Matt 16:12, 28:20. The second of these parallels is related to Mark 16:6, a portion of Mark’s Gospel disputed as a late addition. As such, it may be more appropriate to consider the Matthean text a unique Matthean passage. 118 1 Tim 4:8 is the only use in the New Testament. 119 1 Tim 4:6 is the only use in the New Testament. 114

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anyone other than Jesus. At no point does he use any form of διδάσκαλος to refer to a specific person other than Jesus. He uses the term to refer to the concept of teacher on three occasions.120 In each case, the term comes from the mouth of Jesus and probably refers to Jesus indirectly. Of the three uses of διδαχή, only one refers to the “teaching” of someone other than Jesus—the Jewish leadership.121 His single use of διδασκαλία also refers, somewhat ambiguously, to the teaching of the Pharisees and Sadducees.122 Of Matthew’s fourteen uses of the verb διδάσκω, only three explicitly refer to someone other than Jesus “teaching,” two of which, again, refer to the Jewish leadership.123 In each of these last four cases, the teaching vocabulary is used in a rebuke or negative context.124 The overwhelming majority of Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary refers to Jesus, and it does so positively—as does Matthew’s final use of διδάσκω in the commissioning of the disciples. From the perspective of redaction criticism, the picture is equally complex. Matthew neither consistently adopts nor removes it, suggesting that he did not receive his source material unthinkingly. His insertions of the vocabulary into his sources as well as his relatively frequent use of the vocabulary in his unique materials, in fact, reveals something of a preference for the vocabulary (or at least against removing elements of the vocabulary as some have suggested). Given this apparent focus and his tendency, we may conclude that teaching vocabulary carries a special significance for Matthew.

7.4 The Greek Context of Teaching Vocabulary 7.4 The Greek Context of Teaching Vocabulary

Having now considered Matthew’s particular interest in the concept of teaching and his use of teacher vocabulary, we must now look to contemporary and antecedent uses of the vocabulary in order to focus upon the possible background(s) of his use. As might be expected with such a common term, the uses in ancient literature are abundant and the backgrounds are varied.125 The verb διδάσκω is used frequently in the LXX, occurring 109 times.126 It has a broad spectrum of uses, from Moses teaching his people his laws (Deut 120

Matt 10:24, 10:25, 23:8. Matt 16:12. 122 Matt 15:9. 123 Matt 15:9, 28:15. 124 Three of the four appear in rebukes of the Jewish leadership for their “false” teaching (see Matt 16:12 and 15:9). The fourth refers to the “chief priests” instructing the guards to lie about the disappearance of Jesus’s body. 125 For a helpful presentation of the range of uses, see K.H. Rengstorf, “διδάσκω, διδάσκαλος, νοµοδιδάσκαλος, καλοδιδάσκαλος, ψευδοδιδάσκαλος, διδασκαλία, ἑτεροδιδασκαλέω, διδαχή, διδακτός, διδακτικός” TDNT 2:135–165. 126 Of these 109 occurrences, 26 are found in the Apocrypha. 121

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4:1), to the teaching of war (Judg 3:2), to the teaching of wisdom (Prov 4:11), to the teaching of deception (Isa 9:15).127 Uses in Greek literature are equally plentiful and broad. Homer uses the term frequently.128 Plato uses the term frequently.129 Others use the term frequently.130 As such, the extensive use of the verb διδάσκω by both Jewish and Greco-Roman authors renders it an ineffectual metric for determining the backdrop of Matthew’s use of the terminology. Unlike the verbal form, the noun διδάσκαλος (also the vocative form διδάσκαλε) is exceedingly rare in the LXX. It occurs only twice, once in Esther and once in 2 Maccabees (and neither time is it in the vocative).131 Likewise, the noun διδαχή occurs only once, in a Psalm.132 The noun διδασκαλία occurs five times, twice in the canonical books and three times in the Apocrypha and Old Testament Pseudepigrapha.133 As such, noun forms of the teaching vocabulary are relatively rare in the LXX. The noun διδάσκαλος, on the contrary, is rather common in Greco-Roman literature. It is used hundreds of times, including indirectly of Socrates in Xenophon: To be sure he never professed to teach this [καίτοι γε οὐδεπώποτε ὑπέσχετο διδάσκαλος εἶναι τούτου]; but, by letting his own light shine, he led his disciples to hope that they through imitation of him would attain to such excellence.134

While Xenophon acknowledges that Socrates did not, himself, claim to be a teacher, Xenophon clearly implies that he functioned as a teacher, and his disciples were meant to imitate him as the expression of engaging with his teaching. Additionally, as we saw earlier, the broad adherence of a disciple to his teacher does not require physical or chronological proximity. As Plato indicated in the Republic, Homer could be seen as the primary teacher of epic poetry centuries later by virtue of imitation. Use of διδαχή in Greco-Roman literature is not significantly more common than it is in the LXX (given the relative sizes of the two bodies of literature), but there is a conspicuous concentration of occurrences in the works of

127

Contrary to Rengstorf, I believe the breadth of uses of the verb διδάσκω in the LXX does not warrant the distinction he makes between a holistic understanding of διδάσκω in the Scriptures compared with a See K.H. Rengstorf, “διδάσκω, διδάσκαλος, νοµοδιδάσκαλος, καλοδιδάσκαλος, ψευδοδιδάσκαλος, διδασκαλία, ἑτεροδιδασκαλέω, διδαχή, διδακτός, διδακτικός” TDNT 2:137. 128 Homer, Il., 9.442; Homer, Od., 8.488. et al. 129 Plato, Resp., 338a, 399b, 489b; Meno, 94b, Gorg., 461c; et al. 130 There are thousands of results to a search of διδάσκω in the TLG, including Aristophanes, Xenophon, Sophocles, Galen, Euripides, Aristotle, and dozens of others. 131 2 Macc 1:10, Esth 6:1. 132 Ps 59:1. 133 Prov 2:17; Isa 29:13; Sir 24:33, 39:8; 1 En. 10:8. 134 Xenophon, Mem., 1.2.3 (Marchant, LCL).

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Plato.135 He uses the word 15 times.136 Uses of διδασκαλία are somewhat common in Greco-Roman literature, though less common than διδαχή. Plato, Xenophon, Galen, and several others use the term in a variety of ways. Finally, the term that Jesus uses of himself in Matt 23:10, καθηγητής, has no uses in the LXX. It is also not used elsewhere in the New Testament and it is used only seven times in Plutarch.137 It is used, however, in an important first century papyrus fragment.138 POxy 2190, according to Bruce Winter, demonstrates that καθηγητής very likely referred to a tutor: καθηγητής is thus used in this papyrus to refer to a private tutor in rhetoric who would assist a student on an ad hoc basis even though the latter owned a school in which the former had not enrolled.139

If this papyrus fragment forms the background of Jesus’s use of the term in Matthew’s Gospel, as Winter suggests, the background is quite clear. Matthew presents a Jesus who resembles a traveling educational professional from the Hellenistic philosophical world. 7.4.1 Preliminary Conclusion To summarize, Matthew’s use of διδάσκω and other teaching vocabulary is largely less peculiar than his use of discipleship vocabulary, though there are particular terms—such as διδάσκαλος and καθηγητής—which imply a particular emphasis. Nevertheless, beyond Matthew’s apparent focus on teaching vocabulary, the context of this concept is, again, somewhat less clear than that of discipleship. While the spectrum and frequency of this vocabulary is relatively similar between Jewish and Greco-Roman sources, where the two diverge, Matthew’s use of the terminology points to the Greco-Roman side of the spectrum.

7.5 Conclusion 7.5 Conclusion

The context of Matthew’s apparent focus on discipleship and its corresponding vocabulary is clear. The remarkable lack of this vocabulary in Jewish sources compared with the widespread and varied use of the vocabulary in Greco-Roman sources suggests a very particular backdrop for Matthew’s 135

Other authors to διδαχή include Herodotus, Plutarch, and others. Plato, Ep., 332a; Leg., 788a, 880d, 968c; Tim., 51e, 88a; Resp., 399b, 536d; Meno, 82a; Prot., 323d; Phaedr., 275a, 277e; Pol., 273b, 274c, 304d. 137 Plutarch, Alex., 5.4; Adul. amic., 31, 32; Conj. praec., 48; Quaest. conv., 8.2.4; Comm. not., 22; [Plac. Philos.] 2.1. 138 See Winter, “Messiah as the Tutor,” 152–157. 139 Winter, “Messiah as the Tutor,” 155. 136

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focus. While less clear, Matthew’s use of teaching vocabulary leads to the same conclusion. The considerable dearth of the specialized teaching vocabulary in Jewish sources compared with the widespread and varied use of the vocabulary in Greco-Roman sources suggests a particularly Hellenistic backdrop for Matthew’s focus. While not conclusive in itself, this data does, rather importantly, affirm the rhetorical analysis of the previous chapter and suggest a thoroughly Hellenized mode of editorial work by the author.



Chapter 8

Homeric Resonances Socrates: “We will beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we cancel those and all similar passages, not that they are not poetic and pleasing to most hearers, but because the more poetic they are the less are they suited to the ears of boys and men who are destined to be free and to be more afraid of slavery than of death.”1 —Plato (Republic 387b)

What happened to Homer? It is an important question for such a conspicuous figure in the ancient Mediterranean world. If the editor of the Matthean text was likely to have been educated in a Greek educational setting, as the quality of his Greek and his use of Hellenistic sources and genres suggest, and if the nature of Greek education in this period (particularly the emphasis on µίµησις or imitation) makes the presence of well-known source texts likely, then we might expect Homer to be lurking somewhere behind the Gospels. It was, as Quintilian suggests, a matter of expedience “to follow whatever has been invented with success.”2 Heraclitus, a first-century contemporary of Matthew, put it like this: From the earliest age, children beginning their studies are nursed on Homer’s teaching. One might say that while we were still in swathing bands, we sucked from his epics as from fresh milk. He assists the beginner and, later, the adult in his prime. In no stage of life, from boyhood to old age, do we ever cease to drink from him.3

Greek education in the Hellenistic period clearly included substantial engagement with the Homeric corpus.4 Given that, what happened to Homer in the Gospels? 1

Plato, Resp., 387b. ταῦτα καὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα πάντα παραιτησόµεθα Ὅµηρόν τε καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ποιητὰς µὴ χαλεπαίνειν ἂνδιαγράφωµεν, οὐχ ὡς οὐ ποιητικὰ καὶ ἡδέα τοῖς πολλοῖς ἀκούειν, ἀλλ᾽ ὅσῳ ποιητικώτερα, τοσούτῳ ἧττονἀκουστέον παισὶ καὶ ἀνδράσιν οὓς δεῖ ἐλευθέρους εἶναι, δουλείαν θανάτου µᾶλλον πεφοβηµένους. 2 Quintilian, Inst., 10.2.1. The English text can be found in MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer?, 2. 3 Heraclitus, All. 1.5–6. The English text can be found in MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer?, 3. 4 For more on the prominence of Homer in ancient education, see chapter 5. See also Finkelberg, “Homer as a Foundation Text,” 75–96; Vardi, “Canons of Literary Texts at Rome,” 131–152.

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8.1 Issues of Methodology 8.1 Issues of Methodology

Methodologically, the process of detecting Homeric echoes is somewhat more complex than that of the last two chapters. As the Greco-Roman rhetoric that points us to the Socratics is concentrated in the discourses in Matthew’s Gospel (e.g., Matthew 5–7), his Markan source—which mostly lacks parallel discourses—was not much of a factor. But, as Homer’s major works are in the form of epic poetry focused on action—stories—we might expect the parallels, if they exist, to emerge in Matthew’s narrative sections. As such, and because Matthew has closely followed Mark’s narrative structure and content, we need to take into account both Matthew’s Markan source and whatever Mark’s sources might have been.5 Accordingly, redaction criticism is a necessary addition to our previously articulated rhetorical method in order to see how Matthew treats possible Homeric materials, whether he strengthens resonances in Marks’ Gospel or weakens them. The first step, then, becomes one of finding possible Homeric resonances in Mark’s Gospel and wrestling with Mark’s source materials. The Hebrew Bible connections are generally obvious and must not be underestimated. But finding Homeric resonances is a slightly more challenging task. A few scholars, including Dennis R. MacDonald and Karl Olav Sandnes, have argued for echoes of Homer’s Iliad, Odyssey, and the Homeric Hymns (a set of somewhat later poems written in dactylic hexameter and attributed to Homer).6 While MacDonald’s method must be critically evaluated, his approach to and organization of the data is worth considering. In The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, he outlines twenty compound themes (e.g. “carpenters who suffer many things,” “sleeping sailors,” “feasts for thousands”) each of which have multiple distinct data points of comparison. He concludes that Mark 1– 14 is heavily influenced by the Odyssey and that the Iliad similarly influences Mark 15–16. While reserving evaluation of his conclusions, MacDonald’s work is worth considering as a way into a discussion of methodology. 8.1.1 MacDonald’s Criteria for Comparative Analysis MacDonald outlines six criteria for detecting data points of literary µίµησις. 7

5

According to various studies, Matthew retains between 90 percent and 97 percent of Mark. See Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 108; Stein, Synoptic Problem, 48; Tyson and Longstaff, Synoptic Abstract, 169–71. 6 Throughout this chapter, I am following MacDonald’s references within the Homeric corpus from MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark. Where I have quoted from or cited other editions of Homer’s works, I have clearly noted it. 7 MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer?, 3–6. This methodology is further explained and defended in MacDonald, The Gospels and Homer, 5–8, which was not

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The first two, Accessibility and Analogy, focus on historical concerns. Accessibility refers to both the dating and popularity of the text being proposed as a model for imitation. This certainly makes sense as it would be nearly impossible to imitate a text that was neither widely available (for conscious imitation) nor part of the Zeitgeist (and thus available for sub-conscious imitation). If one posits that a work is a rewriting of an earlier model, it helps if the earlier model is known to have been popular. Analogy, the second criterion, poses the question of whether the text proposed as a model for imitation was, in fact, a common model for imitation. In other words, do we have other examples of this text being imitated? These first two criteria are asking questions of plausibility and, generally speaking, have fairly definitive answers. They are fundamentally historical questions. As we saw earlier, Homer’s work was widely available in the first century. Homer’s importance for rhetoric and rhetorical education is evident from his presence in the literary works on rhetoric and education, the progymnasmata,8 and also Raffaella Cribiore’s catalog of 412 school exercises.9 That the Homeric epics were often models for imitation cannot be in doubt. The next three criteria ask questions of similarity between the proposed model (or hypotext) and proposed imitation (or hypertext) and are, as a result, somewhat more debatable. Density, the third criterion, concerns the volume of similarities between the proposed model and the proposed imitation. In many ways, this is sort of an initial examination of parallels to assess their frequency. Parallel expressions can include, according to MacDonald: “vocabulary, grammar, names, settings, characterizations, and especially motifs.”10 It should be noted here that opposites could be designated parallels in MacDonald’s system. In the context of many parallels, a deliberate change from expectation—a marked reversal of sorts—has tremendous rhetorical value. Such a designation, however, requires extensive argument based on rhetoric or else it becomes a subjective way of incorporating dissimilarities. Relative Sequencing, the fourth criterion, looks at the order and context of the above parallels to determine whether there is a literary structure being imitated as well. Similarity of structures strengthens the case for imitation against the likelihood of coincidence. Up to this point, the criteria, if met, would be published when this dissertation was first submitted, but became available during revisions. 8 The progymnasmata (or preliminary exercises) attributed to Theon, Hermogenes, Aphthonius, and Nicolaus are available in English as Kennedy, ed., Progymnasmata. A side-by-side publication of the Greek text and an English translation of two additional works attributed to Hermogenes are available in Kennedy, ed., Invention and Method. A relevant fourth-century work is also available in English as Gibson, ed., Libanius’s Progymnasmata. 9 Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, 175–284. 10 MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer?, 5.

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suggestive, not definitive. The fifth criterion, Distinctive Traits, asks the question if there are parallels that are relatively rare, obscure, or otherwise idiosyncratic in such a way as to put them beyond the realm of coincidence. To summarize these last three criteria: Are there many parallels? Are they found in a similar sequence? Are there distinctive traits? It is based upon these criteria that the case for imitation rests.11 The sixth and last of MacDonald’s criteria, Interpretability, addresses the strategic differences between the proposed model and the proposed imitation and asks the question of what benefit a reader might gain from having recognized the imitation. Conscious imitation is not just a rhetorical device, but indicates a rhetorical purpose. There is a declared common point of comparison such that interpretations may be shaped. Rhetorical purposes can include the superiority, equality, or inferiority of the proposed imitation to the proposed model. This last criterion is asking whether the two texts are comparable at an interpretive level. At the same time, this criterion functions as a control to remind us that imitation is not a neutral activity. 8.1.2 Problems with MacDonald’s Methodology The primary problem with MacDonald’s methodology is the selection of comparisons that leads to overstating the validity of the resonance. Of his particular methodological criteria, Density, Relative Sequencing, and Distinctiveness are in question. When comparing two written works, or even two literary figures, the resonances depend on the reader’s ability to draw the comparison. If one selects items to compare from across a lengthy work such as a Homeric epic, rather than a narrowly defined section, the comparison is no longer of comparably sized texts, and as such, arguments concerning density are problematic. While there may be a high volume of comparisons, the resonating effects are undermined by the diffusion across the large text. Likewise, when comparing a narrowly defined text in a Gospel with the whole of the Homeric corpus (i.e., drawing the parallel from numerous passages across the whole of Homer’s two lengthy epics), the difference between distinctiveness and coincidence is hard to isolate. As a result, the intentionality of Mark in his attempts to echo Homer is harder to argue. 11

These criteria are also the biggest challenges for a historian, particularly the fifth criterion. If literary imitation can be established, it suggests that individual details of the imitated text may have a purely literary origin, rather than a historical one. In the case of the Gospels, the historical evidence and presumed historical context, whether the proposed imitation is conscious or sub-conscious, the Jewish literary antecedents as well as the Classical and Hellenistic, the Synoptic relationships, and early testimony and traditions are just a few additional elements that ideally would be weighed with and against the literary imitation arguments. While the historical question is beyond the scope of this particular paper, one must not lose sight of it.

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The context of the hypotext is also a point of tension for MacDonald. In her review of MacDonald’s work, Margaret Mitchell points out that MacDonald has a tendency to set up deceptively strong parallels between the texts while pulling the Homeric elements out of context. 12 She is particularly troubled by MacDonald’s vacillation between Odysseus and Telemachus as the primary comparison for Jesus, his tendency to force or contort texts to fit his scheme, and his inconsistent use of linguistic parallels. Mitchell concludes that MacDonald has overstated his ability to demonstrate Mark’s intentions in drawing upon Homer. At the same time, however, Mitchell’s arguments that the parallels are not present at all are somewhat less convincing. This critique rests on her assumption of the unlikeliness of an author using both Jewish and Homeric sources synthetically (a problem she indicates in her discussion of whether the calming of the storm was influenced by either the LXX Jonah story or the Homeric bag of winds story, but apparently she is reluctant to consider that it might be both).13 As I have already argued at length, there is no need to separate Jewish and Hellenistic source ideas. Indeed, the influence of Homer even in Jewish circles is compelling.14 Given the significance of Homer in the educational practices of Greek speakers in the first century, it is possible that koine-writing Mark would use some elements from Homer, adapt others, and completely omit some in a way that neither denies nor diminishes the influence of the Hebrew Bible. As such, Mitchell’s critique does not necessarily disprove, but rather rightly limits the scope of MacDonald’s 12

Mitchell, “Homer in the New Testament?,” 244–260. Mitchell also elaborates on other problems with MacDonald’s methodology, including the moral unsuitability of Odysseus as an literary type for Jesus, the unlikeliness of Mark’s capacity to pull off such an elaborate intertextual feat (presuming the widely believed but not very well demonstrated assumption that Mark was not as educated as the other Evangelists), and the complete lack of early or Patristic support for this reading of Mark as influenced by Homer. 13 Mitchell, “Homer in the New Testament?,” 253. 14 MacDonald points out: “…to acknowledge the pervasive influence of the Jewish Bible on the Gospels and Acts does not exclude other literary influences, and several examples exist from Hellenistic Jewish authors of biblical topics expressed in epic verse. For example, fragments survive of On the Jews by a Theodotus and On Jerusalem by Philo dubbed Epicus, both of whom narrated biblical themes in dactylic hexameters. According to Josephus, even Moses knew how to write epic poetry! When the lawgiver presented the law to Israel, ‘he then read them a hexametric poem [ποίησιν ἑξάµετρον] that he also left in a scroll in the temple; it contains a forecast of future events according to which everything happened and are happening.’ According to a medieval fragment, ‘Sosates, the Jewish Homer, flourished in Alexandria’ between 142 and 51 B.C.E. Several scholars have proposed likely dependence on Homer among Jews writing prose in Hebrew and Aramaic as early as the sixth century B.C.E.” Macdonald, Gospels and Homer, 7. MacDonald cites: Eusebius, Praep. ev., 9.17–20, 9.22–24, 9.35–38; Josephus, Ant., 4.303, 2.346; Philo, Mos., 1.21–23; Cohen, “Sosates, the Jewish Homer,” 391–396; Louden, Odyssey, 321; and MacDonald, Mimesis and Intertextuality, 11–40.

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perceived resonances. That is, there is no need to assume (as MacDonald does at times) that Mark is creating a comprehensive allegory of Homer in his Gospel. Yet, there is no need to dismiss (as Mitchell does at times) all parallels simply because he has not created a comprehensive allegory.15 Rather, is it not possible that Mark’s Gospel contains adapted elements of the Homeric corpus alongside his other sources? Assuming so, MacDonald’s work on Homer can become a large data set of parallels to critically evaluate individually. 8.1.3 A Way Forward Given this critique, a way forward must be forged carefully. It is here that my stated methodology from chapter 4 will be of some benefit. My first guiding question, again, was: 1.

What are the rhetorical boundaries of the text?

My question presumes the comparison of narrowly bounded texts, not simply themes that may be widely dispersed in large texts. As such, the way forward here must be to compare specific portions of the Homeric corpus with the relevant and potentially parallel passages of Mark’s and Matthew’s Gospels. My second, third, and fourth guiding questions, again, were: 2. 3. 4.

What is the rhetorical situation/context in which the text appears? What rhetorical need is the text addressing? How is the text arranged and styled to address the need?

These three questions presume that the texts in question have discernible rhetorical contexts and that the author has organized and styled his material in order to address those rhetorical contexts. As such, these questions present a rhetorical criticism approach to MacDonald’s fifth criterion. Both my questions and his fifth step are focused on the details, the arrangement and stylis15 The particular criticisms in this review and others have also been addressed by MacDonald. See Rabel, review of MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark. Dowd, review of MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, 155. MacDonald, “My Turn,” 1–26. Here, MacDonald helpfully clarifies the bounds of mimesis criticism: “Simply stated, a mimesis critic assesses a text for literary influences that one might classify as imitations instead of citations, paraphrases, allusions, echoes, or redactions. In ancient narratives such imitations usually obtain to characterizations, motifs, and plot—seldom to wording.” MacDonald, “My Turn,” 1. Karl Olav Sandnes also sets out to interact with MacDonald (sometimes favorably, other times critically) in The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil.’ In that volume, Sandnes appears to follow MacDonald into mimesis criticism, taking a modified, but parallel, track. Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 22–30.

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tic contours of the texts in question. MacDonald’s focus on distinctiveness only makes the exploration of arrangement and style more likely to yield persuasive correspondences or parallels between Matthew’s uses (or not) of Homer in comparison with Mark’s uses, even though MacDonald is focusing on a literary strategy that compares two written texts of arguably different genres.16 Karl Olav Sandnes offers a word from rhetorical education that might capture the range of generic correspondences that MacDonald explores: paraphrasis.17 One of the educational exercises from antiquity, paraphrasis is a kind of imitation wherein texts were embellished and even transformed across genres.18 As such, MacDonald’s approach to literary parallels here has a counterpart in rhetorical education, rendering my rhetorical approach in addition to his literary approach on this criterion—as the idiomatic expression states—two sides of the same coin. My last guiding question was: 5.

Given the text’s arrangement and style, is it successful in addressing the rhetorical need?

This fifth question corresponds to MacDonald’s last criterion. These last steps are steps of evaluation and interpretability. Given the detailed study of distinctive arrangement and style, is there a plausible correspondence? Given this methodological approach along with the added complexity of redaction and Mark’s Gospel, it should be possible to explore Homeric echoes in Marks’ Gospel and how they play out in Matthew’s Gospel.

8.2 Comparative Analysis of Homer with Mark and Matthew 8.2 Comparative Analysis of Homer with Mark and Matthew

Rather than attempting an argument based on sheer volume and thereby running into the problems of assembling seemingly disjointed themes, two specific text comparisons will serve as examples of comparative study: 1) the

16

The practice of using the same content while adapting the genre came to be known as metaphrasis, which seems to be synonymous with paraphrasis in the progymnasmata. See Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 70. The practice of translating genres, however, has contemporary precedent. See Cicero, De or., 1.16.70–71. 17 Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 23, 30–36. See also Morgan, Literate Education, 90. 18 Quintilian, Inst., 1.9.1–3, and particularly 10.5.4–11. See also Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 6–7, 70–71.

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storms at sea in Mark 4 and Odyssey 10, and 2) the encounters with brutal figures in Mark 5 and Odyssey 9–10.19 8.2.1 Storms at Sea A particularly rich text in Mark’s Gospel, in terms of source material, is that of the calming of the storm in Mark 4:35–41.20 As a writer obviously familiar with the Hebrew Scriptures, Mark might very well have intended his readers to recall Jonah’s escape from Tarshish (and from God) through a storm at sea. Yet, as a writer capable of composing lengthy narratives in Greek, Mark might also be drawing upon Homer’s tale of the storm Odysseus experienced off of Aeolia. What can we observe about Mark’s intertextual resonances? And, once we have explored them, what becomes of them in Matthew’s Gospel? Mark’s text begins with a statement of setting. Jesus is stationed beside the sea and teaching from a boat while the crowd looks on from the land.21 Jesus shares a lengthy parable followed by a series of shorter parables, breaking only to share the interpretation(s) privately with his disciples.22 The text then continues with a clear reference to that initial setting, marking the start of a coherent rhetorical unit in Mark 4:35–36: 35 On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” 36 And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him.

In typical fashion for narratives, the text begins with a statement of the setting, specifically chronological markers (“on that day, when evening had 19

These themes are addressed in MacDonald, but I am identifying from MacDonald what I believe are the distinctive points he is offering in each set of compound themes located in specific and narrowly defined texts. He has not necessarily identified or numbered them as such. Additionally, in light of critiques of his project—critiques with which I generally agree—I am combining distinctive elements and restating them in order to make the distinctions as specific as possible. Finally, I am omitting any points of comparison that MacDonald offers that do not have specific antecedent texts in the Homeric corpus or particular expression in the Gospel of Mark. For example, on another set of themes, some aspects of his identification of the sons of Zebedee with the Dioscuri, while interesting, rely on non-Homeric descriptions. I will avoid such implicit connections. 20 There are many helpful commentaries and articles on this particular pericope. See especially Boring, Mark, 142–147; Marcus, Mark 1–8, 332–341; France, Mark, 219–241; Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew, 369–372; Davies and Allison, Matthew 8–18, 66–76. See also Aus, Stilling of the Storm; Feiler, “Stilling of the Storm,” 399–406; Heil, Jesus Walking on the Sea, 84–103; Hendrickx, Miracle Stories, 168–204; Thimmes, Studies in the Biblical Sea–Storm Type–Scene, 88–90, 134–148. 21 Mark 4:1. The teaching described in Mark 4:1–34 is presented as having happened on a single day. See France, Mark, 222; Marcus, Mark 1–8, 332; Boring, Mark, 142. 22 Mark 4:10–20, 4:33–34.

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come”) and a geographic marker (they were still in the boat on the sea and heading toward the other side of the sea). The end of the rhetorical unit is also clear from the statement of the new setting found in Mark 5:1, which includes a new geographic setting and the immediate introduction of a new character. With the unit clearly identified, the next methodological step is to identify the rhetorical need of the passage and how that rhetorical need is met. Given that the passage is narrative, it will help to begin with a basic plot analysis.23 The main plot is found in the remaining verses, Mark 4:37–41: 37 A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. 38 But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” 39 He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. 40 He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” 41 And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

In its most basic form, the plot of this narrative revolves around the calming of the storm and the reaction of Jesus’s disciples. The beginning of the story exposes the immediate dramatic tension of a storm and fearful disciples. And with the end of the story, we find calm seas and, surprisingly, disciples who are even more fearful (indicated by an emphatic redundancy: καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον µέγαν).24 The middle of the story, then, is where we find the dramatic 23

I am suggesting an uncomplicated plot analysis here that revolves around two Aristotelian concepts: 1) a structure of beginning, middle, and end, and 2) the concept of a reversal of action. First, in thinking about drama, Aristotle said that a well-constructed plot is the first and most important thing that you want to find. And it will have a beginning, middle, and end. See Aristotle, Poet., 1450b21–34. Second, the plot reaches its dramatic climax at (what Aristotle calls) the reversal. See Aristotle, Poet., 1448a–52b. It should be noted that the kind of narrative analysis that I am suggesting might be considered, in part, anachronistic. While certain aspects of narrative are universally true throughout history and cultures, some of the terminology (e.g., plot, climax) and some of the specific structures addressed here derive from modern literary criticism. That these concepts existed in the ancient texts (e.g., discussions of characterismus in the progymnasmata, reflections on the plot of Greek dramas in Aristotle and Plato, matters of style) should not imply that that the Evangelists were consciously using these concepts as they composed the Gospels. Nevertheless, it is useful to have the terminology and the concepts offered by literary criticism as we look at these ancient texts. For an advanced treatment of the elements of narrative, see Abbott, Cambridge Introduction to Narrative. For a useful treatment of narrative criticism in biblical scholarship, see Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? There are also some very useful tips in the relevant chapters of Ryken, How to Read the Bible as Literature, 131–138. For a very similar, but independent, approach to analyzing narrative in ancient terms, see Pennington, Reading the Gospels Wisely, 169–212. 24 The particular phrase is probably a Semitism. See Maloney, Semitic Interference, 185–190. See also Marcus, Mark 1–8, 332.

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reversal of the sea and the intensification of the fear of the disciples in response to Jesus’s action of calming the storm. The structure of the story follows the use of the intensifier: µέγαν.25 § § §

Verse 37: A great storm arose (καὶ γίνεται λαῖλαψ µεγάλη ἀνέµου). Verse 39: A great calm set in (καὶ ἐγένετο γαλήνη µεγάλη). Verse 41: The disciples feared with a great fear (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον µέγαν).

As with many of the miracle stories in Mark’s Gospel, the rhetorical exigence of the passage seems to be located in the miracle’s demonstration of a point about Jesus by showing a deficiency in the disciples. Jesus’s question about their fear points to their lack of faith. And the rhetorical question on which the passage ends (“Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”) affirms that they were supposed to have learned a lesson about the identity of Jesus.26 The disciples (and the first audience of the Gospel) are being asked to consider their faith in the sovereignty of Jesus over nature. The next chapter includes three vignettes in which Jesus continues to demonstrate such sovereignty over the natural order by combatting a man with a demon (Mark 5:1–20), a woman with a disease (Mark 5:25–34), and ultimately a child who has succumbed to death (Mark 5:21–24, 5:35–43). Given such context, it is likely that the rhetorical purpose of the passage is a challenge to the reader to consider Jesus’s identity by way of considering his sovereignty. But, how does this passage relate to the possible antecedent texts? The Jonah story has much to commend it as a possible hypotext for Mark. There are several points for comparison. §

§

25

In both stories, the main character boards (using forms of ἐµβαίνω) a boat (using forms of πλοῖον), only to have the boat met with a great windstorm.27 In both stories, the traveling companions are afraid (using forms of φοβέω).28 There is, perhaps, some intentional irony in Mark here as

Marcus, Mark 1–8, 335: “The passage in its present form falls into three parts: a stage-setting introduction (4:35–36), the description of the storm and Jesus’ conquest of it (4:37–39) and an interpretive conversation (4:40–41). After the introduction, the passage is structured around three instances of the word megas = ‘great’ in 4:37, 39, and 41.” This structural form also nicely fits what Boring calls the form of the typical Hellenistic miracle story. See Boring, Mark, 143. See also Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition, 216. 26 France, Mark, 221–222, 225. 27 Mark 4:37 (καὶ γίνεται λαῖλαψ µεγάλη ἀνέµου); LXX Jonah 1:4 (καὶ ἐγένετο κλύδων µέγας ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ).

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the sailors in the Jonah story are crying out to their gods and ultimately direct Jonah to cry out to his god, while the disciples in Mark’s story cry out to Jesus (who Mark consistently argues to be God and/or the Son of God throughout his Gospel).29 The main character is found asleep (using a form of καθεύδω) in a particular place on the boat during the storm.30 Jonah is in the cargo hold while Jesus is asleep on the stern. The main character responds in some way to the perishing (using forms of ἀπόλλυµι) of his traveling companions.31 In both stories, the storm calms after the main character takes action.32 In both Mark and LXX Jonah, the companions are said to be more afraid (using a redundant construction including two forms of φοβέω plus µέγαν) after the storm ceases.33

Mark’s use of the particular phrase for more afraid (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον µέγαν) and the overall structure of the story (a storm at sea followed by a sleeping main character and companions who are more afraid after the storm ceases) obviously echo the Jonah narrative. But, in terms of plot analysis, there are also some important points of difference between LXX Jonah and Mark: Jesus was not fleeing from God as Jonah was, the disciples cry out to be saved whereas Jonah’s companions ask him to intercede with God, Jesus calms the sea with his voice but Jonah must be tossed into it in order to save the ship. As such, Jesus is generally considered to not just be modeled after Jonah, but also surpass him.34 Indeed, it might be suggested that, as it was God who calmed the storm in Jonah and the Son of God in Mark and it was both Jonah and the disciples who were found deficient in their respective stories, the echoes might be quite muddled. Is it possible that there is more

28 Mark 4:38, 4:41; LXX Jonah 1:5 (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν οἱ ναυτικοὶ καὶ ἀνεβόων ἕκαστος πρὸς τὸν θεὸν αὐτῶν). In the Mark passage, the fear of the disciples is indicated after the calming of the storm in Jesus’s question and before the narrator indicates their greater fear. 29 Marcus argues that Jesus is also being portrayed as like God as a matter of Near Eastern mythic form. In so doing, he ties the narrative to Ps 44:23–24 as well as other Hebrew Scriptures. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 238–239. 30 Mark 4:38; LXX Jonah 1:5. 31 Mark 4:39; LXX Jonah 1:6, 14. 32 Mark 4:39; LXX Jonah 1:12–15. There is a significant difference in the action taken. Jesus merely speaks to the storm whereas Jonah allows himself to be hurled into the sea as a kind of sacrificial offering. 33 Mark 4:41 (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον µέγαν); LXX Jonah 1:10 (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν οἱ ἄνδρες φόβον µέγαν) and again in LXX Jonah 1:16 (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν οἱ ἄνδρες φόβῳ µεγάλῳ τὸν κύριον). 34 See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 337–338.

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than one intertextual connection to be made? Are there additional details that might point us to another text? In the tenth book of Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus and his men leave the land of the Cylclopes and make their way to the home of Aeolus, ruler of the winds. Aeolus kindly stirs up a western wind to send Odysseus and his men home to Ithaca. Along the journey, Odysseus goes to sleep on the boat. His men, suspicious of the gifts that Odysseus was given and whether Odysseus might be withholding riches from them, tear open a bag which, unknown to them, contains all the winds. Once loosed, the winds create a storm that drives the ship back to Aeolia, where Aeolus refuses to help Odysseus a second time. This particular episode from the Odyssey is especially suitable for comparison with Mark’s pericope in a few different ways, including the relative sequencing within the macro-structures of both Homer’s Odyssey and Mark’s Gospel. With regard to relative sequencing, I have already noted that Mark uses geographic and chronological statements to signal a change in setting (and thus, the opening or closing of a rhetorical unit). From Mark 1:14–15, Jesus enters Galilee and spends much of the rest of the Gospel traveling back and forth across the Sea of Galilee. He starts on land in Capernaum (on the northern coast of the sea) and the neighboring towns in Mark 1:21–2:12, specifically walking beside the sea in Mark 2:13, then departing to the sea in Mark 3:7, teaching from a boat next to the land in Mark 4:1–34, and finally setting across the sea in Mark 4:35. After the encounter with the Gerasene demoniac, Jesus sets off in the boat to again cross the sea in Mark 5:21. Jesus and his disciples take the boat and retreat to a deserted place in Mark 6:32, crossing the sea again to Bethsaida (on the northeastern coast) in Mark 5:45—though the disciples were in the boat and Jesus walked on the water for part of the journey in this particular case. All of them crossed the sea in the boat again, landing at Gennesaret (on the eastern coast) in Mark 6:53. From there, Jesus and the disciples took a lengthy detour (presumably on land) to Tyre and Sidon, making their way back toward the Sea of Galilee in Mark 7:31. Jesus and the disciples once again board the boat and make their way across the sea in Mark 8:13, once again heading toward Bethsaida, eventually returning westward to Galilee (possibly on land) in Mark 9:30, and arriving back in Capernaum in Mark 9:33. From Mark 9:33, Jesus spends the rest of the Gospel on land, journeying through Judea to Jerusalem in the second half of the Gospel. It is worth rehearsing the specifics of Jesus’s maritime travels here because it leaves the impression that the Gospel begins with a prologue, moves to a cycle of journeys in which Jesus goes back and forth across a major sea, and then concludes with a land journey and climactic event in Jerusalem.

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Homer’s Odyssey presents a similar shape. While the similar shape by itself is not necessarily compelling, the sequence of transitions between nautical journeys might be somewhat more than coincidental. Books 9–12 of the Odyssey are a particular set of 11 episodes told as a series of stories by Odysseus from a different chronological point in the epic, commonly called the Apologue.35 This unified set of stories, among other things, charts Odysseus’s nautical path back and forth across the Mediterranean Sea, not unlike Mark’s set of Jesus stories in Mark 1–9 or Matthew’s more tightly defined collection of miracle stories in Matt 8:1–9:35, before the climactic events in Ithaca. The first six of the Homeric stories are marked, at the end of each, with a particular geographical transition statement: ‘from there we sailed on with grieving heart.’36 Again, while not indisputable proof of resonances between Homer’s Odyssey and Mark’s Gospel, this similar narrative structure of a collection of stories concerning sailing back and forth across a sea with each bounded by geographical transition referring to the boat does provide a somewhat provocative context for the comparative possibilities of episodes in the Apologue with both Jesus’s calming of the storm in Mark 4:35–41 and, as we shall see in the next section, Jesus’s encounter with a brutal figure in Mark 5:1–20. Having considered the relative sequencing of the context, we can now explore the specific stories. Within the Homeric and Markan stories themselves, there are also several points for comparison.37 §

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In the narrative introduction of the setting, Odysseus and his men in Homer and Jesus in Mark are said to board the ship (using the related terms ἀµβαίνειν in Homer and ἐµβάντα in Mark) and sit down (also using the related terms καθῖζον in Homer and καθῆσθαι in Mark).38 The boarding language is the same in all three stories, though only Odysseus, his men and Jesus are said to sit.39 Jonah does not. In both Homer and Mark, other boats are on the voyage. In no other maritime story in the Gospel of Mark is Jesus traveling with a group of ships. But in Mark 4:36, Mark indicates that Jesus’s boat was ac-

See de Jong, Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, 221–223. Homer, Od., 9.62, 9.105, 9.565; 10.77, 10.133. The English translation is quoted de Jong. See de Jong, Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, 222. 37 For MacDonald’s description of the possible resonances, see MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, 55–62. I have included many of his observations here. 38 Homer, Od., 9.563–565; Mark 4:1. 39 The verb κάθηµαι is not unfamiliar as it is used later in LXX Jonah 4:5. The verb καθίζω is likewise used in LXX Jonah 3:6 and brought together with κάθηµαι in LXX Jonah 4:5. 36

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companied by others. Odysseus travels with a convoy of twelve.40 Jonah, however, appears to travel with a single vessel. Great winds (ἄνεµοι in Homer and ἀνέµου in Mark) arise.41 The LXX Jonah text uses a different term for wind (the theologically loaded πνεῦµα, perhaps a reference to Gen 1:2). All three texts appear to use different words for storm (θύελλα in Homer, κλύδων in LXX Jonah, and a λαῖλαψ in Mark).42 The main character is found asleep (Homer uses ὕπνος, whereas Mark uses καθεύδων), mostly likely on the stern (πρύµνῃ in Mark) of the boat.43 LXX Jonah uses the same term for sleeping as Mark (καθεύδων), but places Jonah in a different location: the hold (κοίλην) of the ship.44 The main character is awakened (ἐγείρουσιν in Mark and ἐγρόµενος in Homer).45 LXX Jonah makes no reference to Jonah being awakened, but rather simply assumes it. Again, the main character is confronted in some way by the perishing (ἀπολλύµεθα in Mark and ἀπωλόµεθʼ in Homer) of his traveling companions.46 LXX Jonah also makes reference to the perishing of Jonah’s traveling companions using the same vocabulary.47 After the main character is awakened and takes action, the winds of the storm cease and a great calm descends. Mark’s story uses an interesting word for calm (γαλήνη).48 While it does not appear in the bag of winds story in the Odyssey, it is a Homeric term used to de-

Homer, Od., 9.159. See Heubeck and Hoekstra, Homer’s Odyssey, Volume 2, 23. Homer, Od., 10.47; Mark 4:37. Mark’s word choice may be related to his use of πνεῦµα in a very different sense. Mark never uses πνεῦµα to mean wind, but rather uses the word to refer to spirits, especially evil spirits. While Mark uses a different word for wind here in Mark 4:35–41, he may still have intended a connection as Jesus’s rebuke (ἐπετίµησεν) of the storm and telling the seas to be still (πεφίµωσο) uses the exact same vocabulary that Jesus earlier used to exorcize a man with an unclean spirit (πνεύµατι) in Mark 1:21–28. 42 Homer, Od., 10.48, 10.54; LXX Jonah 1:4; Mark 4:37. 43 Mark 4:38. Concerning Odysseus’s sleeping, see Homer, Od., 10.31. That it was likely on the stern of the ship is an assumption based on where Odysseus slept on his ship at another point in the epic. See particularly Homer, Od., 13.73–76. There, Odysseus has little carpets laid out on which to sleep, perhaps like Jesus’s cushion in Mark 4:38. As it is not stated in this particular story, this is a comparatively weaker data point. Yet, the oddity of the place on the ship for sleeping and the fact that it is mentioned specifically later in the Odyssey makes it worth considering. 44 LXX Jonah 1:5. 45 Mark 4:38; Homer, Od., 10.50. 46 Mark 4:39; Homer, Od., 10.27. 47 See also LXX Jonah 1:6, 14. 48 Mark 4:39. 41

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scribe calm and windless waters.49 The word never appears in LXX Jonah or in the LXX in general. There is a statement about a character having some kind of sovereignty over the winds that produced the storm. In Mark, it is Jesus about whom the disciples ponder: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”50 In Homer, it is not Odysseus or any other human being, but the semi-divine Aeolus who is called the “master of the winds.”51 While this intertextual connection seems to be an arbitrary or inconsistent re-appropriation of the connections so far (Jesus with Odysseus, the disciples with Odysseus’s companions, etc.), it may actually be intentional on the part of Mark. If we were right in observing Mark’s larger agenda of demonstrating that Jesus is God and/or the Son of God, his demonstration of sovereignty over the winds would be more comparable to Aeolus in the Homeric story and God (rather than Jonah) in the Jonah story. Contrary to Mitchell’s critique, one need not argue a comprehensive allegory in order to demonstrate resonances. Indeed, if a consistent use of character comparisons were necessary, then the LXX Jonah source would be equally invalid as Homer’s bag of winds story.

The presence of the LXX Jonah story in Mark’s account of the calming of the storm is clear. Beyond the simple narrative structure, Mark uses an important and peculiar phrase, “more afraid,” as well as the particular word for sleeping (from καθεύδω) that LXX Jonah supplies. Yet, the Homeric bag of winds story explains some of Mark’s vocabulary choices as well as narrative details that the Jonah story just does not: 1) sitting on the boat, 2) the presence of other ships in the convoy, 3) the particular word used by Mark for winds, 4), that the main character is likely sleeping in the stern of the boat, 5) that the main character is awakened, and 6) the Homeric vocabulary for the calming of the winds. The rest of the critical details are common to all three stories or different in each of the three. As such, it seems highly likely that Mark drew on Homer’s bag of winds story in the Odyssey, as well as Homeric vocabulary and ideas in general, as much as or possibly even more than the LXX Jonah story. Accordingly, we might begin to see Mark’s presentation of Jesus as a man of action and courage like (in comparison to the disciple’s faithlessness and weakness), conspicuously human (rather than magical or divine), and unrefined, not unlike Homer’s Odysseus. 52 49

See Homer, Od., 5.391, 5.451, 7.319, 10.94, and 12.168. Mark 4:41. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 339–340. 51 See Homer, Od., 10.21 (ταµίην ἀνέµων). 52 Markan scholars have often assumed that Jesus is presented in Mark as somewhat more human because Matthew and Luke often omit references to his emotions (see Mark 50

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What does Matthew do with the Homeric resonances? Matthew’s account of the calming of the storm in Matt 8:23–27 follows Mark’s account with regard to several of the key details. The structural elements of the plot are largely retained: the boat, the storm and following calm, the sleeping protagonist and his confrontation of the companions. Matthew, however, omits a few specifically Homeric details. § § §

Whereas Mark and Homer both have the main character sitting on the boat, Matthew simply ignores the detail. Whereas Mark and Homer both reference multiple ships in the convoy, Matthew only describes a single boat.53 Whereas Mark indicates that Jesus slept on the stern of his ship, Matthew omits this particular location detail as well. Matthew likewise removes the cushion on which Jesus slept.54

Matthew does not seem to add any non-Markan Homeric resonances, and retains only three Homeric resonances that are found in Mark (but which are absent from LXX Jonah): § § §

Both Matthew and Mark use the Homeric word for winds. In both Matthew and Mark, like in Homer, the main character is awakened. Both Matthew and Mark use the Homeric vocabulary for the calming of the winds.

Interestingly, Matthew also omits the “more afraid” (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον µέγαν) statement supplied by LXX Jonah to Mark. There is no other vocabulary that Matthew introduces that appears to be supplied by LXX Jonah, so his weakening of the Homeric connection is, most probably, not intended to strengthen the Jonah connection.55 Rather, the weakening of connections with both hypotexts through the omission of resonances may simply be a matter of Matthew’s editorial method. Yet, there may be more that can be observed about these editorial choices.

1:41, 1:43, 6:5, 8:12, 10:14, 10:21), his apparent ignorance (see Mark 5:24–34), and his secrecy (see Mark 1:23, 1:34, 1:43–45, 3:11–12, 5:43, 7:36, 8:26). See Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 104–105. 53 See Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 370. 54 See Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 370. 55 Indeed, John Nolland suggests that Matthew has weakened the Jonah connections from Mark. See Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 371. Yet, presumably Matthew is independently aware of the Jonah story as he makes additional references to Jonah in Matt 12:38–41 and Matt 16:4 that Mark does not make.

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For example, Matthew’s omission of the “more afraid” language (from LXX Jonah) may be explained another way. Perhaps it is simply a matter of his consistent editorial choice to improve the portrayal of the disciples, making the story a discipleship narrative rather than strictly a miracle narrative.56 While Matthew retains those elements necessary to make the point about faith and about Jesus’s sovereignty over the storm, the statement on fear can be omitted without undermining the narrative. As an editorial minimalist, the removal of the distinctly Homeric details of sitting, multiple ships, and sleeping on the stern and the cushion are not only inconsequential to the narrative, they reduce the questions a careful reader might ask about why Jesus sat rather than joined the crew, who was on the other boats and what happened to them during the storm, why was Jesus sleeping in such a strange location on the boat, or how was Jesus able to sleep on the stern during a storm. But, for Matthew to remove the elements of the winds, Jesus being awakened by his disciples (rather than by the storm), and the great calm would be to completely mangle the plot and the rhetorical effect of Jesus’s actions. Matthew would have needed to find alternate vocabulary to completely remove the Homeric resonance but preserve the narrative structure. Indeed, it was probably easier to simply retain Mark’s particular word choices. And depending on whether Matthew was reading Jonah in Hebrew or Greek (if at all, rather than simply using Mark), it is possible he did not even recognize Mark’s vocabulary choices for winds, awakening, and calm as Homeric rather than Hebrew. But at least the details of multiple ships and sleeping on the stern would have been recognizably Homeric and certainly not supplied by the Jonah story in any language. We must be careful to not overstate the case at this point in the argument, but it does seem as though Matthew’s tendency might be to remove distinctly Homeric resonances from Mark. 8.2.2 Encounters with Brutal Figures Mark’s story of Jesus encountering the Gerasene demoniac in Mark 5:1–20 provides another text rich with possible Homeric resonances.57 In this text, 56 See especially the first section of the chapter on Matthew’s use of education vocabulary. Günther Bornkamm argues that the redaction is intended to transform the pericope into a discipleship story. Bornkamm argues on the basis of Matthew’s placement of the miracle after two discipleship statements in which he has already inserted µαθητής into Mark’s text and Matthew’s reversal of Jesus’s response to the storm and response to the disciples (placing the focus on the rebuke of the disciples). See Bornkamm, “EndExpectation and Church in Matthew,” 53. Others have offered alternate interpretations. For example, very early in church history, commentators have suggested that the ship is actually the fledgling church in Jesus’s day. See Tertullian, De Bapt., 12. 57 For a helpful treatment of the connections between Homer and Mark 5:1–20, see MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, 63–76. Additionally, there are many helpful commentaries and articles on this particular pericope in the Gospels. See especially

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Mark might have intended his readers to hear echoes of Israel’s encounter with the brutal Pharaoh in Exodus 14–15. Yet, at the same time, Mark might also be drawing upon Homer’s story of Odysseus encountering savages, particularly Polyphemus. What can be observed about Mark’s intertextual resonances? And, once again, what becomes of them in Matthew’s Gospel? As with the previous narrative, the boundaries of the rhetorical unit are clearly marked with geographic transitions. Jesus has landed on one side of the Sea of Galilee (Mark 5:1) and then crosses again (5:21). The entirety of this unit occurs, then, in the country of the Gerasenes (Mark 5:1).58 With the unit identified, the next methodological step is to identify the rhetorical need of the passage and how that rhetorical need is met. As with the last section of Mark, plot analysis reveals a clear and simple agenda. There is a man who suffers from possession by a demon, which of course causes problems for him and those around him (Mark 5:1–5). He encounters Jesus, setting in motion a rather dramatic reversal in the form of an exorcism (Mark 5:6–13). Jesus sends the demons into a herd of pigs and the resolution (among the man, the swineherds, and the people of the city) plays out, resulting in the amazement of the onlookers (Mark 5:14–20). The rhetorical exigence of the passage seems to be located in the miracle’s demonstration of a point for the disciples and those who looked on. And with the two miraculous healings that follow in Mark 5:21–43, Mark’s larger point seems to be, once again, challenging the reader to consider Jesus’s sovereignty over the natural order. The three healings of Mark 5 (including especially the resurrection of the child at the end) are Mark’s answer to the rhetorical question ending Mark 4:41: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” He’s the one whose sovereignty extends to demons, diseases, and even death. With that rhetorical exigence considered, we must turn to the question of intertextuality: how does this passage relate to the possible antecedent texts? The story of God’s people encountering and escaping Pharaoh in Exodus 14–15 has much to commend it as a possible hypotext for Mark.59 While the

Boring, Mark, 147–155; Marcus, Mark 1–8, 341–354; France, Mark, 219–241; Nolland, The Gospel of Matthew, 372–378; Davies and Allison, Matthew 8–18, 76–85. See also Ådna, “Encounter of Jesus with the Gerasene Demoniac,” 279–301; Morton, “Problem of the Grazing Herd of Pigs,” 25–30. 58 See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 341–342. Cf. Davies and Allison, Matthew, 8–18, 78–79; Nolland, Gospel of Matthew, 374–375; Carson, Matthew, 214. 59 The Bible names no pharaohs in Exodus. Rabbinic tradition attempts to reconstruct a historical record, placing the events of Exodus sometime during Egypt’s eighteenth dynasty, or Thutmosid dynasty. Of course, numerous pharaohs, including from other dynasties, are suggested for the events of Exodus, so it is difficult to definitely say which pharaoh is the subject here.

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allusion is, perhaps, not overly apparent in terms of simple structural narrative comparisons, the links in vocabulary are compelling.60 § §

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In both stories, there is a significant passing through a sea (θάλασσα).61 Also in both stories, the brutal man (the Gerasene demoniac in Mark or Pharaoh in Exodus) has a power (δύναµαι, δύναµις) or strength (ἰσχύω) that is a challenge for or must be overcome with the strength (ἰσχύς) of God.62 There is an exaltation (ὕψιστος) in reference to the Son of God/my Father’s God.63 The pigs in Mark and the Egyptians in Exodus are drowned in the sea.64 Both would be seen as associated with gentiles. Those looking on (the swineherds in Mark or other Egyptians in Exodus) ran away (φεύγω) from the spectacle.65 Others looking on were deeply troubled or afraid (φοβέω, φόβος).66 There is a reference to a mountain (ὄρος).67 There is a good reason to announce (ἀπαγγέλλω, διαγγελῇ) that which the Lord has done (ὅσα ὁ κύριός σοι πεποίηκεν, ἃ ἐποίησεν κύριος τοῖς Αἰγυπτίοις).68

As these points demonstrate, Mark’s use of particular vocabulary connects the Gerasene demoniac’s encounter with Jesus to the story of the escape from Pharaoh by the Israelites in Exodus 14–15. But it is also an opaque and imperfect comparison as the reader is meant to connect a possessed gentile man with the enslaved people of God in Exodus. As such, is it possible, again, that there is more than one intertextual connection to be made? Perhaps there is one that recalls the actual structure of the narrative a little more clearly? The most likely hypotext from Homer’s Odyssey is found in the ninth book. Apart from the specific content, it is a probable episode to follow because of its relative size and importance compared with other stories in the Odyssey. It is significantly longer and more detailed than the two stories 60

For each of these points except concerning the references to a mountain, see Joel Marcus’s helpful intertextual reading. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 349. 61 Mark 5:1; LXX Exod 14:22, 15:16. 62 Mark 5:3–4, LXX Exod 14:28, 15:4, 15:6, 15:13. 63 Mark 5:7; LXX Exod 15:2. 64 Mark 5:13; LXX Exod 14:28–30, 15:19. 65 Mark 5:14; LXX Exod 14:27. 66 Mark 5:15, 5:17; LXX Exod 15:14–16. The linguistic connection is even clearer in some LXX manuscripts. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 349. 67 Mark 5:11; LXX Exod 15:16. 68 Mark 5:19–20; LXX Exod 9:16, 14:31.

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preceding it, for example.69 In it, Odysseus and his men come to shore on the land of the Cyclopes, a race of brutal, one-eyed giants.70 After attempting to steal some food, they are imprisoned by Polyphemus and devise a clever escape that involved blinding the giant and tricking him using a pseudonym.71 §

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The protagonist boards and sits on a ship in order to sail to the encounter. Odysseus and his men in Homer and Jesus in Mark are said to board the ship (using the terms ἀµβαίνειν and ἐµβάντα) and sit down (using the terms καθῖζον and καθῆσθαι).72 In both cases, the protagonists then must also disembark from the ship (ἐκ βῆµεν, ἐξελθόντος).73 The destination is the land of the savages (Κυκλώπων δʼ ἐς γαῖαν; εἰς τὴν χώραν τῶν Γερασηνῶν).74 There is an encounter with a brutal person who lives among the tombs/caves.75 There is a request made for a name (µοι τεὸν οὔνοµα εἰπὲ, τί ὄνοµά σοι).76 In both cases, it is met with a peculiar, yet functional, answer. Odysseus tells Polyphemus his name is Nobody (Οὖτις ἐµοί γʼ ὄνοµα), and the demons tell Jesus that their name is Legion (λεγιὼν ὄνοµά µοι).77

In the commentary, de Jong calls this episode “one of the most important of all Odysseus’ adventures.” de Jong, Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, 231. 70 MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, 63–76. 71 A second Homeric story is also relevant, but will only be addressed secondarily. In the tenth book of the Odyssey, Odysseus has a similar encounter with Circe, a brutal witch who turns his men into pigs. It follows roughly the same the narrative structure as the encounter with Polyphemus. This relative sequencing and the possibility that Mark has combined the Polyphemus and Circe stories in Mark 5 is less problematic than might otherwise be expected, as the two potential hypotexts in the Odyssey are proximate to one another and are part of the same sequence of stories in books 9–12. Nevertheless, given Mitchell’s and my own criticism of MacDonald’s selectivity in identifying resonances, I will focus mainly on the Polyphemus narrative. 72 Homer, Od., 9.101–107; Mark 4:35. This is part of the contextual setting and was discussed in the last section. See Homer, Od., 9.563–565; Mark 4:1. 73 Homer, Od., 9.149–150. See de Jong, Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, 235. Mark 5:2. See Boring, Mark, 150. 74 Homer, Od., 9.101–107. See de Jong, Narratological Commentary on the Odyssey, 233–234. Mark 5:1. 75 Homer, Od., 9.106–129, 9.187–189, 9.214–215, 9.241, 9.288–294. Heubeck and Hoekstra, Homer’s Odyssey, Volume 2, 20–21. Mark 5:2–5. 76 Homer, Od., 9.354–356. Heubeck and Hoekstra, Homer’s Odyssey, Volume 2, 32. Mark 5:9. 77 Homer, Od., 9.363–366. Heubeck and Hoekstra, Homer’s Odyssey, Volume 2, 33. Mark 5:9.

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There is a description of a herd of animals feeding (βόσκει and βοσκοµένη, both of which are from βόσκω) on the mountain (ὀρέων, ὄρει).78 In Homer, it was a herd of goats. In Mark, it was a herd of swine.79 The protagonist commands the savage to report the events.80

Both Exodus 14–15 and Homer’s Odyssey provide substantive and sequential intertextual connections through vocabulary. Yet, the two hypotexts echo in Mark in very different ways and, as such, have very little in common with each other. Because Mark’s narrative seems to be so well connected to both, this may be an example of Mark’s capacity for imitating and blending disparate texts. Perhaps Mark is, as Quintilian suggests, drawing on and combining stock stories and ideas or commonplaces, to fuel his narrative efforts.81 Matthew’s handling of this narrative is complex, demonstrating something of his typical tendency to truncate his sources. In this case, the editorial process has reduced the text so considerably from both the Mosaic and Homeric sources, it is again difficult to assign a clear agenda to Matthew.82 § §

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Eventually, there is a very important mountain (ὄρος) in Exodus, starting in 19:2. Homer, Od., 9.118–125; Mark 5:11. This is probably the clearest detail that may have been supplied by the Circe narrative rather than the Polyphemus narrative in the Homeric hypotexts. 80 Homer, Od., 9.399–408; Mark 5:19. 81 Quintilian, Inst., 10.1.15–19, 10.2.1–26. For additional background, see the section on Imitation at the end of chapter 5. 82 Matthew’s version is less than half the length of Mark’s. According to Leon Morris, Mark’s version consists of 324 words and Matthew’s is only 135 (of which about 50 are in common, suggesting that Matthew is “reasonably independent”). See Morris, Gospel According to Matthew, 208. Luz, Matthew 1-7, 23. “A clear redactional tendency is not obvious.” Bornkamm argues that this pericope is, like the stilling of the storm, a discipleship story. Some commentators have suggested that Bornkamm overstated his case in both stories. See especially Carson, Matthew, 214. See also Davies and Allison, Matthew 8–18, 76–77. 83 Mark 5:1; Matt 8:28. 84 Doubling the demoniacs is consistent with Matthew’s editorial tendencies elsewhere. See the doubling of blind men in Matt 20:29–34 from Mark 10:46–52. Many reasons have been proposed, but none are especially persuasive. See Morris, Gospel According to Matthew, 208–209. 79

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Matthew uses a different word than Mark to describe the demons. Mark uses the phrase unclean spirit (πνεύµατι ἀκαθάρτῳ), but Matthew uses a peculiar word: demon (δαίµων).85 Matthew also does not indicate that Jesus provoked the demonpossessed men prior to exorcizing the demons. He simply listens to the men and then casts out the demons. In Mark, Jesus beckons the unclean spirits to leave the man and then proceeds to have a conversation before giving them permission to leave and go into the herd of swine.86 Because the discussion between Jesus and the man is so truncated in Matthew’s version, Jesus does not ask the name of the demons. That is, Matthew does not include any reference to the name Legion nor does he imply that more than one demon per man is present (perhaps explaining the change to two men rather than merely one).87 In Matthew’s version, the demon-possessed men do not request mercy from Jesus. In Mark, the demons request that Jesus refrain from tormenting them.88 Mark makes a specific detailed reference to the number of pigs in the herd: about 2,000. This is, by all accounts, an abnormally large herd of pigs. Matthew, however, is not specific, but merely references a large (πολύς) herd.89 At the conclusion of Matthew’s version, the herdsmen flee and tell the story in the city, apparently of their own volition. In Mark’s version, the healed man is told by Jesus to go and proclaim the story in the city.90 Because they share the same setting, the storm episode described above and this story of exorcism, it should be noted that Matthew does not describe Jesus as sitting on the boat in his journey to the land, but Mark does.91

Mark 5:2, 5:8; Matt 8:28, 31. Matthew’s is the only instance of the noun δαίµων in the LXX or New Testament (in contrast to διαµονιον, which shows up frequently in both the LXX and New Testament). Matthew’s word is all over Greek literature, including in Odysseus’s encounter with Polyphemus and, famously, as the inspiration and safeguard to Socrates in Plato. See Homer, Od., 9.381. Plato, Apol., 27c–28a; cf. Plato, Symp., 202d. 86 Mark 5:6–10; Matt 8:31–32. 87 Mark 5:9; Matt 8:28–34. Ulrich Luz suggests that Matthew may have omitted the name Legion for political reasons, but pluralized the demons for the same effect. Luz, Matthew 8–20, 24. 88 Mark 5:7, 10; Matt 8:29–31. 89 Mark 5:13; Matt 8:30. 90 Mark 5:19–20; Matt 8:33–34. 91 Mark 5:5; Matt 8:30.

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§

Matthew also omits the mountainous setting for the herd of animals. This is particularly interesting as it is one of a very few resonances, and the most distinctive of the resonances, that either Exodus or the Odyssey could have supplied to Mark.

Matthew’s version of the story differs significantly from Mark’s. The result of this editorial process appears, once again, to be the considerable weakening of connections with both hypotexts. Matthew kept Mark’s reference to those looking running away (φεύγω) from the spectacle as well as the reference to the sea (θάλασσα) in the setting, but systematically weakened or removed the other connections to Exodus. Likewise, Matthew kept only the basic narrative structure from the overlap of Mark’s account and the Homeric hypotext (e.g., sailing to a land populated with savages, encountering them, the herd of animals, sailing away), but substantially reduces or removes the distinctive Homeric details. Again, perhaps it is merely a matter of his editorial agenda concerning the portrayal of the disciples, but the marked absence of the disciples from Matthew’s text makes this agenda unlikely. Rather, Matthew’s larger structure in this section of his Gospel indicates that he may be trying to fill out a certain number of miracle stories. 92 As such, he retains only enough detail to make the point concerning Jesus’s capacity to heal.93 The result is a shortened and simplified narrative structure and the retention of some Markan wording, but greatly edited according to Matthew’s style.94 Consequently, the specifically Homeric resonances are silenced. Again, we must be careful to not overstate the case, but it does seem as though Matthew’s tendency might be to remove distinctly Homeric details from Mark, as well as other source material, while preserving narrative structure.

8.3 Analysis of Matthew’s Redactional Choices 8.3 Analysis of Matthew’s Redactional Choices

Through the exploration of these two passages in particular as well as a somewhat broader study of the Homeric resonances in Mark’s and Matthew’s Gospels (i.e., how they are maintained in Matthew’s Gospel), it seems that Matthew has a somewhat detached and complex approach to the Homeric elements in Mark’s Gospel. In particular, as Mark and Matthew occupy the same space in history, we might assume that they are equally likely to have included Homeric resonances or at least have roughly the same attitude toward Homer. And when Matthew follows Mark’s use of possibly Homeric 92

Davies and Allison, Matthew 8–18, 66. See Matt 4:23–25 and 9:35 for the narrative brackets concerning Jesus’s healing (θεραπεύω). 94 Davies and Allison, Matthew 8–18, 76–77. 93

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source material, he tends to follow Mark’s sequence (as he does generally).95 Yet, with regard to the overall density of parallels, Matthew appears to weaken Mark’s apparent use by removing distinctly Homeric details.96 But is there something significant about the particular resonances he removes? Logically, there might be a few different possibilities to explain Matthew’s tendency to remove Homeric details from his Markan source. First, the removal of these distinctive parts could be completely incidental. That is, Matthew could be completely unaware of Mark’s Homeric resonances and so his editorial choices are based upon other reasons; the fact that Homeric parallels are removed is merely coincidental. This would explain why Matthew does not comprehensively remove everything that could be Homeric. What I see as “distinctive traits,” Matthew may have seen as unnecessary details. But, is the removal substantial enough as to be out of the realm of coincidence? It might be, given that when the whole of the Gospel is considered, Matthew’s redaction does seem aggressive.97 Second, Matthew’s redaction could also be a matter of anti-pagan sentiment. His Gospel is thought to be a very Jewish Gospel by many Matthean scholars.98 If Matthew had been aware of the Homeric parallels, it would certainly make sense that he would have retained only those details important for the narrative structure of each pericope. This explanation makes better sense of the extent of the redaction and the type of omissions. However, that the sentiment is anti-pagan is ultimately less probable in light of Matthew’s language, his Hellenistic sources (at least the LXX and Mark), his urban and

95

See D.R. Bauer, Structure of Matthew’s Gospel, 21–26. As I noted in the explorations above, Matthew has a mixed approach to the Homeric resonances in Mark. Looking more broadly at all of McDonald’s comparisons, for example, Matthew retains about three quarters. In a close reading of McDonald’s work, I counted 111 distinct resonances that McDonald’s identified. Of these, Matthew retained 82 (or 73.9 percent). On the one hand, this seems like a relatively high percentage of parallels preserved. Yet, on the other hand, given that 97 percent of Mark’s Gospel is used in Matthew’s, this percentage is actually unexpectedly low. Stein relays this percentage in Stein, Synoptic Problem, 48; he is citing Tyson and Longstaff, Synoptic Abstract, 169–71. A more conservative estimate concludes that 90 percent of Mark makes its way into Matthew’s Gospel. Davies and Allison, Matthew 1–7, 108. In this context, it seems that Matthew tends to remove distinctive Homeric elements more often than he removes other things in his general editorial efforts. Framed negatively, Matthew removes 24 distinctive elements (21.6 percent). Matthew partially alters 5 of the 111 distinctive elements (4.5 percent). 97 See the previous footnote for the statistical evidence. 98 For more on the assumption of Matthew’s Jewishness, see chapter 2. Concerning an anti-Homer sentiment on the part of Jews and Christians, see MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 19–22. He recounts here numerous statements against Homer, from Justin and Theophilus of Antioch to the 12th century. 96

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cosmopolitan provenance (possibly Syrian Antioch), and his use of GrecoRoman genres (βίος and philosophical encomium at the least).99 Third, it could also be that Matthew is both aware of the parallels, but has a different agenda. Perhaps he favors some other set of parallels instead. That is, anti-pagan sentiment is not the same as anti-Homer sentiment. Some pagan thinkers, including Plato, had moral problems with the Homeric epics.100 Perhaps Matthew did not want Jesus being compared with the proudly immoral heroes of Homer, especially conniving Odysseus. Or, it could be questions of balance and preference rather than a matter of exclusion. Perhaps Matthew’s redaction is a rhetorical device, meant to minimize Jesus’s portrayal as Homeric hero in favor of a more important mimetic source in his Gospel? Fourth, both Mark and Matthew could have been unconscious of the Homeric resonances. Homer’s role in Greek education was significant, and it is possible that Mark is unconsciously or unintentionally importing details as a matter of creative comfort rather than intentionally drawing parallels. Matthew, likely, could have equally and unconsciously retained some of those details. There may be other possibilities as well, and not even all of these are mutually exclusive. In my assessment, there is reason to believe that Mark’s Gospel contains at least subconscious, if not conscious, Homeric resonances.101 Matthew’s retention of these Homeric resonances, however, is far more complex. Perhaps clarity will emerge from the natures of the Homeric elements retained and those that are removed. Is there something that the retained parallels have in common? Is there something that the removed parallels have in common and that is different from those retained? It seems that a distinction between literary structures and literary details might be useful in answering these questions. The difference between a literary structure and a literary detail is one of function. As was suggested earlier, an Aristotelian approach literary analysis revolves around a specific understanding of plot (or narrative structure).102 A plot will include a setting or context at the beginning, a reversal (or climax) in the middle, and some form of new stasis at the end. To represent this graphically, literary critics often draw lines between these points to represent the conflict that takes the audi-

99 See chapter 3. See specifically Burridge, What are the Gospels?, and Betz, Essays on the Sermon on the Mount. 100 Plato, Resp., 371a, 378b–378d, 383a–383c, 386a–388c, 389a, 390b–390c, 391d. 101 While I tend to agree with MacDonald’s critics about his overstatement of his case, I believe he is ultimately persuasive in drawing a significant number of connections between Homer and the Gospel of Mark. 102 Aristotle, Poet., 48a–52b, 50b21–34.

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ence from setting to reversal and another line to represent the falling of action or denouement between reversal and stasis. As such, narratives have particular shapes and they require necessary elements to give them that shape. That is, some elements (including distinctive elements in Matthew’s redaction of Mark’s parallels with Homer) will be necessary for the plot to function. Some details, however, are unnecessary for the plot to work. These details, which I am terming literary details, are not part of the plot’s structure. Whether embellishments, imaginative inventions, or simply the recounting of historical details according to the author’s whims, these details have no functional value. Those distinctive elements removed by Matthew are overwhelmingly literary details. Whether Jesus traveled with a fleet of ships across the Sea of Galilee does not affect the narrative structure or point of the story. Whether Jesus was a carpenter bears no weight in the story.103 Whether the Sons of Zebedee were renamed the Sons of Thunder makes no difference to the plot.104 Whether Jesus’s clothes in the transfiguration were “such as no one on earth could bleach them” or merely “dazzling white”105 does not change the shape of the story any more than whether Jesus was asleep in the stern of the boat or simply just sleeping. Indeed, it seems that most of Matthew’s omissions of Homeric details are of the literary detail variety and are, as such, wholly unnecessary for Matthew to mimic or copy Mark’s plot. Matthew’s retention of distinctively Homeric details found in Mark, by contrast, falls largely in the category of literary structures. Whether Jesus is the Son of God and suffers many things are structurally significant aspects of the Gospel of Matthew.106 Whether he enters the temple and slays the oppo103

For instances of Odysseus being referred to as a τέκτων, see Homer, Od., 17.339– 341 (cf. 21.41–50). For other examples, see Homer, Od., 17.266–268, 22.126–128, 22.155–156, 23.178 (cf. 23.189), and 23.190–201. Cf. Mark 6:3. Matthew omits the detail, referencing rather that Joseph, Jesus’s father, was a carpenter. 104 Castor and Pollux, in the Homeric Hymns, are said to be both the sons of Tyndareus and the sons of Zeus, the god of thunder (as indicated by his many Homeric epithets: e.g., ἐρίγδουπος, νεφεληγερέτα, τερπικέραυνος). In Mark’s Gospel, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, are together renamed Boanerges, which Mark then explains means “sons of thunder” (Mark 3:17). While Matthew retains references to James and John as the sons of Zebedee (always referred to in that order, James then John), he removes the reference to “sons of thunder,” which consequently eliminates the reference to human and divine parentage in their renaming as well as the association with divine thunder (see Matt 10:2). 105 Homer, Od., 16.167–307. Mark 9:2–13. Cf. Matt 17:2. 106 Odysseus is presented as godlike in Homer, Od., 6.243, 8.14, 16.179, 16.183, 16.200, 17.179–82, 19.267, and 19.280. According to MacDonald, Odysseus is also referred to as διογένης 22 times in the Odyssey and 8 times in the Iliad. MacDonald claims that all of the other characters combined are referred to this way only 14 times. MacDonald, Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark, 16. This theme is also central to Mark’s Gospel as Jesus is progressively declared, on six occasions, to be God’s Son: the first sentence

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nents makes a difference to the story.107 Whether there is a great storm of winds for Jesus to calm is the key feature of that storyline. Whether the disciples respond to the calming of the storm with fear is also important. Whether Judas betrays Jesus for money and is associated with weapons (which explain how they were able to subdue Jesus and his followers) dramatically affects the plot.108 Indeed, when a Homeric resonance is necessary to the plot, Matthew is very unlikely to tamper with it.109 Given the natures of Matthew’s retention and omission of Homeric resonances in his Markan source—the relative value of retained details to the plots of the individual stories in his Gospel and the relative unimportance of the details he removes—his editorial choices seem to indicate a conscious or semi-conscious weakening of Homeric resonances (unless such omissions of the Gospel states this, as do the Roman centurion in chapter 15 (the first human to say as much) and supernatural witnesses, most notably the voice of God himself, twice. Mark 1:1, 1:11, 3:11, 5:7, 9:7, 15:39. The question of whose Son is Jesus is also highlighted by frequent references to Jesus as the “Son of Man” as well as the extended discussion concerning the Christ (a term which Jesus has already been called back in chapter 8) being the “Son of David” in Mark 12:35–37. Likewise, Odysseus is said to “suffer many things” (using the Greek construction πάσχω + πόλλα). The opening lines introduce the theme: “Tell me, Muse, about the wily man who wandered long and far after he sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. He saw the cities and knew the minds of many men, but suffered at sea many sorrows in his heart.” Homer, Od., 1.4: πολλὰ δ’ ὅ γ’ ἐν πόντῳ πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυµόν. This construction of suffering many things shows up at least five more times in the Odyssey. See Homer, Od., 5.223, 7.224, 8.155, 10.465, and 15.401. It also shows up in Mark 8:31: “Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.” While the phrase itself does not show up in the subsequent summaries in Mark 9:31 and 10:33–34, it is understood to be part of the theme reiterated by those summaries. The phrase does show up once more in Mark 9:12: “He said to them, ‘Elijah is indeed coming first to restore all things. How then is it written about the Son of Man, that he is to go through many sufferings and be treated with contempt?’” 107 Both Odysseus and Jesus have a moment of rage against their opponents, Odysseus against the suitors in his home and Jesus against the moneychangers in the temple. In both cases, they overturn tables (τράπεζα), and the place in which the tables are overturned is described as a house (οἶκος). Also in both cases, Odysseus’s and Jesus’s opponents respond with fear (φοβέω). Homer Od., 22.15–25, 22.34–36, 22.42–43. Mark 11:15–18. 108 Homer, Od., 17.256–260. Mark 3:19; 6:3; 14:10, 14:43. Cf. Matt 27:3–10. 109 Matthew retains several elements that are arguably unnecessary for the literary structure, but he may do so for other reasons. The importance of any particular literary element is, unfortunately, not binary. Rather, there is a spectrum of how necessary an element is for the success of the plot. Additionally, other matters also enter into the picture, such as the theological significance or even a sense of artistry. So, there are many reasons why Matthew may have retained an element. Yet, however one measures their significance in the consideration of Matthew’s redaction, it appears that those Homeric details retained by Matthew may be explained as matters of structural importance or (perhaps) they were retained for reasons that have little or nothing to do with their Homeric character.

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would undermine the structure of the story). Whether this is the result of editorial conservatism, an anti-pagan tendency, or a specifically anti-Homer inclination, is difficult—or even impossible—to determine.

8.4 Other Possibilities of Homeric (and Virgilian) Resonance 8.4 Other Possibilities of Homeric (and Virgilian) Resonance

Identifying Homeric resonances in the Gospels is no small academic enterprise and it is not limited to the simple textual comparisons that we have explored thus far.110 Karl Olav Sandnes, in his The Gospel ‘According to Homer and Virgil,’ takes a rather creative approach to drawing parallels while avoiding the criticisms aimed at MacDonald for overstating the direct influence of Homer. Sandnes approaches intertextuality by looking at the Christian centos of Late Antiquity. A cento (from the Latin for patchwork quilt)111 is a work consisting entirely of lines repurposed from another work, particularly Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad (for a Homeric cento) or Virgil’s Aeneid (for a Virgilian cento).112 He specifically looks at two centos: Faltonia Betitia Proba’s Virgilian cento and Eudocia Athenais’s Homeric cento. Both poetic paraphrases attempt to tell the story of the canonical Gospels. Proba’s cento, a fourth-century example, treats Jesus’s baptism, temptation, Sermon on the Mount, and encounter with the rich young man.113 Eudocia’s cento, a fifth century example, tells the story of the creation and fall as well as the life of Jesus, including his baptism, teaching, crucifixion, and resurrection.114 From the perspective of reception history, the practice of composing centos with Biblical subject matter suggests that quite early in the Christian era, readers saw useful parallels between the grand epics of antiquity and the Christian Gospels. However, the practice of composing a cento raised rather significant challenges. The specific names of people and places found in the Gospels, for example, did not appear in Homer and Virgil. As such, epithets would be formed and euphemisms used to refer to specific people and places. Often, this meant taking a line of the epic out of context or intentionally misunderstanding it. Examples of this circumscribing practice include Jesus being referred to as the one who rules over gods and men, Mary being called the 110

See Sandnes, The Challenge of Homer: School, Pagan Poets and Early Christianity. Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil. Andersen and Robbins, “Paradigms in Homer, Pindar, the Tragedians, and the New Testament,” 3–31. Dietrich, “Divine Epiphanies in Homer,” 53–79. Gilmour, “Hints of Homer in Luke 16:19–31,” 23–33. 111 Lewis and Short, A Latin Dictionary, 316. 112 Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 107–140. 113 Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 141–179. 114 Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 181–228.

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mother who bore him and nursed him when he was young, and a line about Patroclus grasping a stone (πέτρα) becoming the a way of referring to Peter.115 As such, it raises into question the whole enterprise. Is the connection being made by the composer of the cento one that is legitimately present in the text such that it might have been understood (consciously or subconsciously) by the author of the Gospel? Or has the composer of the cento mangled the epic source in order to tell the story of the Gospel? At the most, the centos become, like MacDonald’s explorations of distinctive elements, a catalog of possible mimetic connections between the epic and the Gospel narrative. Yet, the structure of the centos and the consistency of their adaptations suggest that Proba and Eudocia saw connections between the epics and the Gospels that, very possibly, are there. These early interpreters may have seen, perhaps even better than we have seen, the remarkable similarity between the stories of Aeneas or Odysseus and Jesus.

8.5 Conclusion 8.5 Conclusion

After just beginning to explore intertextual connections between Mark’s Gospel and the Homeric corpus, examining Matthew’s redaction of Mark, and briefly considering the value of studying centos treating the Gospel stories, the question of what happened to Homer can be only tentatively answered. It seems quite possible that Matthew’s Gospel does interact with the Homeric corpus, but in an editorial way. Given the weight of Matthew’s retention of Homeric resonances from his Markan source and their relative value to the narrative structures of the stories in his Gospel, and comparing that with the relative unimportance of the details he removes, Matthew’s editorial choices seem to indicate some level of interaction. He seems to remove the Homeric resonances unless, and only unless, it undermines the actual narrative plot. That the Gospel of Matthew seems to have interacted with Homer should not be surprising. As I argued in chapter 3, various aspects of Matthew’s text and context—particularly the quality of his Greek and his use of Hellenistic sources and genres along with the frequency with which Homer was used as a mimetic source for paraphrasis—render his connection to Homer likely.

115

Sandnes, Gospel According to Homer and Virgil, 186–187.



Chapter 9

Conclusion Now when Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as their scribes.1 —Matt 7:28–29

In a discussion about the value of fanciful events in Greek epics, Aristotle famously stated a preference for probable impossibilities over improbable possibilities.2 Something likely, however impossible, is more easily accepted than something possible but unlikely. Whether or not I agree with his preference, the distinction is helpful. Much of Matthean scholarship has viewed the Jewish milieu as the only appropriate context for interpreting the Gospel of Matthew. That is, the improbability of a Hellenistic dimension has been confused with it being an impossibility. I recognize that I am in a limited minority in arguing for the probability of a Greco-Roman background and particularly that Matthew’s first-century audience might have understood his portrayal of Jesus as a Socratic disciple-gathering teacher by Matthew. I am also satisfied to have argued for an improbable possibility.

9.1 Summary 9.1 Summary

After the introduction, chapters 2–5 focused on studying the background to Matthew’s Gospel. In the second chapter, I explored the last 150 years of Matthean scholarship, tracing perspectives on Matthew that presuppose varying degrees of separation between Hellenism and Judaism. I concluded that both a focus on historical Jesus studies and recent interest in the Dead Sea Scrolls set Matthean studies on a path to view Matthew as “most Jewish of all the four canonical gospels.”3 In contrast to this trend, Martin Hengel advanced a thesis that there is considerable overlap between Hellenism and Judaism and, indeed, all first-century Judaism is Hellenistic. In the third 1

Matt 7:28–29. Καὶ ἐγένετο ὅτε ἐτέλεσεν ὁ Ἰησοῦς τοὺς λόγους τούτους, ἐξεπλήσσοντο οἱ ὄχλοι ἐπὶ τῇ διδαχῇ αὐτοῦ· ἦν γὰρ διδάσκων αὐτοὺς ὡς ἐξουσίαν ἔχων καὶ οὐχ ὡς οἱ γραµµατεῖς αὐτῶν.1 2 Aristotle, Poet., 1460a. 3 Talbert, Reading the Sermon on the Mount, 3.

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chapter, I wrestled with four common positions on Matthew’s Gospel that suggest at least a plausibly Hellenistic backdrop: the language is Greek, the sources are Hellenistic, the provenance is probably Gentile, and the genre is Greco-Roman biography. In the fourth chapter, I proposed a methodology for studying the Gospel of Matthew according to rhetorical criticism in ancient terms, employing other useful historical-critical methodologies. In the fifth chapter, given the possibility of a Hellenistic backdrop for Matthew’s Gospel, I surveyed Hellenistic educational and rhetorical practices in order to establish the kind of training the Matthean editor might have had. In chapters 2–5, I had a somewhat broad scope in arguing the plausibility of a thoroughly Hellenistic background for the Gospel of Matthew as well as exploring that background, recognizing that it is as much a question of Matthean scholarship as it is of Matthew’s Gospel. In chapters 6–8, I attempted to focus on two particular spheres of imitation, the Socratics and Homer, according to the methodology I had described previously. In particular, I attempted to show that rhetorical analysis of the Sermon on the Mount not only affirms a coherent understanding of the Sermon according to Greco-Roman rhetorical practices, but that Matthew evokes the Socratics in his portrayal, whether consciously or unconsciously. In the eighth chapter, I explored the possibilities of Homeric resonances by means of a redactional study of Mark, concluding that Matthew conspicuously dilutes the echoes of Homeric heroes. While these last few chapters narrowed the scope considerably, they did so in order to explore a fragment, by way of example, of what the content of such resonances between Matthew’s Gospel and its diverse background might have been.

9.2 Areas of Further Research 9.2 Areas of Further Research

In many ways, I believe that I have just begun to scratch the surface. I see several directions in which this work could be expanded and refined. 1.

2.

Scope: I applied my specific methodology to only the first of the five discourses. I believe similar rhetorical analysis of the other four Matthean discourses as well as other discourses found in the Gospels (particularly the Sermon on the Plain in Luke and some of the speeches in the Acts) is worth pursuing. I am particularly interested in the final discourse and the parallels between the beatitudes and the statements of woe against the Pharisees. Specificity: For various reasons including available space, I limited my exploration of rhetorical style in the Sermon on the Mount and the possible resonances with Socratic literature. Much more extensive analysis is not only possible, but would be valuable for explor-

9.2 Areas of Further Research

3.

4.

283

ing resonances. Matthew’s discourse and the narrative introduction in Matthew 23–25 would be an especially rich place to analyze rhetoric and additional Socratic resonances. Depth: Again, for reasons including available space, I limited how many possible Homeric themes in Mark’s Gospel to explore and then compare with Matthew’s redaction. Much more should be done in demonstrating or disagreeing with my preliminary conclusion concerning Matthew’s approach to Homer. Genre Studies: Vivienne J. Gray has written a fascinating treatment of Xenophon’s Memorabilia in which she argues that the pattern and balance of narrative and speeches within the biographical genre constitute a new genre.4 This new genre makes use of the speeches in such a way that they serve as rhetorical proofs. I would be very interested in exploring how her observations about the arrangement of the Memorabilia might correspond and inform an understanding of the arrangement of Matthew’s Gospel.

Finally, as I end my study with this conclusion, I reiterate that the previously assumed, exclusively Jewish background for Matthew’s Gospel is fundamentally problematic. A Hellenistic context is also possible. Indeed, it is probable. The particular relevance of Greek educational practices is observable. And as such, Hellenistic resonance—in the form of Socratic and Homeric intertextual connections—is a potentially rich source for Matthew’s portrait of Jesus and his teaching. Just as a tapestry depends upon the vivid hue of each individual thread in order to create a comprehensive image, so also an attempt at understanding the Gospel of Matthew is only enriched by acknowledging the Hellenistic coloring that imbues its warp and woof.

4

See Gray, Framing of Socrates, 106–108.





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Index of Ancient Sources Hebrew Bible and Septuagint Genesis 1:2 12:1–3

265 7

Exodus 9:16 14:22 15:16 14:27 14:28 14:28–30 14:31 15:2 15:4 15:6 15:13 15:19 15:14–16 15:16 20:1–31:18 20:18–22 24:1–2 24:9–11 24:18 30:11 30:17 30:22 30:34 31:1 31:12 31:18–32:1 32:1–35

270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 270 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165 165

Leviticus 19:18 24:10–23

243 194

Deuteronomy 4:1 6:5 8:3 19:15 25:5 31:1

248 243 62 62 81 164

Judges 3:2

249

1 Chronicles 25:8

232

Esther 6:1

249

Job 31:40 35:16

164 179

Psalms 37:14 44:23–24 59:1

179 262 249

Proverbs 2:17 4:11 31:8 31:9 31:28

249 249 179 179 179

Isaiah 9:15 29:13 42:1–3

249 238 229

318

Index of Ancient Sources



53:7 61:1–3

179 81

3:6 4:5

264 264

Hosea 6:6

217

Nahum 3:1

179

Jonah 1:1–16 1:4 1:5 1:6 1:10 1:12–15 1:14 1:16

4 261 262 262, 265 262 262 262, 265 262

2 Maccabees 1:10 4:11–17 4:13–15

249 236 122

Sirach 24:33 39:8

249 249

Old Testament Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch 10:8

249

Letter of Aristeas 121–122

126

Mishna, Talmud, and Related Literature b. Beṣah 15b

176

m. Sanh. 10:1

34

b. Pesaḥ. 26b

176

m. Ἑd. 7:7

65

b. Sanh. 99b

176

Pesiq. Rab Kah. 18:5

176

New Testament Matthew 1:21 1:22–23 2:15 2:17 2:23 3:1 3:15 4:4 4:6

58 80 80 80 80 159, 160 199 62, 80 80

4:10 4:14 4:15 4:17 4:18–22 4:23

4:23–25 4:23–5:2

80 80 6, 67, 68 159, 160 189 158–161, 167, 169, 174, 222, 238, 246, 275 167, 173, 189 173

4:23–9:35 4:23–11:1 4:24 4:25 5–7 5–10 5:1 5:1–2 5:2 5:3 5:2–12 5:3–12 5:3–16 5:3–7:27 5:10 5:10–12 5:10–20 5:11 5:11–12 5:12 5:13 5:13–14 5:13–16 5:16 5:17 5:17–18 5:17–20 5:17–48 5:18 5:19 5:19–20 5:20 5:21 5:21–26 5:21–48 5:21–7:20 5:21–7:23 5:22–26 5:27 5:27–30 5:31 5:33 5:38

Index of Ancient Sources 161, 195, 214 161 68, 159 68 3, 156, 159, 222, 253 242 168, 169, 175, 176, 189, 219, 228, 260 157, 162, 168, 216, 231 159, 179, 238, 246 203 81 197, 204, 213 197 161, 195, 214 203 117 190, 196 192 186, 187 203 66, 212 198 197, 205 198 186, 193, 194, 199, 201 39, 200 65, 187, 193, 198, 199, 200, 202, 213 39 199 199, 201, 202, 238, 246 204 199, 200 65 206 39, 65, 81, 187, 190, 193, 199, 200, 205 200 196 206 65 207 65 65 65

5:43 5:43–48 5:44 5:46–47 5:47 5:48 6:1 6:1–18 6:2 6:5 6:5–14 6:7 6:7–8 6:7–15 6:9–13 6:11 6:16 6:19–21 6:19–34 6:19–7:20 6:20 6:22–23 6:24 6:25 6:25–34 6:31 6:31–32 6:33 6:42 7:1–20 7:7–11 7:9–11 7:11 7:12 7:21 7:21–23 7:21–27 7:24–27 7:27 7:28 7:28–29 7:28–8:1 7:29 8–9 8:1 8:1–9:35 8:5–13

319 65 206 207 36, 212 6 212 200, 204, 209 187, 193, 199, 200, 208, 209, 213 209 209 74 6 36 201 214 210 209 187, 210 201 199, 209 204 209 210 226, 230 210 201 36 210 6 201 187 5, 210 204 199 202, 204 187, 202 201, 202 170, 204, 212 157 159, 168, 169, 189, 190, 238, 245 181, 193, 281 157, 162, 168, 173 159, 160, 238, 246 159, 160, 222 168, 169 264 181

320 8:6 8:7 8:8 8:13 8:16 8:17 8:18 8:18–22 8:19 8:20 8:21 8:23 8:23–27 8:26 8:28 8:28–34 8:28–9:1 8:29–31 8:30 8:31 8:31–32 8:32 8:33 8:33–34 9:1–8 9:2 9:6 9:8 9:11 9:12 9:13 9:14 9:18–25 9:19 9:20–22 9:21–22 9:23 9:25 9:27 9:32 9:33 9:35

9:35–38 9:36 9:37

Index of Ancient Sources 159, 160 160 160 160 53, 159, 160 80, 159 169 190 217, 224, 237, 240, 242, 246 174, 242 217, 219, 221, 222, 224, 245 222 4, 222, 267 189 159, 160, 272, 273 273 4 273 273 273 273 66, 67 159, 160 273 1 159, 160 159 169 237 159 80, 217, 220 217, 226, 228 54 159, 222 227 226 159, 169 169 159 159, 160 169 158–161, 167, 169, 174, 222, 238, 246, 274 173 169 219, 222

10 10:1 10:1–4 10:1–15 10:2 10:5 10:5–6 10:6 10:7 10:8 10:9 10:16 10:18 10:24 10:24–25 10:25 10:25–26 10:27 10:37 10:38 10:42 11:1 11:2 11:4–6 11:10 11:17 11:20–23 11:29 12:1–8 12:2 12:9 12:9–14 12:15 12:17–21 12:18 12:21 12:38 12:38–41 12:49 13:1–2 13:1–3 13:1–52 13:10 13:10–13 13:14 13:16 13:19

160, 191 162, 181, 216, 217, 222 54 160 55, 217, 219, 277 6, 37 6, 39 37 159, 160 160 69 68 6 219, 224, 237, 248 245 219, 224, 237, 248 217 159 226, 230 226 6, 217, 222, 224 158–162, 168, 216, 222, 230, 238, 246 217, 219, 226 161 80 80 67 217, 219 194 217, 222 37 229 53, 226, 229 80 6 6 237, 240–243 267 221, 222 175, 176 162 212 190, 222, 230 213 114 226, 230 114

13:23 13:35 13:36 13:51 13:52 13:53 13:54 14:19 14:22 14:26 14:28–29 14:28–31 14:31 14:31–33 15:1 15:1–9 15:2 15:9 15:10–20 15:22 15:24 15:36 15:39 16:4 16:5 16:5–12 16:9 16:11 16:11–12 16:12 16:13 16:13–19 16:13–20 16:20 16:21 16:23 17:2 17:6 17:9 17:10 17:13 17:14 17:16 17:22 17:23 17:24 17:32

Index of Ancient Sources 114 80 190, 228 114 1, 218, 220 162, 168 37, 174, 190, 226, 228, 238, 246 222 222 222 66 58 114 114 226, 228 54 217 238, 246–248 190 55, 66 39 222 226, 228 267 222 114, 190 114 225 225 114, 225, 238, 245, 247, 248 226, 228 191 68 222 222 226, 228 177 222 114 222 114, 226 226, 229 217 226, 229 114 237 222

18:1 18:6 18:7 18:15–22 18:16 18:17 19:1 19:1–12 19:16 19:17 19:20 19:24 19:25 20:17 20:19 20:20 20:20–28 20:25 20:29 20:29–33 20:29–34 21:4 21:6 21:20 21:23 21:23–27 21:43 22:7 22:16 22:24 22:33 22:36 23 23–25 23:1 23:2 23:8 23:10 23:13–39 23:39–24:1 24:1 24:3 24:3–4 24:7 24:9 24:14 24:26–28 24:32

321 162, 222 66 226, 230 194 62 6, 36 67, 68, 162, 168 81, 194 237, 240 53 241 226 190, 222, 226 216, 222 6 241 185 6 226, 229 54 272 80 222 222 238, 246 181 6 66 217, 237, 238, 240, 246 81, 237, 240 190, 238, 245 237, 241–243 38 283 222 6, 39, 176 156, 237, 248 238, 247, 250 37 226 241 222 162 6 6 6, 159 226, 230 217, 219, 226

322

Index of Ancient Sources

24:32–35 25:32 26:1 26:1–2 26:8 26:13 26:17–19 26:18 26:20 26:25 26:26 26:35 26:36 26:36–46 26:40 26:45 26:54 26:55 26:56 26:57–68 26:61 26:63–65 27:3–10 27:9 27:57 27:57–61 27:64 28 28:7 28:13 28:15 28:16–20 28:18–20 28:19 28:20

218 6 168, 222, 223 162 222 159 244 217, 226, 228, 237 216, 222 240 222 222 222 54 222 222 80 175, 176, 238, 246 80, 222 194 53 14 278 80 69, 218, 220 223 217 191, 238 217 217 37, 238, 246–248 38, 160, 181, 191, 192 6, 117 6, 36, 37, 39, 218, 220 238, 246, 247

Mark 1 1–9 1–14 1:1 1:11 1:14–15 1:16 1:21–22 1:21–28 1:21–2:12 1:28–39 1:22

222 264 253 278 278 263 224 245 265 263 68 188, 246

1:23 1:29 1:32–33 1:34 1:41 1:43 1:43–45 1:45 2 2:1–3:6 2:13 2:14 2:18 2:19 3:1–6 3:5 3:6 3:7 3:7–11 3:9 3:10 3:11 3:11–12 3:13 3:13–21 3:17 3:19 3:21 3:32 3:32–35 4 4:1 4:1–34 4:10–20 4:33–34 4:35 4:35–36 4:35–41 4:36 4:37 4:37–41 4:38 4:39 4:41 5 5:1 5:1–5 5:1–20 5:2

267 224 53 267 52, 266–267 52, 53, 267 267 53 222 55 224, 263 224 228 55 229 52 55 226, 263 229 226 53 278 267 224 229 54, 277 278 53 177 221 222, 259 259, 264, 271 259, 263 259 259 242, 263, 271 259 4, 259, 264, 265 264 261, 265 260 262, 265 262, 265 262, 266 222, 259, 269, 271 260, 269–272 269 4, 261, 264, 268 271, 273

5:2–5 5:3–4 5:5 5:6–10 5:6–13 5:7 5:8 5:9 5:11 5:13 5:14 5:14–20 5:15 5:17 5:19 5:19–20 5:20 5:21 5:21–24 5:21–43 5:24–34 5:25–34 5:30 5:31 5:35–43 5:41 5:43 5:45 6 6:1 6:2 6:3 6:3–44 6:5 6:6 6:8 6:17 6:32 6:38 6:48 6:52 6:53 7:1 7:3–4 7:11 7:19 7:24 7:26 7:31

Index of Ancient Sources 271 270 273 273 269 273, 278 270, 273 53, 271 270, 272 66, 270, 273 270 269 270 270 272 270, 273 68 263 261 220, 269 227, 267 261 53 226 261 54, 55 267 263 225 226, 228 246 277, 278 225 53, 267 52, 246 69 55 263 53 53 225 263 226, 228 55 54 55 53 66 68, 263

7:34 7:36 8:10 8:11 8:11–12 8:12 8:13 8:15 8:18–21 8:21 8:23 8:26 8:27 8:31 8:33 9:2–13 9:7 9:9 9:12 9:13 9:14 9:16 9:21 9:30 9:31 9:32 9:33 9:38–40 9:42 10:1 10:2 10:14 10:17 10:18 10:20 10:21 10:24 10:26 10:33 10:33–34 10:35 10:42 10:46 10:46–52 10:51 11:13 11:15–18 11:17 12:13

323 55 267 226, 228 242 243 52, 53, 267 263 55 225 245 53 267 226, 228 97, 223, 278 226, 228 277 278 116 278 226 226, 229 53 53 263 97, 223, 226, 229, 278 116 53, 263 241 66 68 55 52, 267 240 53 248 52, 267 226 226 6 97, 223, 278 241 6 54, 226, 229 272 54 53 278 6 55

324

Index of Ancient Sources

12:14 12:19 12:27 12:28 12:32 12:32–34 12:35–37 12:41–44 12:43 13:1 13:8 13:10 13:28 14:1 14:10 14:12 14:13 14:14 14:33 14:36 14:43 14:49 14:58 14:61–64 14:64 15–16 15:22 15:34 15:39 15:42 15:42–47 15:43 16:6

246 240 245 241, 242, 243 244 241 278 227 226 241 6 6 231 55, 223 278 55 226, 228 53 52 54, 55 278 246 53 14 55 253 55 55 278 55 223 69 247

Luke 1:4 1:31 2:32 3:13 4:16 4:20 4:32 6:13 6:17 6:20 6.20–49 6:27–28 6:40 7:5

247 58 6 160 176 176 245, 246 230 230 219 63, 64 64 245 6



7:11 7:18–19 8:14 9:54 9:57 9:59 10:2 10:23 10:25 11:16 11:29–30 11:45 12:1 12:13 12:13–21 12:22 12:30 14:26 14:27 16:1 17:1 17:22 18:32 20:1 20:39–40 21:1–4 21:10 21:24 21:25 22:25 22:53 22:66–71 23:2 23:16 23:22 23:50–54 24:47

230 219 222 230 240 219, 221, 222 219 226, 230 243 241 241 241 230 241 230 226, 230 6 226, 230 226, 230 230 226, 230 226, 230 6 246 245 227 6 6 6 6 246 14 6 247 247 223 6

John 1:1 7:35 11 12:20 13–17 18:1 19:38–42

143 6, 42 95 6 104 164 224

Acts 2

90

3 7:44 7:54–55 14:1 14:5 14:21 15 17:28 18:4 18:5–6 19:1 19:17 20:21 21:3–7 27:3 Romans 1:13 1:14 1:16–17 2:9–10 3:9 3:29 7:1–8:17 9–11 9:24 10:12 11:13 11:11–36 1 Corinthians 1–2 1:23 1:24 8–10 9 10:32

Index of Ancient Sources 90 160 164 5 5 231 193 108 5 39 5 5 5 66 66

6, 7 6, 7 5, 6, 7 5 5 5 194 38 5 5 6 39

7 5 5 193 104 5

325

12:2 12:13

6 5

2 Corinthians 2:4 5:21 8–9

87 194 102

Galatians 2 2:9–14 2:14 3:28

70 68 5 5

Philippians 3:2–6 3:5

23 65

Colossians 3:11

5, 7

1 Timothy 4:6 4:8

247 247

Hebrews 4:15

194

1 Peter 2:22

194

1 John 3:5

194

3 John 7

6

Apostolic Fathers 2 Clement 8:5 Didache 8:2 11:3 15:3–4

75

74 74 74–75

Ignatius To the Ephesians 14:2 19:2–3

45 68

To the Smyrnaeans 1:1 68

326 5.1 6:1 7.2

Index of Ancient Sources 75 45 75

To Polycarp 2:2

45, 68

Other Ancient Authors Aeschines Against Timarchus 1.9 135

Rhetorica 1.1.4–10 1.1.14 1.2 1.2.5 1.2.8 1.3.3 1.9 1.10–15 1.4–8 2.1.8 2.2–11 3.7 3.11.15–16 3.13 3.17.1

194 139 86 201 198 140 140 140 141 201 201 145 212 90, 141 140

Topica 7.12

139

91

196

Antiphon On the Choreutes 6.11

135

Aristophanes Acharnenses 400

197

Aves 1719

180

Nubes 180 133 142 502

235 235 235 235

Ranae 196

234

[Aristotle] Oeconomica 1345a

86

Augustine Commentary 19–108

Aristotle Categoriae 6.12

Ethica nichomachea 1.2.6 160 1.7.14 205 Poetica 48a–52b 50b21–34 1447a 1448a–52b 1450b21–34 1460a

276 276 148 260 260 281

De doctrina christiana 2.28–31 88 2.54–55 89 3.40 88 4.41 89 [Aurelius Victor] De viris illustribus 47.8 143, 201 Cicero De amicitia 1–2

179



Index of Ancient Sources

327

Brutus or De claris oratoribus 104 130

4.33.44 4.33.44–45

Pro Flacco 28.67–69

Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philosophers 1.4 91 7.43 141 10.35 172

9

De inventione rhetorica 1.8 140 1.8–14 140 1.15–18 142, 197 1.19–21 142, 198 1.22–23 200 1.24–41 142, 200 1.42–51 142, 200 1.52–56 142, 143, 201 2.4–51 140 2.15–115 140 2.52–58 141 2.59 140 De oratore 1.16.70–71 1.31.143 1.52–56 2.80.326–2.81.330 3.52–201 3.208

258 141 201 142, 198 142, 200 145

Partitiones oratore 15.52 142, 201 De republica 4.3

123

Topica 24.93–95

140

[Cicero] Rhetorica ad Herennium 1.3 141 1.4.6–1.7.11 142, 197 1.8.11–1.9.16 142, 198 1.10.17 142, 200 1.10.18 200 1.10.18–1.17.27 140 4.12.17 144 4.12.19 213 4.29.40 211 4.30.41 198

212 214

Dionysius of Halicarnassus De Demosthene 2 135 52 129 Epictetus Diatribai (Dissertations) 2.19.6–7 131 3.16 175 Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica 3.39.1 44 3.39.15–16 44 3.24.6 66 3.39.16 66 5.8.2 46, 66 5.10.2–3 66 6.25.4 66 Praeparatio evangelica 9.17–20 256 9.22–24 256 9.35–38 256 Herodotus Historiae 1.8 1.30 1.60 1.68 4.77

233 233 233 233 233

Hesiod Theogonia 95 954–955

197 197

328

Index of Ancient Sources

Homer Ilias 2.110–41 2.278–283 2.284–332 2.334–335 2.337–368 6.444 9.14 9.30–50 9.200 9.442

164 164 164 164 164 233 164 164 177 249

Odyssea 1.4 2.40–256 3.32 5.223 5.391 5.451 6.243 7.224 7.319 8.14 8.155 8.488 9.62 9.101–107 9.105 9.106–129 9.118–125 9.149–150 9.159 9.187–189 9.214–215 9.241 9.288–294 9.354–356 9.363–366 9.381 9.399–408 9.563–565 9.565 10.21 10.27 10.31 10.47 10.48 10.50

278 164 177 278 266 266 277 278 266 273 278 249 264 271 264 271 272 271 265 271 271 271 271 271 271 273 272 264, 271 264 266 265 265 265 265 265



10.54 10.77 10.94 10.133 10.465 12.168 13.73–76 15.401 16.167–307 16.179 16.183 16.200 17.179–82 17:226 17.256–260 17.266–268 17.339–341 18:362 19.267 19.280 21.41–50 22.15–25 22.34–36 22.42–43 22.126–128 22.155–156 23.178 23.189 23.190–201

265 264 266 264 278 266 265 278 277 277 277 277 277 233 278 277 277 233 277 277 277 278 278 278 277 277 277 277 277

Horace Ars poetica 1.81–106

145

Epistulae 2.1.156

120

Irenaeus Adversus haereses 3.1.1 46 5.33.4 44 Isocrates Panathenaicus (Or. 12) 18 150 33 150

Jerome Epistulae 22.29

Index of Ancient Sources

77

Adversus Pelagianos dialogi III 3.2 46 De viris illustribus 3 46 Josephus Against Apion 2.32

155

Jewish Antiquities 2.346 4.303 18:63–64 20.11.2

256 256 7 47

Jewish War 1.preface 1.422 1.424 7.3.3

47 136 136 70

The Life 2.10

Philo De vita Mosis I, II 1.21–23 256 2.19–20 5 Pindar Olympionikai 7.11

197

Pythionikai 5.46

197

Plato Apologia 19e 23a–23b 27c–28a 30e–31a 33e

188 182 273 182 188

Charmides 155a–158e 172a 173d

188 205 205

Epistulae 332a

250

Gorgias 453a 454c–e 458a 461c 503a–b 520b–521e

86 86 182 249 86 184

Laches 187e–188a 200e–201b

175 183

Leges 764c 788a 811c–d 880d 968c

135 250 148 250 250

Meno 75c–d

85

21

Juvenal Satirae 7.240

135

Libanius Autobiography 16–25

136

Martial Epigrammata 9.68.1–2 10.60

329

135 135

Origen De principiis (Peri archōn) 4.1.7 87 4.1.9 87 4.1.11 87

330

Index of Ancient Sources

77e–78b 80a–85e 82a 84b–84c 84e–85a 87e–88e 94b 97a–98e 100a

184 184 250 211 184 184 249 5 184

Phaedrus 246a–254e 247d 275a 277e

212 213 250 250

Politicus 273b 274c 304d

250 250 250

Protagoras 313d 315a 315a–e 317d–e 323d

188 188 177 178 250

Respublica 328c 330d–330e 331d–332c 331e 334b 334b–335b 334d 336e 337a 338a 353a 353c 353e 354a 359c–360e 360e–361d 362c 368e 371a 376c–412b

177 204 206 206 206 206 207 210 184 249 205 210 204 205 207 208 209 205 276 150



376e–398b 378b–378d 383a–383c 386a–388c 386a–389e 387b 389a 389d–389e 390b–390c 391d 399b 431a–b 437b–439e 489b 509d–510a 514a–520a 520c 528b 532a–b 533a 536d 540b–540c 595a–595d 595a–606b 595b–c 595c–599d 598c2 606e 618c 618c2

148 276 276 276 207 252 276 207 276 276 249, 250 207 207 249 213 213 185 185 86 185 250 185 236 148 150 148 214 236 188 235

Sophista 253d–e

86

Symposium 202d 216d–217a

273 183

Theaetetus 144d–151d 150b–150c 174b

188 183 234

Timaeus 51e 88a

250 250



Index of Ancient Sources

[Plato] Axiochus 366d–366e

129

Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 1 15.74

123 143, 201

Plutarch Quomodo adulator ab amico internoscatur 31 250 32 250 Alcibiades 7.1

152

Alexander 5.4

250

Cato Major 20.4–7 22.3–4 27

129 129 143, 201

De communibus notitiis contra stoicos 22 250 Conjugalia Praecepta 48 250 Quaestionum convivialum libri IX 4.5 9 4.6 9 8.2.4 250 Quaestiones romanae et graecae (Aetia romana et graeca) 59 130 Tiberius et Caius Gracchus 1.6–7 130 [Plutarch] De musica 1135d

127

Quintilian Institutio oratoria 1.2.1 1.8.18–21 1.9.1–3 1.10.1 1.10.5–6 1.10.3–21 2.1.1–3 2.4.22 2.9.15 2.9.16 2.9.29 2.15.38 3.3.1 3.4.1–2 3.6 4.1 4.2–4 4.2.31 4.5 4.5.1 5.1–12 5.13.1–56 5.14.24 6.1 6.1.1 8.1.1–3 8.2.1–11 8.2.12–24 8.3.1–89 8.6.19–22 9.1.33 9.2.16–17 9.2.19 10.1.9 10.1.15–19 10.1.2 10.1.6 10.1.15–19 10.1.19 10.1.46 10.2.1 10.2.1–26 10.2.13 10.2.4–12 10.2.21–22 10.2.27 10.5.4–11

331

135 131 132, 258 127 128 128 132 141, 203 135 135 135 139 139, 140 140 140 142, 197 142, 198 142, 198 142, 200 142, 200 142, 200 142, 200 198 142, 201 142, 201 144 144 144 144, 210 214 213 187 211 145 149 149 149 272 149 85, 153 149, 252 272 145 149 149 149 258

332 Tacitus Agricola 29–33 33–35

Index of Ancient Sources

161 161

Dialogus de oratoribus 29 130 Historiae 5.2–5

9

Theocritus Idylls 12.34

197

Theophrastus Characteres 5.7–10

136

Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War 1.31–1.36 162 1.36–1.43 162 1.67–1.72 162 1.72–1.79 162 1.79–1.85 162 1.85–1.87 162 1.120–1.124 162 1.139 163 1.139–1.45 163 1.145 163 2.10 164 2.10–2.12 163 2.12 164 2.34–2.48 163 2.64–2.70 163 2.86–2.88 163 2.88–2.89 163 3.8–3.14 163 3.36–3.41 163 3.41–3.49 163 3.52–3.60 163 3.60–3.68 163 4.9 164 4.9–4.11 163 4.11 164 4.16–4.21 163 4.58–4.65 163 4.84–4.88 163



4.91–4.93 4.94–4.96 4.125–4.127 5.8–5.10 6.8–6.15 6.15–6.19 6.19 6.19–6.24 6.24 6.32–6.35 6.35–6.41 6.41 6.67–6.69 6.75–6.81 6.81–88 6.88–6.93 7.29.3–4 7.60–7.65 7.65–7.69 7.76–7.78

163 163 163 163 163 163 164 163 164 163 163 163 163 163 163 163 135 163 163 163

Xenophanes fragments 10–11

150

Xenophon Cyropaedia 8.5.16

160

Memorabilia 1.2.3 1.3.1–3 1.3.2 1.3.5–1.3.14 1.3.5–6 1.7.2 1.8 2.1.28 4 4.1.1 4.2.8 4.2.9 4.2.11 4.6.13–16

249 209 210 207 207 174 207 234 188 189 191 191 191 190

Symposium 3.5 4.6 4.6–7

151 151, 236 15

Index of Modern Authors Abbott, H.P. Adam, A.K.H. Ådna, J. Alexander, L. Allison, D.C.

Andersen, Ø. Arnal, W. Aune, D.E. Aus, R.D. Bacon, B.W. Bakhtin, M. Barclay, J.M.G. Barnett, P. Barrow, R. Barth, G. Barth, K. Barton, J. Basser, H. Bauckham, R. Bauer, D.R. Baur, F.C. Bellinzoni, A.J. Betz, H.D.

Blair, E.P. Blomberg, C. Bockmuehl, M. Bonnard, P. Bonner, S.F. Borg, M.

260 100 269 31 43, 49, 51–55, 59, 61, 64, 65, 71, 73, 156, 158, 161, 162, 169, 170, 174, 177, 179, 197, 253, 259, 267, 269, 272, 274, 275 279 19 158, 161, 197 259 72, 162 211 6, 27–28 7 124 113–117, 221 180 101 109 9, 26, 29–33, 44, 45, 103, 166 158, 240, 275 10, 15 15 12, 20, 41, 51, 64, 68, 78, 92, 99, 101, 102, 106, 108, 156, 168– 172, 196–197, 199, 201–202, 276 50 40, 50, 71, 73 70 220 130, 132, 135, 136 18

Boring, M.E. Bornkamm, G. Boyarin, D. Brandt, W.J. Brawley, R.L. Bremmer, J. Brown, D. Brown, J.K. Brown, J.P. Brown, R. Bultmann, R.L. Burke, E. Burnett, F.W. Burridge, R.A. Butler, H.E. Byrskog, S. Calhoun, R.M. Calvin, J. Campbell, J.G. Carlston, C.E. Carson, D.A. Carter, W.C. Catchpole, D. Chancey, M.A. Clark, K.W. Classen, C.J. Cohen, S.J.D. Cole, T. Collins, A. Collins, J.J. Conte, G.B. Conzelmann, H. Cook, M.J. Cooke, H.P.

55–56, 259, 261, 269, 271 17, 113, 222–223, 239–246, 268, 272 29, 211 94 38 177 48 113, 114, 115, 180, 217 28, 29 23–25, 38, 68, 70 10, 11, 16–17, 89–92, 103, 196, 224, 261 94, 96, 97, 100 39 31, 71–75, 161, 276 139, 142, 153, 198, 200, 201, 213, 214 237, 240, 242, 246 5 168 21 64, 102, 169, 172 53, 73, 169, 269, 272 30, 69–70 59 26 38–39 89, 92 22, 29, 34, 256 86 1 21, 27 80 113 39 86

334 Corbett, E.P.J. Cribiore, R.

Index of Modern Authors

94 123–125, 128–135, 151–152, 254 Crossan, J.D. 18–20, 57 Crossley, J.G. 19 Culpepper, A. 95 Danzig, G. 192–193 Davies, M. 57 Davies, P.R. 21, 23, Davies, W.D. 34–37, 43, 49, 51–55, 57, 59, 61, 64–65, 71, 73, 156, 158, 161–162, 170, 174, 177, 179, 197, 253, 259, 267, 269, 272, 274, 275 de Jong, I. 264, 271 Denniston, J.D. 213 Derrenbacker, R.A. 51 Dibelius, M. 89–92, 103, 107, 196 Dietrich, B.C. 279 Dowd, S. 257 Downing, F.G. 18, 19, 29 DuBois, C.D. 214 Edmunds, L. 80 Edwards, J.R. 46, 56 Edwards, R.A. 172, 180 Efroymson, D.P. 172 Ellis, P.F. 158 Engberg-Pedersen, T. 9, 25, 29, 78, Falconer, W.A. 179 Farmer, W.R. 43 Farrer, A.M. 51, 56, 57, 59, 230 Fausset, A.R. 48 Feiler, P.F. 259 Fitzmeyer, J.A. 58 Fowler, D. 81, 82 Fowler, H.N. 234 France, R.T. 8, 33, 48, 51, 63, 64, 72, 171, 199, 227, 259, 261, 269 Freese, J.H. 86, 90, 139, 141 Fremantle, W.H. 77 Funk, R.W. 17–19 Gager, J.G. 9, 112 Gilmour, M.J. 279 Godley, A.D. 233 Goodacre, M.S. 51, 57–59, Goodspeed, E.J. 47 Grabbe, L.L. 21

Granger, F. Gray, V.J. Green, H.B. Gruen, E.S. Gundry, R.H.

127 283 158, 196 27 30, 60, 61, 73, 117, 194, 216, 219, 227 Hagner, D.A. 30, 37, 38, 65, 71, 73, 101, 102, 112, 113, 169, 170, 172, 227 Halliwell, S. 148 Hauser, A.J. 93, 99 Hays, R.B. 81, 83 Heil, J.P. 259 Held, H.J. 113 Hendrickx, H. 259 Hengel, M. 2, 9, 26–29, 33, 40–41, 42, 55, 60, 78, 120, 124–126, 134, 136, 153, 224, 235, 281, 282 Hestor Amador, J.D. 92, 99 Heubeck, A. 265 Hicks, R.D. 141 Hinds, S. 80, 81, 82 Hillyer, N. 60 Hobbes, T. 163 Hock, R.F. 128, 129, 133, 134, 146 Hoekstra, A. 265, 271 Hoffman, P. 226, 240, 244, 245 Hollander, J. 83 Holman, C.H. 81 Hornblower, S. 121 Howard, G. 46 Hoover, R.W. 17, 18, 19 Hubbell, H.M. 140 Jamieson, R. 48 Jensen, R.M. 2 Jobes, K.H. 60, 62, 63 Jowett, B. 163 Joyal, M. 127, 131, 132, 134– 136, 150–153 Kähler, M. 9 Käsemann, E. 17 Kaufman, W.E. 36 Keener, C.S. 41, 78, 176, 177 Kennedy, G.A. 41, 49, 50, 84–86, 88, 101–108, 111–114, 118, 139, 140, 141,



Index of Modern Authors 143, 145–147, 173, 186, 187, 195–199, 201–203, 214–215, 254, 258 Kilpatrick, G.D. 66, 67, 69 Kingsbury, J.D. 31, 69 Koester, H. 46, 55 Köstenberger, A. 50 Kloppenborg, J.S. 21, 58, 59, 226, 240, 244, 245 Kraut, R. 174 Kürzinger, J. 45 Lachmann, K. 15 Lamb, W.R.M. 85, 86, 174, 175, 177, 178, 182, 183 Lausberg, H. 94, 95, 144 Lessing, G.E. 14 Levine, A.-J. 25, 37 Levison, J.R. 85 Longstaff, T.R.W. 52, 253, 275 Louden, B. 256 Lim, T.H. 21 Lohr, C.H. 158 Luz, U. 30, 50, 51, 64, 74, 115–117, 158, 180, 217, 272, 273 MacDonald, D.R. 44–46, 252–259, 264, 268, 271, 275, 276, 277, 279, 280 Mack, B.L. 19–20, 89, 91, 92, 93 Malherbe, A.J. 112 Maloney, E.C. 260 Marchant, E.C. 189, 190, 191, 207, 210, 234, 249 Marcus, J. 31, 32, 55–56, 259, 260, 261, 262, 266, 269, 270 Marrou, H.I. 122, 128, 129, 131, 132, 134, 139 Marshall, I.H. 101 Martin, D.B. 10, 12, 25, 78 Marxsen, W. 57, 113 Mason, S. 6 McGrath, A.E. 17 McLay R.T. 60 McKay, J. 1 McPherran, M.L. 234 Meeks, W.A. 10, 11, 12, 24, 25, 71, 78, 112

Meier, J.P.

335

7, 8, 23, 24, 38, 68, 70, 172 Menken, M.J.J. 60–62 Merz, A. 17 Metzger, B.M. 126, 216, 242 Meynet, R. 79–80 Miller, R.J. 226, 240, 245 Minear, P.S. 117, 180, 221 Mitchell, M.M. 32, 100, 106–109, 118, 256, 257, 266, 271 Moo, D.A. 73 Moore, G.F. 36 Moore, S.D. 99, 100 Morgan, T. 122, 123, 124, 128, 131, 138, 146, 151, 152, 154, 191, 258 Morris, L. 40, 231, 272 Morrison, D.R. 188, 190, 235 Muilenberg, J. 92–93 Murray, A.T. 164 Musurillo, H. 74 Nepper-Christensen, P. 46 Neusner, J. 21, 22, 23, 35 Newby, G. 95 Neyrey, J.H. 71, 72, 174 Nkhoma, J.S. 60 Nolland, J. 8, 33, 40, 45, 48, 51, 53, 56, 65, 69, 71, 73, 74, 158, 161, 179, 181, 227, 259, 267, 269 Norelli, E. 44, 46 Norlin, G. 150 Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. 94, 95, 100, 101 Olbricht, T.H. 95 O’Neil, E.N. 128, 129, 133, 134, 146 Osborne, G.R. 8 Overman, J.A. 21, 35, 36, 38, 39, 65, 78 Perelman, C. 94, 95, 100, 101 Perrin, B. 129 Perrin, Ni. 57 Perrin, No. 112 Pomeroy, S.B. 122, 124, 125 Porter, S.E. 80–81 Porton, G. 73, 109 Powell, M.A. 99, 115, 260 Przybylski, B. 224 Rabel, R.J. 257

336 Rackham, H. Reimarus, H.S. Renan, E. Rengstorf, K.H.

Index of Modern Authors

123, 142, 201 14 15 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 248, 249 Robbins, V.K. 89, 91, 92, 94–100, 105, 106, 112, 279 Robinson, J.M. 226, 240, 244, 245 Rocca, S. 136 Rothschild, C.K. 13, 112 Russell, D.A. 115, 149 Ryken, L. 260 Saldarini, A.J. 23, 36, 38, 39, 78, 109 Sanders, E.P. 16, 18, 21, 22, 23, 57 Sandnes, K.O. 253, 257, 258, 279, 280 Schnabel, E.J. 108 Schweitzer, A. 10, 11, 12–17, 19 Schweizer, E. 68, 180 Scott, E.F. 174, 212 Sedley, D. 85 Segal, A.F. 12 Segovia, F.F. 180 Senior, D. 25 Sheridan, M. 115, 116, 180 Shorey, P. 184, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 235, 236 Silva, M. 60, 62–63, 143 Sim, D.C. 30, 78 Sisson, R.B. 115 Smith, J.Z. 21 Smith, R.H. 40 Smith, R.W. 69 Smith, W. 71 Smyth, H.W. 203 Soares Prabhu, G.M. 61 Sterling, G.E. 27 Stanley, C.D. 83 Stanton, G.N. 32, 37, 39, 40, 51, 58, 59, 61, 74, 75 Stark, R. 70, 71

Stein, R.H. Stendahl, K. Storr, G.C. Strauß, D.F. Strecker, G. Streeter, B.H. Sutton, E.W. Talbert, C.H. Tannehill, R.C. Theissen, G. Thimmes, P.L. Thompson, M.B. Thurén, L. Tomlinson, R.A. Trible, P. Trotter, A.H. Tuckett, C.M. Tyson, J.B. Van Voorst, R.E. Viviano, B.T. Vlastos, G. Walbank, F.W. Watson, D.F. Weisse, C.H. Wenell, K. Wenham, J. Weren, W.J.C. Whiston, W. Wilken, R.L. Wilkins, M.J.

Williams, J.G. Wills, L. Winter, B.W. Witherington, B. Wuellner, W. Yarbrough, R.W. Young, S.E. Zulick, M.D.

49, 52, 58, 113, 253, 275 61, 71, 194 15 15 38, 224 31, 56, 57, 65 141 21, 33, 281 98 17, 55, 112 259 32 98, 99 136 92, 93 115, 180 58 52, 253, 275 56 65 182 161 89, 92, 93, 99, 102, 103, 104 15 166 43 158 7, 47, 155 71 180, 216, 217, 220, 222, 224–226, 229, 232, 233 170, 171 89 29, 250 8, 18, 85 95, 98–100, 103, 104 43 101, 112, 113 92

Index of Subjects allusion and echo Augustine

81–82 88–89

bag of winds 263–268 Betz, Hans Dieter 101–102 biography 71–75 Birkhat ha-Minim 35–40 bracketing (literary) 161–165 brutal figures 268–274 Bultmann, Rudolf 90–92 centos Cyclopes

279–280 271–274

dialogues, Socratic 153–155 Dibelius, Martin 89–90 discipleship 113–115, 180–185, 188–192, 216–237 education, Hellenistic –buildings 134–137 –primary school 128–130 –rhetorical school 133–134, 137–148 –secondary school 130–133 epics, Homeric 150–153, 253–258 Exodus 269–274 extra muros 35–40 Gentile (as a term) going about Gospels –audience –biography –Markan priority –Synoptic Problem Greek (as a term) Greek language –Matthew’s –spread of

6–9 174–175 29–33, 82–84 71–75 52–56 50–59 5–9 43–50 124–126

Hellenism 9–41, 121–124 Hengel, Martin 26–27 History of Religions 10–12 imitation/mimesis intertextuality intra muros

148–150 80–82 35–40

Jesus –depictions of –historical –Jesus Seminar Josephus Judaism (as a term) –diversity within Jews (as a term) Jonah

1–2 13–20 18–19 7–9 9–41 20–25 5–9 261–268

Kennedy, George

102–106

LXX

60–63, 126

MacDonald, Dennis 253–258 Matthew, Gospel of –community 34–36 –genre 71–75 –Hebrew dialect 44–45 –provenance 65–68 –Sondergut 56 Mitchell, Margaret 106–108 Muilenberg, James 92–93 New Rhetoric

94–95

Origen

87–88

Papias

43–46

Q

56–59

Index of Subjects

338 Qumran

20–25

redaction criticism rhetoric (as a term) rhetorical –arrangement –composition –criticism –exercises –invention –style Robbins, Vernon

112–113 84–87 141–143 139–148 84–111 145–148 140–141 143–145 95–98

Sandnes, Karl 279–280 Sermon on the Mount –anaphora 213 –antitheses 205–208 –apologetic 192–194 –aporia 211–212 –beatitudes/tributes 204–205 –as a compendium 167–172



–as an epitome 170–172 –fulfill law/prophets 187 –hyperbole 212 –kingdom of heaven 203–204 –opening mouth 179–180 –parables 212–213 –rhetorical bounds 157–161 –rhetorical need 185–196, 214–215 –rhetorical setting 173–185 –rhetorical species 194–195 –righteous piety 208–209 –sitting 175–179 –structure 196–202 –synechdoche 213–214 –themes 202–210 –wealth/relationships 209–210 storms at sea

259–268

teaching

180–185, 237–251