Ignatius and Concord: The Background and Use of the Language of Concord in the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch [1 ed.] 0820486981, 9780820486987

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
General Abbreviations
Primary Source Abbreviations
1. Background and Methodology
2. O(m(mon&n& oia and Concordia: From its Origins to the Principate
3. Imperial Power and Provincial Concord
4. The Literary Context of o(m(mon&n& oia in the Second Sophistic and Related Literature
in the Second Sophistic and Related Literature
5. O(m(monoia/a/ in the Literature of Early Judaism
6. O(m(mon&n& oia in Early Christian Literature
7. O(m(mon&n& oia in Ignatius of Antioch and his Theological and Historical Contexts
8. Summary and Conclusions
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Ignatius and Concord

PATRISTIC STUDIES Gerald Bray General Editor Vol. 8

PETER LANG

New York ! Washington, D.C./Baltimore ! Bern Frankfurt am Main ! Berlin ! Brussels ! Vienna ! Oxford

John-Paul Lotz

Ignatius and Concord The Background and Use of the Language of Concord in the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch

PETER LANG

New York ! Washington, D.C./Baltimore ! Bern Frankfurt am Main ! Berlin ! Brussels ! Vienna ! Oxford

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lotz, John-Paul. Ignatius and Concord: the background and use of the language of Concord in the letters of Ignatius of Antioch / John-Paul Lotz. p. cm. — (Patristic studies; v. 8) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Ignatius, Saint, Bishop of Antioch, d. ca. 110. 2. Christian saints—Turkey— Antioch—Correspondence—History and criticism. I. Title. BR65.I3L68 270.1092—dc22 2007003556 ISBN 978-0-8204-8698-7 ISSN 1094-6217

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Bibliothek. Die Deutsche Bibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.ddb.de/.

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council of Library Resources.

© 2007 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited. Printed in Germany

to Rev. Dr. Denton Lotz a2nqrwpov ei0v e3nwsin kathrtisme/nov (Phld. 8.1)

Contents Acknowledgments.................................................................................xi List of General Abbreviations.............................................................xiii List of Primary Source Abbreviations ................................................. xv 1. Background and Methodology..................................................1 From the Past to the Present: The Enigma of Ignatius ................... 1 Review of the Ignatian Problem ......................................................4 Recent Critiques: Hübner and Lechner...........................................6 Homonoia and the Flavians .......................................................... 10 Overview and Method.................................................................... 12 2. O(mo&noia and Concordia: From its Origins to the Principate.....................................................................................15 Introduction................................................................................... 15 Origins of o(mo&noia ......................................................................... 16 O9mo&noia and Hellenism.................................................................22 Concordia in Rome to the End of the Republic ............................24 Concordia and O(monoi&a in the Principate..................................... 27 Conflict and Concord: Succeeding the Reigns of Nero and Domitian .................................................................. 30 Conclusion .....................................................................................36 3. Imperial Power and Provincial Concord: The Imperial Cult and the O(mo&noia-Coins of the Greek East..................... 37 oia Introduction................................................................................... 37 The Imperial Cult and O(mo&noia in the Greek East ........................38 Coins and Conflict: The Imperial Cult and O(mo&noia-Coins ..........46 Images and Metaphors of the Imperial Cult in Ignatius ...............52 Ignatius and the o(mo&noia-Coins: Ign. Magn. 5–6 ........................ 60

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CONTENTS

Conclusion .....................................................................................63 4. The Literary Context of o(mo&noia in the Second Sophistic and Related Literature .......................................... 67 Introduction...................................................................................67 The Second Sophistic and O(mo&noia: The Golden Past of a Silver Present .................................................................... 68 Dio Chrysostom and the Politics of O(mo&noia ................................ 73 Aelius Aristides and the Discord of the Cities ...............................79 Ignatian o(mo&noia and Imperial Power...........................................87 Conclusion .....................................................................................92 5. O(monoi/a in the Literature of Early Judaism: Philo, Josephus and 4 Maccabees ......................................... 95 Introduction...................................................................................95 The Use of o(monoi/a by Philo of Alexandria....................................96 Josephus, the Flavians, and o(monoi&a ........................................... 102 O(monoi&a and 4 Maccabees ..........................................................109 Ignatius’ Letters and 4 Maccabees .............................................. 116 Conclusion ................................................................................... 123 6. O(mo&noia in Early Christian Literature: Paul and 1 Clement.................................................................. 125 Introduction................................................................................. 125 Deliberative Rhetoric and the Concord-Speech in Antiquity...... 126 1 Corinthians 1–4: Deliberative Rhetoric Urging Concord ......... 129 The Concord-Speech and 1 Corinthians ...................................... 130 O(monoi&a and 1 Clement ............................................................... 134 Clement’s Uses of o(mo&noia........................................................... 136 Ignatius’ Epistle to the Philadelphians: A Deliberative Letter Urging Concord? .................................. 144 Conclusion ................................................................................... 155 7. O(mo&noia in Ignatius of Antioch and his Theological and Historical Contexts ..........................................................157 Introduction................................................................................. 157 O(mo&noia in the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch............................. 158 Ignatius’ Epistle to the Ephesians ......................................... 158

CONTENTS

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Ignatius’ Epistle to the Magnesians ...................................... 166 Ignatius’ Epistle to the Trallians........................................... 168 Ignatius’ Epistle to the Philadelphians ................................. 169 Ignatius and the ‘Unity of God’.............................................. 173 Ignatius and the ‘Peace’ in Syria............................................ 177 Conclusion ................................................................................... 185 8. Summary and Conclusions ................................................... 189

Notes ................................................................................................197 Chapter One................................................................................. 197 Chapter Two ................................................................................ 199 Chapter Three ............................................................................. 203 Chapter Four............................................................................... 208 Chapter Five................................................................................. 212 Chapter Six .................................................................................. 216 Chapter Seven.............................................................................. 221 Bibliography.................................................................................. 227 Primary Sources...........................................................................227 Dictionaries, Catalogues, Secondary sources ............................. 228 Books and Articles .......................................................................229 Index ...............................................................................................243

Acknowledgments Any academic work worth merit is built on the shoulders of those who have gone on before and therefore must be somewhat collaborative. I would, therefore, first and foremost like to offer my sincerest thanks and gratitude to Dr. James Carleton Paget for his supervision, scholarly guidance and friendship. I have been a grateful beneficiary of his historical insights and considerable acumen relating to the periods of the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers. His generosity in helping to direct my thesis has much to do with its subsequent completion. In this regard, I would also like to acknowledge my debt of gratitude to Prof. Allen Brent whose familiarity with the field of Patristics and his considerable understanding of the complexities and the issues associated with the literature of Ignatius of Antioch were made available to me both as a supervisor and as a senior colleague in the field. His time and friendship have helped me grapple with the ambiguities and enigmas of Ignatius and his writings, and have fostered in me a vested interest in the importance of this early Christian figure. I would also like to thank Prof. Eric Osborne whose time and expertise were also made available to me in discussions and explorations of Ignatius’ concern for unity in the wider context of the philosophical and religious developments of the early church. I am also indebted to Dr. Christopher Kelly and the late Prof. Keith Hopkins of the Classics Faculty for allowing me to explore with them various issues relating to the Second sophistic and the Imperial cult, and for helping me to read Ignatius not only in the context of Christian origins, but within the wider world of Greek and Roman literature and culture. In this regard I must also acknowledge a special debt of gratitude to Prof. Edith Specht of the University of Vienna whose specialist knowledge of numismatics and ancient civilization were made available to me while doing research in her faculty.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Along the way, others have helped and guided the process of my research, especially Prof. Marcus Bockmuehl, as well as Dr. Bruce Longenecker, Prof. Winrich Löhr, Dr. Christian Stettler, and Dr. Bruce Winter. A special thanks to colleagues who have been my partners in dialogue, Dr. Graham McFarlane, Dr. Talal Debs, Ryan Jackson, and Dr. Sakari Puisto. A special thanks as well to Daren Allder for his friendship and invaluable help in the process of editing the manuscript. Though the academic life often mitigates against them, my family have both supported and encouraged my work, especially Dr. Denton Lotz, my father, and Susan my wife.

General Abbreviations ABD AF ANF ANRW BAGD

BEFAR BMC Bull. Epig. CAH CHCL CIG CIL CQ GIBM GRBS HTR I.E. I.Ital IG IGR JBL JIAN JNG JSNT JTS

Anchor Bible Dictionary Apostolic Fathers (Lightfoot, Harmer, Holmes) Ante-Nicene Fathers, 10 vols. Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Early Christian Literature (Bauer, Arndt, Gingrich, Danker) Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome British Museum Catalogue (Word following denotes specific volume) Bulletins Epigraphique Cambridge Ancient History Cambridge Handbook of Classical Literature Corpus Inscriptionum Graecarum (A. Boeckh) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Classical Quarterly Greek Inscriptions in the British Museum Greek Roman and Byzantine Studies Harvard Theological Review Inschriften von Ephesus Inscriptiones Italiae Inscriptiones Graecae Inscriptiones Graecae ad Res Romanas Pertinentes (ed. Cagnat) Journal of Biblical Literature Journal international d’archéologie numismatique Jahrbuch für Numismatik und Geldgeschichte Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for Theological Studies

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Klio LCL LIMC LS Mionnet NovT NTS Num. Zeit OCCC OCD OGIS PW RAC Rhein.Mus.Philol RIC S.C. SEG SIG Stud. Patr SVF TAPhS TDNT TRE VC YCS ZAC ZfN ZNW

ZPE

GENERAL ABBREVIATIONS

Klio: Beiträge zur alten Geschichte Leob Classical Library exicon Iconographicum Mythologiai Classicae, 2 vols A Greek-English Lexicon, 9th ed. Description de médailles antiques, grecques et romains (Mionnet) Novum Testamentum New Testament Studies Numismatische Zeitschrift Oxford Companion to Classical Civilization Oxford Classical Dictionary, 2nd ed. Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum Abteilungen des Rheinischen Museums der Philologie Roman Imperial Coinage (Mattingly, Sydenham) Sources Crétien Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 3rd edition (Dittenberger) Studia Patristica Stoicorum Veterum Fragmentum Transaction of the American Philological Society Theological Dictionary of the New Testament Theologische Realencyclopädie Vigiliae Christianae Yale Classical Studies Zeitschrift für Antike Christentum Zeitschrift für Numismatik Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

Primary Source Abbreviations 1 Clem. 1 Cor.

1 Clement St. Paul, First Epistle to the Corinthians 2 Cor. St. Paul, Second Epistle to the Corinthians 4 Macc. 4 Maccabees Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonauts Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonauts Appian, Bell. Civ. Appian, Civil Wars Arist. Ath. Const. Aristotle, Athenian Constitution Arist. Eud. Eth. Aristotle, Eudamian Ethics Arist. Nic. Eth. Aristotle, Nichomanean Ethics Arist. Pol. Aristotle, Politics Arist. Pol. Aristotle, Politics Aristid. Or. Aelius Aristides, Orations Arr. Ana. Arrian, Anabasis Athanaeus Athanaeus Cass. Dio. Cassius Dio, Histories Cicero, De leg. Agr. Cicero, On the Land Act Cicero, De Rep Cicero, Republic. Cicero, Pro Sest. Cicero, In Defence of Sestius Cicero, Rhet. ad Herrenium (Cicero) Rheroric ad Herrenium Cleanthes, Hymn to Zeus Cleanthes, Hymn to Zeus Col. St. Paul, Epistle to the Colossians Dan. Daniel Demos. Cheson. Demosthenes, Chesonese Demos. Or. Demosthenes, Orations Did. Didache Dio Chrys. Or. Dio Chrysostom, Orations Diod. Sic. Diodorus Siculus

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PRIMARY SOURCE ABBREVIATIONS

Diog. Laert. Dion. Hal. Ant. Eph. Est. Eus., E.H. Horace, Carm. Horace, Ep. Hypereides, Or. Ign. Eph. Ign. Mag. Ign. Phld. Ign. Pol. Ign. Rom. Ign. Smyr. Ign. Tral. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. Isoc. Antidos. Isoc. Panag. Isoc. Panath. Isoc. Philipp. Hipp., Adv. Omn. Haer. Jn. Jos. Ant. Jud. (AJ) Jos. Bel. Jud. (BJ) Jos. C. Ap. Jos. Vita Lk. LXX Mart. Epigr. Matt. Mk. Ovid. Fasti Philo, de Praem.

Diogenes Laertius Dionysius Halicarnassus, Antiquities St. Paul, Epistle to the Ephesians Esther Eusebius, Ecclessiastical History Horace, Carmen Horace, Letters Hypereides, Orations Ignatius, Epistle to the Ephesians Ignatius, Epistle to the Magnesians Ignatius, Epistle to the Philadelphians Ignatius, Epistle to Polycarp Ignatius, Epistle to the Romans Ignatius, Epistle to the Smyrnaeans Ignatius, Epistle to the Trallians Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses Isocrates, Antidotos Isocrates, Panagericus Isocrates, Panathnaicus Isocrates, Philippus Hippolytus, Refutatio Omnium Haeresium Gospel of John Josephus, Jewish Antiquities Josephus, Jewish Wars Josephus, Against Apion Josephus, Life Gospel of Luke Septuagint Martial, Epigrams Gospel of Matthew Gospel of Mark Ovid, Fasti Philo, On Rewards and Punishments

PRIMARY SOURCE ABBREVIATIONS

Philo, de Virt. Philo, Dec. Philo, Flacc. Philo, Her. Philo, Leg. Philo, Mut. Philo, Vit. Mos. Philostr. Vit. Apol. Philostr. Vit. Soph. Plato Alc. Plato Laws Plato Phdr. Plato Pol. Plato Rep. Plato Symposium Pliny the Elder, N.H. Pliny, Ep. Plut. Cam. Plutarch Alex. Plutarch de Alex Fortuna Plutarch, De Praec. Ger. Re Plutarch, Numa Pol. Ps. Quint. Inst. Res. Ges. div. Aug. Rev. Rom. Sallust, Catil Sallust, Ep. Sib. Or. Stob. Suet. Aug. Suet. Tib. Suet. Vesp. Tac. Ann. Tac. Hist. Test. Jos.

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Philo, On the Virtues Philo, On the Decalogue Philo, Against Flaccus Philo, Who is the Heir Philo, On the Embassy to Gaius Philo, On the Change of Names Philo, Life of Moses Philostratus, Life of Apollonius Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists Plato, Alcibiades Plato, Laws Plato, Phaedrus Plato, Politics Plato, Repbulic Plato, Symposium Pliny the Elder, Natural History Pliny the Youner, Letters Plutarch, Camillus Plutarch, Alexander Plutarch, de Alexandrae Fortuna Plutarch, Precepts on Statecraft Plutarch, Numa Polybius Psalms Quintillian, Institutes Res Gestae St. John, Revelation St. Paul, Epistle to the Romans Sallust, Letters Sibylline Oracles Stobaeus Suetonius, Augustus Suetonius, Tiberius Suetonius, Vespasian Tacitus, Annals Tacitus, Histories Testament of Joseph

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Thuc. Timaeus, FGH Virgil, Aenead Xen. Hell. Xen. Cyro. Xen. Mem.

PRIMARY SOURCE ABBREVIATIONS

Thudydides, History of the Pelopponesian Wars Timaeus (Fragmenten der Griechen Historiker) Virgil, Aenead Xenophon, Hellenica Xenophon, Cyropaedia Xenophon, Memorabilia

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Background and Methodology From the Past to the Present: The Enigma of Ignatius In his last of seven letters written to various churches in Asia, Ignatius, the condemned bishop of Antioch writes from Troas to Polycarp, bishop of Smyrna: “Since (as I have been informed) the church at Antioch in Syria is at peace (ei0rhneu&ei) through your prayer, I too have become more encouraged in a God-given freedom from anxiety (e)n a)merimni&a| qeou~)—provided, of course, that through suffering I reach God (dia_ tou~ paqei~n qeou~ e0pitu&xw), that I may prove to be a disciple by means of your prayer.” (Ign. Pol. 7.1)

This is the last we hear of the Syrian divine and, like his mysterious fate, these final words leave us with more questions than answers. What kind of ‘peace’ was he informed about regarding the church in Antioch? Were they suffering from some unrecorded outbreak of persecution? Why was Ignatius so relieved from his worries, and what, in fact, did his worries concern? Why, still, does he hope to be martyred and what does that have to do with his ‘discipleship’? From his other letters these enigmas only become more confusing. Ignatius himself claims that he is the bishop of the church in Syria (Ign. Rom. 2.2; 9.1), but he also speaks as one not worthy of that title (Ign. Eph. 21.2; Mag. 13; Tral. 13.1; Rom. 9.2; Smyr. 11.1). He longs to be martyred (Ign. Rom. 4.1–5.3), but he fears all the same that he will lose the chance (Ign. Rom 2.2), or the heart (Ign. Rom. 7.1). Though he broadsides the different heresies that confront the churches (Ign. Eph. 7.1, 8.1; Mag. 8.1; Tral. 6.1–7.2; Phld. 6.1; Smyr. 2.1, 5.1), he is silent when it comes 1 to Rome and his official persecutors (Ign. Rom. 5.1). What was really at stake for Ignatius, and why was he so eager to validate the authority of the church leaders (Ign. Eph. 4.1; Mag. 6.1; Phld. 3.1–3; Smyr. 8.1;

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Pol. 6.1), as well as the legitimacy of his own sufferings (Ign. Eph. 8.1, 18.1; Tral. 4.2; Rom. 6.1–3; Smyr. 10.2)? Above all, for this study, why did he lay so much stress on unity and concord in the churches and with their leaders (Ign. Eph. 4.1, 2.13.1; Mag. 6.1, 15.2; Tral. 12.2; Phld. Inscr., 11.2)? In the history of scholarship on the writings of Ignatius of Antioch two questions have dogged scholars since the Reformation: who was the author of these letters and when were they written. These two questions were answered along the theological divides of the Reformation, with catholic scholars defending their authenticity and protestant scholars disavowing it. By the end of the nineteenth century, however, the question of authorship had largely been settled by the independent researches of Theodore Zahn and bishop J. B. Lightfoot who concluded that the seven letters of the middle recension were written by Ignatius, bishop of Antioch, and that these appeared early in the second century, some time during the reign of emperor Trajan. Since the foundational researches of Zahn and Lightfoot, debate has continued to simmer regarding these two questions, with opinions no longer falling on either side of the theological divides of the Reformation, but on either side of a particular view of early Christian history that has largely been shaped by the Tübingen scholars of the nineteenth century clustered around Ferdinand Christian Baur. In this view of the early Christian history, emphasis is placed on the consolidation of ecclesiastical power in the figure of the bishop known as the monarchical episcopate or early-catholicism, and the elimination of divergent forms of Christianity through the affirmation of the orthodox creeds. Because Ignatius seems to reflect the growing prominence of the bishop, and since his writings specifically attack docetic beliefs that became associated with divergent forms of Christianity such as Valentinian Gnosticism, the Ignatian corpus has been challenged by those who feel that they reflect later attempts by catholic Christianity to rewrite the past and establish their legitimacy as the true successors of apostolic Christianity. Conversely, supporters of the Ignatian corpus as authentic and dated some time in the early second century have maintained a more traditional view of early Christian history, that the rise of the Great Church and the Christian Creeds were a validation of the apostolic faith first entrusted to the church. These two questions have rightly occupied scholars for the last two centuries, but over time, this has occurred at the expense of probing

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deeper into the question of the purpose of these letters. Why did Ignatius write these letters, and what were his intentions in doing so? Do they tell us anything about his own background, and why he might have emphasized the kinds of things he did, such as maintaining unity with the bishop, or refusing the teachings of the Docetists, or pleading his own cause as a martyr to be? The intention of this thesis will be to probe deeper into the question why Ignatius wrote these letters with a view to gaining a better understanding of the mysterious circumstances he emerged out of and the provocative message he had for the churches he wrote to as he traveled across the Mediterranean world to his death. Leaving behind the more fundamental questions of authorship and date, this dissertation will seek to understand why Ignatius wrote his letters and what these letters tell us about Ignatius’ background. Important work has been done on Ignatius’ desire for martyrdom, and significant discussions of Ignatius’ interaction with Docetism and Gnosticism have also appeared, but more remains to be done on Ignatius’ desire for unity with the bishop. This dissertation will attempt to re-evaluate the purpose of Ignatius’ letters by concentrating on his use of the language of concord and discord which had always been prominent themes in the Greek and Roman worlds of politics and rhetoric, but which had lately gained particular import near the end of the first century and late into the second. By looking at Ignatius’ letters through the lens of the language of concord and discord, we will be able to better understand what these letters tell us about his own background and the circumstances he emerged out of, as well as something about the state of the churches he wrote his letters to. We will be able to conclude that discord in the church was the major concern of Ignatius of Antioch, and that his letters bear this out, particularly in their use of the language of concord. Ignatius’ use of the language and imagery of concord reflects his special concern for unity in the church, and points us to the likelihood that he had faced discord in his own church. His concern for unity with the bishop does not merely reflect a theological position held by Ignatius but reflects a conviction based on personal experience with discord and division in the church in Antioch. These insights offer to deepen our understanding of why Ignatius wrote these letters, and may help shed some light on the vexing questions of authorship and date. Though these questions follow Ignatian studies like a shadow, it may be that by gaining a

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better understanding of the circumstances surrounding the writing of these letters and their ultimate purpose that other insights relating to date and authorship may be gained.

Review of the Ignatian Problem Though the majority of scholars have accepted the broad strokes of Eusebius’ portrait, few have ventured beyond his sketches, and many more have felt uncomfortable with putting too much confidence in Eusebius’ neat and tidy vignettes. As with many ancient documents, one of the problems with validating the Ignatian Letters has had to do with the limited number of contemporary sources that provide any external validation for them. Apart from two enigmatic references to Ignatius in Polycarp’s Epistle to the Philippians (9, 13) and further cryptic references to him by Irenaeus (Adv. Haer. 5.28.4) and Origen (In Lucam Homiliae 4), we are left with an uneasy silence about the Syrian bishop by the rest of his Christian contemporaries in the second century. It is not until Eusebius builds him into the framework of his own fourth century reconstruction of the early church that Ignatius’ background and his destiny are laid out for us with clearer images (Hist. Eccl. 3. 36). Eusebius claims that as late as his own day Ignatius was “still a man of note to most men” (3.36.2) and he names him among the other distinguished men from the second century church, with contemporaries such as Polycarp of Smyrna and Papias of Hierapolis. Eusebius recounts the story that Ignatius was carted off from Syria to fight the beasts in Rome as a testimony to Christ, and that as he passed through Asia, he wrote letters to the churches in Ephesus, Magnesia, Tralles and Rome from Smyrna (Hist. Eccl., 3.36.5), and letters to Philadelphia, Smyrna and Polycarp from Troas (3.36.10), warning them about the heresies of that time, and admonishing them to hold fast to the tradition of the Apostles (3.36.4). In large measure, the traditional account of Ignatius’ final journey, including the 19th century validation of the middle recension of his seven letters, is based on Eusebius’ brief synopsis. The details Eusebius presents conform to information about Ignatius’ background that can be gleaned from his letters. All seven letters are mentioned by Eusebius, and quotations from two letters, sent from Smyrna and Troas respectively, are especially helpful because they bind together separate

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textual traditions of transmission. But, there are problems with the account put forth in the Ecclesiastical Histories when set beside the 3 bishop lists in Eusebius’ earlier Chronichon. Lightfoot and Harnack both wrestled with the anomalies presented in the conflicting episodes, but came to a satisfactory consensus about the question of dat4 ing that many since have relied on. The questions of dating and authorship were also muddied by significant later additions to the Ignatian corpus in late antiquity. These early attempts at understanding or interpreting who Ignatius was seem to have occurred in the later half of the fourth century when a burgeoning pseudepigraphic corpus of literature arose around the fig5 ure of the Syrian bishop, including rival accounts of his martyrdom. Added to the seven letters mentioned by Eusebius, six other letters, including expansions of the middle recension, appeared in several Greek and Latin manuscripts that likely date to the end of the fourth 6 century and later. As many seekers in the second century accepted with a zealous dose of curiosity the pseudepigraphic fictions of the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (AAV), we find that later generations turned to sub-apostolic figures like Clement and Ignatius with the same curious appetites. Just as the AAV betray the interests and theological reflections of a later age than the New Testament, so the Ignatian interpolations are filled with the theological concerns of an age when Arian, Marcellian and Apollinarian controversies threatened the 7 church. Perhaps these additions were inspired by Eusebius’ brief and tantalizing synopsis of Ignatius’ life and letters, though an oration celebrating Ignatius’ martyrdom by John Chrysostom may also have been a catalyst for collecting (or even inventing) these pseudepigraphic writings (Cf., Homilia in S. Ignatium). Not until the meticulous labors of Theodore Zahn and Bishop J.B. 8 Lightfoot in the late 19th century, was the middle recension of the seven letters identified and credibly established as the authentic work 9 of Ignatius. Until then, the long recension, consisting of Greek and Latin manuscripts of the interpolated seven letters mentioned by Eusebius as well as the six later forgeries attributed to Ignatius and his respondents, and a shorter recension, put forward by Cureton, based on a Syriac abbreviation of the seven letters, competed along the theo10 logical battle lines of the Reformation divide for validation. The independent efforts of Zahn and Lightfoot resulted in a broad consensus regarding the authenticity of the seven letters of the middle recension

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as the work of Ignatius, martyr-bishop from Antioch, who died some11 time between 107 and 115 AD. However, a persistent minority have challenged the consensus at various periods, notably in recent times, through the works of Joly, Weijenborg and Rius-Camps, who pointed out some of the stubborn anomalies in the Ignatian debate that continue to pose problems for 12 the majority view. Questions regarding both the date and the authorship of the letters continue to hinge around two points of contention: does the external and does the internal evidence support the ZahnLightfoot consensus? With regard to the external evidence, the sources are always questioned. Was Polycarp’s letter to the Philippians interpolated? Did Irenaeus know who Ignatius was? Were Origen and Eusebius reliably informed about Ignatius? Which recension is the authentic one, the short, the middle, or the long? With regard to the internal evidence, the vocabulary and theology are contested. Is Ignatius a better representative of late second century Catholicism with his validation of the authority of the monarchial bishop, or does he better reflect the trajectories of the later New Testament and the Didache? Is Ignatius’ language prior to or subsequent to the rise of Valentinian Gnosticism? Do his vocabulary and theology betray anachronisms that mandate a later age of composition, or do they reflect the creativity of the man himself? Two recent critics of the Ignatian consensus have brought back into the debate these very issues: are the external sources that bear witness to the Ignatian letters reliable, and is the vocabulary and theology in his letters a reflection of 13 the influence of Valentinian Gnosticism?

Recent Critiques: Hübner and Lechner R. M. Hübner and his student T. Lechner, along with M. Vinzent, have recently brought back into open debate the questions concerning date and authorship by suggesting that a late second century forger from Smyrna concocted the letters and based them on a minor, unknown martyr named Ignatius in the interpolated letter of Pol.Phil. 9 who was made into an Anitochene bishop that utilized the antithetical, anti-Valentinian confessions of Noetus of Smyrna as recorded in Irenaeus (Adv. Haer. 1.6.1; 1.7.2) and Hippolytus (Ref. Omn. Haer. 9.19.9 ff.; 10.27.2) to vouch for the monarchial episcopate and to contest the inroads of Markan or Valentinian Gnosticism in Asia

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sometime after the death of Polycarp (ca. 170–180 AD). Reviving the earlier critiques of Robert Joly and Adolf Hilgenfeld, Hübner and Lechner have built upon their critiques arguments against the 15 authenticity of the Ignatian Epistles, and have put forward the alternative that someone influenced by Noetus of Smyrna was responsible for these letters. Hübner’s theses were featured in an open debate in the journal 16 Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum. In his article, he put forward several points that he felt argued against the traditional position. First of all, he suggests the unreliability of the Eusebian account, as well as 17 those references to Ignatius in Pol. Phil. 9 and 13. Far from arriving at a consensus via meticulous scholarship, Hübner claims that a weariness of debate is largely to account for the majority opinion. Since Hübner does not trust the Eusebian tradition, or Polycarp’s letter to the Philippians, and since, as he sees it, variant readings have supplanted the authentic textual traditions that vouch for a late second century dating, other evidence must be looked at which may shed light on the possible date of the letters from internal evidence. This evidence is, for Hübner, the presence of antithetical confessions in the 18 Ignatian letters that derive from Noetus of Smyrna. Hübner presents these from diverse sources, and is able to reconstruct, to his satisfaction, the ways in which these are reflected in the writings of Ignatius. These terms, a0or & atov, a0kra&tatov, a0kata&lhptov and a)yhla&fhtov derived from the Gnostic myth of the Archons, along with terms defining the descent of the savior through the Aeons such as a0ge&nnhtov, a0paqh&v, and a0qa&natov are all present or implied in Ignatius’ letters in ways that seem to mimic the Noetian 19 formulas (cf., Ign. Eph.7.2; Ign. Pol. 3.2). If this is truly the case, then the Ignatian letters could not have been written until sometime after 20 the death of Noetus. Hübner believes this to be so, and has proposed that a forger, writing somewhere between 165 and 175 AD was responsible for the entire corresponence, including the alleged interpolations 21 in Pol. Phil. 9 and 13. Hübner’s theses were challenged by a variety of scholars who pointed out many of the weakness in his argument. Lindemann took Hübner to task on many of his key points, questioning whether any real proof existed that the so-called Ignatian forger interpolated Pol. Phil., or whether it was advisable, text-critically, to prefer the more complex reading of Ign. Mag. 8,2, and how realistic his claims about

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Ignatius modifying credal statements of Noetus gleaned from Irenaeus and Hippolytus were when there appears to be so little agreement be22 tween the two “parallels.” Lindemann’s deconstruction of Hübner’s crucial points led him to question whether the more complex and unlikely scenario that Hübner ascribed to an Ignatian forger was an improvement over the generally accepted tradition of an early dating 23 for Ignatius. Others joined Lindemann in critiquing Hübner, including Georg Schölgen, who evaluated parts 5 and 6 of Hübner’s thesis 24 concerning the motives and methodology of the alleged forger and Mark Edwards, who thought that the influence of Ignatius on Valentinus, against whom Noetus formulated his antitheses, might have been a more likely scenario than vice versa, since Valentinus lived in both Smyrna and Rome and would have had access to Ignatius’ letters. Edwards surmised that, since “Orthodoxy is the germ of soon to follow heterodoxy,” Ignatius might have had more influence on the young 25 Valentinus than Paul or John. Notwithstanding the cool reception of Hübner’s theses, Thomas Lechner produced a further articulation of the Hübnerian hypothesis by using Hübner’s work on Noetus of Smyrna as a springboard into his own research regarding the presence of so-called Valentinian theological traces in the Ignatian Epistles. Lechner introduces his work by referring to Hübner’s inquiry into the possibility of Noetus of Smyrna being the primary theological influence behind the forger of the Ig26 natian Epistles. Like Hübner, he believes that the Ignatius mentioned in Pol. Phil. 9,1 is the name that the Ignatian forger built his 27 myth of a Syrian martyr-bishop on. Lechner’s most developed argument is directed against the references to Ignatius in Eusebius, and in particular, his Chronikon where the Bishop-lists are brought into serious question. Lechner cites that debate about the reliability of the Eusebian Bishop-lists that Zahn, Harnack and Lightfoot all struggled to resolve, noting their inconsistencies, and lack of real dates until the 28 tenth bishopric of Antioch. The lack of scholarly consensus regarding the Eusebian Bishop-lists is enough to cause serious doubt regarding their usefulness, and Lechner goes the step further of suggesting that they may in fact be fabrications of an era that sought the authority of apostolic-succession, where bishops who may not have been were named and arbitrarily placed in the early lists. The list for the Antiochene Bishops was late, allowing for a dating of the “Ignatian forger29 ies” to 170–180.

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Reviewing Lechner’s thesis, Lindemann noted that Lechner takes for granted the Hübnerian thesis that the Ignatian Epistles were a late second century forgery by someone using the antithetical confessions of Noetus of Smyrna. He bases too much of his argumentation on the insights of Hübner alone, and fails to account for the serious qualifica30 tions expressed by his critics. This weakness in Lechner’s overall thesis is cited by Lindemann as a consistent mark against his argument. Lindemann notes that throughout Lechner’s thesis these kinds of assumptions which set forth the Hübnerian thesis uncritically under31 mine Lechner’s arguments the most. Though he offers useful insights to the traditional issues touching on the Ignatian question (history of research, Gnostic parallels) he fails to provide a convincing alibi for the alleged forger, or even a convincing scenario for the alleged forger32 ies. Ultimately, in order for Lechner’s (or for that matter, Hübner’s) thesis to work, the readers addressed in the ‘forged’ Igantian Epistles would have had to have had a very detailed understanding of the Valentinian teachings in order to perceive the alleged Noetian antithetical confessions in their proper light, since the rest of the subjects 33 in the Ignatian Epistles are wholly unconcerned with such issues. Hübner has staunchly maintained his original theses, augmenting and consolidating his suggestions for a late second century dating in a collection of articles published in 1999. Though he has found some allies, the consensus remains in favor of the traditional dating for the Ignatian Epistles, and the commentaries on Ignatius by Henning Paulsen and William Schoedel remain helpful benchmarks and stan34 dards for evaluating critically many of the Ignatian problems. Lindemann is right in pointing out that many anomalies relating to the Ignatian corpus still need to be worked out. He may, finally, be correct in suggesting that no precise dating for the Ignatian Epistles is possible and that they can only be assessed critically as better placed in the early or the late second century, and for the majority, the early second 35 century is still the preference. As the decades, even centuries, of debate concerning Ignatius have rolled on, Lindemann’s agnosticism about the possibility of pinpointing a precise dating for the Ignatian Epistles may help us identify an important observation for Ignatian studies: until other landmarks can be found upon which a more precise dating can hinge, or until other approaches can be carried out which help to untangle the mysterious background and fate of the author of the Ignatian letters, we must

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agree with Lindemann that the dating of the corpus can only be ap36 proached in generalities. Hope springs eternal for a discovery in ‘the sands of Egypt’ of manuscripts that could resolve the difficult questions of dating, but until such a Tischendorfian find, scholars are thrown upon more modest means. The approach that this dissertation will pursue will involve an evaluation of some of the reasons why Ignatius wrote these letters. By looking at Ignatius through the lens of his culture and by concentrating on his use of shared terms and images, it may be possible to untangle some of the ambiguities in his letters and discover how Ignatius transformed the language available to him in order to promote the concerns closest to his heart, namely, unity and concord with the bishop. By evaluating how Ignatius used terms or phrases that he held in common with the Greco-Roman world, it may be possible to read Ignatius’ letters more clearly in their own, and their broader cultural and literary, context. But where might such a term or phrase be found? Are there any words or phrases in Ignatius’ letters that stand out with particular clarity? Do we find that he uses terms or concepts that link him closely with trends or developments in his surrounding culture? Where might we profitably turn to find a word or phrase that Ignatius and his culture held in common that stands out as notable?

Homonoia and the Flavians Happily, recent work in the field of numismatics has brought to light more evidence for the importance of a key political concept that circulated on coins, in public oratory, and in the literature of the late 37 first and early second centuries: o(mo&noia. The work of Peter Franke and Margaret Nollé in cataloguing all the known o(mo&noia-coins in Asia Minor and Thrace has vastly improved the scope of their meaning and value for understanding civic life in Greek east, since the first such attempt by L. Weber who put together a useful catalogue of the 38 o(mo&noia-coins of Hierapolis in Phrygia. The fruits of the endeavors of Franke and Nollé was put to use early by one of their students, U. Kampmann, who assessed the importance of these coins for understanding the meaning of o(mo&noia in relation to a specific city: 39 Pergamon. Among o(mo&noia connoisseurs, a mild debate has been raging since the turn of the century, when von Papen and Weber first

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argued about the meaning of the term. Von Papen suggested that the o(mo&noia-coins of Hierapolis merely reflected the agreement to hold agonistic festivals, but Weber contended that the real meaning of o(mo&noia was best understood not as a matter of games, but of 40 economic and business relations between cities. 50 years later D. Kiennast attempted to broaden the question and arrive at a more normative understanding of the o(mo&noia-coins for the Greek east in continuity with the Hellenistic age. He suggested that the coins represented something akin to o(mo&noia treaties between cities that had negotiated agreements of concord in ways very similar to the Isopolity treaties between the Greek cities of the Hellenistic age, and 41 could thus be termed ‘treaty-coins’. His suggestions were based to some extent on a reading of Dio Chrysostom’s (38–41) and Aelius Aristides’ (23–24) Orations on Concord, but did not fully take into account the nuanced meaning o(mo&noia had on coins. R. Merkelbach convincingly interpreted the coins in the context of the festivals surrounding the Imperial cult, where procession, agonistic festivals, and inter-city rivalry all played supporting roles to the overriding need 42 to establish concord between the rival cities and their jealous leaders. Kampmann’s evaluation of the o(mo&noia-coins as they related to Pergamon suggested that the procurement of an Imperial cult Temple by the leading cities of Asia involved them in negotiations to agree on their rank in the provincial assembly, and their stations in the 43 procession to the temple. But the o(mo&noia-coins are only the tip of a much larger iceberg. Beneath the estimated 24 million o(mo&noia-coins in circulation in antiquity, lay a broad and multi-faceted use of the term. Romans, Greek provincials, Jews and Christians all appropriated the term and its images in their own writings and symbols. Work on Roman uses of Concordia, the Latin equivalent of o(mo&noia, as well as uses by Greek provincials and, most recently, early Christian writers alerts us to the importance of this concept in the period between the Flavians and the 44 Antonines. Especially fortuitous with regard to our interest in Ignatius of Antioch is the fact that Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides serve as virtual bookends for the time period that Ignatius is generally situated in, and, further, they are our most prolific literary sources in antiquity for understanding the use and meaning of the term during that age. Is it possible that Ignatius used the term o(mo&noia in ways that reflected contemporary uses found in such sources as Dio Chry-

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sostom, and the o(mo&noia-coins of Asia Minor? Is it possible, also, that he used the term in ways that left his own unique fingerprint on it, as reflected in his letters, and that these tell us something specific about his own context and background that may help us further understand this enigmatic Church Father? Is it possible that the term o(mo&noia might serve as a suitable hermeneutical device by which an evaluation of internal and external elements in Ignatius’ letters reflected in his culture can be made? Such a hypothesis is what this dissertation intends to test.

Overview and Method Our thesis, then, will be that Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can be evaluated in the context of the culture and age between the Flavians and the Antonines with the result that his uses of the term are found to be in continuity with literary, iconographic and rhetorical trends that were normative between the 80s and the 130s AD. Furthermore, Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can also be evaluated in the context of the little that may be known about his personal circumstances and background with the result that his uses of the term help better illumine the purpose of his letters by directing us to the events and experiences that likely preceded his appeals for concord and in the churches he wrote to. Our focus will be on assessing what we can learn about the purpose of Ignatius’ letters from an evaluation of his uses of o(mo&noia. Though we will have to pass over the more dominant questions in Ignatian research relating to the authenticity of the corpus and their date, our evaluation of Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia will allow us to grapple with some of his personal experiences and better understand why he wrote these letters to the churches along his journey to martyrdom. It will become clear that the purpose of his writing these letters was to impress upon his hearers the need to submit to the authority of the bishop by remaining in unity and harmony with him and his deputies. The dual threats of docetism and judaizing had probably already been faced by Ignatius in Antioch, and he was eager to equip the churches in Asia with the resources for withstanding the coming divisions that he foresaw threatening their integrity, namely, by remaining in concord with the bishop. The terms that Ignatius chose to use in order to communicate this pressing concern derived from the public and popu-

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lar context of political oratory. His decision to use o(mo&noia to broker unity in the church had precedents in a wide range of contexts, including early Christian teaching, but in his hands it took on other shades of meaning that related to his understanding of the nature of the church, the nature of discord, and the nature of God. In Chapter Two, we will evaluate the early history, development and use of o(mo&noia from its origins to the age of Trajan. In Chapter Three, we will look more carefully at ways in which o(mo&noia was reflected in the propaganda and iconography of the Imperial cult, as well as on the o(mo&noia-coins of Asia Minor, with a comparison with Ignatius’ Letters. Chapter Four will involve an evaluation of what specific writings by Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides tell us about contemporary uses of the term, and how Ignatius may have reflected these in his letters. Chapters Five and Six evaluate uses of the term by Hellenistic Jewish and early Christian sources, with comparisons to Ignatius’ writings, and Chapter Seven will focus specifically on Ignatius and how his uses of the term reflected both his immediate theological concerns, as well as his possible historical context and background. The conclusion will sum up the results of Chapters Two to Seven briefly, and offer some reflections on the meaning of these observations and possible ramifications for future research.

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O(mo&noia and Concordia: From its Origins to the Principate Introduction The history and evolution of o(mo&noia is rich and diverse. Emerging in the late fifth century B.C. out of the ruins of Greek political harmony which had been fragmented by the decades long Peleponnesian Wars, o(mo&noia appeared as a new political icon promising hope and renewal for the exhausted cities of the Aegean. Ironically, it is first recorded on the lips of sophists such as Gorgias from Leontini and Antiphon, native of Athens, whose oligarchic ambitions were part and parcel of the civil discord between rich and poor that had subverted the prosperity and peace of the Greek world for so many years (Philostr. Vit. Soph. 1.9;Thuc. Hist. 8.68.1–2). Gorgias and Antiphon both were celebrated by the third century A.D. literary historian Philostratus in his Lives of the Sophists for their rhetorical dynamism and eloquence (Vit. Soph. 1.9; 15), but ironically, the sophists were those very figures whose persuasive demagoguery had seduced the dh&mov in Athens to waste their resources on the ill-fated Sicilian expedition, leading to their eventual subjugation by the Spartans. From the start, then, o(mo&noia had a heritage that was rooted in the rhetorical and political conventions of the Athenian Empire, and not in its religious or philosophical speculations. It was a term that had utilitarian appeal, and though it failed to capture the imagination of the masses as other concepts such as fili&a and e1rov had, it became a favored icon in the armory of oligarchs and aristocrats alike, down to the Roman Emperors. A look at how o(mo&noia first began to be used among the Greeks and how the Romans adapted it for their purposes, will set the

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stage for evaluating its wide and varied application during the second century AD when the Graeco-Roman world into which Christianity had been born was beginning a cultural ‘golden age’ under Trajan and 1 the Antonines, known in literary terms as the ‘Second Sophistic’.

Origins of o(mo&noia Gorgias is said by Plutarch to have offered an oration on o(mo&noia at Olympia around 408 BC (Plutarch, Mor. 144 B–C), and Antiphon is 2 likewise said to have delivered one in Athens, though Thrasymachus 3 may have preceded them both in 414 BC. Their uses of o(mo&noia indicate that under the duress of the last years of the Peloponnesian War, new concepts and vocabulary for advocating a state of political equilibrium which had been wrecked by successive and continuous fighting were beginning to emerge. In Thucydides’ last book of his Histories he refers at separate times both to the oligarchic (8.93) and the democratic parties (8.75) making appeals to o(mo&noia as a means for bringing safety and success to their respective ambitions. These references to o(mo&noia in Thucydides may point to a time after the Sicilian disaster when Athens’ fate in the war lay in the balance. The threat from Sparta and her allies, and the growing discontent between the political factions of democrats and oligarchs in the city were sufficient dangers to warrant new appeals for ‘unity’ and ‘oneness of purpose’ among the Athenians. After so many years of conflict, it is possible that a weariness had crept into the Athenian consciousness and that an end to war and faction were being sought. Thucydides’ use of o(mo&noia in the last book of his Histories, which has generally been acknowledged as an unfinished work, may be explained by Anastasios Moulakis’ suggestion that the decades-long power struggles between the Greek states described by Thucydides had led to an erosion of the relevance and meaning of other popular symbols for civic goodwill 4 and unity that had been in use before the war. Thucydides’ use of o(mo&noia preceded its popularization among the Attic orators of the fourth century, who inherited an Athens battered by years of conflict, and who sought to remedy her insecure political condition. One of the first writers to reflect on the importance of o(mo&noia following the Peloponnesian Wars was the Athenian aristocrat Xenophon. Like many aristocrats, Xenophon was suspicious of democracy. His decision to serve as a mercenary for Cyrus, along with many oth-

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ers of his class, may indicate his involvement in the tensions between 5 oligarchs and democrats in the last years of the fifth century. Xenophon reflected some of the underlying currents moving among Greek politicians and philosophers (cf., Isocrates and Plato) of the day that suggested the idea of a limited monarchy as the medium for resolving 6 the discord which was decaying civic life throughout Greece. In his Memorabilia, he gives us a helpful summary of what o(mo&noia meant to Greeks after the fall of Athens. In his re-creation of a discussion between Socrates and the sophist Hippias regarding law and righteousness in the city, Xenophon has Socrates profess: “Don’t you know that the best leaders are those who are most efficient at making the people obey the laws, and that a city in which the people are most obedient to the laws has the best life in time of peace and is irresistible in war? Moreover, concord (o(mo&noia) is accepted to be the greatest blessing in a state, and very commonly, in a state, the senate and aristocracy call upon the citizens to agree (o(monoh&sein); and everywhere in Greece there is a law laid down that the citizens take an oath to agree (o(monoh&sein), and everywhere this oath is taken…for it is when the inhabitants abide by these (laws) that countries become strongest and happiest, but without agreement (o(mo&noia) a State cannot be well organized, nor an estate well managed.” (Xen. Mem. 4.4.15–16)

Xenophon, faithful to his nostalgia for the early days of Athenian glory, appealed to the authority of Socrates, whose ideal citizen and leader of the state Xenophon portrayed as a man who in war gave his country the upper hand, in diplomacy made friends instead of enemies, and in politics “is the one who stops civil strife (sta&siv) and creates a spirit of unity (o(monoou~ntev)” (Mem. 4.6.14). Xenophon’s own aristocratic leanings are particularly clear in his depiction of Cyrus as a kind of aristocratic philosopher in his Cyropaedeia. Where the state 7 was founded on wisdom, its security was assured. Xenophon highlights the subtle transformation in the meaning of o(mo&noia from its initial use by the sophists of the fifth century, by combining o(mo&noia with typically aristocratic virtues such as eu)nomi&a and swfrosu&nh which later aristocratic sympathizers in the fourth century began to 8 promote (Andocides, Or.1.109; Plato, Rep. 4.432.a 6). In the fourth century, a new breed of orators emerged. Isocrates, like Xenophon, had shared the partnership of Socrates and was even favorably assessed as a young man with much potential in the Phaedrus by his rival, Plato (Plato, Phaedr. 278.e). Both Isocrates and Plato had inherited the legacy of a tired and war-worn Athens and

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sought, by different means, to rescue her from the patterns of demise. Isocrates was critical of both the Sophists and the speculative philosophers (e.g., Plato) and sought instead to inculcate through the art of rhetoric an ability to communicate and persuade fellow citizens to his point of view, instead of subduing them through fear. Jacqueline de Romilly’s comparison and contrast of Isocrates with Thucydides reflects the different approach to politics the post-War generation inher9 ited from their predecessors. Thucydides’ cutting and insightful historical pragmatism perceived that the real state of affairs between most cities during the War was guided by fear (fo&bov), leading to sta&siv between rival parties, often to the complete destruction of the looser (Thuc. 3.12). Isocrates was more optimistic, if naively so. He believed that civic relations and inter-city/state relations should be based on goodwill (eu)noi&a). Instead of the striving after primacy familiar in Thucydides, Isocrates valued the excellence of eu)noi&a as a virtue which great men inculcated among their fellows, and strove to create 10 among her neighbors (Thuc., 5.109; Isocrates, Antidosis 134–135). Other fourth century writers expressed similar views, but Isocrates seems to have committed himself more firmly to the task of exhorting the Athenians to such behavior (Demosthenes, Chersonese 8.66; 4th 11 Philipic 10.69). It was Isocrates’ commitment to Pan-Hellenic unity that was his lifelong agenda. His genius lay in his understanding of the fatal misconception in Greek politics which found the enemy in other 12 Greek cities as opposed to the barbarians. The constant warfare which occupied the leading cities Athens, Sparta and Thebes would cost them all their freedoms, if not redirected against outside forces (Paneg. 1–5). Isocrates sought to base his pan-Hellenism not on common Greek ethnicity, but on a common Greek culture, reflected in their laws, music, art and language (Paneg. 50–51). But in order to bring some relief to the growing class of the underprivileged and to provide an outlet for the greed and ambition of the upper classes, a war against Persia and a colonization of Asia were necessary (Panath. 17). The Isocrateanpair of internal concord through external war became the common 13 currency of the ancient world. However, Isocrates did not envision the dissolution of the city, but like his contemporaries, conceived the polis as free and autonomous; their strength would be found in being 14 united with their neighbors in equality and justice (i)somoiri&a). Isocrates’ plea in his Panegyricus was for Athens and Sparta to share

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the hegemony, and unite the rest of Greece for this enterprise, but in his Philipus, offered late in life to the king of Macedon, Isocrates realized the need for a leader who had the ability to impose concord on the factious Greeks by taking on himself the leadership of a Persian expedition (Philip. 120). Whether or not he can be credited with influencing Philip’s ideas about a Persian expedition, Isocrates never lived to see the day when the sentiments he had popularized were taken up anew by Philip’s son and Aristotle’s most famous tutee, Alexander. Like Isocrates and Xenophon, Plato shared the common notion 15 that the state existed for the betterment of its citizens. For both Plato and Aristotle, the polis was the fundamental context, and object, of their political speculations. Plato was committed to the reform of soci16 ety. The external calamities that Athens faced had, perhaps, shifted emphasis away from the potential for unanimity in a political program that might return the city to her former glory. His practical attempts at creating an ideal polis at Syracuse under the dictator Dion may have confirmed for Plato the weakness of o(mo&noia as an ideal on its own. Other virtues were needed to bolster it, such as eu)nomi&a or fili&a (Alc. 1. 126c. 4), or di&kh (justice) as he warns Thrasymachus: “For factions…are the outcome of injustice, and hatred and internecine conflicts (sta&seiv), but justice (di&kh) brings oneness of mind (o(mo&noia), and love (fili&a)…” (Rep. 351d). Importantly, Plato’s emphasis on temperance (swfrosu&nh) was ultimately at the root of his vision of harmonious agreement between the classes in his Republic (431d), but it was a temperance which first of all found its substance in the harmony of the parts of the soul: “Further, do we not call him temperate by reason of the friendship and harmony of these elements, when the ruler and the two subjects are agreed that the rational element must 17 rule, and there is no rebellion against it?” (442c). But how could such harmony ultimately be achieved? For Plato, the answer lay with the role of the true statesman, in his Politics: The true state was to be governed by a statesman who was a philosopher (Politics 261 a – 267 b), and duty of the philosopher(s) was to facilitate fili&a and o(mo&noia between all the constituent parts in the city (Politics 311 b, c). Greater than this, however, was the even more important o(mo&noia between the statesmen who led the city (Politicus 545 c, d). Aristotle also sought to save the city from sta&siv, and in doing so he combined o(mo&noia with the moral ideal of fili&a, friendship (Eud. Eth. 7.7.20). Aristotle’s understanding of friendship has been widely

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discussed, and it is in the context of his understanding of friendship that he differs somewhat from Plato in his use and interpretation of o(mo&noia. For Aristotle, o(mo&noia was the political form of fili&a (friendship), (Nic. Eth. 1167.b.2). But Aristotle’s o(mo&noia is, h( o(mo&noia h( filikh&; it is political concord which is based in human and commercial relationships, not simply like-mindedness (o(modoci&a), (Nic. Eth. 18 1167.a.22ff.). Plato’s ideal city, where unity was the central factor, reduced the essential meaning of o(mo&noia for Aristotle, who instead viewed harmony, and not unity, as the central element in friendship (Nic. Eth. 1138.b.5; Pol. 1261.a, 1252.b). The soul is not characterized by a righteousness which results from internal unity, as with Plato, but is a harmonization of the constituent parts, so that for Aristotle the ‘good’ in man is described as a fili&a of the soul, and not a o(mo&noia 19 (Nic.Eth. 1138.b.5). Here we see an affirmation of the political sense o(mo&noia could have for Aristotle. In this view, o(mo&noia is understood as politikh& fili&a where a common form of government is sought by its citizens (Eud. Eth. 1241.a.30,32), or where a common political will is to be found (Nic. Eth. 1167.a,b). This type of political ‘friendship’ is therefore the greatest good for a city because it wards off sta&siv (Pol. 1262.b.7; Nic. Eth. 1155.a.25). Aristotle, however, like Plato, defined concord and friendship in terms that were too idealistic for the day to day life of city politics, being limited to those citizens who were truly good (spoudai~a), but not the mean and common (fau~loi). It was left to Aristotle’s tutee Alexander the Great to give vitality and substance to the ideal. W.W. Tarn believed that Alexander’s greatest achievement was the idea of the unity of mankind, which he saw as particularly indebted to 20 Alexander’s use and interpretation of o(mo&noia. While many have attributed the concept of a “brotherhood of mankind” to Diogenes (Diog. Laert. 6.63) and the Cynics, or to Zeno (Athenaeus, xiii, 516 C) and the Stoics, Tarn argued that it was none other than Alexander the 21 Great himself who formulated this idea. Recent scholars have not shared Tarn’s optimistic view of Alexander, and E. Badian has notably 22 criticized his attribution of the unity of mankind to Alexander. In spite of some shortcomings in his assessment, Tarn did rightly emphasize the place of o(mo&noia in Alexander’s vision of his Empire, and it is this placement of the term which figures as an important point of departure for interpreting how o(mo&noia came to be understood in succeeding generations in the Hellenistic period, and during the Greco-

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Roman era of the first two centuries, AD. Although he may not have been the originator of the universalistic ideas that came to characterize the thinking of Zeno and the later Stoics, his use of o(mo&noia in reference to unity between Macedonians and Persians was striking enough to warrant an enlargement of the idea. Tarn focused on the events which transpired at Opis in 324 BC, and which are preserved in several sources, two of which (importantly, perhaps, as we shall see below) date from the second Sophistic, a pe24 riod in which the idea of o(mo&noia was experiencing a revival of sorts. The immediate context of the feast at Opis is a mutiny among Alexander’s Macedonian veterans, who were afraid of being marginalized as Alexander began to include Persians and Iranians into the elite corps of Companions, the cavalry that had made up the core of the Macedonian’s undefeated army (Arr. Ana. 7.8–12). In a classic twist of fate, however, Alexander turned the mutiny to his advantage, and was able not only to win the Macedonians back, but join them with the Persians and others in an elaborate feast of reconciliation including 9,000 men from all across his Empire (Arr. Ana. 7.11.9). At this feast, those around him dipped their cups into a giant crater filled with wine and poured out a libation, with Greek soothsayers and Persian Magi leading the ceremonies. Thereupon, Alexander prayed “that the Macedonians and the Persians should enjoy harmony (o(mo&noia) as partners in the government” (Arr. Ana. 7.11.8). Tarn viewed the o(mo&noia here employed as indicative of Alexander’s vision for the unity of mankind, 25 and concord and partnership of peoples throughout his Empire. After Alexander, there were significant adaptations in expressions of o(mo&noia, as these began to be re-shaped by uses in Stoic philosophy, where it was often a term interchangeable with a(rmoni&a (Cleanthes, 26 Hymn to Zeus), as well as in religious iconography, where the goddess O(mo&noia is attested on coins and in inscriptions throughout the 27 Mediterranean world during the Hellenistic era. The transformation of o(mo&noia through religious and philosophical icons and ideals was an important evolution of the term, and gave it the kind of shape that would allow it to recover its appeal in the late first and early second centuries AD when old ideas were often put to work in the propaganda of new ambitions by Roman rulers and their messengers.

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O9mo&noia and Hellenism Following Alexander, much of the evidence for the religious uses of o(mo&noia comes from coins and inscriptions, which tend to represent o(mo&noia as a goddess or virtue. A coin from Palermo, in Sicily around 254 BC represents the familiar association of O(mo&noia with a cornucopia, symbolizing the wellbeing and prosperity which concord 28 might achieve for the city. The association of o(mo&noia with other virtues is a common feature, and occurs in an inscription in a decree from Cos to the Royal couple of Cappadocia sometime after 190 BC in which O(mo&noia is associated with other civic deities29such as Riches, Good-will, and Prosperity (SEG XXXIII, 675). Often, these fragments indicate that the invocation of o(mo&noia was related to the cessation of internal conflicts, or the attempts to mediate sta&siv between the various factions in a city or an association. An inscription from the small city of Nacone in Sicily from the early third century BC shows how the city sought to resolve conflict between factions by dividing up the rival groups into brotherhoods (a)delfoqh&tia) for a common meal once a year, seeking to foster concord (SEG XXX, 30 1119). An interesting inscription from Mytilene is attested in which O(mo&noia is used as a byword for Artemis (IG, XII, 2, 108) and Demeter (IG, II, 5, 19). The attempt to resolve internal conflict by appeals to O(mo&noia the goddess are borne out by the fragmentary evidence in literary sources as well. Apollonios of Rhodes recalls the founding of a sanctuary to O(mo&noia on the Isle of Thynia on the Black sea (Argonauts, ii, 717– 719), and Theriault connects this with the ending of hostilities in Heraclea in 281 BC, following the death of Lysimachus and the resto31 ration of democracy in Heraclea, the Metropolis of Thynia. Louis Robert noted an inscription at Kyme in which a temple to concord was sanctioned to be built in the middle of the agora, possibly in 129 BC, 32 when Asia became a Roman province (SEG XXXIII, 1041). Towards the end of the Hellenistic era, there is even mention of priests of O(mo&noia at Prienne and Mylassa (SEG XLII, 1012). The divinization of o(mo&noia would remain an important element in later evolutions of the term, especially among the Romans and in Augustus’ iconography. These developments during the Hellenistic era did not dissociate o(mo&noia from its early political roots, which may also be said for poli-

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tics and philosophy, where a similar fluidity and consistency in the meaning of o(mo&noia can be measured. The Hellenistic age also witnessed the emergence of bilateral concord negotiated between cities that could no longer resist the force of the surrounding kingdoms that impinged on their civic liberties. Other factors mitigated against the successful promotion of concord among cities which kings and rulers could not always secure, such as border disputes, the ratification and execution of public and private contracts, as well legal disputes within the cities. Where they were successful, inscriptions were often commissioned, praising the re33 establishment of peace and concord (Syll.3, 2 nr. 685, 13). An altar at Thera to O(mo&noia was established in the third century BC, especially for brokering inter-communal conflicts (IG 12, 3, Suppl. 1336). At the same time there began to emerge something like an interregional association of independent judges,34known as Dicasts, who acted as mediators between and within cities. Judicial commissions went to various cities to begin clearing the backlog of cases, and often were 35 able to induce the citizens to agree to settlements by arbitration. Many of the decrees commissioned by grateful city councils and assemblies commended those intermediaries who had brokered the settlement, and these inscriptions offer a memorial to the usefulness of the Dicasts in mediating the disputes of the still somewhat independ36 ent cities. At other times, the cities shared concord for the sake of economic reasons, especially trading partners and port-cities, though 37 this was more often a feature of o(mo&noia in the Imperial period. The revolt precipitated by Aristonicus sealed the fate for many cities with regard to their dwindling liberties. Roman tax-farmers and businessmen had begun gorging the east of prosperity after the Roman conquests, and the complicity of many towns and cities in the massexecution of Roman citizens in 133 BC cost them dearly in terms of their political privileges. As city-autocracy began to be absorbed first by the kings and then by the Romans, o(mo&noia lost much of its political verve. No longer could politicians vie for the honor of shaping the foreign (or later, domestic) prosperity and prestige of their city, nor would they find recourse in exhortations to o(mo&noia useful rhetorically, as power shifted from the cities to Rome. This was the state of city politics as the second century AD dawned, and was the peculiar problem of the sophists of that age. By then, another cultural shift greater than Alexander’s empire had occurred, and we must look

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briefly at the evolution of o(mo&noia among the Romans where it found expression and form in concordia, before evaluating the important developments in the second Sophistic.

Concordia in Rome to the End of the Republic There is some debate about when the Greek personification of o(monoi&a was adopted into Roman use. Plutarch, writing around the end of the first century AD, attributed the founding of concordia to Rumullus and Numa (Numa, 20) but such speculation and re-interpretation was a part of the cultural ideology of the Second sophistic and offers us little in terms of historical evidence. Elsewhere, Plutarch (Camillus, 42) as well as Ovid (Fasti, 1, 641–645) credit M. Furius Camillus with the erection of a Concordia-temple following the internecine strife between the patricians and the plebians (367–66 BC), though this also 38 poses questions of historical reliability. Important for our purposes is to note that the commissioning of the temple, real or fictive, followed the resolution of discordia (i.e., sta&siv) between the rich and the poor at Rome—a theme which was prominent during the Hellenistic period, and which reflected the classical origins of o(monoi&a in the attempts to 39 resolve the social conflicts between the democrats and oligarchs. Less controversial is the establishment of a concordia aedicula by Cn. Flavius in 304 BC in the forum on the Graecostasi, near the Commitium, after the restoration of internal concord (Livy, 9.46.6; Pliny the Elder, N.H. 33.19). The Graecostasi was where envoys from Greece were often received, and having an aedicula to Concordia there 40 may have been a gesture to something like “international concord”, further strengthening the connection between Greek o(monoi&a and Roman concordia. Livy also records the dedication of a temple of Concordia on the Citadel by L. Manlius in 218 BC after the quelling of a mutiny among his soldiers while fighting in Gallia Cisalpina (22.33.6), which was later established by the Senate in 216 BC, in the midst of the second Punic War, as every measure to consolidate unity was pressed (23.21.7). Thraede points out the intimacy between the internal harmony sought by the Romans, and the Athenian conception of civic-concord, and that soon after Manlius’ vow, Concordia became 41 an officially sponsored State-cult in Rome. Another templefoundation is dated to 121 BC, shortly after the repression of the Gracchi, by Opimius (Appian, Bell. Civ., 1.26.120; Cicero, Pro Sest.

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140). By this time, the enlargement of the concept of o(monoi&a by the Stoics had also nuanced the philosophical and political uses of concordia to mean not only the absence of party strife, but also as a validation of cosmic and civic ta&civ and harmony. This conservatism reflected class-associations of the term, becoming a catchphrase among the optimates in their attempts to order the plebs, but also a 42 little later, to broker concord amongst themselves. The second century witnessed the final capitulation of the Greek world to the Roman after 146 BC as well as Rome’s great nemesis, Carthage, and removed a potent guarantor for internal harmony: the threat of an enemy. Sallust credited to concordia the fact that old Republican Rome had managed to hold together in spite of its diverse population (Sallust, Catil. 6.2). But following the defeat of Carthage, cupido and luxuria brought upon the leading Romans discordia (Greek: pleone&cia and sta&siv), (10.1; 11.3). From here on, concordia began to become a concept directed at restoring internal harmony between the classes, and near the end of the Republic, between the lead43 ing rulers. It did not lose its religious symbolism, as the many 44 concordia-coins reflect, but it regained political freight with the endeavors of Cicero. An early rhetorical textbook attributed (falsely) to Cicero (Rhet. Ad Herennium) attests to the presence of the o(monoi&aspeech among Roman rhetors as early as 88 BC, promulgating the old theme of ‘unity through strength’ as an imperial-topos and warning, perhaps with regard to the Opimius dedication of 121 BC, of the de45 pendence of the state on concordia to survive (Rhet. Ad Her. 4.19). But it was Cicero himself who filled concordia with contemporary relevance as he advocated his political platform of concordia ordinum. Following the Catiline uprising and the tenuous peace which followed Pompey’s return from Asia, Cicero had some time to reflect on the brief collegiality between the Senators and Equites which they had 46 exhibited in their resistance to the threats of Catiline. His vision for a concord between the Senatorial nobility and the Equites sought to mend the long breach which had existed between the two factions 47 since the Gracchan reforms. Giving up any real hope of a concordia civium between the optimates and the populares, Cicero focused on building a coalition between the Senators and the Equites; a concordia ordinum (De leg. agr. 3.4). He would administer the coalition, but as a novus homo with few connections, he needed Pompey to lead as

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figurehead, and appealed to him to be the soldier while he himself would be the statesman, like Scipio Africanus and Laelius before 48 them. But the ambitions of the likes of Lucullus, Cato, Crassus and Pompey were too much for Cicero’s fragile vision, and after the fraudulent acquittal by a jury of Equites of P. Clodius Pulcher for violating the Bona Dea, a rite prohibited to men, ill-will began to mount. When Caesar returned from Spain and demanded a triumph, the senate refused, choosing instead to settle old scores, leading Caesar to 49 stand for the consulship. Cicero tried to sell his ideas of a concordia ordinum to Caesar, but failed, and soon events would end his dream of harmony; at least in his lifetime. Rome would have to wait for Octa50 vian to finish off his rivals, before a Concordia Augusta might begin. Though Cicero might have failed at achieving concord between the Orders, he still sought to mediate between rivals to avert the civil war, and tried to win Caesar into accepting a concordia civitatis (Ad Atticum, 9.11 a); a civil harmony as opposed to rivalry. In his later writings, Cicero would look to a monarch to promote concordia, in thought very similar to the political ideology behind the Hellenistic 51 kings. By now his conception of concordia was much more in line with aristocratic virtues and sympathies, and he tended to view the plebs as a more likely source for social conflicts. He set his hopes on Pompey, and then Octavian, but never saw the fruit of his ambitions. As in the Hellenistic period when demise in power left the cities with less and less liberty or self-determination and the aristocrats appealed for a o(monoi&a which invariably entailed some form of obedience to the 52 leaders, so Cicero realized that only among the leading men of Rome 53 would a consensus ordinum bonum be possible. If Sallust’s letters to Caesar are to be believed, this notion of a Princeps delivering concordia to Rome was applied to Caesar, whom Sallust encourages to establish pax and concordia (Ep. 1.6.5). The belief that it was the duty of a king to establish concord goes back to the time of Isocrates and the Hellenistic kings, but was adopted into the iconography and propaganda of Caesar. Dionysus of Halicarnassus supported Caesar’s propaganda in his own writings, in which he discussed the ideal constitution of a city in such a way that it gave favorable report to the role of Caesar, later also Octavian (Ant. 2.3). The Senate dedicated a temple to Concordia Nova in 44 BC, in honor of Caesar, and to advertise his Clementiae Caearis and the concord he 54 had brought to the Roman people. The association of virtues with the

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person of Caesar reflected the slow, but undeniable, movement towards his deification, and along with Julia Virtus and Julia Libertas there was also Julia Concordia, a designation which appeared in sev55 eral of the colonies which he had founded in 46 BC. Caesar’s death saw the end of his efforts to unify the Roman world, but not of the process itself. In the second Triumvirate, which included Octavian, Antony, and Lepidus, concordia coins were issued by L. Mussidius Longus in 42 BC to celebrate their union, and again in 39 BC, after the 56 reconciliation between Antony and Octavian at Brundisium. But concordia between the two leaders was fragile, and Antony’s mistress Cleopatra was not without her own designs on world rule. An oracle had revealed that Cleopatra was to cast Rome down and then raise her up again in peace and concord, inaugurating a golden age for Asia, and a restoration of the kingdom of the Ptolemies (Orac. Sibyll. 3, 57 351–61, 367–80). But this vision perished at Actium, when soon after their defeat to Octavian, Antony and Cleopatra took their lives. The path was now clear for Octavian’s Principate to take shape. After 100 years of civil war since the revolution of the Gracchi in 133 BC not only in Italy but throughout much of the Mediterranean world, peace at least had been achieved, and Octavian (Augustus) closed the 58 gates to the Janus temple, signifying peace throughout Roman lands. Along with Janus, Pax and Salus, Augustus made room for Concordia as well, on coins, in pictures, and in temples (Ovid, Fasti, 3.881; Dion. 59 Cas. 54.35). A new era was dawning for Rome and the Greek world, and one in which concordia/o(monoi&a would fill an important niche in the propaganda of Empire.

Concordia and O(monoi&a in the Principate 60

After Actium, Augustus’ position was unassailable. He soon conquered Alexandria and with the wealth of the Ptolemies returned to beautify Rome and re-establish the Republic (or better, re-invent it to his tastes). The Civil wars were at an end and the process of consolidating the Empire, at Rome and in the Provinces, was his next major task. Among the writers of this period, the theme of pax held pride of place in Virgil, Horace and others. But concordia remained an element in Augustus’ propaganda. J. Cairns’ recent commentary on Virgil’s Aenead underscores the latent presence of concord throughout the work, and stresses the importance of the idea at the very start of

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Augustus’ reign. He notes that, “there can be few periods in the history of Rome when concord had a more immediate significance 62 than in the years succeeding Actium.” Cairns sees no problem with the fact that the term itself, concordia, does not appear in the epic, but notes instead the words and ideas which do (concors, discordia, seditio) and which reflect the “shadings within a group of cognates” that was typical of Virgil’s style, and paints an overall picture of 63 concordia. Though pax was featured more widely on coins, the symbolism often evoked the more developed concept of concordia, as with a silver denarius struck after Actium in Cyrenaica which depicts a variation of two clasped right hands, the Dextrarum iunctio featured 64 in the second Triumvirate between Octavian, dated around 30–27 65 BC. Cairns notes the peculiarity of the eclipse of concordia in favor of pax between the years 40–10 BC, and surmises that the later may have been associated with Julius Caesar in ways which Augustus 66 sought to avoid. Not surprisingly, the republican notion of concordia with its aristocratic (Optimate) overtones, might find little public 67 acclaim during the Principate of Augustus, especially in the west. Cairns’ emphasis on the importance of concordia/discordia as underlying themes in Virgil’s Aenead links up with another important theme in Virgil’s epic which, as in many other places, reflected contemporary events and issues: namely the relationship between kingship and concord, also stressed by a contemporary of Virgil, 68 Horace, in his epistles (Ep. 1.2.6 ff.). This relationship was an ancient one, propounded early on by Isocrates and lately also in Cicero’s Republic, and was taken up in broad terms by Augustus, though with enough vagueness to avoid associations with practical kingship, an otiose notion to any Roman. A more fitting slogan, which Augustus appealed to at the founding of the Principate, was that of the consensus universorum, expressed 69 in his Res Gestae (34). He also boasted that throughout the cities of his empire, citizens offered in unanimity cult and sacrifices for his wellbeing (Greek: O(moquma&don sune&xw; Latin: unanimiter continenter) (Res ges. div. Aug., 9), and in the Greek east, several cities were granted the privilege of building temples in his name, a trend which 70 would later involve the idea of o(monoi&a in important ways. An inscription from Halicarnassus, which praised in language fit for a god the peace and concord which Augustus had won for the war-weary Greek cities of Asia, was also reflected in Rome, in the Carmen Secu-

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lare of Horace, who likened Augustus to the god Mercury (Carm. 1.2; 71 3.4). When in 11 BC, Augustus dedicated various statues which included one to Concordia (along with Pax, and Salus Publica), the effect was not limited to Rome, but spread throughout the Empire, as an 72 Aureus from Bouthroton reflects. The dedication of the statues coincided with the construction of the Ara Pacis, and the whole effect reflected the concord not only of the Imperial family with one another, 73 but of all of Rome with him. A little later, Livia, Augustus’ wife, dedicated a temple to Concordia in the Porticus Liviae to celebrate the harmony of her marriage with Augustus, and to support his new policy 74 of moral restoration (Suet. Aug. 29; Cass. Dio. 54.23.6; 55.8.2). More importantly in 7 BC, Tiberius, now Augustus’ only heir, rebuilt the temple of Opimius (Suet. Tib. 20) and dedicated it to his fallen halfbrother Drusus, combining it with his own triumph for his victories in Germany, thereby combining the old republican ideal of internal concord supported by external victory, and the Augustan re-conception of 75 family concordia sustaining the peace of the Empire. The cumulative effect attests the accuracy of Cairns’ suggestion of the underlying importance of concord in Augustus’ reign. This may have been much more the case towards his later years, when disappointment and tragedy necessitated the recall of Tiberius, and Augustus’ investment in him with his imperium and auctoritas. When Tiberius re-dedicated the Concordia Temple in 7 BC there was an unavoidable connection with his own ambitions for the future; he was only adopted by Augustus three years later (4 BC) after the Emperor 76 had run out of other options. His dedication of the Temple with Livia in AD 10 cannot have been incidental, mindful of his stake in succeeding Augustus. Thomas Pekary felt the Temple and Concordia in general played a somewhat significant role in Tiberius’ life. Dio Cassius records Tiberius’ interest in the Concordia temple on his way to Rhodes, when he stopped by Paros to purchase an item to be deposited in the Temple back in Rome (Cass. Dio. 55.9.5), and suggests that Tiberius may even have made vows to the Goddess Concordia while in 77 exile. Several inscriptions have been recovered which record dedications made in honor of Tiberius and Concordia of gold and silver 78 gifts. Pekary’s evaluation of the evidence led him to reconstruct events: dedicated in the spring of AD 31 by associates of Sejanus (Trio and Geminius, both of whom may later have been implicated in the plot after Sejanus execution), the gifts may have anticipated Sejanus’

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hope to receive tribunician powers from Tiberius. Tiberius, striking first, sent a letter by Memius Regulus to the Senate, convened in the Temple of Concordia, in which Sejanus was accused of treason, and summarily executed. In this, Regulus followed the precedent set by Cicero, who himself had addressed the Senate in the Concordia Temple of Opimius to condemn Cataline of treason against Rome (Cass. 79 Dio., 58.11.4; Sall. Cat. 46; Cic. Cat. 3.21). From AD 34 until his death, Tiberius minted coins which featured the Concordia Temple, 80 engraved on the reverse. With greater and wider distribution, the idea and the iconography of Imperial Concord began to spread throughout the Empire. Coins under Caligula portray the three imperial women as Salus-Securitas (Agrippina), Fortuna (Julia Livia) and Gaius’ favorite sister Drusilla as Concordia, in imitation of coin types issued earlier under Augus81 tus. Coins bearing the inscription Concordia Augusta appear late in Nero’s reign, indicating the troubles he was facing (ca. AD 64–68), and continue through the turbulent tenures of Galba and Vitellius, to 82 become a popular type for successive rulers. Galba also minted coins 83 which revealed the precarious state of his rule, and Vitellius even took on Concordia as his nickname (Suet. Vit., 15; Tac.hist. 3, 68).

Conflict and Concord: Succeeding the Reigns of Nero and Domitian Nero’s death inaugurated a period in which Rome’s leaders began to be drawn from the Italian and provincial gentry, and no longer exclusively from among the old Roman Patrician families. The need to build consensus became an imperative. The accession of the new emperors, however, followed the well-worn path of Civil war which Augustus had trod, and a brief look at two successors to the Principate, Vespasian and Trajan, reveals similarities in their rhetoric and iconography, and how concord figured into the propaganda of Empire. Though Nero had started his reign well, relying on the advice of Seneca and Burrus, after the death of his mother Agrippina his rule declined into intrigue and immorality culminating in treason trials in 84 the later part of his reign. His hellenophile tendencies were illapproved in Rome, and though he won admiration in Greece for de-

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claring the Greek cities free, it was a short-lived affair, and duly rescinded by Vespasian when he gained power. His death on the way to Ostia, where he may have hoped to embark for the East, marked the end of the Julio-Claudian line that began with Augustus after his victory in the Civil war, and which had inaugurated an unprecedented 86 era of imperial Peace. Nero re-introduced the idea of concord during 87 the waning years of his reign, as indicated on coins from Alexandria, 88 where mounting tensions presaged the war in Palestine. This combination of concord in the public propaganda with circumstances that were all but harmonious was a well-worn technique in the Greek and Roman worlds, and the succeeding claimants to Imperial power tried to mitigate the chaos of their short reigns by appealing to the old ideal in a similar fashion. Galba, Otho and Vitellius followed in quick succession as the specter of civil wars reappeared, and both Galba and Vitellius employed the idea of concordia on their coinage as a part of their propaganda to 89 advertise the close tie between concord and emperor. All three, however, ended ignominiously as Italy and Rome once more faced the outrages and bloodshed that had suffocated the Republic less than one hundred years before. After Vitellius’ corpse had been flung into the Tiber, Domitian was hailed Caesar to prepare the way for his father Vespasian, who was slowly making his way to Rome from Alexandria after having been hailed Imperator by the eastern legions and handing over to his more popular son Titus the job of mopping up the Jewish war with the siege of Jerusalem. After the long year of civil and political unrest, Vespasian returned order and stability to Rome. Like Augustus, he brought an end to the chaos of war, and ushered in an 90 era of peace which would last over one hundred years. The eventual reduction of Jerusalem by Titus, and the ensuing Triumph displayed once more for Romans the treasures of war, and affirmed the superi91 ority of Rome and the security of the new Principate. The completion of the temple of Peace (Suet. Vesp. 9) in 75 AD, and the promotion of the Imperial cult along with its priests throughout the Empire helped create a sense of stability following the last years of Nero and the civil 92 wars. The iconography of concord featured in Vespasian’s reign much as it had appeared in the propaganda of his immediate predecessors. Concordia was celebrated as one of the foundations of his rule, and appeared on coins in Rome and in the Greek east in various combina-

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tions. The symbol of two right hands clasped (the republican dextrarum iunctio) with the inscription CONSENSUS EXERCITUM recalled 93 the importance of the Emperor’s relations with the army. Other coins 94 celebrated concord with the senate and with his successor, Titus. These motifs were continued by Titus, and Domitian, and revived the republican idea of concord and the Greek concept of o(mo&noia with several modifications: concord was now dependent not only on harmony throughout the Empire, but also on the unity of the Imperial house95 hold, which was the guarantor of political concord. The contemporaneous growth of the Imperial cult, and the new role of Greek provincials and sophists as ambassadors in the Imperial court, fostered this conception of concord as a political equilibrium bound up with and dependant on the person of the Emperor himself. Domitian succeeded his brother under the cloud of suspicion that he may have hurried on his death (Suet. Dom. 2), but like Nero, he seems to have begun his rule moderately well, though he continued his father’s policies of consolidation and autocratic neglect of the senate. He deified both his father and his brother, and supported the proliferation of the Imperial cult throughout the Empire as they both had. Temples were rebuilt, and more were added in distant cities in favor of the cult of the Flavians. His use of concord was essentially limited to the Imperial women as Concordia Augusta on several coin emis96 sions, though in the east, o(mo&noia coins began appearing between ri97 val cities vying for Imperial cult honors. But as early as 83 AD, the ominous products of his autocracy began to emerge, foreshadowing future trends as he insisted on being addressed dominus et deus; something equally distasteful to Jews and Christians, as well as Ro98 man aristocrats. His desire to restore the old Roman gods and customs aimed at removing foreign elements from Rome, including, as his father had, philosophers in 89, and from all of Italy in 95 (Epic99 tetus and Dio Chrysostom were famous victims of this purge). These events, and others soon to follow, added to the poor reception of Domitian by future generations, but for many who lived under his rule, aside from the aristocrats and senators who bore the brunt of his envies, there was likely no more complaint with Domitian than with 100 the other Flavians. Domitian’s death in September of 96 was followed by the acclama101 tion of Nerva on the very same day. His reign began with general acclamations celebrating the restoration of liberty as noted on some

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coins, but soon confusion developed as a result of his passive style of governing, evoking protests from leading senators (Cass. Dio. 68.1.3). Nerva, however, felt that he ruled so well that he could lay down the office of Emperor and return unmolested to private life (Cass. Dio. 68.3.1), but such timidity inspired plots, finally leading Nerva to adopt Trajan in the hopes of assuring the security of the throne on the authority and reputation of a general respected by the military, and not implicated in the last years of Domitian’s ‘terror’ (Pliny, Ep. 2.1). Coins from Nerva’s reign reveal the precarious balance of power, as concord was advertised with the military on coins, similar to how 103 Galba and Vitellius had thirty years earlier. When Nerva died, Trajan advanced on Rome slowly, as Vespasian had, sending letters ahead of his arrival, and consolidating the loyalty of the legions (Pliny, Paneg. 12 ff.; Dio Cass. 68.5.1). His entrance into Rome was awaited with great anticipation, and was characterized by a 104 noble modesty that recalled the Augustan model (Dio Cass. 68.5.2). Trajan modeled himself in conscious opposition to Domitian, and brought in a fresh spirit of moderation and freedom, which Pliny pro105 claimed as a new saeculum, a felicitas temporum. Dio Chrysostom, sophist and philosopher from Bithynia who suffered under Domitian, delivered speeches on kingship to Trajan that recalled the images of Alexander the Great, exhorting him to a benevolent autocracy (Dio Chrys. Or. 1–4). Both Pliny and Dio propounded the ideology of Trajan’s reign, which was supported by other images, chiefly on coins, which hailed him as the benefactor of peace, concord, and general 106 welfare for the Empire. The contrast with Domitian was both marked and intentional, and sought to recapture traditional Roman ideals of virtue and piety, as can be glimpsed from the many coins he 107 reissued from the days of the republic and early empire. The idea of a new era, a new saeculum, was a powerful image that looked back to the transformation of Roman government and society in the time of Caesar Augustus. His own intentional reformation of both secular and religious powers by uniting them in his person established the princeps as the legitimate heir to the Republic. A host of Republican Virtues such as Pax, Concordia, Mens, and Salus were associated with Augustus in his propaganda to assure Rome of the bless108 ings he was securing for them. More importantly, it was Augustus who had restored the pax deorum through his exceptional augury as

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princeps and pontifex and had guaranteed peace not only for a limited 109 time, but by inaugurating a new, golden age. This tone appears in some of the political writings offered to Trajan by both Pliny and Dio Chrysostom. Though some caution in read110 ing Pliny as Trajan’s propagandist should be exercised, his Panegyricus is dominated with the imagery of the restoration of im111 perial Virtues that followed the reign of Domitian. As with Augustus, Trajan far more than restores the Virtues of felicitous rule, he embodies them in his own person so that prayers not need be offered for these various virtues, merely for the Salus Principis (Pliny, Paneg. 67–8; 94). The theme of restoration, or renovatio, is very much behind Trajan’s extensive reissue of Republican coin-types, and the many Virtues appearing on them contribute to his propaganda of the 112 dawning of a new age. Pliny skillfully balances his high appeals to Trajan’s human greatness, with a moderating senatorial position that 113 saw great promise in the new princeps. Like many of his class, he stressed Trajan’s humanity, and avoided explicit allusions to his divinity which might have recalled the unwelcome memory of Domitian. Nevertheless, it is clear that he and others proclaimed Trajan’s unique and special relationship with the gods (Paneg. 5. 1–2), and it was in Trajan, as once with Augustus, that peace and prosperity were hoped for. Dio’s Orations on Kingship (Or. 1–4) reveal a similar anticipation for positive change. The images of Hercules and Alexander the Great are evoked in his appeals to Trajan to form a moderate, paternalistic 114 monarchy, caring for his subjects like the Pater Patriae that he was. Hercules appears as the model for this vision of a benevolent monarch in Dio’s first Oration (49–84), mirroring to some degree the language of Pliny’s Panegyricus (14.5). The coinage as well reveals a close asso115 ciation between Trajan and Hercules. Alexander later became the model philosopher-king for the sophists during the second century, and Arrian would devote his famous Anabasis to his life. How much Trajan imbued this ideology is hard to say, though he certainly promoted it. Whether visions of Alexander were behind his ambitions in Parthia remain speculation. Trajan’s reign differed from his predecessor’s, if not in substance, at least in spirit, and a new optimism filled the air. His concordat with the senate in 103 AD contributed not only to a new freedom of speech, but contributed to the flourishing of a literary movement broadly de-

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scribed as the “second sophistic” (Phil. Vit. Soph. 481). Other trends seem also to have been magnified during his reign. Though he did not seek to receive divine honors as Domitian had, he did make use of divine imagery, deifying Nerva, as well as other members of his family, in particular his sister Marciana. After his death, a temple built in his 116 honor was consecrated, and he was deified by Hadrian. The spread of the Imperial cult continued, with Trajan receiving a temple celebrating his divinity in Pergamon, adding fresh energy to an already brooding rivalry with Ephesus, which had only lately built an Imperial cult temple to Domitian (now renamed in honor of the Flavians) in 89 AD. By the time Trajan had become emperor, new uses for concordia and o(mo&noia had already emerged. The idea of the monarch personally securing concord dates from the early fourth century BC among the Greeks, and, as we have seen, was incorporated into the ideology of the Hellenistic kings, as well as Augustus’ vision for the Principate. He merged his own private life with public religion, binding both together, and using ruler-worship as a means of holding the Empire to117 gether. But the Julio-Claudian use of concord was muted, and the idea tended to remain in the background, more as a religious symbol 118 or for describing the relationships within the imperial marriage. Revived by Nero, concordia was salvaged from its mostly symbolic status among the virtues of Rome and was once again employed in politically loaded contexts, expressing the desired unity of the Emperor with the Senate, the people, and, from now on more consistently, unity with 119 the army. The Flavians, as we have seen, continued this trend, and concurrent developments in the literary and cultural life of the Empire, especially in the East, contributed to the re-emergence of concordia and o(mo&noia as politically viable terms. The changes, however, were important, and from here on out, there is a consistent association of concord with the Emperor, combining Roman ideas of Imperial Patronage with Greek interpretations of divine or autocratic rulers 120 (Dio Chrys. Or. 3.110,120.132). The Augustan habit of associating concordia with the Imperial marriage, or as personifications of the Imperial women was also developed in this time, and continued to be a strongly evoked representation of concordia through the coming 121 centuries. Concordia was promoted by M. Aurelius and L. Verus as a 122 central theme of their reign, and as late as Diocletian, the concord of co-regents of the Empire was celebrated on coins, revealing something

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of the longevity and continuity in meaning of concordia as a concept fit to both describe and propagandize the political relations which 123 guaranteed peace throughout the Empire. The time between the end of the Julio-Claudian dynasty and the beginning of the Antonine, roughly 69 AD to 135 AD, was an important period of transformation, consolidation, and reform. Evoking images of power and peace, Vespasian and Trajan drew on the Imperial imagery that Augustus had employed with such success. Unlike Augustus, however, they lacked his charisma and dynamism and had to rely on a broad consensus to underwrite their regimes, and for this purpose concordia may have served as a better unifying image than pax. This was picked up by the sophists of the Greek East, but was also reflected in the iconography and politics of the Imperial cult. An assessment of how the Imperial cult functioned in the Greek East, where the lines of power stretched, and how provincials maneuvered for control under Roman rule, will help us better understand the historical contexts in the late first and early second century during which concord became a vital political concept again.

Conclusion Though the term never gained the iconographic consequence of a term like Pax or swfrosu&nh it none the less found its way into the political, religious and philosophical vocabulary of those in power. In the next chapter, we will have a chance to look more particularly at how o(mo&noia featured as a Roman idiom through its association with the Emperor cult and the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east in the late first and second centuries, AD. We will also have a chance to see how Ignatius found ways to use the term in his exhortations to the Churches who visited him on his way to martyrdom in Rome. These vignettes remind us just how fluid a term o(mo&noia could be, finding international expression on the platform of the Imperial cult, and whispered soberly in the back alleys and dungeons of the cities of Asia Minor.

C

H A P T E R

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H R E E

Imperial Power and Provincial Concord: The Imperial Cult and the O(mo&noia-Coins of oia the Greek East Introduction Born amidst the political conflicts of late fifth century Greece and nurtured through the religious iconography of the Hellenistic age, o(mo&noia was adopted by the Romans and later fitted for service in their propaganda of Imperial rule in the Greek provinces. The Flavians, and those who followed them, found it necessary to augment the iconographic force of the Augustan Pax with other ideas and images, and the provinces reacted to these changes in a reciprocal 1 manner. Two important media for representing Roman rule in the provinces were the Imperial cult with its processions and rituals, and the Greek Imperial coins minted by cities throughout Asia. In both cases, we have examples of how Greeks responded to the rule of Rome, and how the imagery and ideology of o(mo&noia fit into the overall reaction by leading provincial aristocrats to the power of their 2 rulers. An analysis of the roles played by the Imperial cult and the o(mo&noia-coins in their representation of the ways in which Greeks negotiated their positions within the power configurations of foreign rule will allow us to better evaluate the way Ignatius may have understood the concept of o(mo&noia. The interplay between Roman rule and the provincial elite was exercised in the public spaces of the Greek cities of the east where temples, statues, festival processions and coins

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displayed the officially legitimated images of power and security for all to see. Ignatius responded and interacted with these images in unconventional ways as he wrote to those persecuted communities of Christians in whom he sought to encourage a resistance to the spirit of the age they lived in. That age, filled with the images of Roman power and peace, was also a time when images of the Church’s selfunderstanding were beginning to take shape.

The Imperial Cult and O(mo&noia in the Greek East Simon Price’s re-evaluation of the significance and vitality of the Imperial cult during the early Empire by focusing on the flexibility and continuity inherent in the religious ritual that accompanied the expansion and maintenance of the cult in the first three centuries has contributed new energy to contemporary analyses of the Imperial 3 cult. His challenge to the consensus that paganism was in decline during the second century, BC, and that the rituals and iconography of the cult were little more than gestures of political and social compliance with Roman authority has also helped re-frame questions 4 regarding the popularity and significance of the Imperial cult. The Imperial cult was in many ways left undefined from traditional religious rituals, and no clear boundary was drawn to separate the cult 5 of the Emperor from the many other Cults and divinities. From the start, Augustus’ revival of religion in Rome involved an intertwining of 6 traditional values with loyalty to himself as ruler. Social and political elements in the cult can be understood in a more holistic relation to common forms of religious expression, and it has rightly been noted that the Imperial cult, as with paganism in general at that time, was suffused with many characteristics from Roman and Greek society, and embraced a wide spectrum of beliefs, commitments and 7 expectations throughout the population in its various classes. Worship of the Emperors, like worship of the gods, was integrated into the social experiences and religious expectations of many people 8 throughout the Mediterranean world. There were, however, important political and social elements that appeared in the competition and rivalry that characterized many relationships within and between cities, and these were often related directly to the Imperial cult, its festivals, athletic competitions and the priesthoods that might be secured for ambitious provincials. The

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tricky webs of power and prestige that existed between Rome and the Provinces were negotiated through benefactions and successful pro9 vincial elite reciprocated with loyalty to Rome. Though the cult could degenerate into flattery and self-promotion, it was not an independent 10 element in the religious life of provincials. The Imperial cult was tightly woven in with traditional religious instincts and habits, and 11 brought together many diverse elements of religion in the Empire. Robin Lane Fox characterized the aristocratic participation in the religious revival of the second century with the term filoti&mia, which he 12 translates “love of honor, or home.” We have seen this term previously in similar contexts, where rivalry and enmity threatened the peace and led to the appeals for o(mo&noia which dominated the early 13 years of the third century, BC. Religion, power, and patronage found a nexus in the Imperial cult and helped determine the relationships of power that ordered society, defined and limited accessibility to power 14 and privilege, and helped keep peace and order for those who ruled. David Edwards has put it succinctly: “In the Imperial cult, local elites across the Greek east played key roles in serving as representatives who brokered power relations between the divine, Roman, regional 15 and local power.” The Imperial cult was one of the few successful exports of Roman 16 religious culture to the Provinces. It focused the loyalty of the provincials on the person of the Emperor, and was unique in its function as a conveyor of the ideology of the Empire as well as a mechanism for 17 the advancement of ambitious aristocrats from the provinces. The reasons for the success of the cult in much of the Empire, but especially in the east, had to do not with Roman but with Greek religious and cultural history. As early as Alexander the Great, ritual and ceremony were offered to the rulers over the Greek cities as if they were gods (Timaeus, FGH 566 F 155). Though Alexander had attempted to elicit divine honors from his subjects, his successors were voluntarily offered divine honors by many Greek cities in Asia in the following 18 generations. These cults to the Hellenistic kings were modeled on the divine cults, emphasizing the relationship of the king’s rule to that of 19 the gods, and were distinct from the cults to heroes. The subjects of the Egyptian Pharaohs, and later the Hellenistic kings, had been ac20 customed to referring to their rulers in divine terms. Among the Greeks, the boundary between human and the divine was often blurred, and the idea that men could rise up to the level of gods was

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not a new concept for them (cf., Arist. Nic. Eth. 1145 A). As kings gained and then lost power, the various cities responded in their attempts to secure and broker relationships with the new purveyors of power by erecting temples and Cults to the new kings, and incorporating them into their own systems of divine ritual and worship. Not only kings, but other worthy personages such as notable leaders from among the local elite, governors and other benefactors might receive divine honors and cult dedications. Fluidity existed in the Greek understanding of the ruler cult which allowed for accommodation and change in the circumstances of conquest and restoration that followed the shifting fortunes of the Greek kings. In many instances, Price argues, the cults which were offered to the Hellenistic kings, and others, were reactions to the changing centers of power in which the Greek cities sought to accommodate foreign rule and interpret their own roles in these new paradigms where their freedoms were constrained 22 by outside forces. With the advent of Roman power, divine honors and cults were curtailed for all but the Romans, and even these quickly faded before 23 the ascendancy of Augustus. Under Augustus, the ruler cult was 24 transformed into a broader and more institutionalized icon. While Augustus was not officially worshipped, he did receive divine honors in combination with the goddess Roma, as was especially the case in 25 the Greek east. In 29 BC, Imperial cult temples were confirmed in Pergamon, Nicomedia and Ancyra (Dio Cass., 51.20.6; Tac. Ann. 4.37), and by 12 AD, after his death, the cult of divus Augustus was of26 ficially dedicated in Rome. In the beginning, it was up to the Senate whether permission might be granted to institute an Imperial cult in the provinces, but in time, the prerogative for approval came directly 27 from the Emperor. Augustus set the precedent for future developments in the provinces by his vague acceptance of the divine honors offered to him by its citizens. One of the key elements in the blurring of the lines between the divine and human was the legitimate gratitude many extended to Augustus for his benefactions and the peace he had achieved following his victory at Actium. Augustus’ conclusion of the wars appeared divine to many, especially in the Greek east where so many battles had been fought, and they were not stretching the boundaries of their own traditions too much when they hailed him as 28 a god (Horace, Carm., 4.5). In 9 BC, the koinon of Asia voted to instate a new calendar in honor of Augustus, for “he exceeded the hopes

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of all those who received glad tidings before us, not only surpassing those who had been benefactors before him, but not even leaving any hope of surpassing him for those who are to come in the future…the beginning of glad tidings on his account for the world was the birthday 29 of the god….” Though he did not promote his own divinity during his lifetime, his familial genius, the divine numen in him, and the elevation of his adopted father Julius Caesar to a god set the parameters for 30 an understanding of his own person by his subjects. Upon his death, he was apotheosized by order of the Senate, and his cult was promoted by Tiberius, who had in Augustus’ own lifetime established the temple of Concordia Augusta. He followed Augustus’ policy of limiting worship of himself in the west, but allowed cities in the east to continue their traditions of ruler worship. Tacitus records how eleven of the leading cities in Asia petitioned the Emperor with the request to raise a temple in honor of himself, his mother and the Senate (Ann. 4.15). Smyrna finally won the privilege over Pergamon (which already had an Imperial cult temple to Augustus), Ephesus and Miletus (both of whose cities possessed important Cults to Artemis and Apollo, respectively) (Ann. 4.55). With the succession of Gaius, however, another precedent was set for Emperors that posterity would view with disdain. He initially demurred divine honors, but his great popularity 31 soon overcame him and by AD 40 he was actively pursuing divinity. There is further evidence that he ordered the construction of an Impe32 rial cult temple to himself during his own lifetime on Miletus. His order for an image of Zeus with his own features to be set up in the Temple in Jerusalem is a famous anecdote which highlights the danger of departing from the ambiguity of traditional ruler worship (Philo, Leg., 188–338; Josephus Bel. Jud. 2.10.1–2.10.5). In this ambiguity, as under the Hellenistic kings, the inspiration for founding a cult came from below, from the ruled, and was not something insti33 tuted from above. Other Emperors that made his mistake were Nero and Domitian, who fared as well as Gaius in the memories of succeeding generations. It was, on the contrary, a sign of virtue for those Emperors who resisted divine honors in their own lifetimes, and these included Vespasian, and Trajan, who were both honored with temples in the East, but who had adopted Augustus’ restorative posture towards traditional Roman religion. The success of the Imperial cult in Pergamon and Nicomedia in 29 BC was “rapid and…instantaneous”, and it quickly spread and was

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widely embraced in Asia, serving as a model for the rest of the Em34 pire. The dominant culture of the Greek east was Hellenistic, and the Imperial cult was fully integrated into the ritual and practices of Greek 35 religion. In the exchange, however, the trappings of Roman religion appeared in the development of the cult in the Greek cities, with the result that festivals, games (especially the gladiatorial battles) and sa36 cred dates often imitated those of Rome. But, as Price stresses, the context for the Imperial cult in the Greek east did not clash with the fundamentals of its culture, and it was, perhaps, for this reason that the worship of Roman Emperors by Greek provincials was so successful. In less urbanized areas, the Imperial cult was actually an impetus for civic growth and development, and its most critical contribution to urban life throughout all the provinces may well have been economic 37 vitality which it engendered. During the first two centuries, the Imperial cult also became the 38 new arena for competition and rivalry among the upper classes. Religion in the Greek city was a highly visible and participatory affair, and the Imperial cult outnumbered many gods in celebrations and fes39 tivals dedicated to it. As the benefactor of the Roman world, the Emperor appeared everywhere throughout the Empire, and during the second century in particular, vast building projects celebrated the Imperial presence as the civic landscape of cities was re-drawn in a flurry of building projects, which opened new avenues for local benefaction, 40 and the oppurtunity of exercising that aristocratic vice, filoti&mia. An inscription from Ephesus informs us of the great honor given to an Asiarch who financed games and gladiatorial competitions in honor of the Emperor, who gave him the honor of wearing a golden crown and 41 a purple cloak. Like the gods, Emperors were sources of power and beneficence, and though the competition for honor among ambitious provincials might lead to flattery and opportunism, the cult became integrated with other pagan festivals in ways which assured its influ42 ence and longevity, and which affected the civic scene substantially. Patronage and benefaction were fundamental elements in the dynamics of the Imperial cult that allowed it to function in the provinces as it did. The idea of reciprocity in Greek gift giving played an important part in this web of power and compliance that the cult fostered, and relations between Rome and the provinces were substantially under43 girded in the exchanges of favors.

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Between Vespasian and Trajan, political power had begun to be consolidated throughout the empire, leaving provincials with less power, and fewer avenues for local and regional promotion. Like Augustus, Vespasian sought to restore Roman religion, and was involved 44 in building and restoring many temples. More importantly, he was a 45 keen promoter of the Imperial cult. This was a necessary maneuver on the part of the first Flavian Emperor, who, as we have seen previously, did not have the mythical apparatus in his gens that the Julio46 Claudians had had. Vespasian’s reign was introduced by many oracles and prodigies which gave credence to the divine sanction of his selection as Emperor (though once he had secured the throne, these ceased abruptly), (cf., Suet. Vesp. 4.5; Tac. Hist. 5.13; Jos. Bel. Jud. 47 3.401–402). Inscriptions from the Greek east reveal that he was hailed as a benefactor and savior, and at Antioch, he received an adu48 latio from the crowded theatre (Tac. Hist. 2.80). Once Emperor, Vespasian revived the iconography of Augustus and applied the Virtues to his own reign (Dio Cass. 54.35.2). Vespasian’s iconography indicates that he was concerned to mark himself out as a legitimate 49 successor to Augustus. Even his restraint with regard to the Imperial cult was in step with the precedent set by Augustus a century before; he would not be divinized in his own life, but made sure others would 50 secure his deification. By 80 AD, Vespasian had been deified, and Titus began a temple in his honor with flamines, or priests, primarily in the western parts of 51 the Empire, which Domitian eventually completed. Titus’ mother and niece, Domitilla and Julia, were also deified, but he was notably restrained in dealings with those accused of impiety against the Imperial family. He refused to prosecute those who may have shown impiety towards the ruler and divi (Vespasian), something his brother 52 would notably fail to imitate him in. His death in 81 AD was unexpected and not free from suspicions, but he was promptly apotheosized by his brother Domitian who succeeded him, and flamines were 53 commissioned to serve his various municiple cults. Many more Flamines, Titales, Soldales, and Flaviales were commissioned for various other Flavian cults, giving more opportunities to men of rank to compete for the increasingly diminishing pool of titles of honor and 54 prestige open to them. Domitian further dedicated his birth house in Rome as a temple for the gens flavia (Suet. Dom. 1.5), and later panegyrists such as Martial praised the Flavian house, comparing the Im-

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perial family to the stars and their constellations (Mart. Epigr. 9.101.22). Even the wife of Domitian, Domitia, though she was never apotheosized, appeared on many coins and inscriptions, where she 55 was often associated with Imperial concord. With Domitian the moderation of Vespasian and Titus slowly ebbed away. Though he continued his father’s policy of consolidating power, his emphasis on the divine infusion of the Flavian gens offended many in the Senate. He was openly worshipped as Nero and 56 Caligula had been, and at Laodicaea, he was lauded as a god. The 57 Jews hailed him as a peacemaker (ei0rhnopoio&v) while at Ephesus he was celebrated as Theos in the neokoros of the Flavian Imperial cult, where he may also have been worshipped alongside Vespasian, Titus 58 and Domitia. Around 85–86 AD, Domitian began to claim for himself the title dominus et deus, something no other Emperor had done, and which was highly offensive to many more besides the upper classes (Suet. Dom. 13). In the provinces, as in the panegyrics of the day, Domitian was referred to as “Lord and God”, though some who could not stomach such flattery, chose voluntary exile instead (Mart., 59 Epigr. 5.5; 7.2.1–6; Dio Cass., 67.13.3–4; Dio Chrys., Or. 65.1). He was also associated with other divinites, such as Jupiter (Mart. Epigr. 7.2.6), Bacchus (Mart., Epigr. 8.78), and he likened himself to one of his favorite gods, Minerva (Dio Cass., 68.1.2). Like Gaius and Nero, Domitian began the dangerous ascent into deification while he was still alive, and like Gaius, began construction of a massive Imperial cult Temple in Asia, as an accomplice to his claims. The cult in Ephesus was initially commissioned in honor of the seba&stoi, meaning the Flavians, but after Domitian’s death and the Senate’s damnatio memorae, the Temple became know as that of 60 Vespasian. Ephesus had become the most important city of the prov61 ince in economic, cultural and political terms, but it lacked the status 62 supplied by an Imperial cult temple. The choice of Ephesus may have been natural for Domitian, and giving Asia an unprecedented third Imperial cult seems to have reflected the need to represent the Flavian line alongside the Julio-Claudian in the province. The temple dominated the upper agora of the city, transforming the geography of 63 Ephesus, symbolically and architecturally. Cities from around the province contributed to its construction, and many left inscriptions to this effect, highlighting their relationship to Ephesus as benefactors. Many of these inscriptions are found on statue bases connected with

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the temple, and the language was carefully constructed to assure both the goodwill (eu)noi&a) of the contributing cities with Ephesus, while maintaining their own status as benefactors to Ephesus. Such interactions between these cities came at a turning point in the politics of the province of Asia, in which the official provincial Imperial cults began to play a major part in the competition among the leading cities of Asia, and marked the beginning of the proliferation of titles and hon64 ors that these rivalries were characterized by. Civic titles, especially 65 neokoros, provided ways for cities to position themselves within regions or the province, and to “influence perceptions of status and order among the larger cities.” The reasons for this rebirth in competition between the cities of Asia are complex. Long-harbored rivalries which existed well before the Romans came on the scene persisted, and the quest for titles and honors may have been a way for Greek cities to indulge their habits of 66 discord now tempered by Roman hegemony. There were financial and economic advantages involved in becoming a neokoros of an Imperial cult temple, but Price has suggested that the essential importance of the Imperial cult in Asia Minor was that it established a shared paradigm in which rivalry might flourish, and importantly, be controlled. This made the Imperial cult a force not for disorder (in 67 spite of the many interventions Rome was forced to engage in), but of order, and those who controlled these centers of order had more in68 fluence over the webs of power. Priesthoods provided new avenues for advancement and prominence among provincials, and Games and Festivals brought economic and political benefits to the city that 69 hosted them. But more importantly for the city at large, a neokoros lifted the city’s prestige above its neighbors, and in the case of Ephesus, the Imperial cult confirmed her status as Asia’s leading city, which had become the de facto administrative capital of the province 70 in 29 BC under Augustus. Proclaiming her success, Ephesus began the first move in a war of words that would embroil and involve most 71 cities in the province: “twice neokoros” appeared on coins, indicating the temple of Artemis and the new cult of the Flavians, and offending 72 her neighbors, in particular Pergamon. How the cities of Asia negotiated these changes in status and position is a part of the complex interplay between Rome and the Provinces that was shaped by the Imperial cult.

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Coins and Conflict: The Imperial Cult and O(mo&noia-Coins oia By the end of the first century AD, the leading cities of Asia Minor (Pergamon, Ephesus, and Sardis) were engaged in heated posturing and competition for the title of prw&th )Asi&av (“first city of Asia”) which lead to intense rivalries, and in many cases, wasteful city 73 building projects and imperial embassies. Conflict, though discouraged, was still possible under Roman rule, and the titular rivalries between the leading cities of Asia Minor offer an important insight into the delicate balance between compliance and resistance that Greeks negotiated under Roman rule during the first century. Though they were limited in their political maneuverability, the leading cities of the province expressed their civic patriotism and identity through attempts to secure status and privilege from the Romans, and envy from each other through the many public benefactions and building projects which decorated their city’s 74 landscape. Roman rule, and not Greek liberty, had become the new paradigm in which cities constructed their identities. One of the central features of this rivalry was the privilege of acquiring an Imperial cult temple, and thus reaping the privileges of Roman favor and the economic prosperity related to the meeting of the provincial assembly, along with the festivals and athletic competi75 tions which were held in honor of the emperor. Other titles included the privilege of being able to call one’s city a ‘metropolis’, or to be named an assize-district, where the provincial governors would hear 76 lawsuits and try cases. But by the end of the first century, AD, the most coveted title was that of temple warden of the Imperial cult (neokoros). When Ephesus included in its titles neokoros for the Temple of the Seba&stoi in 89/90 AD, neighboring cities, especially Pergamon, amended their own city titles to reflect the Ephesian 77 boast. Because of the intensity of these rivalries, the need to broker concord became an imperative. Plutarch, writing to a young and aspiring Greek provincial, warned, “You should arrange your cloak more carefully and from the office of generals keep your eyes upon the orators’ platform, and not have great pride or confidence in your crown, since you see the boots of Roman soldiers above your head!” (Precepts on Statecraft, 813 e). The threat of Roman intervention was a real one, as

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Pliny’s correspondences with Trajan reveal, and Greek provincial elite were often eager to find ways of keeping Roman interference at a 78 minimum. In an oration to the Nicomedians on concord with the Nicaeans, Dio exhorted Bithynia’s leading cities to resolve their differences and to embrace concord, adding that “you must also strive to give the provincial governors occasion to respect you, by continually making it manifest that you are not content with merely being well governed yourselves, but that you are concerned for the welfare of the whole Bithynian people” (Or. 38.33). Unscrupulous governors might take advantage of a divided provincial assembly to the detriment of them all, and leading provincial elite, who were the only others to possess any power, had the most to lose under such governors. It is therefore not a surprise that we see leading provincial orators like Dio Chrysostom and Plutarch urging the virtues of concord on their hearers. Plutarch sums up, “There remains, then, for the statesman, of those activities which fall within his province, only this—and it is equal of any of the other blessings: always to instill concord (o(mo&noia) and friendship (fili&an) in those who dwell together with him, and to remove strifes (e!ridav) discords and all enmity” (Precepts on Statecraft, 824 d). Aside from oratory urging concord, one of the other popular vehicles for propagating this message was on the coinage of Greek cities. Very often, the resolution of conflicts and rivalries were celebrated on o(mo&noia-coins. Coins with the iconography of o(mo&noia date from as early as the fourth century BC. P.R Franke notes a coin from Sicilian Kimissa with 79 the goddess O9mo&noia and an inscription, dating from around 338 BC. Inscriptions from the Hellenistic period often celebrated mediators, or dicasts (dikasth&v); judges from neutral cities brought in to broker 80 concord between rival factions. Franke also notes that many coins in the Hellenisitc period celebrate the harmony of the royal household, prefiguring the Greek Imperials and their inscriptions of Concordia 81 Augustorum and o(mo&noia sebastw~n. In the Imperial period, concord had lost its classical and Hellenic potency as a term used by independent and free cities in their negotiations of treaties and agreements, and became an icon mediated through the structures of power that Rome commanded. The discord and rivalry over the title prw&th )Asi&av referred to above is an example of the cosmetic function the term had often been reduced to under Roman rule. In his oration on concord to the Nicomedians, Dio Chrysostom painted this shameful

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reality to them in broad strokes: “…your governors hand you titles, and call you “first” (prw&touv) either by word of mouth or in writing; that done, they may thenceforth with impunity treat you as being the very last!” (Or. 38.37). The age of freedom had passed, but the cities of Asia still pursued ancient rivalries and contended for a variety of issues. Franke lists several reasons for discord that existed between the Asian cities in the Imperial era, including territory, trade, and even religion. But in the end, it was the privilege of housing an Imperial cult temple and the associated privilege of being able to title oneself ‘first’ that became one of the most visible stakes in the competition between the cities of Asia. Out of these rivalries, the o(mo&noia-coins emerge as evidence that these were not unrestrained bouts of competition against one another, but that efforts were being made, real or cosmetic, to assuage the discord. Franke makes the fascinating observation that where coins depicted the two (or more) city’s gods in the posture of o(mo&noia towards one another, they may have been understood visually and symbolically as acting as mediators or guarantors of 82 the concord celebrated between the two cities. Naturally, an appeal to the emperor as the other great mediator occurs as a part of the iconography represented on the coins. Most of the Greek Imperial o(mo&noia-coins bore the image of the Emperor on the obverse with his title and name. On the reverse, a variety of images and inscriptions occurred, but fully two-thirds of all available coins included iconographic representations of the two cities gods in postures indicating agreement or concord, whether clasping 83 each others hands, or standing together. Dieter Kienast has made the novel suggestion that these representations are evidence for the ratification of actual treaties or agreements between the rival cities, much as had occurred in Hellenistic times, but which was not officially sanc84 tioned by Rome. These may have imitated the i0sopolitei&a-treaties of the past. However, there is no evidence that this was actually the case from inscriptions or other sources, and it is better to view them as 85 nostalgic imitations of the civic activities of a foregone era. The distribution of these o(mo&noia-coins was no minor phenomenon. Over 78 cities expressing more than 110 combinations of o(mo&noia-declarations 86 testify to the broad use of this type of coinage during the Principate. At any rate, the o(mo&noia-coins that have been collected from the cities of Asia provide an insight into the way cities were relating to each

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other and, specifically, how they dealt with their competition for titles and the need to keep the peace. L. Weber, who catalogued many of the o(mo&noia coins from Hierapolis, has noted that the development of the Imperial cult in the reign of Augustus concurred with a rise in the appearance of o(mo&noia 87 coins minted by the cities of Asia Minor. Though the first o(mo&noia coins to appear in the Augustan period are from Pergamon and Sardis, by the reign of Domitian a fully popularized expression of o(mo&noiacoins was becoming characteristic of the political interactions between 88 many of the cities of Asia Minor. The relationship between the competition for Imperial cult temples and the minting of coins advertising o(mo&noia between rival cities reveals the important ideological use of o(mo&noia as a slogan for brokering concord in the context of the Imperial rule. The acquisition of an Imperial cult temple greatly augmented the political status of the city that maintained one. Since the rivalries generally involved claims of status, the legends on many coins describing their city did so in terms of its official titles. These titular rivalries were common fare for the leading cities of Asia and were the context for many of the o(mo&noia issues that were minted between 89 them. Another feature highlighted by Weber was the connection between 90 the Imperial cult festivals and athletic competitions. In fact, an early interpretation of the o(mo&noia-coins which Weber sought to revise was 91 proposed by von Papen near the turn of the 20th century. He had proposed that the o(mo&noia-coins between Hierapolis and other cities 92 were for the purpose of agreeing on common athletic games. R. Merkelbach has also pointed out the connection between rivalry over the Imperial cult, agonistic competitions and the processions leading 93 to the temple where sacrifices were offered. He quotes from Dio Cassius (51.20, 6–9) that Augustus had allowed Pergamon the privilege of holding scared games in his honor. The right to lead the processions involved in these festivals was also couched in the language of agonistic competition, as Philostratus records of a speech written by Polemon, but delivered after his death by the Smyrnaeans to the emperor in which Ephesus, Pergamon and Smyrna competed for the primacy (u9pe_r tw~n naw~n kai_ tw~n e)p ) au)toi~v dikai&wn): “the Emperor adjourned the case until the speech could be brought, and when it had been read aloud in court the Emperor gave his decision in accordance with it; so Smyrna carried off the victory (h( Smu&rna ta_ prwtei~a

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nikw~sa)…” (Phil. Vit.Soph. 540). The struggle for primacy was not like that of Athens and Sparta in ages past (a familiar topos used by the sophists), but for the privilege of leading the procession behind the 94 asiarch. As we saw earlier, Dio Chrysostom chastised the Nicomedians for abasing themselves to such useless wrangling over titles (Or.38.24). But here again we note the language of the athletic competition: “We are contending (a0gonizo&meqa) for the primacy (prwtei&wn)” (Or.38.24)—but what kind of primacy? Dio continues, “you may fancy somehow that they were making a valiant struggle for the right to lead the procession (u9pe_r th~v propompei&av kalw~v a)goni&zesqai), like persons in some mystic celebration putting up a sham battle over something not really theirs!” (Or. 38.38). Competition over the title of “first” took place in the context of the province’s most visible gathering and festival: the provincial assembly. A central feature of the provincial meeting was the sacrifice and procession that began from the temple of the Imperial cult. It was very often at these festivals, and especially the procession, where old rivalries were re-awakened as delegations jockeyed for the right to lead the 95 procession. An inscription from Bithynia indicates that the high 96 priest was allowed to lead the provincial procession. It is in this context that many o(mo&noia coins bear witness to the efforts made to secure both status and agreement between the rival cities, and a substantial body of evidence offers an insight into how common a 97 theme inter-city o(mo&noia may have been. Many of these coins may have been issued at the provincial feast, where the leading cities would have been interested in establishing lines of protocol and secure their places, since the provincial assembly was often a showcase for the 98 power configurations of the province. Ursula Kampmann’s helpful work on Pergamon reveals how the cities in Asia Minor not only jockeyed for the limited amount of political power left to them, but also how o(mo&noia politics was an unofficial form of inter-city diplomacy that allowed the cities some form of self99 expression and differentiation under Roman rule. Although she does not go as far as Dietmar Kienast in his theory of an actual legal nature 100 to o(mo&noia-politics, the connections he makes between the earlier treaties of Greek cities during the Hellenistic period and the o(mo&noiadiplomacy of the first century are helpful in establishing a line of continuity for the important role of negotiation between the Greek cities 101 in general. While negotiating the power structures of late first and

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second century Asia Minor was the particular prerogative of the provincial assembly, cities actively competed for the titles and honors that would move them up the hierarchies of privilege represented at the 102 annual meetings. Ursula Kampmann’s study indicates that many of the coins in the corpus which date from the first and second centuries AD for the cities of Pergamon, Ephesus, and Smyrna reflect the intense rivalry between 103 these cities over the title of prw&th )Asi&av. An early set of o(mo&noiacoins occur between Pergamon and Ephesus sometime after 83 AD in Domitian’s reign. Kampmann surmises that such coins were issued as a result of Ephesus’ becoming a neokoros for the Flavian Imperial cult, along with Olympian Games, sometime around 86 AD. The issuing of o(mo&noia-coins between the two cities was in recognition of the 104 change in Ephesus’ status and ranking in the province. Having an Imperial cult temple and being able to list among one’s titles neokoros 105 was a key factor in securing the highly prestigious title. Another series of coins during Trajan’s reign sometime between 112 and 117 AD reflect the fact that Pergamon had won the right to an unprecedented second Imperial cult temple, to Trajan. Pergamon highlighted the fact that it was not only “twice neokoros”, but the first in Asia Minor to 106 have that title by virtue of its temples to Augustus and Trajan. The o(mo&noia-coins reflect these changes in the ranking of the cities in the 107 province and their attempts at negotiating its acceptance. The ranking of cities was important for the festivals and provincial councils in which an official procession from the Imperial cult temple, a meeting of the delegates of the cities, and common a sacrifice at the temple altar all made statements about which cities could lay claim to power in 108 the province. Political harmony could often become the first victim at such joint sacrifices as the delegates from each of the cities asserted their claims over those of the others, with none being willing to com109 promise. The establishment of o(mo&noia between the leading cities was therefore an important part of negotiating power within the political structures of Asia Minor during the first and second centuries. Along with other important social and political institutions like patronage and benefaction, the o(mo&noia-politics which was connected with the Imperial cult was a fundamental dynamic in inter-city diplomacy under Roman rule, and leading citizens along with most other segments of the population would have been familiar with the idea

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from their daily intercourse in trade, business, or simply in their handling of coinage. The connection between the Roman propaganda of peace and concord and the reaction of provincial elite to Roman rule can be seen vividly in the iconography and imagery of the Imperial cult and the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east. Was Ignatius familiar with these struggles between the Asian cities for power and prestige, and did he know of the rivalries these competitions for primacy elicited among local provincial aristocrats? Did he understand the symbolic potency that Imperial cult temples portrayed in cities across the Greek east? A look at some of the images and metaphors he employed to convey his own interpretation of the necessity for o(mo&noia in the Churches he wrote to will allow us to come to certain conclusions about Igantius’ familiarity with the pageantry of the Imperial cult and the building projects rival cities wasted themselves on, and the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east which advertised the imperial peace in the civic life of the cities of Asia.

Images and Metaphors of the Imperial Cult in Ignatius Ignatius’ Epistle to the Ephesians is an appropriate point of departure for assessing the possible allusions to the Imperial cult in his writings. Ephesus was the seat of Asia’s newest neokoros, as we saw above, and the city’s regional prestige and power were now invested in exciting new ways in their quest for primacy among Asia’s other leading metropolises. If the imagery of the Imperial cult can be found in Ignatius’ letters, they may very well be found in his letter to that city. The first image comes from Ign. Eph. 4.1–2. Situated near the beginning of the epistle, this section is not only rich in allusions and metaphors, but it serves as an expanded interpretation of Ignatius’ prothesis for the whole letter in 3.2: “I have therefore taken the initiative to encourage (parakalei~n) you, so that you run together in harmony (suntre&xhte) with the mind of God (th?~| gnwmh| tou~ Qeou~). For Jesus Christ, our inseparable life, is the mind of the Father, just as the bishops, appointed throughout the world, are the mind (gnw&mh| ei)sin) 110 of Christ.” Here we see from the very beginning of his letter to the Ephesian Christians the important role allotted to the bishop in Igna-

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tius’ conception of the Church. They represent the ‘mind of God’ and are described elsewhere as a ‘model (tu&pon) of the Father’ (Ign. Tral.3.1), and fill the role in their localities that Christ is for the whole Church, the “Bishop of all” (Ign. Mag.3.1). Leaving aside the theological problems associated with Ignatius’ conception of the bishop and 111 the Church, there are some important social and cultural issues that confront us right from the start. First of all, Ignatius’ preference for gnw&mh, “purpose”, as opposed to qe&lhma, “will” is noteworthy because it reflects the use of a term employed in the political arena by civic 112 leaders, and not the familiar Jewish conception of the “will of God.” The term gnw&mh might also be used to describe ‘unity of purpose’ or ‘being in one accord’, not only in secular literature, but in the New 113 Testament as well. Ignatius’ exhortation to the Ephesians that they all “run together in harmony” (suntre&xhte) with “the mind (gnw&mh) of God” points to just such a politicized use of a term common in political fare not only since the days of Demosthenes and Isocrates, but 114 more recently in Plutarch and later Aristides as well. Ignatius emphasizes the importance of unity with the bishop because “Jesus Christ…is the mind of God, just as the bishops…are in the mind of Christ” (Ign. Eph. 3.2). These elements of typology and representation are important characteristics shared with the iconography of Christianity’s rival institution, that of the Imperial cult. In his evaluation of the Imperial cult and Church order, Allen Brent has proposed the following reconstruction for Ignatius’ creative use of typologies. Brent believes John’s liturgical order in Rev. 4–5 was based on Jewish-Christian liturgical models, developed in contra115 cultural antithesis to the Imperial cult. He sees liturgical similarities in Ign. Eph. 4.1–2 and Rev. 5:8 and argues that in Ignatius’ thinking the bishop presided on the throne surrounded by presbyters in the Eucharistic act of worship in ways analogous to the scene painted by 116 John the seer in Rev. 4–5. For Ignatius, the bishop stood as the tu&pov patro&v (Tral. 3.1). Ignatius, and possibly John, viewed the Churches addressed as having corporate persons represented in the visiting delegations of bishops in Ignatius’ epistles (Ign. Eph. 1.3; Ign. Mag. 2.1; Ign. Tral. 1.1) and the Angels in John’s letters to the seven 117 Churches (Rev. 1:17–4.22). Brent argues that Ignatius’ new paradigm in which bishops, presbyters and deacons represent typologically the Father, the Apostles and Jesus Christ is not drawn from Jewish, but from pagan images. Domitian’s reforms of the cult of Jupiter

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Capitolinus included crowns which were worn by the flaviales and which bore images of Jupiter, Minerva and Juno, and Domitian, whereas Domitian himself wore a corona aurea that had only the images of the three Capitoline gods (Suet. Dom. 4). This scandalous implication went along with Domitian’s other famous reform, the public address of his person as Dominus et Deus (Suet. Dom. 13). In Brent’s reading of Ignatius’ metaphors and images, the Bishop, Presbyters and Deacons contra-culturally represent the analogous typoi of God: the Father, the Apostles, and Jesus Christ, in conscious opposition to 118 the Capitoline triad. Brent’s thesis is both creative and controversial. For one, it involves a broad view of Ignatius as an austere eastern charismatic, whose mysticism was new both to Polycarp and the Romans, neither of whom fully knew what to do with him. It also has a specific interpretation of Ignatius’ procession to Rome that we will mention only briefly here. Brent theorizes that Ignatius’ journey to Rome was re119 invented, staged as a counterpoint to Imperial cult processions in which he saw himself as the sacrifice (a)nti&yuxon) to be offered on the altar (qusiasth&rion) in the Flavian amphitheater in Rome in imitation 120 of the Eucharist. Similarly to Schoedel, Brent believes that the entire parade of Ignatius to Rome was constructed in order for him to “gain support” along the way, and to secure the loyalty of the churches he interacted with for the purpose of sending ambassadors to congratulate the Antiochenes on their regaining “peace” from internal dis121 cord. It was a kind of vindication of his position as bishop in Antioch after an internal disruption that resulted in his conviction; a view shared by P.N. Harrison who was one of the first to see behind Igna122 tius’ Epistles the problem of discord, and not persecution. Our interest in Brent’s reconstruction is two-fold. First, his comparison of Ignatius’ imagery with that of the Imperial cult illustrates the bishop’s familiarity not only with the surrounding culture, but with the specific icons and ceremonies of the Imperial cult as well. The relationship between o(monoi&a and the Imperial cult thus finds an interpreter in Ignatius, who saw a more profound o(monoi&a revealed in the hierarchies of the church. Secondly, Brent’s view of Ignatius appears to be more human, more culturally nuanced by the influences of his region and era than other reconstructions, which have tended to ignore the person of Ignatius, or glide over him with dismissive apologies for his neurotic fixation on martyrdom, and concentrate instead

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on the kinds of historical reconstructions that could be gleaned from his letters in order to support positions for or against arguments regarding early catholicism, the monarchial episcopate, or the date of the New Testament. His perspective takes seriously Ignatius’ genuine intentions as well as that very human penchant to manipulate the circumstances for ones own view of the greater good. There are some problems with Brent’s interpretation of the procession that we will look at below, but with regard to Ignatius’ use of the images and icons available to him, Brent’s insights will prove valuable. In Ign. Eph. 4.1–2 we experience the richness of Ignatius’ ability to recruit popular images for the purpose of his theological affirmations: “Thus it is proper for you to act together in harmony (suntre&xein) with the mind of the bishop, as you are in fact doing. For your presbytery, which is worthy of its name and worthy of God, is attuned to the bishop as strings to a lyre. Therefore in your unanimity (o(monoi&a)| and harmonious (sumfw&nw|) love Jesus Christ is sung (a!|detai). You must join this chorus (xoro&v), every one of you (kat’ a!ndra) so that by being harmonious (su&mfw&noi) in unanimity (o(monoi&a)| and taking your pitch from God you may sing in unison (e(no&thti) with one voice (fwnh~| mia~|) through Jesus Christ to the Father, in order that he may both hear you, and on the basis of what you do well, acknowledge that you are members of his Son. It is, therefore, advantageous for you to be in perfect unity (e(no&thti) in order that you may always have a share (mete&xhte) in God.” (Ign. Eph.4.1–2)

The passage is filled with metaphors that allude to images common both to the New Testament and the surrounding culture. The language of unity predominates, and underlying Ignatius’ affirmation of the ordered and hierarchical unity that believers share as members of Christ’s body, the language of the Pauline epistle to the Ephesians 123 and Clement’s letter to the Corinthians echoes clearly. But we also hear the echoes of that pagan revival embodied in the worship of the Roman Emperors. The chorus sings to the lyre, both are tuned to the god, leaders, elders and worshippers all reflect the unity and harmony secured for them by the deity, and demanded of them by the guarantor of their security. Brent describes the components of the ritual of the Imperial cult, which involved hymn singers (u(mnw|doi&) who made up the chorus (xo&rov), and who extolled the divinized quality of Impe124 rial unity, namely O(mo&noia. Imperial cult choruses were often made up of influential members of the city, as an inscription from Ephesus 125 reveals, and many participated in important celebrations, such as the birthday of Sebastos Tiberius Caesar at Pergamon, where they

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sang a hymn, performed sacrifices, and conducted the festivals and 126 feasts. Thus the image of choristers singing to the god involved a degree of honor for the participants. One of Brent’s theories regarding the importance of the rituals of the Imperial cult festivals is the interpretation that at the heart of the Imperial cult lay a belief that the pax deorum had been achieved by an extraordinary act of augury by Octavian (Augustus), who thereby had inaugurated a golden age characterized by o(mo&noia, or Concordia Augusta, which personified the virtue that symbolized the Roman peace 127 and was identified with Augustus. The pax deorum that had been secured by Augustus and which was repeated in the mysteries of the Imperial cult was maintained by the priests who performed the rituals and ceremonies. Though this may well have been the case under Augustus, we have seen how succeeding emperors were at pains to associate their religious iconography with Augustus as well as augment 128 and substantiate it with other elements, such as Concordia. We have seen how on the coins of Vespasian, various combinations of Concor129 dia appeared not only in Rome but the Greek east as well. When we come to the time of Domitian and read of priests wearing the notary crowns with images of the Roman gods and Domitian and leading the emperor’s eastern subjects in celebrations, it is no longer simply of peace, but of concord as well. Augustus’ augury was in succeeding reigns supplemented with appeals to other virtues, including con130 cord. The images represented on the crowns of the Imperial priests were, according to Brent, reflected in Ignatius’ exhortation to the Ephesians, but with a counter-cultural protest that transferred all the metaphors to Christ, the Father, and the Church. It was in the gathered communities of the Churches, and not in the temples of the Imperial cult, where the o(mo&noia of Christian faith destroyed the works of the devil, establishing true peace and an end to all wars not only on 131 earth, but in heaven as well (Ign. Eph. 13.2). In this reading, Ignatius’ superior claims are not arbitrary, but emerge from a conscious contrast between the Cults of the Emperors and the worship of Christ. It is in the latter that Ignatius finds his significance, and in which he hopes to be found worthy to reach his goal and be poured out on the altar prepared for him in Rome around which the Christians there will gather and sing to the Father in Jesus Christ (Ign. Rom. 2.2). Summoned from the east, the bishop of Syria will set in the west, to rise

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again with God. Having been a mere noise (fwnh&), he will have become a word (lo&gov) of God (Ign. Rom. 2.1). The imagery is profoundly that of worship, and in Ignatius’ mind, his march to death involved a reification of the rituals of the Imperial cult, such that the procession, the sacrifice, the altar and the chorus all represented images from pagan worship redefined by Ignatius as an Eucharistic celebration by the Church. Such an interpretation of the imagery in Ignatius’ letter to the Ephesians leaves us with an appealing alternative to the labored attempts at discerning a gnostic myth entangled in the symbols of his 132 disjointed paragraphs. Along the same lines, there are other images that Ignatius may have consciously appropriated. One such image may have been the one evoked in Ignatius’ letter to the Ephesians involving a procession (cf., Ign. Eph. 9.2; Ign. Magn. 7.2): “So you are fellow pilgrims (su&nodoi), carrying your God (qeofo&roi) and your shrine (naofo&roi), your Christ (xristofo&roi) and your holy things (a(giofo&roi), adorned (kekosmhme&noi) in every respect with the commandments of Jesus Christ…” (Ign. Eph. 9.1–2)

Brent’s reconstruction of Ignatius’ journey to Rome involves the image of his journey as a procession, analogous to the processions that were common fare in the cities of the Greek east on festival days and celebrations of the Imperial cult. According to Brent, Ignatius imagined himself as a leading part of his own procession, bearing the image of the Father at the head of the procession, and surrounded by other participants and celebrants in the holy parade. This procession to Rome where Ignatius would be offered as a sacrifice (a)nti&yuxon) on the altar (qusiasth&rion) in the arena in imitation of the Eucharist and surrounded by the chorus of the Roman Christians there represented 133 an alternative, rival cult to that of the emperors. Processions were indeed common to the religious rituals and celebrations not only of the Imperial cult, but of many gods in the pantheon of pagan deities, as we have seen. The festive character of processions and their association with athletic competitions, feasts and sacred rituals brought the disparate parts of the city together not only in the theatres and avenues, but often symbolically, as the procession wound its way 134 through the major parts of the city, linking them together. The participants in the processions filled various roles including, among other 135 elements, a host of “bearers” of sacred objects and icons. Guy Rogers has noted that in the procession funded by Salutarius, over 31 such

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images were carried through the city by the various classes of the aris136 tocracy from the Magnesian gate to the temple of Artemis. In such sacred processions, the first group might consist of priests who carried the sacred objects of the god (hence qeofo&roi) while others carried the various objects of the cult (thus i9erofo&roi). Ignatius may have been comparing himself as the qeofo&rov of the tu&pov tou~ patro&v (Ign.Tral. 3.1) to the qeofo&rov of the Imperial cult who bore the ei1kwn 137 of the Emperor. This may have been reflected in Ignatius’ own selfdesignation as o( kai_ qeofo&rov in the Inscriptions to all his letters. Leading the procession and bearing the tu&pov tou~ patro&v as the qeofo&rov, Ignatius made his way to the qusiasth&rion e(toi&mon (Ign. Rom. 2.2) in Rome being joined along the way by the various Churches who processed with him as i9erofo&roi, a(giofo&roi and xristofo&roi (Ign. Eph.9.2). This martyr-procession is supposed to 138 have mirrored the cult of the Emperors in antithesis. There is much to be said for Brent’s reconstruction. The presence of images and metaphors of the Imperial cult is clear. But other possibilities besides the processions of the Imperial cult may have influenced Ignatius, as we have seen. The image of a procession was 139 common in the Greek East, and this was especially the case in Ephesus where processions such as Salutarius’ foundation myth for Arte140 mis in Ephesus were frequent occurrences. The newly acquired Imperial cult temple to the Flavians and the temple to Artemis were powerful icons that dominated the symbolic space of the city, and processions had the ability to make public statements about the images and icons that represented the structures of power in the city. Rogers examination of the interplay between Ephesus’ Ionic past and its Roman present displayed in the foundation myth as its participants processed from the Artemesion through the upper city that housed the Imperial cult shrines, down through the lower harbor that was decorated with the traditional icons of Ephesus’ Ionic past, and back to the Temple outside the walls, highlights the relationship between rulers and ruled. Founded by C. Vibius Salutarius in AD 104, the procession involved 31 different images born by over 250 participants, mostly ephebes, and moved symbolically through the hierarchies of power in the city. One of these was a statue of the goddess O(mo&noia. Ignatius very likely knew of processions such as these, and that i9erofo&roi, a(giofo&roi, naofo&roi, and qeofo&roi that filled the city streets could be reinterpreted by him to reflect the identity of the Ephesian Christians.

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He need not have been physically in Ephesus for these images to have been pungent; processions were common fare in the Greek east and there were likely corollaries in Smyrna where he met the Ephesian representatives. Whether Ignatius was merely borrowing the common imagery of Greek religious processions, or consciously imitating the iconographic representations of specific ones, such as that of the Imperial cult (Smyrna had had one since the time of Tiberius) or that of C.Vibius Salutarius in Ephesus, it is clear that Ignatius was appealing to images that were familiar to his hearers from their surrounding Culture. In Ign. Eph. 9.1 we are confronted with a further set of images, and are reminded that both metaphors, that of large-scale building projects and festive religious processions, were the visible elements of public life in the Eastern cities during the late first and early second centuries, especially in such metropolises as Smyrna and Ephesus: “…you are stones of a temple (li&qoi tou~ naou~), prepared beforehand for the building of God the Father, hoisted up to the heights by the crane of Jesus Christ, which is the cross, using as a rope the Holy Spirit; your faith is what lifts you up and love is the way that leads to God.” (Ign. Eph. 9.1)

Public building projects, financed by benefactions from local elite, were the new vehicles of display and self-promotion among Greek provincials under Roman rule. But processions, too, were contexts in which the hierarchies of power were described visually for the participants and observers of the event. Processions were in fact ideal for making statements about the power configurations of the city since 141 they drew large crowds. The Greek east witnessed a surge of reconstruction and transformation which radically altered the civic landscape of the their cities from the beginning to the end of the second century. Ignatius’ journey through Asia coincided with these same movements, and it is not unreasonable to suggest that his fertile mind could have made use of such visible examples. His admonitions against discord and for unity with the officially instituted authorities has analogies not only with the imagery and rhetoric of the Imperial cult, but with some of the elements that are reflected in the o(mo&noiacoins of the Greek east.

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Ignatius and the o(mo&noia-Coins: noia Ign. Magn. 5–6 noia In the previous example, we saw how the metaphors Ignatius constructed for creating visual symbols of o(mo&noia for the Asian Churches reflected a familiarity with the essential elements of the celebrations of the Imperial cult that were common fare in the Greek East. Does he also reflect some awareness of the minting of o(mo&noiacoins between rival cities in Asia Minor? An evaluation of this possibility may offer further support to the view that Ignatius was familiar with the concept in its contemporary and popular uses early in the second century, and that he was willing to adapt and transform its meaning for the purposes of edifying the Church. In his letter to the Magnesians, Ignatius writes: “Seeing then that all things have an end, two things together lie before us, death and life, and everyone will go to his own place. For just as there are two coinages, the one of God and the other of the world, and each of them has its own stamp impressed upon it, so the unbelievers bear the stamp of the world but the faithful in love bear the stamp of God the Father through Jesus Christ, whose life is not in us unless we voluntarily choose to die into his sufferings. Since, therefore, in the persons mentioned above I have by faith seen and loved the whole congregation, I have this advice: Be eager to do everything in godly harmony (o(momoi&a| qeou~), the bishop presiding in the place of God and the presbyters in the place of the council of the apostles and the deacons, who are most dear to me, having been entrusted with the service of Jesus Christ…. Let there be nothing among you which is capable of dividing you, but be united with the bishop and with those who lead…” (Ign. Magn. 5–6)

It is not difficult to sense in this passage the overwhelming concern Ignatius had for order and unity within in the Church. What surprises us is his use of images and metaphors that appear to have a distinctly secular provenance. The image of the coinage is not new, for Jesus himself is recorded as having used the coinage metaphor to distinguish between what belonged to God, and what belonged to Caesar (Matt.22:19). Neither is the “two-ways” exhortation, which was popu142 lar in both Hellenistic Judaism and early Christianity. But the im143 age seems to have had a more nuanced meaning in Ignatius’ letter. The coins (nomi&smata) are each impressed (e)pikei&menon) with their own stamp (xarakth~ra) upon them (5.2), the one with the stamp or character of God, the other with the stamp or character of the world.

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Could this coinage metaphor be referring to the o(mo&noia-coins of Asia Minor that were current at this time? Magnesia’s close proximity to Ephesus (about 14 miles) certainly allows for the possibility that citizens from Magnesia could have been aware of the very familiar o(mo&noia-issues between Ephesus, Smyrna, and Pergamon, as early as 144 Domitian’s reign. The rivalry of such great cities did not discourage smaller ones like Magnesia or Nysa to inscribe their claims on coins to have been ‘sixth’ or ‘seventh’ city of Asia in the Imperial cult proces145 sions (propompei&a) led or shared by the first three. As has been noted, the cities of Asia Minor may have produced as many as 24 million such coins during the reigns of Augustus through Gallianus, 146 originating from over 160 cities. These issues were not merely token productions, but were bronze issues that would have been used in the commerce of everyday life, and the leading cities like Smyrna, Ephesus, Pergamon, Nicomedia and Nicaea minted huge stocks of such bronze 147 asses (obols) which were roughly equivalent to Roman dupondii. The popular silver Cistophoroi (= 3 to 4 denarii) were also minted in the cities of Asia Minor, often at festivals where the Impe148 rial cult would have been celebrated. But what could Ignatius’ have intended by referring so obliquely to these popular coin-issues? Would his readers have made the association between the o(mo&noiacoins minted to assuage rival cities in their battle over titles and primacy, and the dangers of discord in their own churches? A look at his argument following his reference to the two coins in 5.2 may give us some answers. Ignatius begins his exhortation (parainw~) in 6.1 with the following words: “be eager (spouda&zete) to do everything in the concord of God (o(monoi&a| Qeou~).” First, it is worth noting that Ignatius’ rendition of the term follows the same scheme as the o(mo&noia-coins. From the many issues that are available, this familiar word ordering can be seen: o(monoi&a| in the dative and the names of the two cities in the geni149 tive (i.e., the concord of Ephesus and Pergamon). Is this perhaps another instance of Ignatius’ contra-cultural use of images, emphasizing a o(mo&noia whose guarantor is God as opposed to the emperor? As with Imperial concord, the concord of God, or ‘godly concord’ means for Ignatius respecting and submitting to the structures of authority established in the churches, with the bishop representing God, the presbyters, the Council of the Apostles, and the deacons with the ministry of Jesus Christ (6.1). By conforming to God, they will be united

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with their bishop, and in avoiding any divisions and submitting to those who preside (prokaqhme&nou) over them, they will be an example and lesson of immortality (6.2). Ignatius uses the image of Christ’s submission to the Father as a parallel for the congregation’s submission to the bishop and presbyters, where there is no room for false teaching or actions, but all things are done in unity (7.1). In a similar manner, loyalty to Rome was symbolically portrayed among Greeks through the support of the Imperial cult. By offering the trappings of respect and obedience to the emperor’s proxy in the imperial shrine, Greeks were submitting to Rome’s authority; likewise, by offering obedience and respect for God’s agents, the bishop, Christians were showing their obedience to God (cf., Ign.Eph. 6.1) The idea of submission to the representatives of the divine power occurs in tandem with calls for greater unity in the next section. Ignatius’ encomium to unity is reminiscent of the language and style of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians 4:1–6, in particular the repetition of ei[v, mi&a, and e3n. The Pauline pericope was also an exhortation (parakalw~) in which the writer encouraged the members of the churches to be eager (spouda&zontev) to maintain unity and oneness. Ignatius’ exhortation to avoid independence from the recognized leaders in the Church and his recommendation that they gather together (e)pi_ to_ au)to&) where there can be “one prayer (mi&a proseuxh&), one petition (mi&a de&hsiv), one mind (ei3v nou~v), one hope (mi&a e0lpi&v) with love and blameless joy, which is Jesus Christ…” (Ign. Magn.7.1) indicates a connection between the two that seem to mirror popular cultural no150 tions expressed on o(mo&noia-coins. But there may be more than this implied, for Ignatius points to the source of all this unity and joy in Jesus Christ. It is perhaps such genuine unity to which the Christians were called that is intentionally contrasted with the superficial and at times somewhat obligatory unity that was enforced in the public celebrations of the Imperial cult. This seems to be confirmed in the final image in this section, which is one in which the entire congregation is portrayed as hurrying to one altar and one temple where they worship the same Jesus Christ who comes from and returns to one Father (7.2), evoking the worship at the Imperial cult temple with clear connections to the language of 151 o(mo&noia and the rhetoric of Imperial unity through the Emperor. The Provincial assembly of Asia decreed in 9 BC that Augustus had ushered in peace and a golden age, and the virtues of Pax and Concor-

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dia (e)irh&nh and o(mo&noia) were associated with his person. The image of people coming to one altar and one temple also reminds us of the unique place of the Imperial cult in the religious life of the Greek cities. Though it had merged with many elements in the pantheon of pagan worship of the gods, it stood out as a unique celebration where loyalty to the Emperor and Rome were affirmed. Ignatius may have been reifying images and activities the Hellenistic Christians of Asia would have been familiar with for the purpose of offering an alternative symbolic world for Christians to adhere to: that of the uniqueness and centrality of Christ. Ignatius closes with a farewell to the Magnesians: “All the other Churches greet you in honor of Jesus Christ. Farewell in godly harmony (o9monoi&a| qeou~) to you who possess an undivided spirit (a)dia&kriton pneu~ma), which is Jesus Christ.” (Ign. Magn.15). “In the concord of God” (o9monoi&a| qeou~), again, the inscriptions on so many of the o(mo&noia-coins that were dispersed through Asia by the various cities, is recalled, and an “undivided” spirit reminds us of the kind of unity that Ignatius exhorted the other Churches to (Ign. Eph. 3.2; Tral. 1.1; Rom. Insc.; Phld. Insc.). Ignatius’ use of the imagery of the o(mo&noia-coins, his paeon to unity with the leaders of the Church in the worship of God, and his closing farewell in o(monoi&a| qeou~ provide us with suggestive nuances to the reading of Ignatius letters that may support a view of his willingness to use the images available to him and his readers that were current in the surrounding culture, and apply them to the Church in contrast and antithesis to the predominant meanings they carried for Greco-Roman culture in general. As our thesis implies, Ignatius’ uses of the term were normative in as much as they reflected the general tenor of contemporary uses and unique in the specific ways he used the term to comment on issues specific to his context.

Conclusion The Imperial cult had burgeoned from its pious beginnings after the Civil wars to its propagandistic and proliferated state following the 153 Flavians not only in the east, but in the west as well. Fragile on its own, the Pax deorum augured by Augustus was in constant need of reaffirmation and interpretation, and virtues such as salus, felicitas and concordia were needed as buttresses in the iconography of succeeding

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emperors and dynasties in order to provide the language and symbols needed to maintain the delicate balance between compliance and resistance that existed below the surface of the official Pax Romana. Ignatius and his hearers were subjects of that peace and participants in the balance of power that involved public opinion, religious propaganda, the patronage of provincial elite by Romans, and above all the attempt to maintain unity in the compliance of Rome’s many subjects to the Imperial ideology enshrined in the cult of Emperors. Brent’s thesis, that Ignatius not only understood these dynamics but consciously interpreted his journey to Rome as a contra-cultural reification of the icons of the Imperial cult so that his procession to Rome and sacrifice on the altar of the arena in the Flavian Amphitheater imitated in antithesis the rituals of Emperor worship which were common in the Greek east, provides us with a helpful interpretive perspective with which to begin our examination of Ignatius use of the terminology and imagery of o(mo&noia. The resemblances of Ignatius’ metaphors with the popular o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east allows us to view Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia as more than just a coincidence of language. The connection between the Imperial cult and o(mo&noia gives us the confidence to begin to explore the fullness of meaning involved in Ignatius’ own use of o(mo&noia. Ignatius’ use of the term involved both a familiarity with its public meaning and application, but also a willingness to expand it to the cosmic realms of his vision of the life of the Church. In that context, it became a vital metaphor for a unity that was primarily spiritual, but which was rooted in the same contexts of community and authority that he found mirrored in society, where compliance and resistance to appointed leaders, whether the Emperor or the Bishop, were the daily dangers that had to be negotiated. In the next chapter, we will look at how the policies and propaganda of Nero and the Flavians contributed to the rise of a cultural and literary movement in the Greek east known as the Second Sophistic. In the writings of some of the movements leading lights, o(mo&noia featured prominently. An evaluation of how the writers of this age used the term will serve to sharpen our understanding of the meanings attached to it during the time of Ignatius. By looking at specific examples of how contemporaries of Ignatius such as Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch and Aelius Aristides used the term in their writings, we will be able to round off our understanding of the meanings that were at-

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tached to the term in the Greco-Roman world of Ignatius’ day, and begin to look at the kinds of images he hoped to convey to his readers in his letters. While concord was primarily juxtaposed with discord in the public and political worlds that Ignatius lived in, we will want to see if we can discover what Ignatius was juxtaposing concord with, and what some of the underlying issues were that he viewed as threats to the Churches he wrote to.

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The Literary Context of o(mo&noia in the Second Sophistic and Related Literature Introduction In the last chapter we saw how o(mo&noia and Concordia re-emerged under the Flavian Emperors as terms with fresh currency in the politics of their age. Minted on coins, inscribed on statue bases and plaques, and symbolized in the processions and ceremonies of the Imperial cult, o(mo&noia took on renewed iconographic appeal, propelling it into the public domain as a watchword for Imperial peace, especially in the Greek east. As a part of our attempt to develop the necessary background for understanding Ignatius’ use of the term o(mo&noia, it will be helpful at this point to evaluate how the word was used and understood among the leading writers and orators of the Empire. A contemporary of Ignatius, Dio Chrysostom is one of our best sources for understanding what o(mo&noia meant during the Principate for Greek provincials. His political speeches in Asia Minor provide us with some priceless glimpses into the world of the non-elite under Roman rule. Though he was one of the favored sons of his day, his speeches to the cities in his native province of Bithynia were made before both his peers and his inferiors. He is a particularly helpful source for defining what o(mo&noia meant in Ignatius’ age because he 1 lived in virtually the same time frame that the Syrian bishop did. His oration (Or. 38) to the two leading cities of his province allows us to see how rivalries (often over the Imperial cult) effected cities in their

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relations with one another, as well as how o(mo&noia was used by a beneficiary of Imperial power for both his own ends and those of Rome. We will also look at how another orator, Aelius Aristides, used the language of o(mo&noia to address the three leading cities of asia at the provincial koinon, where among other festivities, the Imperial cult was celebrated. Dio and Aristides serve as bookends to a period in Roman history when the rhetoric of concord had found its widest and most popular application among the cities of the Greek east. It continued to be minted on coins and inscribed in public after their time, but by the end of the second century, the golden age of the Antonines had begun to tarnish, and a new era of confusion and collapse would unmask the rhetoric of o(mo&noia for the fragile promise that it had always been. We will end with a look at how Ignatius utilized the language of concord within the structures of authority and power in the Churches he wrote to, and attempt to evaluate to what degree he was influenced by the rhetoric emanating from the provincial elite of his times, who had been so successful at re-coining the Isocratean slogan of o(mo&noia within the structures of authority and power that characterized the subjugated cities of the Greco-Roman world they operated in. But in order to get a feel for the ‘spirit of the times’ that brooded beneath the pages of their writings, it will be useful to take some account of that broad movement among Greeks 2 under Roman rule known as the Second Sophistic.

The Second Sophistic and O(mo&noia: oia The Golden Past of a Silver Present As early as the first century BC, the beginning of a nostalgia for the Greek past can be discerned. Roman ‘attici’ whose passion for the pure Greek of the classical ‘attic’ past, embraced the style of the 3 ancients and passed it on to contemporary Greek orators. Emerging in Asia, but centered in Rome around the atticizing of Dionysius of Halicarnassus during the Augustan period, this literary taste for the golden past of Greece came to full force during the mid- second 4 century AD in the period known as the ‘Second Sophistic’. Its main proponents were the sophists, orators whose paidei&a in the literature of fifth and fourth century Greece, made them the intelligentsia of the 5 Greek world. Archaism in thought, and linguistic atticism in writing,

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were not simply artistic developments between the late first century BC and the early third century AD, but constituted a cultural movement among the Greek elite in which their past was re-explored, reinvented, and re-devised in order to understand and interpret their 6 unfavorable status in the present under Roman rule. Though this obsession with the Greek past should not be viewed as consciously ‘anti-Roman’, there was certainly an element of ennui with Roman hegemony, and possibly even some fear among the Greek elite that Latin threatened to supplant Greek as the lingua franca of the 7 Mediterranean world. An intentional disregard for Rome can be seen in the limits sophists set on their exposition of the past. From the mythical times of Agamemnon to the equally mythical past of Alexander the Great, sophists lived and breathed the ethos of attic Greece, imitating its orators and historians as if they still existed in 8 the present. Arrian of Nicomedia is an illustrative example. Although he served as a Roman procunsol over Cappadocia in the mid- second century AD, his own history of Alexander the Great was modeled on the Anabasis of Xenophon, and he refrained from making any 9 comparisons with his own Roman present. This tension between power in the present, and an identity shaped by the past was a constant issue for the sophists of the Greek east, many of whom shared favor with and owed their status, wealth, and 10 positions to the patronage of Roman Emperors. In fact, the close relationship between sophists and emperors, and the rise of the ‘Second Sophistic’ does not seem to be coincidental. Emperor Hadrian was a hellenophile, patronizing the Greek cities of the east and entertaining sophists such as Polemon of Smyrna, while Trajan befriended orators like Dio Chrysostom and Pliny the Younger who exhorted him on the virtues of princely moderation (memories of Domitian still being 11 fresh). Dio even chanced to share the chariot of Trajan in one of his Triumphs (Philostr. Vit. Soph. 488). The famous relationship between Herodes Atticus and the Emperor Marcus Aurelius highlights the freedom of speech sophists enjoyed (Philostr. Vit. Soph. 561). Sophists often played the role of intermediaries and ambassadors on behalf of their native cities, due to their access to Imperial favors. Dio Chrysostom successfully negotiated certain benefits from Trajan for his hometown of Prusa in Bithynia (Or. 40), while a mere letter of Polemon, read before the Emperor after his death, was enough to win favor on behalf of his city Smyrna (Philstra. Vit. Soph. 540). Under

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Antoninus Pius, Aristides addressed the three leading cities of Asia, Ephesus, Pergamon, and Smyrna on behalf of the Emperor Antoninus Pius for the purpose of negotiating concord, and putting an end to their rivalry (Or. 23). Though Greek sophists were often ambassadors to the Emperor on behalf of their cities and also shared in political influence in their home cities, they were not primarily engaged in the political events of 12 their day, and few of them actually held high office. In fact, it would be a mistake to overlook the fact that the very thrust of the ‘Second Sophistic’ was in response to the political disempowerment which Greeks felt they were enduring at the expense of Rome. It was the impotence and stagnation of Greek culture that Roman rule and the Pax Romana had dealt that led their educated elite to dwell on the past 13 with such nostalgia. It is important to bear in mind that the posturing and pandering to crowds, one another, and in the end, to their Roman superiors, all took place within the reconstructed world of the Greek past, which, though taken seriously by orators and audiences alike, was still a world quietly acknowledged to be under the hand of Rome, who alone dictated the events and politics of the day. They were, in the end, performers in a world of their own construction, whose rules they manipulated and whose rewards were often measured in applause, and in exemptions from public liturgies. Their stage was not that of the proconsul’s chair or the Bh&ma where the a!rxon pre14 sided, but the theatre, and to their own cliques of pupils. As a literary and cultural movement among provincial elite in the Greek east, the Second Sophistic revived the virtues and values of the classical Greek past and gave them a contemporary application, whether for the purpose of entertainment and flattery, or with genuine conviction. In the case of their use of o(mo&noia, some important observations can be made. While concordia was advertised among the virtues of Roman emperors and was used to describe relations within the Imperial household, its essential meaning can best be understood in the context of the propaganda of Empire, from the point of view of the rulers. O(mo&noia, on the other hand, had a more regional application and flavor and tended to reflect the importance of concord in local and provincial relations that could often be subject to heated rivalries and conflicts, and primarily reflecting the perspective of those under Rome’s authority, as we saw in the last chapter. However, Imperial concordia and provincial and civic o(mo&noia were closely related. In

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fact, most of the o(mo&noia-coins which appear in the Principate had a 15 connection, if not explicitly, with the notion of Imperial concord. This is confirmed by the fact that most o(mo&noia-coins bore the image of the Emperor or Empress on the obverse, and the relevant city-gods 16 on the reverse. Another close connection has already been pointed out: that of sophist and Greek elite as ambassadors or advisors to the Emperors. In Dio’s orations on ‘Kingship’ (Or. 1–4), he gives a view of kingship that is thoroughly informed by Hellenistic and platonic views of the 17 ideal monarch. They paint a picture that evoked the near-mythical stature of Alexander the Great; the noble monarch of an eastern mold that Trajan may have modeled himself on. Polemo was famously endured by Emperors in actions which lesser lights would not have survived, and wrote the appeal that won the Smyrnaens rights over her rivals Ephesus and Pergamon (Philstr. Vit. Soph. 535; 540). Not long after, as we have noted, Aristides was employed by Antoninus Pius to attempt reconciliation by the leading cities of the Province, delivering a speech on concord at the provincial council of Asia (Aristides, Or. 23). The real impact these Greek sophists might exercise, however, was at the local level, interceding between cities, before city councils, and on behalf of cities before the Emperor, for various privileges or promotions. Dio’s Bithynian orations (which we will look at more carefully below) reveal a lively involvement in the details of local city politics, and his appeal to the civic virtues of the Greek past reflect the characteristic sophistic habit of recycling of the values of a brighter 18 age (Or. 39.8). Pliny’s letters to Trajan also reveal the amount of turmoil, rivalry and mismanagement which occurred in the province 19 of Bithynia-Pontus to which he had been especially commissioned. These matters appear mundane, but reflect the meticulous involvement of provincials with Roman governors. Contemporaneously with Pliny’s correspondences with Trajan were many of Dio’s Bithynian orations, in which these civil troubles are confirmed. Popular disorder and private rivalries existed throughout the cities of the province, and at times, the formations of cabals for the purpose of discrediting and 20 even prosecuting an unscrupulous governor were coordinated. In all these encounters, Greek elite played a major role, and the skills of a talented sophist were often employed for restoring order and submission to Rome (cf., Dio Chrys. Or. 40.22–24).

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O(mo&noia also found its advocates in private circles. Plutarch, whose parallel lives are filled with anachronistic (sophistic?) references to the importance of o(mo&noia in Greek and Roman history, also offered private advice to an aspiring young aristocrat whose ambitions were leading him into political life in his Precepts on Statecraft. He warned of the necessity in city politics to be mindful of Roman sovereignty, but also warned that too many appeals for Roman intervention would ultimately lead to a compromise in the civil liberties of the city (814 A–C, F). The problem of discord was a serious issue, and Plutarch discerned its root in the rivalry among leading citizens (815 A). For him, the greatest responsibility of a statesman was to instill concord and friendship among those who made up the polis, and banish far from it strife, discord and enmity (824 D). Echoing the great themes of Isocrates and Plato, Plutarch praised the civic virtues of the past, where the greatest blessings of a state were peace, liberty, prosperity and concord (824 C). The reality, however, was tempered by Rome’s control over most of these elements, and in a telling dose of realism Plutarch sums up the true role of a Greek aristocrat under Roman rule: “…he will instruct his people both individually and collectively and will call attention to the weak condition of Greek affairs, in which it is best for wise men to accept one advantage—a life of harmony (o(mo&noia) and quiet—since fortune has left us no prize open for competition. For what dominion what glory is there for those who are victorious? What sort of power is it which a small edict of a proconsul may annul or transfer to another man and which, even if it last, has nothing in it seriously worth while?” (Precepts on Statecraft,. 824 E–F).

Dio Chrysostom, too, lamented the weak state of Greek politics in which rival cities strove against one another for the sake of winning from Rome the title “first” of the province. In fact, Dio knew these rivalries to be supported by the Romans, who sought to control the cities of the provinces through mutual competition. Their yearning for titles was actually a source of derision, among the Romans, who mockingly termed the competition for honors among the Greeks, e(llh&nika a(marth&mata, ‘Greek failings’ (Or. 38.38). In some cases, such as Plutarch, there were some who thought that real debate and civic vitality should be discouraged (Plut., Precepts on 21 Statecraft, 825 A–D). But others, such as Dio Chrysostom, who sur-

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vived Domitian’s reign and who played an important part in disseminating the propaganda of Trajan’s ‘new age’, still held out hope for some limited autonomy. In his home province of Bithynia-Pontus he was involved in many of the webs of power that the provincial elite were enmeshed in, and offers us an important insight into the vitality of local city politics in the Greek east, aside from the fact that he is also one of our most comprehensive literary witnesses to the use and meaning of o(mo&noia at the beginning of the second century AD. His political orations were given throughout the Greek east in cities like Nicomedia in Bithynia to Alexandria in Egypt and reveal the important role orators still played in securing a degree of autonomy under Roman rule. They also reveal how politics could be used as a tool for furthering their own careers. A brief look at Dio’s 38th Oration on concord will allow us to sample the spirit of the times in the middle of Trajan’s reign and catch a glimpse of some of the webs of power that leading provincials had access to and how this shaped his understanding of o(mo&noia. Though Ignatius probably did not have access to the same circles of influence that Dio and the sophists had, he may still have been influenced by their rendition and application of o(mo&noia.

Dio Chrysostom and the Politics of O(mo&noia Dio Chrysostom’s 38th Oration is a valuable source for understanding what Greek politicians and moralists of the first and second centuries AD meant in their use of o(mo&noia as a way of describing healthy civic relations. Dio was no stranger to civil discord and neither were the Greek cities of Bithynia and Asia Minor, the primary audiences for his 22 political Orations. His use and discussion of o(mo&noia as a political and social virtue gives us helpful insights into the way Greek citizens and politicians interacted with one another when it came to civil discord within their cities and with those cities that were their rivals. Dio’s 38th Oration is the longest extant description of the value and character of o(mo&noia as a political and social virtue that we have from antiquity and his political involvement as a spokesman for o(mo&noia in other Bithynian cities makes him a valuable source for our understanding of the idea as it was used in the later half of the first 23 century and the early second century AD. When Dio took the floor to make his speech on the virtues of o(mo&noia to the assembly at Nicomedia, he came with certain motives,

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motives that were peculiar to his position in society and to his status as a Greek aristocrat with Roman connections. On the one hand, Dio came as a fellow-citizen and honored guest of the assembly of Nicomedia, having been recently granted citizenship in their council (38.1). As such, Dio had an obligation to offer them something in re24 turn for their honoring him with citizenship, and he used this opportunity to advise them on “matters of greatest importance” (38.2). But Dio was not only keen to satisfy the obligations that were involved in maintaining relationships of honor with the Nicomedians, he had genuine sympathies at heart for the welfare of Bithynia as a whole and must have seen the utility in advising Bithynia’s leading metropolis on 25 such issues that could affect the welfare of the rest of the province. Swain notes that Dio was very aware of how disunity between the leading cities of the Province could weaken the Provincial koinon and allow unscrupulous governors to get away with crimes against both 26 (38.36–37). It was this particular issue that Dio seems to have been most dedicated to resolving. The problem of Roman intervention in the local affairs of Greek cities was not only lamented by Dio but by others as well, noticeably Plutarch in his Precepts on Statecraft in which he warns against constant appeals to Rome by cities for a settlement in their disputes with one another as a sure route to curtailing their freedoms (Precepts, 814 F). Dio himself knew first hand of the dangers involved in dealings with Roman governors (38.37; 43.11), and the trials of Julius Bassus and Varenus Rufus were stark reminders of how provincial councils could both exercise power and be in27 timidated into compliance. Dio’s speech reveals some characteristics of each of these motives to a lesser or a greater degree. This mixture of both personal and political ambition makes his address so intriguing: Dio was dependent on Rome for his personal status and prestige even if he harbored pro-Bithynian loyalties. But the delicate balance between compliance and resistance he was forced to negotiate was a characteristic exercise in the Greek world of the Sophists during the 28 Principate. Dio begins his oration by acknowledging the Nicomedians’ gift of citizenship, and the attendant responsibilities, making it plain that he does not intend to reciprocate in the roles of benefactor or flatterer, but as a counselor to the city on important matters (38.2). After cautiously introducing his theme (o(mo&noia with the Nicaeans), Dio offers his plan of address (38.8) taking the posture of a physician dealing

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with a sick patient (the two cities). The discord between Nicomedia and Nicaea had mounted in intensity to such a degree that he could describe o(mo&noia as something the Nicomedians felt was impossible to consider with the Nicaeans (38.6). Undeterred, Dio proceeds with an encomium to o(mo&noia, revealing much about his own anthropology and cosmology, and especially the influence of Stoicism in his view of 29 the world. Concord, Dio proclaims, has its origins in the very genesis of the “greatest of divine things” and that it is the same as friendship, reconciliation, and kinship (38.11). Concord unites the elements, and is the blessedness which the gods share in common and which mortals always fail to achieve because of their propensity for choosing strife (sta&siv). Dio compares o(mo&noia with the harmony that characterizes both family and social relationships, and firmly roots it within the ba30 sic institutions of the Greek politei&a (38.15). Dio’s cosmology assumes an ordered conception of the social relationships that make up his world. In this scenario, he stands very near the apex, with the other aristocrats of the Greek world, followed by the citizens and commoners, and lastly the barbarians and beasts of the world in de31 scending order of importance below him. He can therefore describe those who engage in wars and conflict as “wild beasts” (38.17) and those who strive after vainglory as foolish, not perceiving the difference between false and genuine glory, unlike the educated man (38.29). Dio’s suspicion at the value of warfare may have been a veiled sleight at Rome along with the other Greek cities (38.16, 24–25). He subtly places the philosopher above the spectacles and propaganda of warfare, and seems to be offering the Nicomedians, as true Greeks, a 32 means of exceeding the nobility of their superiors. Dio’s celebration of concord is also tied with the idea of peace and general human happiness and welfare, creating an idyllic picture of order and civic harmony resembling a festival (38.43). Dio’s scheme is revealing. Setting concord among the fundamental building blocks of the cosmos (38.11), he discerns it’s presence in the fabric of family and human relationships (38.16) and its absence to be in wars and conflicts (38.17) as well as natural calamities, which Dio sees as the gods’ warnings to humans to live in harmony with one another (38.18). Dio moves systematically from the basic components of life, through family and social relationships, Empire, and finally to the divine, where concord finds its consummate sanction.

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Dio proceeds by assessing the reasons for the discord between the two cities (38.21). O(mo&noia along with its many noble attributes was no doubt valued by Dio genuinely. However, we learn that o(mo&noia was also about power, and had bearings on the inter-city politics of the province. The struggle for power was the reason for their discord. But it was not the struggle for real power, but for “primacy” (prwtei~on) that they fought (38.24). This struggle was common to the Greek east, 33 as we saw in the last chapter. Dio’s examination reveals one of the strange peculiarities of inter-city discord that was characteristic of this time: the cities were generally very similar ethnically, religiously, and culturally (38.22–23), and yet they were all the more vehement in their competitiveness for titles of honor. This was especially the case for Nicomedia and Nicaea. Separated by no more than 60 km, and composed of virtually the same ethnic populations, their rivalry was 34 chiefly one among ‘relatives’. Yet their quest for primacy was vindicated, some claimed (38.24) by the example of Athens and Sparta, and their own battle for primacy. Dio uses this example against the proprimacy party in Nicomedia, however, first of all by reminding them of the results of that conflict, and secondly by mocking the comparison. While Athens and Sparta contended for primacy in the Aegean, their battle managed in the end to rob them both of primacy and their 35 freedoms (38.25). Furthermore, they were striving for Empire in their battle for primacy, quite unlike Nicomedia and Nicaea, both of whom were subject cities (Or. 38.33 ff.). In fact, Dio notes that the battle for primacy is actually a sham; it is the battle over a title, regardless of the facts (38.30). Louis Robert’s insights are helpful for our understanding of what may have been behind this struggle. While Nicomedia alone bore the title of mhtro&poliv, it shared the title of 36 prw~th, ‘the first’, with Nicaea. This was a source of some consternation to the former royal capital of the Bithynians, and their ambition 37 was to be the sole possessors of the title. By the third century, they had achieved their desire, and after the defeat of Pescinius Niger by Septimus Severus, Nicomedia had the titles erased from the inscrip38 tions in and around Nicaea. These internecine competitions were a source of trouble for the governors as late as the time of the Antonines, and forced Rome to interfere and inevitably, restrict the freedoms 39 (and power) of the cities. Dio was aware of this, and his exhortations to concord between the cities reflect this concern.

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Dio addresses the Nicomedians’ intention of trying to recover the primacy from Nicaea by uncovering the real lack of power and meaning involved in their ambitions (38.27–28). He notes that Nicomedia will not receive tribute from the Nicaeans (as the cities of the Delian League paid to Athens), nor will they change Nicaea’s status as an as40 size district, nor will they garrison Nicaea, or receive the ‘tithes’ of 41 Bithynia ; in short, Nicomedia will accrue no enhancement of its power in the province (38.26). Simply to be ‘inscribed’ or ‘registered’ (e)pigrafw~men) as first has no value, Dio asserts, unless it is really true; and if it is not, then the title is only a source of vanity (38.29– 30). But if Nicomedia wishes to have real power, real ‘primacy’, then there are other avenues open to them. As the mhtro&poliv, Nicomedia has a special role to play in the province which it’s striving for primacy 42 could compromise. Instead of alienating Nicaea through its struggle for primacy, Nicomedia ought to deal moderately and fairly with her (38.31). And in regard to the other cities of the province, Nicomedia has the power to benefit them all because of their harbor and prox43 imity to the sea. This advantage Dio advises them to share by giving open rights to all the cities of Bithynia, and not to scatter favors and privileges to only a few (38.32). Secondly, as the mhtro&poliv they have the ability to lead the province of Bithynia by example before the governors, showing not only a concern for their own welfare, but for the welfare of the whole province (38.33). By doing so, Nicomedia would give the governors “occasion to respect you” and it is this power that Dio holds up as primacy that is genuine (38.33). By joining forces with Nicaea, they would be able to control all the cities of Bithynia (through the provincial council) and pose a much more serious deterrent 44to provincial governors “in case they wish to commit a wrong” (38.34). In Dio’s eyes, their rivalry was actually robbing them both of what little power they had (38.34). While they struggled with one another, they were forced to abase themselves in the provincial koinon in order to court the favor of the other cities in the province (38.35).45This was the problem in their present situation with the governor. Because Bithynia’s two leading cities were rivals, the governor was free to commit all kinds of crimes against the province as a whole simply by courting the favor of one city against the other (38.36). They spoil themselves on property seizures of private citizens, commit all types of injustices, and finally create a mockery of all their crimes by handing the title of primacy (prw~toi) to one of them, and treating them all as

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if they were the very last (e)sxa&toiv)! Whereas the Athenians and Spartans fought for empire, the present struggle between Nicomedia and Nicaea is merely over the right to lead the procession at festivals and Imperial cult ceremonies (38.38). Instead, Dio hoped that if the two cities would strive after the realities behind the titles as opposed to the mere titles themselves (38.40), both the Nicomedians and the Nicaeans might have twice the prosperity they possessed on their own. Dio may even have been hinting at a form of i0sopolitei&a, which we earlier saw connected by some 46 with the whole enterprise of o(mo&noia-coins. He envisions Nicomedia and Nicaea bound in fraternal harmony, each supporting the other with benefactions and goodwill so that Bithynia will be filled with men of honor and justice (38.42). Dio builds his vision on the fact of their common ancestry and ties of family and blood and makes his most emotive appeal by dissuading them from the barbarity of conflict and enjoining them to “look each other in the face…listen to each other…[and] clasp hands together” (38.47). Such language reminds us of the Roman image of clasped hands (dextrarum junctio) symbolizing Concordia (Tac. Ann.). He saw the potential for greater political unification of the Greek communities of Bithynia in the reconciliation 47 of the two cities based on “a perception of shared Greekness.” Dio’s hopes extended beyond the boundaries of Bithynia, however, as he considered the possibility of unity with other Greek cities in Asia such as Ephesus and Smyrna (38.47). His vision for the two cities verged on a form of pan-Hellenism that characterized the expectations of his class who remembered the past, but understood that o(mo&noia in the 48 present was ultimately a gift of the Romans. Maintaining o(mo&noia did offer benefits for the Greeks in so far as it kept Roman interference in local and civil affairs at a distance. This was advantageous to the ruling elite, of whom Dio Chrysostom was a member, and may have been the reason why he was so committed to propagating his 49 message of o(mo&noia to the cities. In this sense, o(mo&noia was about power, especially if it could be mustered against a provincial governor who was malevolent towards the province, and as an aristocrat in the power configurations of the Greek east, Dio was interested in consolidating as much power as was available to him. In the Graeco-Roman world of Dio Chrysostom, honor and power were intertwined in the rituals and institutions of patronage and clientele as well as the civic politics of o(mo&noia, and for aristocrats like him, the rhetoric of con-

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cord was a useful tool in the struggle to please Rome and appease her 50 local interests. Dio’s 38th Oration offers us an example of how an orator from the provincial elite during the Principate used the rhetoric of o(mo&noia in the context of local civic politics for various purposes. He was concerned to foster genuine concord among the inhabitants of the province, and between these two cities in particular, for the dual purpose that concord would foster an increase in their prosperity, and keep Roman intervention in their private and public lives at a minimum. However, Dio was also concerned, as a Greek aristocrat who benefited from Roman rule, with convincing his hearers to accept the status quo and not resist the institutions of power (to which he belonged) that had been set over them. He was very much a mouth piece of Imperial policy but he managed to use the rhetoric of concord as a kind of power language to foster his own position in the webs of power around him. In this sense, he was much like other ancient speakers on 51 politics and the city. His example allows us to see that during his time, o(mo&noia was nuanced by a hierarchical understanding of civic unity that was meshed with the propaganda of the Emperors. Such an understanding of o(mo&noia that was shaped more by Roman policies than it was by Greek memories can also be seen in the writings of another Greek orator of the east, Aelius Aristides. Though a citizen of Smyrna, he was also a citizen of Rome on his father’s side, and his writings are examples not only of the purest attic in an age of koine, but also of praise to Rome in the extreme. A look at some of his uses of o(mo&noia will allow us to see how one of the later advocates of Greek paideia under Roman rule used the language of concord as a reminder of Greek virtues and as an instrument of Roman policy.

Aelius Aristides and the Discord of the Cities Born in 117 in Mysia, Aristides, with his father, likely received Roman citizenship under Hadrian around 131–132 AD, when the Emperor 52 founded the city of Hadriani. He was educated under the brightest lights of his day, such as Alexander of Cotiaeum, tutor to Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, Aristocles of Pergamon and the Athenian superstar, Herodes Atticus (Philstr. Vit. Soph. 582). Like most sophists at the time, Aristides accepted the permanence of Roman

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rule; a rule which benefited his social class, but which was primarily 53 conceived as administrative—not cultural. Aristides spent the first decade of his career in ill-health, as an incubant at the temple of Asclepius in Pergamon, where he commiserated with other upper54 class provincials and Romans in convalescence. It was during this time that his close devotion to the god Asclepius developed, and the rest of his life and career would be punctuated with images of this devotion. Eventually, he emerged from poor health to become one of the leading orators in the East, evidence of which may have been the many liturgies he had to work hard to avoid, as cities across Asia 55 sought to oblige him and his wealth into benefactions. Aristides eschewed the pomposity of much of contemporary public declamation, and was one of the most careful and committed purists 56 in the use of classical attic Greek. He addressed M. Aurelius successfully while he was in Smyrna in 176 AD, after he kept him waiting for several days while he was meditating on a single thought (Philostr. Vit. Soph. 582). Later he interceded on behalf of Smyrna for help after 57 a devastating earthquake, bringing Marcus Aurelius to tears with his impassioned appeal, and later still had the chance to address Marcus 58 Aurelius’ son Commodus (Or. 21). He was a gifted orator, and he approached his art with care: “Aristides was of all the sophists most deeply versed in his art, and his strength lay in the elaborate cogitation of a theme; for which reason he refrained from extempore speaking” (Philostr. Vit. Soph. 585). In one of his most famous orations to Rome (Or. 27) a clear sense of his appreciation for the order and prosperity Rome had secured is evident, and sets the background for his perspective on Rome and the east for his oration to the cities of Asia regarding their unfortunate discord (Or. 23). Throughout Or. 27, Aristides draws on poignant allusions to Platonic conceptions of the ideal state, as well as more contemporary historical evaluations of Roman rule in order to paint a picture of Rome, in the language of the stoics, as the soul of the World, holding the diverse elements in har59 mony, and establishing a golden age for all the earth. The oration celebrated in particular the Antonine ideal of the Pax Romana: a worldwide peace and a universal civilization, presided over by the be60 neficent rule of the Emperor. The encomiastic eulogy to Rome may have endeared him to Roman Imperial favors, but should not for that reason be regarded as mere flattery. According to Oliver, the Roman oration is one of our most valuable insights into how Greek provin-

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cials in the middle of the second century AD viewed Roman rule over 61 the Greek world. For Greek elite during the second century, Rome was more than just a new representation of power which had to be interpreted into the context of Hellenism, it was a stabilizing force which guaranteed prosperity, security and their own positions of privilege. Failure to recognize this was a danger that men like Dio and Aristides made sure their audiences did not fall into. Two orations which specifically focus on concord are Aristides’ th 24 Oration to the Rhodians on internal concord, and his 23rd to the Cities of Asia on concord with one another. Boulanger believes that the Rhodian was delivered first, sometime during his ten years of ill62 ness. The 23rd Oration peri_ o(mo&noias was delivered in 168 AD at the 63 provincial koinon meeting in Pergamum (23.13), almost two decades after his predecessor, Polemon, had interceded successfully on behalf of his city in the same debate: which city should have the primacy 64 (Philstr. Vit. Soph. 539–540). In the case of Or. 23, we have an especially valuable example of how the Imperial cult and concord were of65 ten connected in the propaganda of the day (23.66). In both orations, Aristides followed the common genre for the concord speech imitating such orators as Gorgias and Isocrates in the classical age, and Dio Chrysostom and Apollonius of Tyana in more 66 recent times (Dio Chrys., Or. 34; 38; Philostr. Vit. Apol. 4.8). In the Rhodian (Or. 24) Aristides offers a typical concord speech with the conventional elements. Advocating concord within a city was common fare for the orators and sophists of the Hellenistic world, and Aristides 67 appears to offer his advice with no special exuberance. Chiefly, he advocates a return to the status quo; that the rich should not be 68 greedy, and that the poor should be obedient (24.33–35). Aristides’ warning to the chief cities of Asia was one that Dio had offered the cities Nicaea and Nicomedia not long before: unless the discord was resolved, Rome would do the resolving herself (24.22). For Rhodes, there was the symbolic status of their constitution to uphold. They retained a degree of freedom under Rome that other cities in the east did not, and their discord, Aristides warns, could have worse effects on the city than a recent earthquake has had; it will rob them of their status as a free city (24.3). In characteristic fashion, Aristides draws on the familiar examples from classical antiquity, describing how faction kept Athens and Sparta mediocre cities, but how concord made them leaders of the Greeks (24.24–26). He also reminds them of more

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contemporary events: because of their faction Greeks became subjected to Rome, not, the implication seems to suggest, because of Rome’s superior power (24.29). To sum up, Aristides is content with traditional eulogies to concord. To remind the Rhodians of the benefits of concord and the vices of discord fulfills Aristides obligations in the public capacity of a political apologist. It is for the Rhodians to decide how they will behave in the future (24.42). Aristides’ 23rd Oration relates very clearly to the issues we have noted in the last chapter, regarding the rivalry and discord which erupted in Domitian’s reign between Ephesus, Pergamum and Smyrna. It is helpful for our purposes to have his oration, since it offers us an expanded perspective on the numismatic evidence, and gives us some clues regarding the use and usefulness of the o(mo&noia ideal over a period of more than eighty years. Charles A. Behr has divided up the Oration helpfully, and his suggestions for the order of the oration will be taken into account. He divides it into eight sections: 23.1–7 Prooemium introduces his topic in typical sophistic fashion; 23.8–26 an encomium to the province of Asia and the three leading cities, Pergamon, Smyrna and Ephesus; 23.27–40 an exhortation on the advantages of concord and the disadvantages of discord; 23.41–52 offer typical examples from classical Greek history (e.g., Sparta and Athens); 23.53–58 Aristides points out that faction is a greater threat to their freedom and prosperity than war; 23.59–64 there is no real power available to the Asians; 23.65–79 there are instead great advantages in holding things in common (koi&nov); 80 Peroration, summing 69 his hopes, and offering his oration for public discussion. Pergamum received the first Imperial cult temple for the province of Asia under Augustus in 27 BC to celebrate Roma and Augustus, and Smyrna shortly thereafter under Tiberius, to Livia, the Senate and Tiberius (Tac. Ann. 4.15). Finally, in 89 AD, Ephesus received the cult of the Seba&stoi, and with this success began to mint coins bearing “twice neokoros” on them, igniting the overt rivalry between the three leading cities of Asia over the “primacy”, the right to call themselves prw&te A!siav. Begun under Domitian, the competition for titles increased in intensity, necessitating Imperial intervention under Antoninus Pius, and moving Aristides under Marcus Aurelius to renew efforts at brokering concord between the three rivals. When he took the floor of the provincial assembly in Pergamum, Aristides was consciously addressing the koinon of Asia as such, seeking to minimize

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rivalries, and aware of the political ramifications their discord could have. Often, it was at provincial assemblies, when representatives of all the major cities of the province were gathered to celebrate the festival, games and sacrifices, in honor of the Emperor that rivalries 70 spilled out into full view. Ironically, such conflicts could surface when delegates began taking their places in the procession to or from the Imperial cult temple, wrangling over who should lead, and where 71 the others should be placed. Merkelbach suggests that this is the context for Aristides’ 23 Oration. Agonic competitions and festivals were fundamental components of the celebrations associated with the Imperial cult (Cass. Dio. 51.20.6–9), and Aristides himself associates the 72 two categories in his wonder at the rivalry between the cities (23.12). In another important work on the relationship between o(mo&noia-coins and agonic festivals, Leo Weber notes the interesting coincidence between the development and growth of the Imperial cult, and the ap73 pearance of o(mo&noia-coins. As the Imperial cult evolved and sought to give a unifying sense of connectedness with Rome in the provinces, o(mo&noia emerged as an important symbolic ideal through which this 74 unity might be cemented between the major cities of the East. Throughout the oration, Aristides uses the term koi&non to refer to the common riches of Asia, in terms of her temples, her games, her 75 cities, etc. Merkelbach notes that Aristides’ commitment to classical attic vocabulary prevents him from using a lot of contemporary technical terminology, but that his emphasized use of koi&nov makes it clear that his theme throughout is the commonality of the rival cities’ pos76 sessions and benefits. Aristides’ emphasis on the term koi&non connects with a theme he has propagated elsewhere: in his Roman oration (27). Oliver suggests that Aristides viewed Rome as the leader of a League of Greek cities, replacing the defunct Amphyctionic League, and establishing a kind of international community in which Rome guaranteed law and order for the Greeks in ways that Athens, 77 Sparta and Thebes had failed to (27.51). Rome ruled the world in a way that promoted peace and prosperity (27.60), and has provided a rule of law that has ended the rivalries between the Greek cities (27.69). Central to his theme is Aristides' suggestion not simply that Rome ruled best, but that her rule served mankind the best, rewarded the best men from all nations duly, and created a harmonious international community of men and cities under her superior constitution (27.34; 59; 66; 90). Consistently, Aristides uses the adjective koi&nov to

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describe the world Rome has created (27.7; 11; 60; 78; 85; 100). The idea of Rome as a leader of a League of cities (27.60; 61; 100) appealed to the classical model of Isocrates, who himself appealed to 78 Philipp to be a leader of the Greeks. The term o(mo&noia is missing from Aristides’ Roman oration, but the idea is not. What Rome has established in its new “world League” is a kind of o(mo&noia the classical Greeks had not yet even dreamed of, though Alexander may have anticipated it. Perhaps Aristides avoids discussing o(mo&noia among the Romans because it was unnecessary to his encomium. O(mo&noia was a particularly Greek aspiration. Though Emperors from Augustus on had meted out a concordia, dependent in large degree on their persons, it was not an issue for Rome in her relation with other cities, since she ruled over them. The need for o(mo&noia was clearly at home in contexts where equality was a possibility, or at least where hegemony had not been decided as comprehensively as it had with Rome. In Pergamum at the provincial koi&non, o(mo&noia was a live issue, and one which Aristides could freely promote. Aristides’ praise of concord and criticism of discord are conventional. We have seen them before in Dio Chrysostom (Or. 38). His appeal to the examples of Athens and Sparta were anticipated by Dio. The tenor of the Oration reveals his loyalist stance vis a vis Rome, and is full of commendations regarding Rome’s authority, and the benefits 79 her rule has provided (23.62; 23.9–11). His veiled warning that concord pleases Rome allows him to propose that the greatest city among them would in fact be the one which first initiated o(mo&noia with the others (23.79). Aristides, notes Swain, was perhaps a bit more careful in his allusions than was Dio in his Oration to Nicaea and Nicomedia (38). Dio grounds his emphasis on the benefits of o(mo&noia in the common culture which the two cities share, and the common benefits, including warding off bad governors, that they might take advantage of (Or. 38.22; 46). Aristides appears to feel safer in generalities, and emphasizes instead the benefits which Rome has made available 80 (23.27–40). Many of these benefits, however, are those very things Rome has bestowed on them which they share in common, such as Temples, games, and council chambers (23.66). The whole debate over primacy is ridiculous, since their discord concerns the very benefits which Rome has bestowed on them for their common glory. That the common Imperial cult and the common festivals should be a source of discord for the province is remarkable. Instead, they should

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adorn themselves with harmony, for this is their greatest protection and glory (23.76). Not only do they have the heavens and nature as an example to them of harmony (23.77), they have the two Emperors, Marcus and Lucius who rule the whole world together in perfect concord (23.78). Here we are reminded on what basis o(mo&noia was guaranteed in Imperial times: it was a benefit bestowed by the Emperor. Not only did creation operate smoothly in all concord, but human affairs ought to be ordered and pursued in imitation of this concord, the supreme example of which the Imperial house displayed. This conception of concord had become a feature of Imperial propaganda since Augustus, and ultimately governed conceptions of it among Greek orators as well. The cultural and administrative trends towards centralization initiated by Augustus, but accelerated under the Flavians, had reified the ancient icon for civic and social equality among the Greeks. Under Rome, o(mo&noia had become a technical term in the power language of Empire; it called forth obedience to the authorities, mandated the status quo, referred to philosophical ideals embodied by the Emperors, and ultimately, came from above. O(mo&noia was something to enter into, to submit to, something to avail oneself to under the provisions of Roman rule. It was not a process of mediating conflict and finding common ground, as it had been in ancient Greece. This was, however, a key feature of the second Sophistic. Ancient ideas were transformed under the necessities of the present. The other option in such cases might be to remain in the past, where the ideals of another age remained free from change. Many did so, but those who ventured forward and brought their ancient treasures into the public arena, saw them clothed with Roman armor and recruited into the service of Roman power. Aristides’ appeal for concord among the Asian cities and within the city of Rhodes makes this clear. Under Roman rule, the status quo was secure as long as Roman power was respected. Greek elite in the east saw this very clearly. Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch and Aristides all dredged up the language of Athens to warn their contemporaries of the present dangers of slighting Rome. While Plutarch and Dio may have been more subdued in their appreciation of Roman rule, Aristides was a more convinced beneficiary. Dio and Plutarch had endured the ugly years of Domitian and were aware of the continued infringement on local politics by Rome under Trajan; Aristides, however, lived under the Antonines, where the tyranny of the past had relented in the

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face of a golden age of peace and prosperity. Concord between the cities was still necessary to win the favor of the Emperors (23.79), but Aristides no longer saw discord with the eyes that Dio had. The chief threat for Aristides was that the Emperor’s lieutenants, the governors, might justly punish the cities for their foolhardy discord (23.62–64), while for Dio, the threat of unscrupulous governors who fostered discord for their own ends and branded [the cities] “a pack of fools” by their reward of titles (38.37) robbed aristocrats like himself of what little political power and dignity was left to their cities (38.33). In his own times, Roman curatores such as Pliny interfered with local selfadministration as they carefully evaluated the chaotic finances of cities that competitive building projects likely fostered by local rivalries had damaged (cf., Pliny, Ep. 17. A, B; 23, 24). While Dio advocated concord in order to salvage some self-respect among the cities of Bithynia-Pontus under Roman rule, Aristides did so with the view in mind that times of peace and prosperity had been inaugurated by Rome, and that discord threatened the natural harmony the Emperors had established. Both of them, however, promoted concord as beneficiaries of Roman rule: they were provincial elite with Imperial connections, and discord threatened the benefactions they could secure for their provinces, and thereby curtail their own claims to privilege and status among their co-citizens. In the Imperial era, concord often carried with it this double thrust: Concord comes from Rome and pleases her when her subjects live in harmony, and concord maintains the status quo of peace and prosperity, and secures the positions of power for all involved, in this case, the positions of local elite. They benefited the most from Roman rule in the provinces, and shared a collegiality with other aristocrats throughout the Empire, Greek or Roman, supporting and helping one another for mutual benefit, or attacking one another 81 in personal rivalries. It is not surprising, therefore, to see local elite as leading advocates for concord under Roman rule. We even catch a hint of the elitism, competition and self-concern that aristocrats like Aristides were not afraid to make in public. His great wish is that the cities of Asia heed his advice, as opposed to the other orators in the audience who had refrained from addressing the issue of concord: “Let me give you the best counsel with all good will and courage, and show you that it is not pointless to tell you these things, but that you know how to 82 make use of those who offer the best advice” (23.80).

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But where does such a view of the orator as a mediator of Roman concord leave us when we come to Ignatius of Antioch? He was certainly not a provincial aristocrat; his own condemnation and ignominious journey to Rome in chains and under guard paints this image for us clearly. And yet, we see in his uses of o(mo&noia and the accompanying terminology of concord that he seemed to have a hierarchical view of the society of the Church that mirrored in some ways that of the society of Rome. In his admonitions to the Churches, the idea of submission to the leaders rises to the fore, and his conventional uses of the terms and topoi of o(mo&noia indicate that he was familiar with the ways in which orators like Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides used the concept. A closer look at how Ignatius’ uses of the term reflected the use of o(mo&noia as it was nuanced by Rome and its protagonists will allow us to draw together more tightly the strings of meaning that have begun to emerge regarding how o(mo&noia was being used in the late first and early second centuries AD.

Ignatian o(mo&noia and Imperial Power Is it possible to see how Ignatius’ use and conception of o(mo&noia may have been influenced by the way it was employed and interpreted by the orators of the Greco-Roman world? We have seen how both Dio and Aristides reflected a Romanized interpretation of o(mo&noia that emphasized a hierarchical conception of society, with the emperor as the assumed authority in the background. He was the center piece around which the virtues of cosmic peace and harmony were clustered, iconographically in the rituals of the Imperial cult, and rhetorically in the concord speeches given by provincial elite. The media of sight and sound were recruited in the promotion of the empire, and were repeated like subconscious messages in order to stifle resistance, and manage the subjects of Rome into compliance. What elements, if any, of this interpretation of o(mo&noia does Ignatius seem to have employed in his exhortation to the Churches he wrote to? Does he affirm the conventional hierarchical conception of peace and authority? These and other questions will be addressed by looking at some specific examples from his letters, in particular, Ignatius’ letter to the Magnesians gives us a picture of how he sought to apply the images of power in the surrounding culture to the Church and its bishop.

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Ignatius begins by praising the good order (polueu&takton) of the church and moves into a prayer that there would be a unity (e1nwsiv) of flesh and spirit, faith and love, and Jesus and the Father (Ign.Mag.1.2). As was his custom, he greets the church through its emissaries, the bishop Damas, the presbyters who accompanied him, Bassus and Apollonius, and the deacon Zotion (2.1). This visualization of the church through its leadership is characteristic of Ignatius, and was a part of his goal of validating the leadership of the churches whose representatives visited him. We saw in ch. 2 the possibility that Ignatius, like John, viewed the leaders of the churches as representative figures for the whole congregation and this same idea seems to be borne out here. Zotion receives special praise for being submissive both to the bishop and the presbyters, who represent grace and law respectively (2.2). Ignatius offers the comparison that the bishop is to be respected in accordance with the power of God the Father, affirming that yielding to Damas is analogous to yielding to God, the Father of Jesus Christ and bishop of all (3.1). In fact, Ignatius proposes that deceiving the bishop is as much as trying to deceive God, and that giving lip service to his authority while flouting it by meeting without his blessing shows 83 up their lack of good conscience (ou0k eu0sunei&dhtoi). Ignatius strengthens his plea by using the metaphor of the coin (discussed in ch. 2), and moves on to his central concern, expressed in advice (parainw~) to the church: “Be eager to do everything in godly harmony (e0n o(mo&noia| qeou~), the bishop presiding in the place of God and the presbyters in the place of the council of apostles and the deacons…having been entrusted with the service (diakoni&an) of Jesus Christ” (6.1). This comparison of the bishop with God (or Christ) is common in the Ignatian letters, and represents one of Ignatius’ most important metaphors for authority in the Church. In the divine economy, the bishop mirrors the Father and the unity between the Father and Son stands 84 as a type for the unity of the bishop and the church. The call for unity, therefore, is based on an imitation of Jesus Christ’s submission to the Father, and it is in this context that disunity becomes such an 85 evil for Ignatius. This interpretation of Ignatius’ mystical view of the Christ and the Church may be viewed against the background of Imperial ideology as well, where the emperor was represented as the 86 head of the body of the state (Seneca, De Clem.1.5.1). Such a view suited Ignatius’ penchant for expressing his conception of the Church

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through popular images, but may also have included Christian influences such as Paul (1 Cor. 12) and Clement (1 Clem.37). Ignatius continues in 7.1. “Therefore as the Lord did nothing without (a!neu) the Father, either by himself or through the apostles (for he was united (h9nwme&nov w!n) with him), so you must not do anything without the bishop and the presbyters.” Instead of doing anything apart from the others, Ignatius encourages the Magnesians to gather together (e0pi\ to\ au0to&) in one prayer, petition, mind, and hope, and run together (suntre&xete) to one temple of God, one altar, and to one Jesus Christ (7.2). Connected with his comparison of the bishop and the Father, is his metaphor of worship at one temple. Schoedel expresses a growing consensus when he emphasizes the political background to Ignatius’ appeals for unity as opposed to the Gnostic: “…the bishop builds on ideas of concord and unity drawn from Greek political thought…” and that “Gnostic parallels are not the decisive ones for 87 our understanding of the theme.” Ignatius’ language of cultic worship is a further indication that he envisions the role of the bishop in elevated terms. His description of Christians running to one temple (nao&n) and altar (qusiath&rion) may reflect the kind of imagery utilized by the writer of the Apocalypse (Rev. 6:9; 8:3), or, as Schoedel has suggested, may have been a reflection of pagan images of the worship 88 of the gods. We also saw how there were important resemblances to these images in the iconography of the Imperial cult processions in Chapter Three. In Ignatius’ other use of qusiasth&rion (Eph. 5.2), the same context of unity lies behind his picture of the altar symbolizing unity with God and with the bishop. Lothar Wehr has argued that Ignatius’ use of qusiasth&rion had a Eucharistic meaning attached to it (in Ign. Eph. 5.2), and that the language of unity in which the image was set involved terms that belonged to a common semantic field for 89 describing unity or togetherness. The same connotations may be involved in the imagery in Mag. 7.1 where Ignatius is also affirming unity with the bishop as analogous to unity with God. Wehr has noted that Eucharistic imagery lies behind the reference to qusiasth&rion in our passage, and this may explain what one of the problems in Magnesia was: some refused to celebrate the Eucharist on “the Lord’s day” (kuriakh&n), and were instead keeping the Sabbath (sabbati&zontev) as their day of meeting. Theological differences were manifesting themselves in ways that threatened the unity of the church, and Ignatius sought to address this problem with the metaphors available to him.

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For our purposes, the imagery of concord that he used to convey his point appealed to a popular icon with elements that helped support his emphasis on unity with the bishop. The Imperial cult would have been an obvious metaphor for Ignatius to reify as a lesson of authority and order for the churches in Asia Minor, which was the province where the cult played such a dominant role in the civic life of the polis. Ignatius concludes his letter to the Magnesians by affirming another important concept shared with the propaganda of Roman hegemony: order. In 13.1 he exhorts the Magnesians to be firmly grounded (bebaiwqh~nai) in the precepts of the Lord, and then offers a set of antitheses that serve to sum up his conception of an ordered hierarchy: “physically and spiritually, in faith and love, in the Son and the Father and the Spirit, in the beginning and the end, together with your most distinguished bishop and that beautifully woven crown which is your presbytery and the godly deacons.” They are commanded to subordinate themselves (u9pota&ghte) to the bishop and one another, in imitation of how Christ submitted himself to the Father and the disciples to Christ, for the purpose of unity (i3na e3nwsiv h})| . Ignatius’ appeal to the Church is for order and harmony in conjunction with their bishop, presbyters and deacons, substantiated in comparison with the spiritual parallel of Christ and the Father, and the disciples and Christ, in order that the kind of unity they experience might encompass the whole of their existence—physically and spiritually. As if to paint them a final picture of unity, Ignatius offers them greetings from the Ephesian and Smyrnaen Churches, and from Polycarp, along with all the other Churches with which he is ‘together’ (a3ma). His parting words emphasize the leading theme in his letter to them— “Farewell in godly harmony (e0n o(mo&noi?a| qeou~) to you who possess an undivided spirit, which is Jesus Christ.” (15.1). In his letter to the Magnesians, we can see several ideas that may be understood in light of Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides’ appeals for concord. We see how important it was for Ignatius that the churches exhibit respect and obedience towards the Bishop. In 3.1 he recommends that they “give him all the respect due him in accordance with the power of God the Father.” By associating the bishop with God’s power, Ignatius implies that in order to honor and respect God, they must be willing to respect and honor the bishop, since this deference is not really to him (the bishop) but to “the Father of Jesus Christ, the Bishop of all.” Obedience to the bishop set Christians in the

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right hierarchical relationships within their community. Following the bishop are the presbyters and the deacons. In his letter to the Trallians he affirms this order and hierarchy and proclaims that without these three orders “no group can be called a church” (Ing.Tral. 3.1). Such a hierarchical view of authority was standard in the Principate and suited the stoic cosmology that legitimized much of the imperial propaganda. Dio and Aristides both were very concerned that their hearers accepted the structures of authority in place over them. Ignatius may have understood himself as an emissary, like them, acting on behalf of God (as they acted on behalf of the Emperor) to solidify order and concord in the Church. The role of ambassadors brokering concord was common in the Greek east from as early as the Hellenistic period when dikasts went from city to city negotiating peace between rival factions. Much closer to Ignatius in time and spirit was the apostle Paul, who understood himself in those very terms, as an ambassador of reconciliation (2 Cor. 5:18–20). We may conclude, then, that in Ignatius’ letter to the Magnesians there are important similarities with those admonitions offered by orators in the Principate in concord speeches directed at the assemblies of various cities in the Greek east. Ignatius’ understanding of concord appears to be informed by more than just local knowledge of the term. That is, his understanding of concord did not only reflect uses of the term in the Greek east, where o(mo&noia was something that communities themselves agreed on, but uses throughout the Roman world as well, where it had become associated with the power of the Emperor. We see this clearly in Ign. Mag. 6 and 7: Ignatius first exhorts the Magnesian Christians to agree in concord to submit to the authority of the bishop, presbyters and deacons. The image he paints is one in which the laity centers their common life on the hierarchical structures that serve their community, much as Isocrates had encouraged the Greek cities to be in concord with one another under the leadership of Philip of Macedonia. However, in Ign. Mag. 7 Ignatius transforms the image of concord emerging from the bottom up, to a concord that mirrored Imperial rule. Ignatius moves from a very Greek “do everything in godly harmony” with the bishop, elders and deacons, to a very Roman “do nothing without the bishop and elders.” He goes on to paint a cultic picture of a procession at a festival, where the whole throng of believers “run together” to “one altar” with “one prayer, one petition, one mind one hope” (7.1–2). This image may

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have reflected the processions of the Imperial cult, as we described them in the last chapter, but they also point us towards other influences which we will have a chance to examine later, since the language of this passage also reminds us of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, 4:1–6.

Conclusion In the last chapter, we saw how, under the influence of emperors from Nero to Trajan, o(mo&noia had become integrated into the iconography of Roman hegemony in the Greek east. In particular, we saw how the Imperial cult and the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east reflected this reification of a Greek political concept for the exigencies of the present. In this chapter, we have focused specifically on some of the literary developments that reflected this reified use of the our term, with particular reference to two writers, Dio Chrysostom and Aelieus Aristides. From our analysis of Dio’s 38th oration, and Aristides’ 23rd and 24th orations, we saw that among Greek provincials during the Principate, the o(mo&noia signified something more than the Isocratean concord that had been advocated between the various Greek cities in Classical times, and that along with submission to Roman rule, there was an element of personal advocacy for the status quo for the purposes of securing their own positions of power in the provinces. Ignatius was as concerned as Dio Chrysostom for order and concord in the communities he addressed. Both acted as unofficial emissaries for higher powers, and both directed their appeals at cocommunitarians. Like Dio, Ignatius sought to advocate a return to the status quo. He saw obedience to the bishop as a form of obedience to God, and he put together images and metaphors that may have recalled the worship of the Emperors in the processions and temples that were dedicated to them. Though he did not share in the benefits of Roman rule, Ignatius seems to have advocated a kind of o(mo&noia that the beneficiaries of Roman hegemony in the provinces voiced. Like Dio and Aristides, Ignatius saw, in the submission of his congregations to their officially-appointed leaders, important virtues. The concord he advocated, like that advocated by the sophists, was spoken into a world and context that was familiar with the iconography of the Imperial cult, the inscriptions and images of the o(mo&noia-coins, as well as the speeches heard throughout the Greek east in theatres and assemblies by the leading orators of the Empire. In the next chapter, we

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will probe a little deeper into the cultural and religious influences that may have shaped Ignatius’ understanding and use of the term by analyzing how Hellenistic Jews applied the term in their political writings.

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O(monoi/a in the Literature of Early Judaism: Philo, Josephus and 4 Maccabees Introduction We have seen that in the last decades of the first century and in the early decades of the second, concordia and o(mo&noia found new currency and meaning in both political and cultural contexts throughout the Roman Empire, but especially in the Greek east. We also saw how Ignatius’ letters reveal a familiarity with contemporary uses of o(mo&noia in the way he imitated the metaphors, imagery and meaning of the term as it occurred in the surrounding culture and in the speeches and writings of the Greek orators of the Second Sophistic. This cultural setting provides us with a useful background against which we can understand the broader meanings that were available to him from his environment. Even closer to Ignatius’ thought world than these powerful cultural dynamics were the influences of Judaism and Christianity. In this chapter, we will focus on three important Jewish sources that may have had an influence on Ignatius: Philo, Josephus, and 4 Maccabees. When we look at how Ignatius’ own thinking may have reflected their influences, we will focus primarily on the relationship between his letters and 4 Maccabees and their shared literary and cultural milieu. We will explore not only the relationship between their shared cultural context, but also their shared literary style, reflecting the rhetorical conventions of asianic rhetoric. It may be possible to see an affinity between Ignatius’ tendencies and Hellenistic Jewish tendencies when

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we look at how both picked up the term o(mo&noia to describe their conceptions of unity and peace.

The Use of o(monoi/a by Philo of Alexandria Philo lived and wrote in Alexandria during the early first century AD. His dates cover the period from 20 BC to about 50 AD, spanning much of the Julio-Claudian era. He was an important figure in the Jewish community and was chosen to lead an embassy before Gaius, but it was in the capacity as a thinker and philosopher that we find Philo only occasionally using the vocabulary of o(monoi/a, in spite of the fact that his political treatises dealt with the quintessential political 1 problems of peace and order. One may ask why Philo avoided the use of o(monoi/a in contexts which would seem to have been natural situations in which to use the term. Before we look at Philo’s uses of o(monoi/a, it will be worthwhile briefly to examine two of his political treatises, in order to determine what other words or concepts he chose to discuss harmony and concord in the civic realm with. Philo’s treatise In Flaccum attacked the policies and prejudices of Flaccus Avillius, prefect of Egypt appointed under Tiberius to succeed Iberus (Flacc. 2; Dio Cass. 58.19.6). His supervision of Egypt began well, but after the death of Tiberius and the accession of Gaius Caligula, the last of his six year tenure ended in distress for the Jews, and ignominy for Flaccus (Flacc. 8). Seeking to win the support of the Alexandrians after high-placed friends of his fell before Gaius’ suspicions, Flaccus allied himself with Dionysius, Lampo and Isodorus, all men of moral repugnance (according to Philo) who 2 together instigated the plot to attack the Jews (Flacc. 21). The Jews had incurred the disdain of the Greek Alexandrians in the past for having abandoned the Ptolemies, who had favored them, for the Romans, who rewarded them with privileges that the Greeks did not 3 share in. Though it is difficult to untangle exactly what caused the pogrom to break out, E.R. Goodenough suggests that the refusal of the Jews to set up images in honor of Gaius in their synagogues may have 4 been a catalyzing influence. Though In Flaccum was likely directed at a gentile, nonAlexandrian audience, his goal seems to have been a vindication of the divine protection of the Jews by God, as well as a warning. In accordance with the language of the day, Philo was careful to paint the Jew-

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ish community in the imperial terminology of Pax, while leaving the impression that the Greek Alexandrians were fully involved in seditio. In 48 he describes the Jews as eu} pro_v ei)rh&nhn and in 94 he calls them ei)rhnikoi& while in 44 he accuses Flaccus and the Alexandrians of “fanning the flames of sedition” (sta&sin) and threatening to fill the world with “racial conflict” (th_n oi)koume&nhn e)mfuli&wn pole&mwn e)plh&rwsen). Consistently, the Alexandrians are portrayed in the light of rebels and insurrectionists as in 24, when they are described as sedition makers (newteropoiou_v) and enemies of the commonwealth (koi&nouv polemi&ouv), or in 144 when Isodorus is described as an enemy of the peace (e)xqro_v ei)rh&nh|) and adept at creating factions (sta&seiv kai_ qoru&bouv). The Jews, just as consistently, are depicted as innocent, law-abiding and pious. In 99, Flaccus himself is even recorded as having described the Jews as being well ordered (kosmio&thta), a virtue the Julio-Claudians were eager to discover in their subjects. Philo does not, however, describe the Jews as possessing o(mo&noia, nor the Alexandrians. Instead, he uses other phrases that conveyed the same meaning. When the Alexandrian Greeks demanded that Gaius’ images be installed in the Jewish synagogues, Philo describes them as “crying out in one accord” (a)nebo&hsav a)f ) e)no_v sunqh&matov) (41). The Jews, on the other hand cried out with one accord (a)vebo&hsan o(moqumado&n) and sang hymns of thanksgiving when Flaccus was arrested (122). Here, Philo’s use of o(moqumado&n has close affinities with the way o(mo&noia was used in Greek civic contexts. Later, he can use the same term to describe the unity of opinion among all the Alexandrians in their disapproval of Isodorus, as they cry out with one voice (o(moqumado_v mia~| fwnh~| kekrane&nai) for his execution (144). Throughout In Flaccum, Philo utilizes the vocabulary of discord. Terms such as qoru&bov(120), new&teron (121), newteropoiou_v (24), o)xlokrati&an (65), stasia&rxai (20), and sta&siv (17, 44, 135, and 140) occur repeatedly. Philo also employs the vocabulary of civic peace, using the favorite Augustan word ei)rh&nh (5, 8, 48, 62, 135 and 184) as well as the cognate ei)rhniko&v (94). His use of o(moqumado&n (122,132) is interesting with regard to Christian uses because it appears as a favorite term in Luke’s Acts of the Apostles (Acts 15:25). In antiquity, it was used as an adverb to express the idea “with one accord”, a close paral5 lel to o(mo&noia. It was synonymous with o(monoe&w and o(mofrone&w, both of which Philo knew (see below for o(mo&noia; o(mofrone&w occurs in Vita Moysis 1.231) and occurred in the LXX (cf., Ex. 19:2). Philo’s failure to

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use o(mo&noia or o9monoe&w in this work may have been due to several reason. The strong civic tone that o(mo&noia and its cognates had was a particular feature of Hellenism and the Greeks, something Philo may not have wanted to associate the Jewish poli&teuma in Alexandria with. His use of ei)rhniko&v to describe the Alexandria Jews instead of o(mo&noia was probably more in keeping with the political language of the times, recalling the Imperial Pax as opposed to Greek concord. On the other hand, his use of sta&siv to describe the actions of the Greeks portrayed them in the opposite light, and it might be possible to discern the concept of o(mo&noia in Philo’s invective against the Alexandrians as that virtue conspicuously missing in their behavior. It may simply have been the case that o(mo&noia was not a conspicuous term in Philo’s thinking, as seems to be supported by his meager use of the 6 term. In Flaccum offers a glimpse into Philo’s familiarity with the politics of his day, and his preference for ei)rh&nh over o(mo&noia suits his place in the context of the age of Julio-Claudians. 7 Philo’s other important (historical) political treatise was the Legatio ad Gaium, in which he expanded his narration of the Alexandrian pogrom, and detailed his own role in the embassy to Gaius. Goodenough suggested that this treatise had as its final audience the new Emperor Claudius in mind, in contrast to Smallwood, who understood 8 the treatise to be an invective against the dead Gaius. Baraclough, though, is probably right to caution that a variety of audiences may 9 have been the envisioned readers of Philo’s treatise. In broad terms, Philo’s purpose seems to have been the same as it was In Flaccum (191): “that the Deity takes thought for men, and particularly for the suppliants’ race which the Father and King of the Universe and the source of all things has taken for his patron” (Leg. 3). As the treatise proceeds, however, we are confronted with political undercurrents that go beyond Jewish apologetics and reveal a more nuanced assessment of the realpolitik that characterized the riots of 38 AD and their aftermath, both of which Philo was involved in. Again it is worth noting that our term o(mo&noia does not occur in the Legatio. Other terms are used, such as o(moqumado&n (364), su&mfwnon (8), a9rmosa&menov (147), and sumfronh&santev (215). Gaius was described as having been thought by all upon his succession after Tiberius to be fila&nqrwpov and koinwniko&v (67), and the state of society was glowingly described by Philo as such in which “the rich had no precedence over the poor, nor the distinguished over the obscure, creditors were not above debt-

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ors nor masters above slaves, the times giving equality before the law (i)sonomi&an)” (13). These were states of social and political concord that were usually described with the terminology of o(mo&noia or Con10 cordia, and Philo’s silence in this regard is perhaps noteworthy. One reason may have been the privileged position of the Jews under Augustus, whose successors (Tiberius and the early Gaius) Philo described in terms that reflected the Augustan propaganda of a universal Pax: “…the whole earth and sea, gained not by faction (a)stasi&aston) but established by law (eu1nomon), with all parts, east, west, south north harmoniously adjusted (su&mfwnon) the Greek in full agreement with the barbarian, the civil with the military, to enjoy and participate in peace (ei)rh/nhv)” (8). Later, he praised Augustus as the one who had brought harmony (a(rmosa&menov) to the notoriously factious Greeks (147). On the other hand, as with In Flaccum Philo may have left out any mention of o(mo&noia because he was writing against Gaius’ reign and treatment of the Jews. His references to sta&siv included depictions of Gaius as “the foe of peace, the friend of wars, the converter of stability into turmoil (tara/xav) and faction (sta&siv)” (113) and his policies as being nothing short of “a starting point for seditions (sta&sewv) and civil conflicts (e)mfuli&wn pole&mwn)”(335). Other terms for faction employed by Philo included no&sov and nose&w, which 11 Smallwood notes were used as synonyms for sta&siv and pole&mov. Under Tiberius Pilate had won the ire of the Jews by setting up shields in the palace (Jos. BJ 2.169), and Philo records Agrippa exclaiming before Gaius that the Jews petitioned Pilate: “Do not arouse sedition (mh& stasi&aze), do not make war (mh& polemopoi&ei), do not destroy the peace” (301). Again, we see that Philo is keen to emphasize the unity and peacefulness of the Jews. He claims that Tiberius viewed the Jews as ei)rhnikou~v and that their institutions promoted good conduct (eu)sta&qeian) (161). When Petronius was sent to detail news of the conversion of the Temple into an Imperial cult shrine with a statue of Gaius to be set in the Holy of Holies, Philo described the Jews rallying “as if at a single signal” in protest (225). He warned that the Jews, not only of Palestine but of the entire world, might be moved by common agreement (sumfronh&santev) to come together in defense of the Temple (215). When, before Gaius, Isodorus falsely accused the Jews of having failed to offer sacrifices to Gaius at his accession, Philo records that he and his compatriots cried out in one accord against his slan-

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ders, here again preferring to use o(moqumado&n instead of o(mo&noia. Philo consistently described the actions of the Jews in terms that reflected their peacefulness, unity and moral superiority, but he does so without the key civic technical term for such unanimity, o(mo&noia. The absence of o(mo&noia from both In Flaccum and Legatio ad Gaium might not be so noteworthy if the term were found to be missing in Philo altogether, but as we shall see, this is not the case. A look at how he did use o(mo&noia will allow us to assess his understanding of the term, and reflect back on why he did not use it in two treatises in which we might have expected them to appear. Difficulties in arriving at any kind of a consensus on the dating of the corpus of Philo’s writings will force us to look at Philo’s uses of o(monoi/a without recourse to any sort of developed chronology. Philo 12 only mentions o(monoi/a 13 times in the entire corpus of his writings. In 7 of these instances, o(monoi/a is paired with the synonym koinwni/a and in several other instances with similar concepts: fili&a (de Praem. 154), sumfwni&a (de Virt.35), and o(mofrosu&nh (de Virt. 119). Klaus Thraede divides up Philo’s uses of o(monoi/a under two main subheadings: o(monoi/a as a human characteristic or virtue, and o(monoi/a as a 13 trait of the Jews or of family life. He suggests that Philo essentially adapted the idea from Platonic and Stoic philosophy, shaping the political tones of the word into ethical concepts, and applying the latent religious uses the term had developed after the collapse of Athens’ po14 litical independence to his exegesis of scripture. Brunner also noted that late Jewish uses of o(monoi/a took into account the religious coloring the term experienced during the Hellenistic age. He singles out Philo and Josephus in particular as examples of Jewish writers who appropriated the political language of the polis for descriptions of the 15 Jewish people (Jos. Con.Ap. 2.179; Philo de Virt. 35). Philo has the Midianites complain, “You see how unlimited is the number of the Hebrews, but their number is not so dangerous and menacing a weapon as the unanimity (o(mo&noia) and mutual attachement (sumfwni&a). And the highest and greatest source of this unanimity (o(mo&noia) is their creed of a single God” (de Virt. 35). Such unanimity was a favorite Isocratean description of the ideal polis (Philip. 16), but Philo’s use is decidedly non-political, and almost carries with it a reli16 gious reflection on the Jews as God’s people. This is similar to Philo’s use of o(mo&noia in De Spec. Leg. 1.70, where he notes how the Jews gather to the Temple as ships to a port of call where they can with lei-

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sure commit themselves to holiness. They are united by their common commitments into friendships, and the sacrifices and libations “constitute the surest pledge that all are of one mind” (o(monoi&ov). Here we see Philo suggesting that the Laws of Moses had a peculiar ability to forge genuine concord, perhaps with a conscious awareness of how fragile concord was among the Greeks, no matter the number of laws they passed and confirmed to secure it. This same idea is present in Philo’s commentary on the Decalogue. Why else did Moses receive laws for the governance of the Jewish people in the wilderness rather than a city, but to avoid the “mischievous associations of cities” (tw~n kata_ po&leiv blaberwta&twn sunhqeiw~n) (Dec. 13). Instead, Moses thought it better to provide them with rules for life that they might practice, and only then learn to settle down in harmony (o(mo&noia) and fellowship (koinwni&a|), “rendering to every man his due”, after having followed the principles of justice (Dec. 14). The law, supported by nature, sought to engender harmony and fellowship in man (Dec. 132), and without the law and the virtues it engendered, neither fili&a nor o(mo&noia were possible (de Praem. 154). But the law was ultimately for the whole of humanity, and not just the family or tribe of the Jews, as Philo indicates in de Virt. 119, “This is what our most holy prophet (Moses) through all his regulations desires to create, unanimity (o(mo&noia), neighborliness (koinwni&a|), fel17 lowship (o(mofrosu&nh), reciprocity of feeling (kra~sin h)qw~n) , whereby houses and cities and nations and countries and the whole human race may advance to supreme happiness.” Elsewhere similar sentiments occur: “your birth and death is a loan to you from God. During this span what can be meet for you to do but to study fellow-feeling (koinwni&av) and goodwill (o(mo&noiav) and equity (i)so&thtov) and humanity (filanqrwpi&av) and what else belongs to virtue…” (Spec. Leg. 1.295). Philo even has an ultimate hope that war will be banished and men will live in peace. Speaking of the blessings to come for the righteous, Philo suggests: “it will seem a deep disgrace that while venomous and man-eating brutes and creatures without a sense of fellowship or companionship have become placable (e!nsponda) and have been won over to a peaceful disposition, man, a creature naturally gentle and kindly, in whom a sense of fellowship (koinwni&av) and amity (o(mo&noiav) is ingrained, should implacably seek the life of his own kind” (de Praem.92). In these instances Philo’s use of o(mo&noia as a virtue is broadly applied to humankind in general, and not just the Jew-

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ish people. In his description of marriage in the context of his ideas on the offering of the firstborn, Philo suggests that by reflecting on this offering, “both husbands and wives [should] cherish temperance (swfrosu&nhv) and domesticity and unanimity (o(mo&noia)…” (Spec. 18 Leg. 1.137), a recommendation he shared with Greek moralists. Returning to In Flaccum and Legatio ad Gaium, it is worth asking, why he did not use a term so well suited to describe civic concord in the face of sedition (sta&siv)? His preference for synonyms terms such as o(moqumado&n (364), su&mfwnon (8), a9rmosa&menov (147), and sumfronh&santev (215) in the Legatio and terms such as ei)rh&nh (5, 8, 48, 62, 135 and 184), ei)rhniko&v (94), and o(moqumado&n (122,132) in Flaccum seem to indicate that Philo was consciously avoiding the use of o(mo&noia, the classic antithesis to compliment his use of sta&siv. Two points were noted above: first, the possibility that Philo was avoiding the use of a concept that had thoroughly Greek civic overtones, something he may have felt useful in light of the anti-semitism in Alexandria; and second, the literary device of excluding the concept in his descriptions of the riots in order to accentuate the conspicuous absence of that quintessential civic virtue of all Greek cities, concord. We may say that Philo understood the basic sense of o(monoi&a, as well as the broader uses it had been put to by his time, but since it was not a term that had the connotations and allusions that Pax and ei)rh&nh did at this time under Roman rule, he preferred other terms. When we come to look at how o(monoi&a was used by one of his countrymen a generation later, a shift in emphasis will become visible, and will reflect the change in perspective and propaganda that characterized the successors to the Julio-Claudians: the Flavian dynasty.

Josephus, the Flavians, and o(monoi&a For our purposes, Philo and Josephus provide a fitting complement through which an evaluation of o(mo&noia can be made. We have noted the lack of o(mo&noia references in Philo’s two historical treatises above. In our comparison with Josephus, we will concentrate on his earliest work, the Bellum Judaicum in which o(mo&noia featured with surprising 19 frequency. What is notable about both Philo’s and Josephus’ historical works is their narration of events that may be said to deal primarily with the problem of sta&siv, the classic civic vice opposed to 20 o(mo&noia. The fact that Philo avoids the obvious use of o(mo&noia in his

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discussion of the civil conflict in Alexandria while Josephus engages heartily in its application a generation later is an important point to bear in mind. Before we look at Josephus’ uses of o(mo&noia, we will briefly examine the BJ and the place of social and political sta&siv in Josephus’ account of the war. The role of sta&siv in Josephus’ BJ poses interesting possibilities for our evaluation of his use of o(mo&noia. For a long while, the consensus communionis regarding the causes of the Jewish Wars have included a prominent place for the role of Jewish messianism and 21 apocalypticism among the participants in the rebellion. In an important article by the ancient historian P.A. Brunt, another perspective on the events and influences that may have led to the revolutions in Palestine was offered. Brunt suggested that social tensions could have played as much a role in the upheavals as religious and political ten22 sions had. By looking at how Josephus appropriated the concept of sta&siv, he proposed that in many cases, the tensions involved the classical divide between the rich and the poor, as well as the urban 23 and rural populations. The fact that there was not unanimous support for the war is reflected in the reticence of the rich and the propertied to join in the struggle. In his AJ, Josephus noted that the rich desired peace “because of their possessions” (2.338), and likewise that during the war it was often the urban populations who were for peace while the poor and rural peasants supported war (Sepphoris (Vita, 104); Tiberius (Vita, 99); Gadara and Tarichaea (BJ, 3.493, 532)). Brunt also noted that from 6 AD there were constant struggles between the rich and the poor (BJ, 7.254–262), culminating in the revolt and torching of the records office in Jerusalem by the war party (BJ, 2.427), which tapped into the classic appeals of the lower classes 24 throughout the Hellenistic world. Such ill feeling between the classes reflected an important dynamic that Josephus also attempted to highlight, that the upper classes resisted the rebellion partly because it was 25 Rome that guaranteed the existing social order. Josephus vilified the rebels by consistently portraying them as instigators of sedition. He characterizes the factions (stasiastai&) and revolutionaries (newteri&zontev) as brigands (lh&stai) and sicarii (BJ, 4.241; 5.27) and consistently depicts them as attacking and pillaging people of property 26 (AJ, 18.7; BJ, 2.253–265). In contrast, the priests, the “first men” and the notables (gnw&rinoi, e)pi&sthmoi) were, like him, loyal to the 27 Romans and their rule. The fact that Josephus was from the landed

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gentry among upper class Jews indicates that he did not belong to 28 those who hoped to gain something from a war against Rome. In other words, he shared an experience of Roman rule that may have been analogous with that of other eastern provincial, such as Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides, as we saw in the previous chapter. On the other hand, the view from below may be suggested in some of the gospel traditions in which animosity to the rich was taken for granted among those people who listened to the message of Jesus and 29 his disciples (Lk. 1:52 ff; Mt. 19:22 ff.). Internal struggles throughout the Greco-Roman world often took on the form of a struggle between the rich and the poor (cf. Dio Chrys. Or.46), and the same kind of dis30 content seems to have arisen in Josephus’ Palestine. This social element of tension between the classes has also been emphasized by Tessa Rajak who proposed that an important underlying theme to the whole BJ was the role of sta&siv, which not only lead 31 to the destruction of Jerusalem, but to the Temple as well. The similarities in vocabulary and in imagery with Thucydides’ classic description of the sta&siv at Corcyra add clout to the notion that Josephus viewed sta&siv as a central theme to his own history (cf., Thuc. 3.82 32 and BJ, 4.128–34). Rajak notes that an important interpretive key to the BJ is an understanding of the civil war (sta&siv) between the zealots and the rest of the population, between the zealots and Rome, and finally, amongst the zealots themselves, which Josephus calls the tripartite war (BJ, 5.2). The sta&siv between the war and peace parties was exacerbated when rebels from the country flooded Jerusalem, upsetting the balance and leading to the wholesale massacre of the moderates, who were largely from the wealthier priestly offices and the Jerusalem aristocracy (BJ, 4.135; 4.305–325). The revolutionary party then collapsed on itself, creating a kind of sta&siv within sta&siv, highlighting, perhaps, in Josephus’ eyes, the real character of the revolutionaries upon whom the blame for the whole revolt against Rome was 33 pinned. This triple sta&siv serves as an important picture of what went wrong among the Jews in the war with Rome. In spite of their unity as a people around the Temple and the Torah, certain mischievous factions were able to incite the whole nation to war and rebel against Rome. The perennial civic vice of sta&siv victimized the whole 34 people and robbed them of their nation. What suits our particular interest in the role of sta&siv in Josephus’ BJ is the close connection the term had with its opposite

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civic virtue o(mo&noia. The fact that Josephus chooses to couch his description of the Jewish war with Rome in the political terminology of sta&siv and o(mo&noia instead of the religious apocalypticism of some of his contemporaries places his BJ in an interpretive framework that would not only have been familiar to Greek readers, but which would have evoked important images associated not only with the golden past of Greece, but also with the new golden present of Rome. Josephus’ presentation of Rome as the guarantor of peace and order also placed his thinking within the political propaganda of Vespasian, whose ascension to the Principate utilized the iconography and imagery of the Augustan Pax of almost a century earlier: the cessation of war, the restoration of order, and the establishment of peace and concord. A more detailed look at just how Josephus used the language of concord will allow us come to some conclusions about the way the term was understood in some Hellenistic-Jewish circles, especially in Rome. The first occurrence of o(mo&noia in the BJ is suggestive. Upon returning from Rome where he had presented before Caesar the problem of succession among his sons, Herod presented all three before the people. Josephus noted that it was due to Caesar that Herod’s household had been re-established from its disorder, and that his sons received from him an even greater gift than kingdoms, namely concord (1.457). Binding this concord to his own person, Herod promises to his subjects that he will appoint advisors and attendants responsible for keeping the peace (o(mo&noia) and warding off the two classic enemies of o(mo&noia: sta&siv and filoneiki&av (1.460). Sadly, the Augustan o(mo&noia did not survive long in Herod’s family, chiefly because of sta&siv, and the Jews would soon be plunged upon a course that would lead to a nationwide breakdown in o(mo&noia in the great sta&siv of the war. It is notable that Josephus’ first use of o(mo&noia is set in such a context. In a literary sense, this certainly foreshadowed events to come: the peace and concord established by the Romans would be cast aside as a result of internecine struggles with brothers pitted against each other, and families falling into discord. It is also notable how non-philonic this is. It is not God that orchestrates o(mo&noia for the Jews and their rulers, but Caesar Augustus, Lord of the Roman world. Josephus is thinking here very much in line with the propaganda of Vespasian, linking concord and peace with Augustus, and by association, with his successors the Flavians. It is also interesting to

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note other words that occur in proximity to this great gift of o(mo&noia that Caesar mediates to the Herodians. One term that is interesting for our study is sta&siv, which we noted above in combination with filoneiki&av. Together, these terms perfectly describe the kind of civic and internal discord that the Greek city understood o(mo&noia to be opposed to. The combination is almost Thucydidean, an author whose style Josephus likely modeled much of the BJ on and who is our earli35 est source for the standard political use of o(mo&noia (Thuc. 8.93). This initial and prominent use of o(mo&noia suggests that Josephus was familiar with the idea in its political setting, and indicates that Philo may not have been his source after all. Other uses are similarly threaded with political overtones. In 2.209 Josephus records the as yet unconfirmed emperor Claudius professed that he would not submit to the senate, but would stand by those who had unanimously (o(monoh&santav) elected him, and would be forced to fight for the title of Emperor. The context here is clearly politicized. Later in the same book, Josephus put into the mouth of Agrippa a speech before the Jews in an attempt to dissuade them from war. This time, terms which featured in the Flavian propaganda appear in close proximity to each other. Agrippa claims that in spite of those bent on war, the most honest and single-minded members of the community sought to preserve the peace (ei)rh&nen), while it was only the brash and youthful who had found harmony (o(mo&noia) in desire for war (2.342). Josephus could also use the term to denote alliegence (2.467), or alliance (5.72); or, he might use a close synonym to describe the besieged people of Tarchaeae being of “one mind” (o(mofronou~nta) after Vespasian had sent Trajan to see if they were peaceably disposed (3.459). Further along Josephus records the sta&siv between the pro-war and the pro-peace parties in Tarichaeae giving impetus to Titus to hurry his offensive against the city, before they re-established concord (o(mo&noia) among themselves (3.495). This later use reintroduces us to one of Josephus’ underlying themes: the Jews were not so much defeated by a superior Roman military as they were by their own internecine discord and rivalries. In his description of the siege of Jerusalem, this becomes an even clearer theme. In 4.132 the war and peace parties were divided over what to do, and sta&siv between the two resulted in the unraveling of the very fabrics of Jewish society: families were split between each other in their views, and bosom friends were found ranged on opposite sides of

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the revolution (newteri&zon); sta&siv, according to Josephus, reigned everywhere (4.133). The internal discord among the Jews was even perceived by Vespasian as a guide to his strategy. Rejecting the advice of some of his advisors to quickly attack before the Jews repented of their sta&siv and returned to unanimity (o(monoh&sein), Vespasian observed that a quick attack now would merely reunite the opponents in harmony (o(mo&noia). Instead, he would allow their sta&siv to wear them down, and in the end, he would have fewer enemies to fight himself. His tactic was to sit still, and in this, Josephus claims that “God was the better general than he (Vespasian) and was delivering the Jews to the Romans without an exertion on their part” (4.367–372). Confirming this abandonment of the rebels by God, Josephus noted that their only ability to forge o(mo&noia rested in their common desire 36 to slaughter those in favor of peace (5.30). Josephus’ final reference to o(mo&noia like his first, is telling. Upon hearing the news that canabalism had manifested itself among the besieged (6.200 ff.), Caesar declared himself innocent of the matter in the sight of God, protesting that he “had offered the Jews peace (ei)rh&nhn), independence (au)tonomi&an) and amnesty for all past offences,…they prefer[ed] sedition (sta&siv) to concord (o(mo&noia), peace to war, famine to plenty and prosperity…” (6.215–216). Clearly, Josephus has political concord here in mind, and in the mouth of Vespasian, these terms are loaded with even more political freight, conventional of the standard Greek uses of the terms. As discord began the process of undoing the concord Caesar Augustus had initially provided for Herod’s sons, so now, as Jerusalem was about to fall, Caesar Vespasian declares (to Josephus’ readers) that concord and peace had always been the offer of the Romans, but that the Jews, led by their unscrupulous brigand-leaders had plunged them as a nation in to all kinds of discord, revolution, war, and distress. Clearly, then, in the BJ, Josephus’ use of o(mo&noia does not come out of a hellenized Jewish tradition or from Philo, but is a thoroughly Greek rendition of the classical concept, whose latin counterpart (concordia) was being used with ever increasing frequency in the propaganda of the Flavi37 ans. We are led to conclude that Josephus, complex and torn between loyalties as he was, wrote to persuade as much as to please, and approached his subject as an expert with real experiences and precise knowledge to back up his claims, but also as a propagandist, patron-

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ized by his conquerors, and surviving on a mixture of individual skills and imperial favor. The fact that he was the target of libel by one of his own countrymen seems to corroborate this dynamic and sometimes contradictory position Josephus found himself in throughout his life, but now especially near the end. His use of o(monoi&a in such a context cannot have been haphazard. Rather, he is likely to have used the term in ways that served his purpose: to persuade and to please in the language and symbols his (Greco Roman) audience would have understood. In contrast to Philo, who was under no such imperial compulsions as a client and former captive, Josephus used o(monoi&a not simply in a way that would have been conceivable to a Hellenistic Jew, but predominantly in the conventional Greco Roman sense which described civic concord and unanimity. This allows us to conclude that o(monoi&a may have had more particular literary import under the Flavians than it did under the Julio Claudians. As we saw in Chapters Three and Four, this seems to fit well with temporal developments reflected on Roman coins and the contemporaneous Greek Imperial issues, as well as with the rise of what may be termed the Second Sophistic. While Philo preferred to stress the presence of Pax (ei)rh&nh) in the Jewish poli&teuma, there appears to be no compulsion on his part to describe them in terms of o(monoi&a. For Josephus, o(monoi&a had a much more prominent place in his descriptions of the sta&siv that was at the root of the Jewish Rebellion against Rome. Both appear, whether consciously or not, to have tended towards the terms for describing political stability that were prominent in their times: Philo emphasized the Augustan Pax, Josephus (like the Flavians) added to Pax the civic ideal of o(monoi&a. One final example of the use of o(mo&noia in Jewish literature will involve a look at 4 Maccabees (4 Macc.). In particular we will take into account literary tendencies, which may have influenced the writer of this work, that were in the air at the time: asianic rhetoric and literary Atticism. Both were in some ways features of the Second Sophistic, a revival in Greek literature which saw the retrieval of Classical ideas and styles and diction, including the use of o(mo&noia, most clearly enunciated in the writings of Plutarch and Dio Chrysostom. It will be in the context of this broadly defined concept for literary trends in the Early Empire that our final analysis of the appearance of o(mo&noia in the Hellenistic Jewish literature of the Principate will take us.

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O(monoi&a and 4 Maccabees Before we look at how 4 Macc. uses o(mo&noia, it will be worthwhile briefly to look at the literary style of the work and how it’s asianic tendencies fit with trends that were occurring in the literary history of the first and second centuries, AD. In the late nineteenth century in Germany, there was considerable debate about the tensions between asianic and attic rhetorical styles. The claim by Philostratus that the Second Sophistic, characterized by literary Atticism, began with Aeschines and Nicetes (separated by no less than three hundred 38 years!) has been dismissed by some as a literary fable. Ulrich van Willamowitz-Moellendorf suggested that asianic rhetoric was only superceded by the literary tendencies of atticizing writers during the 39 time of Cicero and Varro. Though Cicero never knew the technical term ‘asianic’, he did know the differences between the florid asianic orators and the well-polished Athenians whose atticizing eventually became dominant in Rome (Cic. de Or 3.43). The preference among Romans for the attic as opposed to the asianic styles may have been partly due to the fact that Roman nobles were no longer traveling to Asia to learn rhetoric, but teachers were coming to Rome, often from 40 Greece, peddling their wares. The idea that the Second Sophistic emerged in the Flavian era as a quantifiable cultural trend was supported by Erwin Rhode in the late nineteenth century, who suggested that asianic rhetoric was still flourishing in the first and second centuries AD, in spite of the fact that literary archaism 41 (Atticism) was the preferred style among Romans. WillamowitzMoellendorf disagreed on this point, believing instead that a common rhetorical style existed from Isocrates to Aristides, and that Atticism 42 was primarily a literary phenomenon, not an oratorical one. He rejected the idea that the rhetoric of the Second Sophistic had its roots in the Asianic styles, and made the important observation that the “silver age” of latin rhetoric under Seneca, Quintilian and Tacitus was 43 a kind of baroque period, succeeding the “golden age” of Cicero. This period may be paralleled in the Greek world with the asianic orators of the Hellenisitc age who stood as the successors of the Golden age of 44 Athens, but not with the Sophists of the Second Sophistic. The real difference, according to Willamowitz-Moellendorf, between asianic and attic rhetoric was one of style. Orators chose the styles that suited the occasion; they were not confined to categories which they were

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forced to adhere to slavishly (cf., Quint. Inst. 8.3.56; Rhet. Ad Her. 11– 45 16). Rhode’s perspective on asianic styles is not wholly at odds with Williamowitz-Moellendorf’s ideas, however, and his suggestion that the atticizing of Aristides in the mid- second century was a witness to the prevalence of asianic styles at that time since he differed so 46 markedly from other Asian orators, is a case in point. More recent scholars have noted the broader, cultural forces at play that shaped the Second Sophistic, and which involved the provincial elite of the Roman Empire negotiating the webs of power in their 47 cities and in Rome. They have also tended to date the period known 48 as the Second Sophistic to the time between 60 AD and 230 AD. Rhode’s suggestion that Asianic rhetoric was still flourishing under Tiberius, and that it continued to exist alongside Atticism in the second century provides for a useful overlap that suits the tenuous dating of 4 Macc. quite well. Norden’s suggestion that 4 Macc. reflected pure asianic rhetoric might support those who favor an earlier dating in the early first, but Breitenstein’s work on the literary aspects of 4 Macc. suggests that the presence of atticizing tendencies in the generally asianic work might be suited better to a time after the rise of the Second Sophistic some time after the Flavians. Breitenstein’s critique of Norden largely confirmed Norden’s classification of 4 Macc. as asianic, but also allows us to look at the work in the context of literary and rhetorical trends that had vitality in the late first century AD. The literary form of 4 Macc. has also been a long debated issue. Writing not long after Norden, A. Dupont-Sommer challenged his suggestion that 4 Macc. was a philosophical diatribe and posited in49 stead the idea that it was a real speech, delivered to a synagogue. In part, he based this view on his evaluation of the language and style of 50 4 Macc., which he affirmed reflected the asianic style. All the phrases and tactics of an orator were employed: parallelism, anaphora, anacolutha, etc. Such an oration was suited to arouse the emotion of the audience and its panegyric and declamatory style was full of both the passion and subject matter that could be expected to occur in the 51 asianic style. Dupont-Sommer theorized that this florid speech actually took place as a dedicatory speech for the remembrance day of the Seven Maccabean martyrs in Antioch. The florid style suits a time well into the Second Sophistic, and so beyond the time of Nero and the 52 Flavians; possibly under Trajan or Hadrian. He even suggests that the tyrant Antiochus may have been crafted after Trajan, under whom

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the Jews of the Diaspora revolted. Tantalizingly, he suggests that nearness in vocabulary and style with Dio Chrysostom and Epictetus qualifies him to be identified as a “Dio Chrysostom of the Antiochene 53 Diaspora”! Dupont-Sommer’s views had to be modified, chiefly because of the slippery qualifications of fitting the parameters of the Second Sophistic, which, we have seen, is a period not well suited to precise dating. In fact, it was Breitenstein’s thoroughgoing critique (and in part, vindication) of Norden that provides us with the necessary adjustment to Dupont-Sommer’s creativity. His evaluation of the vocabulary of 4 Macc. led Breitenstein to come to the following observations: the vocabulary of 4 Macc. stands closer to that of the Jewish pseudepigrapha 54 than to the vocabulary either of the New Testament or the LXX. Futhermore, the vocabulary of 4 Macc. stood closer to that of the Apostolic Fathers than the LXX, and that the author must have been 55 familiar with 2 Macc. and the Wisdom of Solomon. For our interests, he also noted the closeness of 4 Macc. with the vocabulary and style of Ignatius of Antioch, though, as we shall see later on, he did not adopt the conclusions Perler and Joly embraced regarding the alleged de56 pendence of the Epistles of Ignatius on 4 Macc.. One of Breitenstein’s most important suggestions, however, was that the consistent use of the optative in 4 Macc. aligned it with atticistic tendencies that were characteristic of literary archaism (attic style) since the time of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. This put 4 Macc. in closer literary proximity (at least in terms of style) with such Sophistic writers as Dio Chrysostom, Arrian and Appian, and somewhat challenged Norden’s 57 unequivocal characterization of 4 Macc. as pure asianic rhetoric. Though he conceded that 4 Macc. largely followed the Asianic style, there were Attic tendencies present, which strengthen the view that 4 Macc. may have been written in a time near the beginning of the Second Sophistic, which Breitenstein dates somewhere between 70 and 58 135 AD. When we turn to the text, we find that o(mo&noia occurs three times in 4 Macc. (3.21; 13.22, 24). The three references are substantial not only in their placement within the text, but in their meaning for the overall story. There is an occurrence in each of the two parts of the narrative. Both are descriptive of a leading idea (the harmony of the Jewish people before the revolt of Simon (3.21), and the harmony of the brothers in the face of persecution (13.22, 24). Both references re-

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flect on an ideal state; a kind of virtue whose typology is portrayed in civic and in relational idioms (civic concord and brotherly love). Each reference (3.21 and 13.22,24), however, offers a nuanced use of the term that places them in both the classical and the Hellenistic use and meaning of the idea (civic concord and ethnic unity). The broad application of meanings the author puts o(mo&noia to use in, suggests his familiarity with both the traditional meaning of the term (3.21) and the more ethnically and metaphysically nuanced uses Philo employed. In 3.19, the writer of 4 Macc. moves from his philosophical introduction to the historical background of his theme. In 3.20 he describes the ‘deep peace’ (baqei~an ei)rh&nhn) which their fathers enjoyed, 59 due to their obedience to the law. Their prosperity was such that the king of Asia provided subsidies for the Temple sacrifices, and legitimated their constitution (politei&an). This ideal state of social, economic and political harmony was not to last however, and the writer places the blame squarely on the shoulders of those who rebelled against their customs and brought in new ones (newteri&santev). They disturbed the common harmony (th\n koinh\n…o(mo&noian), and brought 60 upon the Jews all kinds of calamities (sumforai~v). The writer continues on with the details of this revolt, beginning with Simon and his unjust opposition to Onias, the High Priest. What is immediately noteworthy about this passage are the other words which accompany the o(mo&noia reference. Those mentioned above are especially remarkable because they all appear in 1 Clement, the earliest example of the 61 use of o(mo&noia among Christian writers. The term newteri&zw was often used to indicate a violent change, many times with political implications or in political contexts (Antiphon, 2.4.9; Thuc. 1.97 ff.). Politei~a, koinh&n, and sumforai&v all had meanings which could be applied to the civic and political setting. The appearance of all of these words in close association with o(mo&noia and in the context of a description of the political events which hurled the Jews into new dangers are telling. In the following verses (4.1 ff.), Simon is described as the a)ntipoliteu&menov of Onias, and that after unsuccessful attempts at slandering him (kakw~sai), he fled into exile with the intention of betraying his country (th\n patri&da prodw&swn). What follows can be described as a typical scenario of personal enmity and individual rivalry (filoti&mia) that was common at that time throughout the east in city after city. It was in such contexts of rivalry and dissension that o(mo&noia was most often found being appealed to, celebrated, or la-

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mented after. The writer of 4 Macc. has introduced his description of the persecutions to come by highlighting their context in the dissolution of communal and political harmony by a few greedy, ambitious men. In this, the writer of 4 Macc. was using o(mo&noia in its best known sense: the description of an ideal state of civic and political harmony, ruined by the personal ambition of the rich. In the next and final uses of the term o(mo&noia, the writer shows his theological bent by applying the concept to the description of the harmony among brothers. In both instances (13.22; 24) the writer uses the term in the phrase: th\n pro\v a)llh&louv o(mo&noian, their harmony towards one another. Again, a quick look at the surrounding vocabulary is revealing. In 13.18 ff. the writer uses the terms i1sov and au)to/v in alternation to describe the equal time, the same period, the same blood, the same principle of life that perfected them, their coming forth at equal intervals, and their having been nursed by the same breasts, in order to paint a picture of equality among the brothers. But not only were their origins similar, they were reared, educated and followed the law in the same unity, producing the filadelfi&an they were characterized by. This ‘brotherly love’ they shared was the cause of their ‘sympathetically constituted’ harmony (o(mo&noia), and was further enhanced by following the same virtues, law and lifestyle (13.24). Their common zeal (o(mozhli&a) for what was honorable (kalokagaqi&av) increased their mutual concord (th\n pro\v a)llh&louv o(mo&noian). In verse 25 a revealing description (admonition?) is made: “For acting along with religion, made their brotherly love more desirable to them” (13.25). Here their mutual affection for each other is said to have been increased by their practice of piety (eu)sebei&a), that is, in their faithfulness to the moral commands of their religion. This section (13.18–25) in which o(mo&noia appears (22, 24) is filled with the language of unity, mutuality and brotherly love, concepts shared by the author of 4 Macc. with contemporaneous writers such as Plutarch and Epictetus, and points to a use of o(mo&noia that went beyond the civic admonitions for unity in the classical and Hellenistic ages, by in62 corporating religious, moral and philosophical ideals. The writer of 4 Macc. was comfortable using o(monoi&a across a spectrum of meanings. This should not be looked at as an inconsistency, but rather a synthesis that was appropriate to the times he was writing in. A look throughout the rest of 4 Macc. indicates that these uses of o(monoi&a do not cut against the grain of the rest of the writer’s

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vocabulary either. In 7.1 the ship/harbor metaphor is used to describe Eleazar’s conquest of his emotions. This metaphor had by this time become a popular conception for concord and civic peace (cf. Dio Chrys. Or.38). Eleazar is further described as being in harmony (su&mfwne) with the law (7.7). Another familiar metaphor was the chorus, which the seven brothers are said to have formed around their mother. To the ears of the writer’s listeners, this image might have pre-figured the intimate harmony described above in 13.23.25. Later, in 8.29, the seven brothers refuse the king’s offer of apostasy for freedom ‘with one voice’ (di\a mia~v fwnh~v). The oldest brother appeals to his younger siblings, and exhorts them to imitate him (mimh&sasqe& me&) in accepting the kings punishment for not apostasizing (9.23). In 13.6–9, the author concludes his narrative with a recapitulation of various images used to convey the devotion of the brothers to their traditions and one another, all of which occur in a variety of uses in the Ignatian Epistles, as we shall see: the tower, the harbor, the chorus and the appeal to imitation. In concluding, the author of 4 Macc. eulogizes the sacred (i9ra~v) and harmonious concord (eu0armo&stou) of the brothers. He describes the harmony (sumfwne&w) with which the seven youths were moved by a spirit of devotion (14.7), and describes the mother as having the same mind (o(mo&yuxon) as Abraham (14.20). In fact, her fear of God was greater even than the love she had for her children, upon whom she had impressed her own likeness (o(moio&thta) of mind and body (15.4). The writer concludes with a final image of unity, picturing the seven slain brothers forming a chorus with their mother and their fathers throughout the ages, receiving 63 “pure and immortal souls from God” (18.23). Clearly, the idea of concord and harmony formed an important sub-theme in the mind of the writer of 4 Macc.. His purpose, set out in 1.1, to prove that “devout reason is sovereign over the emotions”, seems to have been answered in a curious way. Breitenstein criticized the patchy argumentation of the writer, and noted his failure to har64 monize his thesis with the story of the seven martyrs. However, by giving due weight to the sub-theme of harmony versus violence/persecution, the writer may have subtly emphasized an important characterization of the reason/passions dichotomy. The brothers’ reaction to violence may be seen as the victory of reason over passions by viewing their “reasoned” reaction to persecution in terms of their harmony; harmony with the traditions, with one another, with their

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own upbringing. To restore the civic and political o(monoi&a lost in 3.21 ff., the author emphasizes the fraternal and moral o(monoi&a shared among the brothers in 13.23,25. By bracketing their sufferings with references to lost and restored concord, the author may well have been encouraging fellow Jews, bereft of their political and cultural institutions, to maintain fraternal, ethnic and moral unity and concord in the face of hostile powers and the very tempting possibility of compromise and assimilation. He may also have reflected some of the theological ideas in circulation among Jews since at least the time of Jesus that suffering and martyrdom were not only required of the faithful, but even had an healing effect on others, summed up in the 65 important term a)nti&yuxon. In comparison with Philo and Josephus, the use of o(monoi&a in 4 66 Macc. initially appears to be a combination of the two. He uses both a traditional, politically weighted conception of o(monoi&a that was current in the civic world of the Greek east since Classical times as Josephus did, and a more philosophically nuanced interpretation of o(monoi&a that may reflect some of Philo’s uses, but which was also characteristic of philosophical uses from the time of Plato. In the end, however, the author’s philosophical and literary eclecticism (style, vocabulary) suits another age, the age of Plutarch, Dio Chrysostom, and Epictetus at the beginning of the Greek revival known as the Second Sophistic. This is where Breitenstein’s literary analysis suggests the author was most likely situated, and an evaluation of the author’s philosophical terminology by R. Renehan suggests that he was using a kind of “philosophic koine” that was popular in the early Empire (cf., Galen) and which had been influenced by the modified stoicism of 67 Posidonius. The author of 4 Macc. had not likely known the age of Aristides in which literary Atticism had its most fluent proponent, but neither does he reflect the tensions in asianic and attic styles that would have characterized the late republic and Augustan age, before Atticism had finally won the day. His style reflects a kind of compromise of the times, in which both elements were in some degree mixed, but in which the fading asianic had not yet given way to the rising attic style. The asianic style of 4 Macc. provides a window through which we can approximate a date (the beginning of the Second Sophistic) but also, broadly speaking, its provenance. The presence of asianic style suggests Asia or Syria as the likely place of writing, and offers us a final example of the kinds of contexts Hellenistic-Jewish writers of the

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first century might have used o(monoi&a in. The fact that the writer shares important elements of vocabulary and style with Ignatius of Antioch serves to further underscore the possibility of a late first, early 68 second century dating for 4 Macc..

Ignatius’ Letters and 4 Maccabees If Ignatius’ letters reveal something of his background as a Syrian Christian, the asianic literary style and Hellenistic thought world that he shared with 4 Macc. enable us to make some inferences about the world the two faiths interacted in, and the role that o(mo&noia may have played in both. We have already looked at the literary style and form of 4 Macc.. Following the work of Breitenstein, a dating of the work sometime after the Jewish wars in either the Flavian or Ulpian reigns 69 seems reasonable. Can any significant comparisons be made between Ignatius’ letters and 4 Macc. in terms of their style and content that might give us greater insight into their decision to use the language of concord in their admonitions? Ignatius broadly adhered to contemporary epistolary standards in his letters. Like Paul, Ignatius expanded but did not completely breech 70 formal epistolary protocol. H.J. Sieben has noted that Ignatius’ letters can be categorized as parakalo-type letters that were similar to Paul’s but which also had elements in common with the Royal diplo71 matic letters of the east. His style was florid and at times bombastic. Robert Joly’s proposal that a forger concocted the Ignatian correspondence in the quiet of a scholar’s study is remarkable in light of Ignatius’ at times wild prose. Norden noted that Ignatius, among the many writers of post-apostolic literature, was closest to Paul in rhetorical style and in his Greek. His language and style have been described as “formless and chaotic”, but not because Ignatius’ Syrian background kept him from articulating himself in Greek, but because 72 of his personal enthusiasm, betrayed on every page. Riesenfeld proposed that Ignatius was likely educated and adept with koine Greek, and compared his style with Lucian, the famous anti-sophist from An73 tioch of the late second century. He believed Ignatius may have been trained in rhetoric of the asianic style, which was popular in Ephesus and Antioch in the first and second centuries, and which may be paralleled with the Paschal Homily of Melito of Sardis as well as 4 74 Macc.. Another trademark of the Asianic rhetoric that characterized

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Ignatius’ uses includes his heaping of compounds one on top of the other, and the use of repeated prefixes such qe&o- and a0cio- and com75 pound suffixes, such as -preph&v, -maka&ristov, and -fo&rov. Brown noted that Ignatius supplies 112 hapax legomena for Christian litera76 ture, as well as 23 for Greek literature. This diverse and creative use of language and style gives us some sense of Ignatius’ literary capabilities. Though his style is not scholarly, it is educated, and Brown has 77 ranked it on the level of Luke’s stylistic abilities. Brown’s philological analysis of the seven letters of the middle recension and the six forgeries of the longer recension reveals important philological and stylistic differences that place Ignatius’ letters in the first half of the second 78 century, and ps-Ignatius’ additions at least in the mid fourth century. In fact, the Asianic style was beginning to be disparaged by the midsecond century, as Atticism in oratory became the hallmark of sophis79 tic display. Nostalgia for the golden past of classical Greece was chiefly enshrined in the use of the attic style, and the bombastic effluence of asianic rhetoric which is characteristic of Ignatius would have won few sympathetic listeners in the late second century. If Ignatius shared a common literary style with 4 Macc., can we speak of dependence by one on the other? It was Othmar Perler who first popularized this connection. By analyzing the vocabulary that was unique to both Ignatius’ letters and 4 Macc., Perler concluded that Ignatius must have been dependent on 4 Macc., and excluded the possi80 bility of the reverse, or that the two may have had a shared source. He believed that for some terms, the author of 4 Macc. was influenced by the philosophical writings of Philo. Perler proposed that for several terms common to 4 Macc. and Ignatius the following sequence of de81 pendence could be discerned: Philo-4 Macc.- Ignatius. Athletic terms (a)qlh&siv), musical metaphors (sumfwni&a) and the use of common philosophical ideas (kalokagaqi&a) are all present in the two authors, and when the common asianic style is taken into account, a strong likelihood for dependence emerges, according to Perler. This is especially so when it comes to the shared use of a0nti&yuxon by the two writers. Perler notes that none of the NT writers use this concept (opting for a)nti&lutron instead), and that Ignatius derived this idea via 4 82 Macc. from Philo and 2 Macc. Breitenstein was not convinced by Perler’s analysis, and suggested that 4 Macc. was much closer in its vocabulary to Jewish pseudepi83 graphal literature than the NT or the LXX. Breitenstein also points

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out that 4 Macc. and Ignatius shared a literary style that was common to most Jewish-Hellenistic homilies, and that the vocabulary that was unique to both writers included only three words (a)nti&yuxon, ka84 lokagaqi&a, and suggnwmone&w). We saw above how, against Norden, 85 who suggested that 4 Macc. was pure asianic literature, Breitenstein suggested that the use of the optative by the writer of 4 Macc. indicates that he was familiar was some atticizing tendencies that were analogous to the sophistic writers of the second century (Arrian, Appian). This allows for the possibility that Ignatius and 4 Macc. emerged out of a common literary milieu that was characterized by asianic rhetorical styles and Hellenistic Jewish thinking in Antioch in the years following the Jewish wars. The Christian experience of persecution and the Jewish experience of conquest would have been powerful factors that weighed on the minds of both writers. What, then, can be said of their uses of o(mo&noia? Did one derive the term from the other? If Ignatius and the writer of 4 Macc. shared a common literary milieu, can their uses of o(mo&noia reflect common influences? How, in fact, do their uses of o(mo&noia seem to be similar to the others? Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia tend to resemble that in 4 Macc. 13.25 most nearly, where concord is a quality that characterizes those who are bound together in brotherly love, and who are able thereby to overcome the forces of evil ranged against them (cf. Ign. Eph. 13.1). H.J. Klauck’s comparison of Plutarch with 4 Macc. with regard to their interpretations of ‘brotherly love’ points to the possibility that both writers were reflecting on the same topic at about the same time, 86 near the end of the first century. The fact that the Johnannine literature reflects a similar focus on brotherly love, and is generally supposed to have been written around the same time adds some support 87 to Klauck’s suggestions. For our own purposes, so does Ignatius’ advocacy of brotherly love for pagans (Ign. Eph. 10.3) and of one another (cf., Ign. Phld. 11.2; Ign. Smyr. 12.1), if we posit a dating of the 88 corpus around the beginning of the second century. In the description of how the seven Maccabean brothers were raised and nurtured, the theme of unity underlies their common education under the law that led to their brotherly affections (cf. 4 Macc. 13.20–24). This reminds us of Philo’s uses of o(mo&noia in which the law unified the Jewish people (Philo, De Virt. 35). Another possible parallel of how o(mo&noia was used by the two writers may be seen in comparison with

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4 Macc. 3.21 and Ignatian uses of the term. In 4 Macc., o(mo&noia is contrasted with strife and discord against the appointed authorities. A similar idea occurs in Ign. Eph. 4.1 and Ign. Mag. 5.1, but the equivalencies are not thoroughgoing. Ignatius never juxtaposes o(mo&noia with revolution as such, though he certainly contrasts those who are united with the bishop and those who aren’t. For Ignatius, o(mo&noia seems to be a quality that true Christians possess, and which maintenance is characteristic of the true Church. He also qualifies o(mo&noia as being “of God” or “of your faith” or simply “your”, expressing a more relational, than political, conception of the term (cf., Ign. Phld. Inscr.; Tral. 12.2; Eph. 13.1). Although Ignatius eagerly sought outward harmony, the force of meaning in his uses of the term was spiritual, and 89 had in mind spiritual goals, namely, unity with God. For the writer of 4 Macc. this may be said of his use of o(mo&noia in 13.25 to a limited degree: their unity and oneness and concord are all related to their religious convictions and love for one another, but their concord seems to be much more a personal virtue that the writer is highlighting, rather than a fundamental reflection of their relationship with God. It is as good Jews that they are bound together in faith and love while, for Ignatius, it is a reflection of their nature as imitators of God and of Jesus that Christians are bound in harmony with one another. The one exalts a virtue to be imitated by fellow countrymen, the other an obligation demanded by their identity as faithful imitators of God. There are other similarities between the two writings. Many of the metaphors and symbols employed by Ignatius and the writer of 4 Macc. converge in ways that are remarkable. For instance, in Ign. Rom. 2.2 and 4 Macc. 14.2–10 there is the image used by both of the chorus gathered around the participants in song: “O sacred and harmonious concord (sumfwni&a) of the seven brothers on behalf of religion! None of the youths proved coward or shrank from death, but all of them, as though running the course toward immorality, hastened to death by torture…. Oh most holy seven, brothers in harmony (sumfw&nwn)! For just as the seven days of creation move in choral dance around religion, so these youths, forming a chorus (xoreu&ontev), encircled the sevenfold fear of tortures and dissolved it.” (4 Macc. 14.4–5, 7–8). “Grant me nothing more than to be poured out as an offering to God while there is still an altar ready, so that in love you may form a chorus (xoro_v geno&menoi) and sing to the Father in Jesus Christ, because God has judged the bishop from Syria worthy to be found in the west, having summoned him

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from the East. It is good to be setting from the world to God, in order that I may rise in him.” (Ign. Rom. 2.2).

Though the authors are using the images differently, we see similarities that indicate that may have been using common metaphorical language. There is the image of a procession, or a journey to God; then the chorus, in one case the seven brothers surround their sufferings and dissolve them, in the other the Roman Christians are exhorted to surround Ignatius, as he is offered up to God. Compare also the final verse in 4 Macc. 18.23, “But the sons of Abraham with their victorious mother are gathered together into the chorus (xoro_n sunagela&zontai) of the fathers, and have received pure and immortal souls from God…” and Ign. Eph. 19.2, “All the rest of the constellations, together with the sun and moon, formed a chorus around the star (xoro_v e0ge&neto)…” Again, the images are not parallel, but they both express in metaphorical imagery the idea of internal unity victorious over external evil. Another common image is that of the ship/harbor metaphor in 4 Macc. 7.1 and in Ign. Smyr.11.3: “For like a most skillful pilot, the reason of our father Eleazar steered the ship of religion over the sea of the emotions, and though buffeted by the stormings of the tyrant and overwhelmed by the mighty waves of tortures, in no way did he turn the rudder of religion until he sailed into the haven of immortal victory.” “…because they have reached, thanks to your prayers, a safe harbor.” “The time needs you (as pilots need winds and a storm-tossed sailor needs a harbor) in order to reach God.”

Again we may say that although the metaphors are not identical, much of the language is, as well as the imagery. As Eleazar guided the Jews through the storms of persecution to God, so Ignatius exhorts Polycarp to guide the church to God. Is it possible that both writers, native to the great trading city Antioch, were influenced by such familiar nautical imagery, implying a common language of description available to both writers? It is not unreasonable to think so. However it might be too ambitious to assert dependence by one on the other, as 90 Perler has done. The differences between the two writings (genre, audience, and theology) are too subtle to make this a likely option. But, the similarities do allow us to see how o(mo&noia was a broadly known term that could be applied by writers to a variety of situations,

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along with the images and metaphors that often accompanied the term. A further important point of contact that the Ignatian Epistles and 4 Macc. share is their use of a0nti&yuxon (Ign. Eph. 21.1; Smyr. 10.2; Pol. 2.3, 6.1; 4 Macc. 6. 27–29; 17.20–22). From as early as the second century BC the idea of death and suffering on behalf of others, or for the sins of the nation, can be discerned in Jewish literature and thought (cf. 2 Macc. 6.28; 7.37–38). M. de Jonge notes that ideas of vicarious suffering in 2 Macc. may be compared with other OT images for atonement and mediation that bear similarities with the cultic sac91 rifices of the Temple. Influenced by the confession of the last of the seven brothers in 2 Macc. 7.37, the writer of 4 Macc. described the 92 death of Eleazar in the metaphors of sacrifice: a0nti&yuxon. “Be merciful to our people, and let our punishment suffice for them. Make my blood their purification, and take my life in exchange for theirs”, Eleazar proclaims. Eleazar’s language is remarkably similar to that of Ignatius: “May my spirit be a ransom (a0nti&yuxon u9mw~n to_ pneu~ma& mou) on your behalf, and my bonds as well…” (Ign. Smyr. 10.2). Elsewhere, the writer’s comments in 4 Macc. 18.3 has resonances with Ign.Pol 6.1.: “Therefore, those who gave over their bodies in suffering for the sake of religion were not only admired by mortals, but also were deemed worthy to share in a divine inheritance” (4 Macc. 18.3), and, “I am a ransom on behalf of those who are obedient to the bishop, presbyters and deacons; may it be granted to me to have a place among them in the presence of God” (Ign. Pol. 6.1). Both Ignatius and the writer of 4 Macc. have a similar understanding of the suffering of the righteous for the sake of others. This subtheme in the theology and thought of inter-testamental Judaism has been seen by some scholars to have been appropriated by the early Christians for the purposes of interpreting the death of Jesus. W.H.C. Frend saw this Jewish background as an essential component to understanding the interpretation of martyrdom by the early Christians, and believed that Ignatius had picked up this terminology directly 93 from 4 Macc. Daniel Boyarin’s creative interpretation of the roots of martyrdom, though somewhat speculative, emphasizes the fact that similar traditions were shared by both Jews and Christians after the 94 Roman conquest of Judea in 70 AD. However, as Campenhausen has pointed out, Christian martyrdom was early on a matter of ‘blood95 witness’ that pointed to the vicarious suffering of Christ. Whereas

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Jewish martyrdom was more oriented towards the law as an act of faithfulness than it was towards the pagan world as a witness against them, Christian martyrdom, up through the time of Ignatius, was still 96 a matter of testifying, bearing witness, to Christ. Only later, after Polycarp and in the time of Irenaeus and Tertullian was the title marttu&v more systematically associated with the person of the martyr, 97 and not the testimony or witness to Christ. In spite of differing conception of martyrdom, what can be said of other common features shared between Ignatius and the writer of 4 Macc.? Glenn Bowersock has noted the close linquistic and cultural milieu 98 shared by both authors as well as the shared language of a0nti&yuxon. He notes that the appearance of this term before the Christian literature of the fourth century is sparse, limited to Ignatius’ Epistles, 4 Macc., Lucian Lexiph. 10 and Dio Cassius 59.8.3. From these early sources, all allegedly deriving from Asia Minor, Bowersock proposes an ingenius interpretation for a0nti&yuxon. He notes with regard to Lucian and Dio Cassius that “in both cases what is at stake is payment to liberate another from impending death.” Reading Ignatius and Lucian together, Bowersock concludes that their combined testimony implies “that the social context for this metaphor (and the word a)nti&yuxon) was a local penal system in which a prisoner with money 99 could pay another to take his place.” Bowersock’s interpretation is built on the belief that both Ignatius’ letters and 4 Macc. originated in Asia Minor and not Syria. But whether this is the case or not, the parallels between Ignatius’ letters and 4 Macc. strengthen our view that they shared a common cultural context in which the use of other terms, such as o(mo&noia might be expected. We may sum up by noting that both Ignatius and the writer of 4 Macc. used the language and metaphors of concord in their writings and that for both, unity and concord were central goals advocated in their exhortations. Persecution and the endurance of suffering were important visual and symbolic metaphors applied in gruesome detail characteristic of the bombastic Asianic style. Both were involved in relations with the Jewish community in Antioch and beyond. Both shared a similar conception of vicarious suffering through the terminology of a0nti&yuxon. Both may have shared some kind of Syrian or Antiochene heritage. These common links between the two writers make it possible, if not likely, that both wrote from a generally shared thought world. Though Ignatius writes as a Christian, and is often at

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odds with Jewish traditions, he shares a common theological heritage influenced by the OT prophets with the writer of 4 Macc.. In a similar manner, though the writer of 4 Macc. betrays no knowledge of Christianity, he shares in their common struggle against the forces of idolatry and paganism as far as the ultimate sacrifices of martyrdom and persecution. We may at least remark that the religious environment that Ignatius came from in Antioch, in which martyrdom, persecution, and Judaism figure prominently, had much in common with the religious environment the writer of 4 Macc. may have belonged to, and was one which was somewhat different from those other contexts in which the language of o(mo&noia featured: the Imperial cult and the concord speeches of the Greco-Roman orators.

Conclusion Uses of the term by Hellenistic Jewish writers like Philo and Josephus help us understand how Jews familiar with traditional and popular uses of o(mo&noia, could put the term to work in support of their ideas without slavishly applying it in their writings. Philo may even have consciously omitted the term from his political speeches in preference for the language of peace, which had richer Julio-Claudian resonances. Josephus, on the other hand, used concord in ways that were in harmony with the political and iconographic agendas of the Flavians. But even Josephus, client of the Flavians, could use the term in ways that emphasized concord as a characteristic of Judaism. The political use of the term predominates, but the ethnic reinterpretation of it is discernable. Furthermore, we may note that the term could be used by Jews in ways that filled o(mo&noia with resonances that were more in harmony with Stoic philosophy and Jewish theology, where unity of the faithful might be emphasized in terms that were more metaphysical than political. We noted this in both Philo and 4 Macc. but also in Ignatius, who, though he was concerned with practical unity in the churches he wrote to, envisioned this unity in the theological language of the ‘unity with God’. These observations lead us to conclude that of the external influences that may have shaped Ignatius’ understanding of o(mo&noia, Jewish uses, however profoundly they may have been shaped by the Greco-Roman world, imparted to Ignatius a more nuanced under-

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standing of the term that resonated with theological presuppositions that he shared with Judaism, i.e., unity among God’s people. As we turn to the more obvious influences on him, the earliest Christian writers, we will want to remember that in the cases of Paul and 1 Clement, we are still dealing with theologians deeply committed to and influenced by, Judaism, and so to an understanding of o(mo&noia that had undercurrents which were neither wholly Greek nor Roman.

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O(mo&noia in Early Christian Literature: Paul and 1 Clement Introduction Up to now, our evaluation has focused on those contexts in the surrounding culture of the Greco-Roman world which may have influenced Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia. Whether on the coins of Asia minor, through the o(mo&noia-speeches of the Second Sophistic, or in the iconography of the Imperial cult, we found resonances in the letters of Ignatius to the churches in Asia that indicate a familiarity with how the term was being used by his contemporaries. We also saw that there were points of contact with uses of the term in the writings of Hellenistic Judaism; there were similarities with Philo and Josephus, but more particularly with 4 Macc. whose rhetorical style and possibly whose geographical provenance Ignatius himself may have shared. However, when we come to the writings of early Christianity, we step on to the more stable footing of direct influences on the thought and language of Ignatius by his environment. A look at how 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement were both characterized by the form and content of the classical peri_ o(mo&noiav speech will let us assess one of Ignatius’ letters (Ign.Phld.) for similar features and allow us to arrive at some preliminary conclusions about whether or not he may have been familiar with the peri_ o(mo&noiav speech as it was articulated by early Christian writers.

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Deliberative Rhetoric and the Concord-Speech in Antiquity Recent scholarship on 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement has brought to light for many biblical scholars the importance of the influence of the concord speech on the literature and thought of early Christian writers like Paul and Clement of Rome. Lawrence Welborn, Margaret Mitchell and Odd Magne Bakke have all contributed importantly to our understanding of the structure, vocabulary and political context of the concord speech in antiquity. Building on the research of scholars such as 1 G.A. Kennedy and H.D. Betz, they have made compelling cases for how some early Christian writings fit into the genre of deliberative rhetoric and can best be characterized by the rhetorical context of the concord speech as it was described in the rhetorical manuals and as it occurred in actual speeches and letters in antiquity. Aristotle described the three species of rhetoric as judicial, deliberative and epideictic each of which sought to elicit a decision about the past, present or the future (Arist. Rhet. 1.3.2). Each genre had a positive and a negative element to it, such as prosecution and defense, exhortation and discussion, encomium and invective. Aristotle claimed that these three divisions served as proofs by appealing to the ethical, pathetical, and logical, and Cicero further refined these as the 2 three duties of an orator: to please, to move, to teach (Cic. Orat. 69). Building on the work of G. Henrici, Lawrence Welborn’s approach to evaluating 1 Cor. 1–4 involved a heavy dependence on ancient rheto3 rical models. He claimed that the passage in question could be described as deliberative rhetoric (sumbouleutiko_n ge&nov) and in 4 particular, the peri_ o(monoi&av speech. Mitchell further noted that this kind of speech was characterized by certain features which could be culled from the text: future time as the context, the appeal to advan5 6 tage (to_ sumfe&ron), the use of examples (paradei&gmata), and the 7 appropriateness of the genre to the address, for which discussions on 8 war and peace were consistent with deliberative rhetoric. Welborn also noted the importance of class distinctions in ancient factionalism, to which the concord speech was often addressed. Aristotle had early on pointed out that economic disparity led to party strife (Arist. Pol.5.1.6 (103 B 27)), and scholars have noted the importance of this 9 social tension for understanding ancient society. In short, ancient rhetorical conventions provided a means for addressing the issues of

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factionalism and concord in public oratory and declamation. As we saw in Chapter Two, this emerged under the sophists but was brought to particular clarity of application under Isocrates, after whom it appears to have been consistently employed. Though political rhetoric declined in potency with the fall of the Republic and the rise of censorship and informers during the Principate, deliberative rhetoric, though it was overshadowed by epideictic in this period, still had its 10 advocates. Rhetoric was employed during the imperial period in ways similar to the Hellenic past for the purpose of advocating concord, often through the deliberative rhetorical conventions of the peri_ o(monoi&av speech. Dio Chrysostom, Plutarch, and Aelius Aristides were three of the foremost advocates of concord during the late Flavian and the following periods, and they offer specific examples of how this kind of speech was delivered in the public forums of the cities in the Greek east. Two important elements of the peri_ o(monoi&av speech were the structure and vocabulary employed by the speakers. An important contribution of Mitchell’s work is her enumeration of the various terms and topoi that appeared in Paul’s Corinthian correspondence 11 that he shared with pagan writers. Bakke’s evaluation of these same terms and topoi in 1 Clement are based on a reading of the semantic 12 fields that shaped and contoured the meaning of o(mo&noia. Like Mitchell, Bakke offers a broad analysis of the words and images used by Clement but paralleled in many cases with the conventions of the peri_ o(monoi&av speech. Their important contribution in this instance is the observation that the language of o(mo&noia came packaged in a broad field of terms and allusions drawn from the Greco-Roman world, all of which dealt with the problem of discord and the struggle to broker peace, almost always in the context of civic life. The compositional analyses by Mitchell and Bakke of their respective texts further provides us with confirmation of Welborn’s observation that the rhetorical context for the use of o(mo&noia had a specific form and struc13 ture according to ancient conventions. Using ancient rhetorical designations, Mitchell broke down Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians into component parts that supported her designation of the text as deliberative rhetoric. These included a prooi&mion, which served as an introduction (1:4–9); a pro&qesiv, which noted the thesis of the whole letter (1:10); a dih&ghsiv, which stated the present situation confronting the Corinthian and the exigency for Paul’s letter (1:11–17); pi&steiv,

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the various proofs and examples that made up Paul’s argument for the restoration of concord (1:18–15:57); and a final e)pi&logov, where Paul 14 concluded his arguments and summed them up for his hearers. Bakke’s evaluation of 1 Clement includes the use of modern rhetorical techniques, but is still heavily dependent on classical rhetorical 15 definitions. A central feature in his evaluation of 1 Clement involves a development of the probatio of ancient rhetoric as it was devised by 16 Hermagoras of Temnos who divided it into the qe&siv and u(po&qesiv. Bakke notes that this was reconceived by Quintilian as the indefinite and the definite question, “we cannot arrive at any conclusion on the special point until we have first discussed the general question” 17 (Quint. Inst.3.5.13). Two contemporary writers, Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides, both used this form of argumentation in speeches 18 they offered in their promotion of concord. Bakke divides the underlying structure of the whole letter into exordium (1:1–2:8), a narratio (3:1–4), the probatio 4:1–61:3 which he further divides into qe&siv (4:1–39:9) and u(po&qesiv (40:1–61:3), and a final peroratio (62:1– 19 64:1). He supports his observations throughout with references to ancient literary works, for example, the division of the probatio 1 Clement into qe&siv and u(po&qesiv he parallels to Dio Chrysostom’s Or. 20 38 to the Nicomedians on concord. This continuity of structure in the speech not only strengthens his arguments regarding 1 Clement, but, like Mitchell, provides us with a view of ancient rhetoric that allows us to place the o(mo&noia-speech securely in the context of ancient civic life in the Greek east. What we are able to conclude from these evaluations is that the politics of concord involved the whole of the civic life of a city, and included social, religious, economic and philosophical factors as reflected in the terms it could be associated with. These were taken for granted by early Christian writers, and as we shall see, were also reflected in their correspondences with other churches. In particular, we will see the fingerprints of the Greco-Roman concord speech in the writings of Paul, and in 1 Clement we will find, red-handed, the term itself with accompanying imperial paraphernalia richly adorning his vocabulary and style.

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1 Corinthians 1–4: Deliberative Rhetoric Urging Concord The presence of rhetorical elements in 1 Corinthians has long been 21 noted. Lawrence Welborn has suggested the presence of allusions to the Greco-Roman concept of o(mo&noia/ concordia in early Christian 22 literature. In an unpublished thesis, Welborn argued for the linguistic dependence of Paul’s language of unity and discord in 1 Cor. 1–4 on the language of concord and discord which was re23 emerging in the political discourse of the Greek east. His argument was built on the work of earlier scholars, such as Ehrhardt, who saw at the bottom of the Corinthian conflict a power struggle, and not a 24 theological difference of opinion. Welborn believed that in 1 Cor. 1– 4, Paul was not battling heresy, but the common bugbear of political 25 associations past and present, sta&siv. The threat to the community was not a matter of gnostic heresy, but of individuals being “puffed up against one another” (1 Cor. 4:6). Such a caricature was a typical allusion to the political self-importance of orators and the powerful in the civic setting (Plut., Cic. 887B; Epict. Diss. 2.16.10; Dio Chrys., Or. 30.19). Other similarities with the language of politics was the use of the Body metaphor to symbolize social and civic relations (cf., Plut. Mor. 807C; Dio Chrys., Or. 38.15; Aristid., Or.23.31). Welborn suggested that what in fact Paul was doing in 1 Cor. 1–4 was typical of the well known pe&ri o(mo&noiav speech, current in the Greek east since classical times, but more recently revived by the orators of the Empire (Isoc. Or. 4; Plato, Ep. 7; Ps-Sallust Ep. 2; Dio Chrys. Or. 38–41; 26 Aristid., Or. 23–24). At the root of the conflict were likely social divisions which had catalyzed around various wealthy patrons. That such conflict was occurring in Corinth appears evident from Paul’s direct statements in 1 Cor. 1:26 ff., and the common themes Paul’s allusions throughout 1 Cor. 1–4 shared with political oratory regarding conflicts between rich and poor (Thuc., 2.65.2; Plato, Gorg. 576A; Ar. 27 Pol. 6.1.9 1217b 39–41). Wealthy patrons expected their clients to support them in their factions (Cic., Pro Murena 70) and their pursuit of power (Ps-Sallust, Ep. 2.5.1). Paul, on the other hand, sought to win 28 over the lower classes by identifying with them. Instead of capitulating to the power struggles, Paul may have sought to transform the Corinthians’ idea of conflict from mundane party politics to an eschatological struggle between God and this age, and

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putting the dissension to an end rather than letting social habits go unchecked. Clement of Rome, who wrote not many decades after Paul to the same church, interpreted the situation in Paul’s letters as partisan conflicts (1 Clem 1:1; 47:1–4), as did many other ancient authorities who interpreted Paul’s letter as polemic against factions 29 and the struggle for power. Thus, the language of deliberative rhetoric, often found in the political contexts of civic orations urging concord, offers a helpful parallel to Paul’s exertions on behalf of the Corinthians.

The Concord-Speech and 1 Corinthians Margaret Mitchell’s re-evaluation of 1 Corinthians expanded Welborn’s observations more completely by proposing that the fundamental issue Paul addressed through this letter had to do with factionalism among Christians in Corinth which he hoped to resolve 30 by brokering renewed unity. Mitchell argued for the compositional unity of the letter making the case that the whole work should be understood from the perspective of Graeco-Roman literary and 31 rhetorical conventions as deliberative rhetoric. Her thesis opposed the theory expressed by Walter Bauer in his Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity that the early church did not believe that 1 32 Corinthians addressed the “heresy of schism.” In contrast, Mitchell affirms that “1 Corinthians is in fact a unified and coherent appeal for 33 unity and cessation of factionalism.” Her suggestion that 1 Corinthians was a deliberative rhetorical speech/epistle that may best be understood through the lens of the classical political genre of the concord speech is born out by her critical analysis of the rhetorical 34 form and structure of the letter. Guiding her analysis is her proposal that 1 Cor. 1:10 stood as Paul’s 35 proqh&siv for the whole letter. According to her argument, Paul addressed the Corinthian penchant for conflict and faction not only in the first chapters, but throughout the whole letter. The theme of his letter had to do with factionalism per se, and not with various or individual factions, and in this regard, Mitchell demonstrates that 1 Corinthians is permeated with the terms and topoi of the political discourse of concord and faction that is so characteristic of delibera36 tive rhetorical.

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Throughout 1 Corinthians, Paul uses stock phrases which are consistently associated with the concord appeal, and conventional topoi that help construct metaphors in his endeavor to persuade the Corinthians to reconcile. Mitchell provides a host of examples from ancient writers that support her view of Paul’s rhetorical strategy. 1 Cor. 1:10 reads: “Now I appeal to you brothers (and sisters), by the mercies of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose” (NRSV). Mitchell isolates four phrases which she sees as clearly evoking the language of political concord: a.), (i3na) to\ au)to\ le&ghte, b.) mh\ h|} e0n u(mi\n sxi&smata, c.), h}te de\ kathrtisme&noi e)n tw~| au0tw~| noi%, d.), e)n th?~| au)th?~| gnw&mh|?. Each of these phrases belong to a long tradition in the political oratory and literature of the Greek world. to\ au)to\ le&gein was a common feature of concord speeches, often synonymous with o(mo&noia (Dio Chrys., Or. 4.135), and generally 37 denoted a state of unity or political equilibrium. Paul’s use of sxi&sma evoked further political/deliberative ideas which were based on the 38 verb sxi&zein, and appeared frequently in the literature. Mitchell notes that Paul’s use of sxi&sma at key points in the letter (1. Cor. 1:10; 11:18; 12:25) marked it out as one of the underlying emphases in his argumentation. Pairing sxi&sma with kathrti&zein represented a use of clear political counterparts; an association Ignatius would later make in the 39 context of schism as well (Ign. Phld. 8.1). e)n to\ au0to\ noi% was also synonymous with o(mo&noia and was used by Paul as an equivalent term, avoiding the use of o(mo&noia because its personification in Greek 40 and Roman religious cult. The same can be said of Paul’s use of e0n th\ au)th?~ gnw&mh?, “in the same opinion”, which featured regularly in an41 cient speeches. Other synonyms, like mi9a|? gnw&mh, “of one accord” or o(mognwmone&w, “of one mind” were also commonly used with or for 42 o(mo&noia. Throughout 1 Corinthians, these terms can be found in various combinations and contexts, supporting Mitchell’s interpretation of 1 Cor. 1:10. The allusions to political and social concord and discord that these words evoked may have been consciously used by Paul in his strategy to win the Corinthians back to unity by revealing their disunity through these terms. As the proqh&siv of the letter, 1 Cor. 1:10 was supported by the terms and topoi of the concord speech from beginning to end, helping Paul to communicate his overriding concern (faction) and theme (concord).

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In 1 Cor. 3:9–17; 6:19; 8:1, 10; and 14:3–5, 12, Paul uses the metaphor of the oi)kodomh&, the building. Having appealed to Apollos and himself as sune&rgoi, another term commonly found in political contexts (Dio Chrys., Or. 48.15), Paul begins to construct one of is central metaphors around which he hopes to rally the Corinthians to unity. Defusing party spirit that was lined up behind figureheads was an essential step in rebuilding unity, and prepared the ground for his use of 43 the building metaphor in 3:11. Supporting this metaphor are various other terms and phrases which would have connected the actions Paul had chastised them for committing with their positive antecedents. Terms such as bebai&ov, “firmly”, and e(drai&ov, “steadfast”, and qemeliou~sqai “to lay a foundation”, all featured in deliberative speeches 44 encouraging unity and concord. Demosthenes warned the Athenians to support the Megalopolitans, lest they become “staunch” (e(drai&oi) allies of the Spartans (Dem. Or. 16.30), and in the Imperial era, Dio Chrysostom urged concord upon the Tarsians, and noted that their concord may not yet be “safe” (bebai&oi) and exhorts them to take the issues to heart (Dio Chrys. Or. 34.17). Mitchell adds that Paul’s oi)kodomh& topos is further strengthened by his use of other terms such as his appeal at the end of the letter in 16:13, that they “stand firm” (sth&khte), “be courageous” (a0ndri&zesqe), and “be strong” 45 (krataiou~sqai). The metaphor evoked the language and world of civic politics in the ancient world’s classic struggle to build unity, concord and stability among the citizens of a polis. The Corinthians, warned in 3:3 that they are walking like men because of their jealousies and discord, would likely have pictured the building metaphor as rightly applicable to their circumstances. Before the body-metaphor is used, Paul makes an appeal to seek the common advantage and not those of individuals in 1. Cor. 10:23– 11:1. This was a regular feature in concord speeches, and many an orator discerned the great damage that could be done to a city by those 46 who merely sought their own interests. Paul appeals once again that they imitate him; he is one who does not seek his own advantage, but the advantage of the many (10:33). This, too, is his tenor in ch. 12 when he introduces the well known metaphor of the body of Christ (12:12–31). The body metaphor was a famous example used to illustrate discord in political speeches in antiquity. Mitchell lists several 47 examples, and notes how Paul’s argumentation even agrees with 48 them in the details. The idea that sedition (sta&siv) was a disease in

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the body politic expanded the idea, and is a topic that has been re50 examined in recent times. Mitchell notes that as with the rhetoric of the building-metaphor, the body-metaphor was uniformly political and was used to combat factionalism, which she views as the chief 51 goal of the letter. The conclusion Mitchell comes to is that 1. Corinthians was a deliberative epistle urging the cessation of discord and the building up of the Church through concord and love. Mitchell takes the rhetoric of reconciliation in Paul’s first Epistle to the Corinthians seriously, and finds a resonance among his forerunners, contemporaries and successors in Greek, Jewish and Christian rhetorical traditions. She leaves little doubt that Paul was familiar with the conventions of the concord-speech, and offers the well-supported proposition that he wrote 1 Corinthians in deliberate emulation of it. We may conclude that Paul avoided the terminology of o(mo&noia in spite of the fact that he availed himself to a rhetorical genre that would have encouraged him to use it. This reminds us to some degree of Philo, who knew that o(mo&noia might be used with political overtones, but chose to emphasize other concepts instead. It might be worth noting that Paul could have avoided using o(mo&noia because it had the kind of familiar political associations that he was trying to keep himself free from. While it is clear from Mitchell’s work that Paul had likely been influenced by trends, if not specific writers, in the pagan world, it appears that he avoided using o(mo&noia on the same grounds that Philo did: it had the kind of political connotations he didn’t want to evoke. His emphasis, as Philo’s, was on the community of believers living under the kingly rule of God. Since he did not use the term o(mo&noia, there can be little talk of his adapting it. In fact, his avoidance of it shows that he may have interpreted o(mo&noia as a term unfit for theological use or instruction. However, Paul clearly did not avoid using the surrounding language and vocabulary of o(mo&noia and sta&siv that characterized the semantic field in which these terms regularly occurred, much as we saw in Philo’s two political treatises. Paul’s willingness to write to the Corinthians in a format that had such resonances with deliberative rhetorical letters and speeches indicates that he was intentional in the way he shaped his arguments. With Mitchell and Welborn we can conclude that Paul’s allusions, rhetorical argumentation, and vocabulary all make clear that he was using a

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popular form of rhetoric that most nearly resembles the peri\ o(mo&noiaspeech.

O(monoi&a and 1 Clement In 1 Clement, the appearance of o(mo&noia is no longer one of forms, allusions, and models only, but of specific use and application in the technical terminology of the day that reflected both the Flavian propaganda of pax and concordia, as well as the rhetorical genre of the o(mo&noia speech pandered by the sophists and orators of the Greek east. As noted above, Odd Magne Bakke stressed the deliberative character of 1 Clement, and has maintained that a similar conclusion to Mitchell’s evaluation of Paul’s 1 Corinthians can be reached with 1 52 Clement: that it was a “deliberative letter urging concord.” Clement was the first Christian writer to use the term o(mo&noia and he did so at a time and manner in which certain images were evoked, and associations made. His use of the word is important as a precursor to its appearance in Ignatius, and the possibility that the Syrian bishop was familiar with Clement’s exhortations will be analyzed in the light of Clement’s own conventional application of the idea to the specific context of discord in Corinth. In the middle of the last century, W.C. van Unnik claimed that 1 Clement was primarily a sumbouleutic discourse on peace and concord, with subject matter germane to the political speeches of the 53 day. Speaking in the same cultural milieu as Dio Chrysostom, Clement differed only from contemporary orators in his protreptic/apotreptic horatory style, whereas popular orators usually stood at 54 a distance, as a third party to the conflict. As a sumboulos like Dio and Aristides, Clement advises and counsels the Corinthians, but his posture is one of entreaty (e0nteu&civ) so that the Corinthians are invited to accept his advice as an equal. His motive is none other than to restore peace and harmony, and this is reflected in his use of GraecoRoman rhetorical motifs, metaphors and vocabulary. Annie Jaubert has illuminated the many rhetorical techniques that Clement set to use throughout his letter: the repetition of key words like zh&lov (3–6) and a)ga&ph (49); an accumulation of complements, adjectives and other compounds; the rhythmic feel of the letter; repeated and successive questions (diatribe); themes from stoic thought; vice and virtue 55 lists; and much else besides. The presence of the technical vocabu-

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lary of the concord-speech is also notable: o(mo&noia and ei)rh&nh appear frequently, as do other such terms, in particular, kolla&w which is one of Clement’s favorite metaphors for cohesion (1 Clem. 15.1; 19.2; 56.2). Clement’s debt to the genre and form of the o(mo&noia-speech is clear, and his goal was to advocate the restoration not only of the presbyters 56 but harmony in the Church. This is where we can recall Bakke’s analysis of 1 Clement fruitfully. His division of the underlying structure of the whole letter into an exordium (1:1–2:8), a narratio (3:1–4), the probatio 4:1–61:3 which he further divides into qe&siv (4:1–39:9) and u(po&qesiv (40:1–61:3), and a final peroratio (62:1–64:1) is different from Mitchell’s analysis of 1 Corinthians, but he shares the same 57 conclusions: it was a deliberative letter urging concord. What supports Bakke’s analysis even more is the fact that the term appears throughout the text of 1 Clement. When we turn to the text of 1 Clement, the guiding theme of his letter is dominated by the problem of conflict and the need to restore peace. Bakke’s analysis points out the broad semantic fields in which the language of concord and discord appeared, and locates many of 58 these elements in 1 Clement. When these semantic fields are taken into accout, it can be seen that o(mo&noia features prominently in Clement’s overall argumentation. O(mo&noia occurs as a noun fifteen times in 1 Clement, and once as a participle. This reflects the way the term was used early in the Second Sophistic in oratory and literature which praised the ideal as a virtue of political wellbeing or a state of social harmony. Another important term is ei)rh&nh, which occurs twenty times, six times in combination with o(mo&noia, mirroring the political usage of the propaganda of the Roman Empire (Plut. Otho 15; Suet. 59 Otho 8.2; Tac. Hist.1.56.6). A host of other words and metaphors are employed by Clement that had a place in the traditional o(mo&noiaspeech, but only a few need be mentioned here. Clement used the term kolla&w, meaning, “bind together, unite with”, relatively frequently. Bowe suggests that his use of this metaphor for cohesion was 60 a favorite one, occurring ten times in various uses. Like Paul, Clement is fond of paradei&gmata for unity, and in 37.5 he seems to borrow the body metaphor that Paul used (1 Cor. 12:21 ff.). Further along, in 46.6, Clement seems to hark back to Ephesians 4:4–6 with his language of the unity they all share in oneness of God. Other examples abound, such as in ch. 20, where nature is appealed to as an example

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of the harmony and peace that God has established, or in 49.5 where Clement clearly borrows from Paul’s encomium to Love in 1 Cor. 13. From the beginning, Clement is clear about the purpose of his letter. He is concerned to address “the abominable and unholy sedition (sta&sewv) alien and foreign to the elect of God, which a few rash and self-willed persons have made to blaze up to such a frenzy (a)ponoi&a) that your name, venerable and famous, and worth as it is of all men’s love, has been much slandered” (1 Clem. 1.1). This topic was the traditional subject of the o(mo&noia-speech, as we have seen, and alerts us to the presence of the vocabulary, topoi, and intentions of such an address: resolving sta&siv and restoring o(mo&noia. In 3.2 Clement unmasks the cause of this unholy schism: it is jealousy (zh&lov), the common vice which, ever since Thucydides’ description of the sta&siv at Corcyra, was understood to be the fundamental problem in the politics of the polis (cf. Thuc. 3.82.8). The problem in Corinth was also conceived by Clement in terms of sta&siv and as such was understood in the context of one of the fundamental problems that bedeviled the politics of Greece and Roman world. Welborn notes that the minimal disclosure of the nature of conflict addressed in o(mo&noia-speeches was generic (cf. Dion Hal. Rhet. 10.14; Quint. 3.8.6–8). He emphasizes the essential rhetorical feel of Clement’s use of o(mo&noia; that is, he used the term not in the way Philo did, but in the way Josephus had. That 1 Clement reflected the political literary genre of the day is confirmed in 58.2 where the entire letter is described as a sumboule. Welborn suggests that the Roman Church’s intervention may even have been modeled on how imperial Rome dealt with her provinces, sending a sumboule, often involving Greek provincials and sophists as ambassa61 dors.

Clement’s Uses of o(mo&noia O(mo&noia occurs first in 1 Clement at 9.4, in his description of the harmony with which the animals entered Noah’s ark in perhaps a somewhat tongue in cheek reflection on the orderliness and obedience of beasts in contrast to the discordant Corinthians. Clement also attributes the punishment of Lot’s wife for her change of mind (e(terogno&monov) to a lack of o(mo&noia (11.2). Though such an interpretation of Gen. 19 is not forthcoming in known versions of the text, or in extra-canonical literature, Lightfoot notes that such a use of

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o(mo&noia would have implied the current Corinthian sta&siv, where the 62 problem of e(terogno&monov may have been an issue. In ch. 20, o(mo&noia appears several times in a rather stoic reflection on the order of the universe. According to Brunner, Clement seems to draw on Stoic ideas that understood concord as pre-ordained and fundamentally a part of the order of the universe, so that it was not 63 only a gift but an order under which one needed to submit oneself. Eggenberger’s emphasis on the similarities between Clement and Dio Chrysostom, while not overwhelming, do reveal a common rhetorical background shared by both authors, but the connections are not remarkable enough to indicate dependence. Eggenberger notes similarity in both author’s description of nature (cf. Dio Chrys. Or.40.38–40); 1 Clement’s lengthy introduction, and his concluding prayer are both structural hallmarks of Dio’s speeches, and a shared vocabulary including words such as h(suxi&ov, paidei&a, sta&siv, 64 ei)rhniko&v, h(go~umenov and prau%v is noteworthy, but not much more. Van Unnik, on the other hand, was much more convinced of Clement’s dependence on Jewish or Old Testament influences, noting important parallels in descriptions of nature with 1 Clement 20 (1 Enoch 1.9; 41.5–8; Test. Twelve Patr. Test. Naph. 3; Assumption of Moses, 12.9– 65 10; Psalms of Solomon, 18.12–14). Fundamental, according to van Unnik, are the views of pietistic Jews who saw God’s ordered creation as a model for human life, and not stoic philosophy with its 66 anthropocentric emphases. Clement’s use of o(mo&noia in 21.1 is his clearest indication yet of how he intended to be understood when he spoke of concord. Following his description of nature as ordered in ‘peace and concord’, Clement warns his hearers, “Take heed, beloved, lest his many good works towards us become a judgment on us, if we do not good and virtuous deeds before him in concord (o(mo&noia) and be citizens (politeuo&menoi) worthy of him.” This association between o(mo&noia and politeu&w is a clear topos of the o(mo&noia-speech during the Principate, in which aristocratic orators were often employed to exhort the lower classes to submission through the politically tolerable vocabulary of o(mo&noia (Aristid. Or. 24)—and yet, Clement subsumes the idea of sociopolitical harmony under the authority of the Holy Spirit (21.2 ff.). Brunner suggested that whereas Greek thought conceived of concord as freedom from sta&siv, Hellenistic Judaism interpreted concord as a 67 gift from God. To be citizens of God’s kingdom involved living in ac-

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cordance with his ordering of the cosmos, and sta&siv had no part in this. Eggenberger also suggested that Dio’s use of o(mo&noia was not merely political, but that it had an ethical-religious sense to it as well. Such a o(mo&noia involved submission by the ruled to the divinely inspired will of the Emperor, who was increasingly becoming a divine 68 figure. It is not hard to see how Clement’s use of o(mo&noia shared a temporal context and atmosphere with the Imperial sanctioned propaganda that issued from Rome. Such a nuanced understanding of o(mo&noia occurs in 30.3, where Clement advises: “Let us then join ourselves to those to whom is given grace from God; let us put on concord (o(mo&noia) in meekness of spirit and continence, keeping ourselves far from gossip and evil speaking, and be justified by deeds, not by words.” The phrase “much speech” appears to be associated with the rebels in Corinth, and Clement perceives this to be a part of why the discord there has not been resolved (46.9). Clement’s odd quotation of Job 11:3, “be not profuse in speech”, is related to the following offer of 69 advice: “let our praise be from God, and not from ourselves” (30.6). The place of submission in the thought world of o(mo&noia was never very far away. The orators who coursed the Greek world peddling Imperial values sought to encourage their hearers to willingly comply with the authorities and to allow the status quo, which benefited them, not to be endangered. Klaus Wengst suggested that Clement’s use of o(mo&noia was meant to marginalize nonconformists and to substantiate 70 that status quo. In Brunner’s analysis of Clement, humility (tapeinofrone&w) was deemed to be a key word, especially as a virtue 71 as modified by its occurrence in the LXX (1.Kgs. 2:7; Ezk. 21:31). Clement takes the angels as his example: “let us be subject (u(potasso&meqa) to his will; let us consider the whole multitude of his angels how they stand ready and minister to his will…. Therefore, we too must gather together with concord (o(mo&noia) in our conscience and cry earnestly to him, as it were with one mouth, that we may share 72 his great and glorious promises…” (34.5–7). The military metaphor follows in 1 Clement 37.2–4, in 37.5–38.2 Clement offers a modified version of the Pauline body metaphor, Paul’s great picture of the Churches organic and complementary unity (1 Cor. 12:12 ff). This was, as we have seen, a broadly accepted metaphor for unity in antiquity, but it seems likely that Clement was reflecting Paul’s uses, if only with 73 less diversity. Horrell observed that Clement seemed to use Paul’s body metaphor and the idea of xari&smata (38.1) to substantiate social

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positions as divinely legitimated. Clement might have taken for granted that as the Pax Romana was secured by force, peace within the Church was maintained by a similar subjection to the divinely ap75 pointed authorities. The first section of Clement’s epistle comes to an end with chapter 38. Wengst suggested that the form of this first half of the letter was an extended paraenesis in which Clement names the theological issues at stake and offers examples from the Old Testament, creation, 76 and popular philosophy. However, it may be more appropriate for our purposes to follow Bakke’s assessment, which viewed the first section as an extended probatio, so that the first section (ending at 39.5 for Bakke) could be understood in terms of a qe&siv and the second half 77 (beginning with 40.1) as the u(po&qesiv. 1 Clement has also been described as an “ethical-disciplinarian” instruction, and it may be possible to see in this first section more of the ethically weighted part of the letter. The transition in chapter 39/40 leads to a more specific address that takes the actual circumstances of the Corinthians into account 78 beginning with chapter 40. The structure of Clement’s epistle, though somewhat top heavy (with its extended introduction) is nonetheless not uncommon for a o(mo&noia-speech. Dio Chrysostom seems to meander through rhetorical topoi at leisure before making it to his point in his oration to his countrymen, the Prusans, on concord with the Apamaeans (Or. 40), and as we have seen, Eggenberger believed the lengthy introduction was a trademark of Dio’s which Clement 79 shared. Chapter 40–65 provides us with a more focused view of the discord, and a richer and more specific interpretation of o(mo&noia in Clement. Gathering together the whole of his exhortation and paranesis so far, Clement begins chapter 40 with a sub-theme that has been woven through his admonitions: pa&nta ta&xei poiei&n o)fei&lomen, “we ought to do all things in order…” (40.1). But according to J.A. Fischer, this was not just hierarchical order, but liturgical order that Clement was 80 commending in chs. 40–44. Lowther Clarke saw rich but somewhat veiled allusions to liturgical and eucharistic language throughout 1 Clement (20–21; 34.2–7; 36; 40–41). In 40 and 41 in particular, there seems to be the clear implication that the OT sacrifices at the temple and their administration by an ordered hierarchy of priests and Levites prefigure the offices of bishops, presbyters and deacons in the Church. B.F. Streeter proposed that this very passage may have been

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the source for Ignatius’ conception of the threefold ministry; a misin81 terpretation of 1 Clement’s metaphorical language. We shall probe further into his suggestions later, but it is useful to note the correlation between 1 Clement and Ignatius’ ecclesiology here. That Clement himself made such a correspondence between the OT offices and those of the early Church is quite possible. In 43.5 Clement clearly justifies the offices of bishops and deacons with an allusion to Is. 60:17: “I will establish their bishops in righteousness and their deacons in faith.” In 41.4 Clement warns the Corinthians, that in as much as the OT stewards of the sacrifices faced the penalty of death if they performed their duties out of order, so their present day members faced similar dangers because of the knowledge they had been entrusted with. In 42, Clement give us an important interpretation of how the clerical offices evolved in the early Church. He sketches a primitive kind of Apostolic succession in which God sent Christ, Christ the Apostles, and they in turn appointed bishops and deacons wherever they preached the gos82 pel (43.1–3). The ta&gma-motif, which occurs throughout Clement, was recalled to substantiate the ecclesiastical order of bishops and deacons in the Church; something the rebels seem to have been un83 willing to submit themselves to. In 44, we are perhaps given a clue as to what may have been behind the rebellion. Clement’s example of Moses validating Aaron as high priest by binding together the rods of the leaders of the twelve tribes and waiting to see which one had sprouted buds by the next day (43), is specifically related to the Apostolic appointment of bishops and provisions for their succession (44.2). In the example from Numbers 17, contention arose over which tribe might have the honor of holding the priesthood (43.2), and in Apostolic times, over the title of the bishop (44.1). This strife is remarkably similar to the contemporary struggles in Asia Minor over who had the right to the title of ‘first of Asia’, prw&th a!siav. Ephesus, Smyrna, and Pergamon famously abased themselves in contentions and rivalry over this title, and though o(mo&noia coins were minted in rich succession, the struggle continued for decades. The contention for primacy was understood as a cause for civil discord, and the o(mo&noia-speech was the appropriate civic discourse called upon to address the threat of sedition (sta&siv). The use of such topoi by Clement indicates his familiarity with and willingness to appeal to the ideal of civic o(mo&noia for resolving strife in

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the Church, as well as his diagnosis of the Corinthian’s discord in such terms. Here we may fruitfully recall 3.1–2 in which Clement recalls the cause of the discord in his own words: “And all glory and enlargement was given to you, and that which was written was fulfilled: ‘My Beloved ate and drank, and he was enlarged and waxed fat and kicked’. From this arose jealousy (zh&lov) and envy (fqo&nov) strife (e!riv) and sedition (sta&siv) persecution (diwgmo&v) and disorder (a)katasta&sia) war (po&lemov) and captivity (a)ixmalwsi?a / ).” The list covers virtually all the possible terms to define discord as it was known in the ancient city, and indicates that the matter was conceived as such. Welborn of84 fered the view that money may have been involved, but it is more likely that ‘status’ was at issue. In 39.1 Clement berated the rebels as “foolish, imprudent, silly and uninstructed men [who] mock and deride us, wishing to exalt themselves in their own conceits.” His admonition is that they should each instead be mindful of the need to please God “in his own rank” e0n tw?~ i0diw~? ta&gmati (41.1), and to “learn to be submissive, putting aside the haughty and boastful self-confidence of your tongue, for it is better for you to be found small but honorable in the flock of Christ, than to be pre-eminent in repute but to be cast out from his hope” (57.2). Rhodes’ suggestion that these were young, neo85 charismatics who usurped the authority of their elders is possible, but the rebellion seems to have been significant enough to gain credibility with many in the Church, and though Clement belittles the character of the leaders of the dissension, he does make the analogy between them and Paul, Apollos and Cephas in Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians, suggesting that the rebels may have been rival teachers in the various house-churches that made up the larger Christian community in Corinth. In 49.5, Clement mentions o(mo&noia in an encomium to a)ga&ph that has much in common with Paul’s famous passage in 1 Cor. 13:4–7. Clement had been building up to this point, in which he appealed to love as the supreme characteristic of Christian conduct. He exhorted the whole Church to repentance and reconciliation and prayed for the restoration of brotherly love (48.1). His challenge to the Corinthians was to manifest their love for Christ by obeying his commandments, 86 involving at its core a love that unified them with God. In 49.5 Clement says, “Love covers a multitude of sins. Love bears all things, is longsuffering in all things. There is nothing base, nothing haughty in

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love; love admits no schism (sxi&sma), love makes no sedition (stasia/zei), love does all things in concord (o(mo&noia).” He continues in 50.2 “let us then beg and pray of his mercy that we may be found in love, without human partisanship (proskli&sewv a)nqrwpi&nhv).” The ‘amen’ in 50.7 marks off the preceding as a section, beginning in 46, and pointing back to the examples Clement provided 45.4–7 as a re87 buke to the rebels. Clement indicates that the rebels had failed chiefly in regard to love. Their contention, discord and rivalry for the title of ‘bishop’ led them in the very opposite direction of Christian perfection, typified by love. They are castigated as wicked (a@nomov), unholy (a)no&sion), and law-breakers (parano&mon) who are filled with unrighteous envy (45.4), instead of being perfected in love, marked by o(mo&noia (49.5). This points back to Paul’s own use of love in 1 Cor. 13, where it appears after his description of the orderly functioning ‘body of Christ’. The similarity in the positioning of the encomium to love in Paul’s and Clement’s letters seem to stress the centrality of a)ga&ph in the Christian conception of a harmonious and unified Church. Clement ends his letter with a prayer for unity, concord, and blessing. Some have postulated that 59–61 was a traditional benediction of 88 the Roman Church. For our purposes, the importance of this prayer is in the confluence of both religious and political images, mixed with the cultic language of appeal to God. Klaus Wengst pointed out that the prayer has all the hallmarks of the prayer of Roman’s for the well 89 being of the Emperor. Clement’s alleged wholesale adoption of the ideology of political peace and Empire as a gift from God marked him out as a theological apologist for the Pax Romana, as well as socially 90 upper-class. As such Clement, according to Eggenberger, was too enamored with the Empire, too encumbered by syncretism, and eventu91 ally, not quite faithful to the essentials of Christianity. Instead, the iconography of the Imperial cult and the Christian teaching on humility served as the foundation upon which Clement constructed his theology of the Church of Christ as an ordered hierarchy. Such a perspective suits Clement’s use of o(mo&noia in 60.4, where he seems to be reflecting traditional prayers for the Imperial Pax: “Give concord (o(mo&noia) and peace (ei)rh&nh) to us and to all who dwell on the earth… and to our rulers and governors upon the earth.” His ascription to God for their earthly hegemony taps into similar sentiments expressed by Paul in his validation of the state in Romans 13. Clement’s emphasis on concord as an important theme throughout his letter is confirmed

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in the summary he provides in 62.2 in which he lists the points his letter has sought to remind the Corinthians of, “For we have touched on every aspect of faith and repentance and true love (a)ga&ph) and selfcontrol (sofrosu&nh) and sobriety and patience, and reminded you are bound to please almighty God with holiness in righteousness and truth and longsuffering, and to live in concord (o(mo&noia) bearing no malice, in love (a)ga&ph) and peace (ei)rh&nh) with eager gentleness (e)pieikei&av)….” In these words we are reminded of the way in which Clement envisioned the Christian appropriation of concord: as an upper-class Roman, Clement unconsciously combined the virtues of his class with the ideals of the Imperial Pax and situated both within a Christian understanding of the new community of God whose continuity stretched from Jewish myth and religious history to the present in the Church. Any deviations from the divinely-ordained structures of authority were also a violation of the peace and concord that were the subject of Christian prayer not only for themselves, but for the entire world (60.4). In his closing remarks, Clement confirms the purpose of his writing to the Corinthians, reminding them again that they should be obedient “…to the things which we have written through the Holy Spirit, and root out the wicked passion of your jealousy (ze&louv) according to the entreaty (e)nteu~civ) for peace (ei)rh&nh) and concord (o(mo&noia) which we have made in this letter” (63.2). Bearing the letter are three representatives of the Roman church who will act as witnesses to the restoration of peace (ei)rhnou~sai) among the Corinthians. We recall how Welborn argued that this type of intervention was modeled on how Imperial Rome dealt with her provinces, sending a sumboulh/ as a wit92 ness (martu&v) to the negotiations. In this connection, it is noteworthy to recall Ignatius of Antioch’s recommendation to the Smyrnaeans and the Philadelphians (Ign. Smyrn. 11.2–3, Ign. Phld. 10.1–2) that in light of the peace (ei)rhneu&ein) secured in Antioch in his absence, they should send ambassadors (presbeu&teroi) to congratulate the church on their restored peace. This is also mirrored in Polycarp’s letter to the Philippians in which he announces his intention of sending a representative (presbeu&terov) to them with Ignatius letters (Pol. Phil. 13.1– 2). Clement’s hope is that his appointed men will return soon with news of peace and concord, accompanied by good order that has been re-established among the Corinthians (65.2). This final reference to o(mo&noia in conjunction with ei)rh&nh is an indication of how Clement

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envisioned the resolution of conflict in Corinth. By borrowing the language of Imperial Peace, Clement made associations with the iconography of the Empire and the cult that most citizens would have been familiar with. What marked his uses out as different from the Imperial uses were their association with Christian virtues and with Jesus Christ, instead of the cult of Roman Virtues and the Emperor. Such a re-conceptualization of an important idea like concord marked Clement out as one of the first Christians to re-appropriate the language and imagery of Roman hegemony for the Church. This certainly indicates Clement’s dependence on the surrounding political culture for 93 his models for negotiating conflict, and may reflect his class as well. However, it may be crediting Clement with too little subtlety if he is made out to be a thoroughgoing apologist of the Roman ideology of Pax. He was aware of the icons, for sure, but he couched them in Jewish and Christian literary images, virtues, and characters in such a way that allowed him to draw analogies between Christian and Roman ideas that were shared, and in doing so he would have found sympathetic ears among well-placed Romans in the Churches Clement represented, as well as to patrons among the Corinthian Christians.

Ignatius’ Epistle to the Philadelphians: A Deliberative Letter Urging Concord? It is clear from our analysis of 1 Clement that the suggestion put forward by Bakke that the intent of Clement’s Epistle was to restore concord and advise the members of the Corinthian Church to desist 94 from strife, is appropriate. The elements of deliberative rhetoric appear throughout the epistle, as does the vocabulary associated with the semantic field of our term, as well as the conspicuous uses of that imperial medley of Roman propaganda, o9mo&noia and ei)rh&nh. With much the same confidence, we can also accept Mitchell’s suggestions that Paul’s First letter to the Corinthians was likewise a deliberative 95 rhetorical letter urging concord. Both Paul and Clement wrote to situations of discord and found the language of o(mo&noia (explicitly or not) to be useful for addressing the situations they confronted. We also found that both writers were influenced not only by their hellenisitc Jewish literary heritage, but also, and in some cases 96 profoundly, by the Greco-Roman cultural and rhetorical background.

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When we look at the letters of Ignatius, we find striking similarities. Like Paul and Clement, Ignatius wrote letters to Churches struggling under the duress of internal conflict. Like his two fore bearers, Ignatius utilized the imagery and iconography of Rome and the surrounding Greco-Roman culture to express his exhortations to unity, and like them, Ignatius found the language of o(mo&noia useful for communicating these ideas. It is worth asking whether or not Ignatius also wrote in the fashion of a deliberative letter(s) urging concord? This will be our focus as we analyze one of his letters written from Troas to a Church he had just recently passed through: Philadelphia. It is notable that Ignatius does not use the vocabulary of sta&siv in 97 his letters. Instead, he uses other terms such as merismo&v, which occurs in five out of six instances in Ignatius’ letters in his epistle to the 98 Philadelphians. It is also worth noting that of Ignatius’ eight uses of o9mo&noia, two of them occur in this same epistle to the Philadelphians (Ign. Phld., Inscr.; 11.2). In the inscription to the epistle alone, several terms appear that were associated by Bakke and Mitchell with the semantic fields of sta&siv and o9mo&noia, such as h(drasme&nh|,? e)sth&ricen, 99 and bebaiwsu&nh. More terms that appear in the semantic fields of sta&siv and o9mo&noia occur throughout the letter, such as e)pieikei&a,| e(no&thti, sxi&zonti, a)llotri&a| gnw&mh|, o(rgh&, e)ri&qeian, a)ga&ph, ei0rhneu&ein, and others. The letter seems therefore, to be built out of the basic linguistic materials of the o9mo&noia-speech. But can the same be said for the form and structure of the letter? Both Mitchell and Bakke laid stress on the importance of the form and structure of 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement for discovering the presence of deliberative rhetorical 100 features in their letters. Can these be discerned in Ignatius’ Epistle to the Philadelphians? Instead of offering a thorough rhetorical analysis of this letter, we will focus on identifying elements in the structure of the letter which may help us to set it in the same rhetorical context as Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians, and 1 Clement. According to Aristotle, deliberative rhetoric was concerned with persuading an audience with regard to decisions about the future (Arist. Rhet. 1.3.2). Along with an orientation to the future, deliberative oratory was also concerned with the question of self-interest and 101 future benefits. This important feature of deliberative rhetoric was usually expressed in the appeal to advantage (to\ sumfe&ron) which was 102 often fortified by the use of examples (paradei&gmata). Though Ignatius makes no overt appeals to advantage (to\ sumfe&ron) the posture

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of his arguments and the orientation of his appeals help us to understand his letter through the lens of deliberative rhetoric. In 2.1 we read: “Therefore as children of the light of truth flee from divisions and false teaching.” The use of the vocative often indicated a major transition in the body of a letter, and in this case, it also alerts us to the future orientation of Ignatius’ exhortation (Te&kna ou}n fwto\v 103 a)lhqei&av feu&gete…). Throughout the letter there are similar appeals that refer to the kind of behavior advocated by Ignatius: In 3.1 he warns “Stay away (a)pe&xesqe) from the evil plants, which are not cultivated by Jesus Christ…”; in 4.1 he advises them “Take care (spouda&sate), therefore, to participate in one Eucharist…”; in 6.1 he warns “If anyone (e0an& de\ tiv) expounds Judaism to you, do not listen (mh& a)kou&ete) to him…”; and in 8.2 we have the familiar parakaloexpression, “Moreover, I urge you (parakalw~ de\ u(ma~v), do nothing in a spirit of contentiousness….” These appeals by Ignatius to the Philadelphians that they engage in some future behavior or action alert us to the rhetorical nature of the letter. This allows us at least provisionally to see his letter as deliberative in its rhetorical orientation: he is seeking to persuade them not about what has happened in the past (though this comes up in his discussion), nor about some praiseworthy element in the present (and he does offer praise to the bishop), but primarily, about a future disposition by the congregation of unity with the bishop and abstaining from conflict. Put in such terms, the letter also conforms with what Mitchell has called the “appropriate subject for deliberation” for the species of deliberative rhetoric, namely, discussions about “war and peace” (or concord), as Aristotle 104 put it (Arist. Rhet. 1.4.7). Before coming to any other more specific conclusions, it will be worthwhile briefly to analyze the structure of Ignatius’ letter to the Philadelphians in order to see if any other similarities with Paul and 1 Clement can be uncovered. Ignatius begins his letter with a traditional epistolary prescript: “Ignatius, who is also called Theophoros, to the Church of God the Fa105 ther and Jesus Christ at Philadelphia in Asia.” The opening salutation, which, after his letter to the Romans in the longest of the seven letters, is similar in its heaping of adjectival compounds upon one another to the salutations in his other letters, and serves to emphasize the two important themes Ignatius will deal with in the letter: unity with the bishop, and the warning against false teaching. This proem, which often functioned in tandem with or in place of the thanksgiving

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in deliberative speeches or letters, served to win the affection of his 106 hearers. The opening greeting (a)spa&zomai) is never brought to a formal conclusion, and Ignatius carries on into a glowing praise of the unnamed bishop in Philadelphia. Because this section reflects Ignatius’ personal knowledge of the facts (o9n e0pi&skopon e!gnwn), it can be viewed in terms of the narratio which often followed on the greeting 107 and the proem. The narratio or dih&gesiv, often occurred in juridical speeches and had as its purpose recounting the background or facts that were pertinent to the case at hand. Ignatius praises the bishop whom he had met there, and affirms his calling in terms that recall 108 Paul’s epistle to the Galatians. He obtained his ministry there “in the Love of God and the Lord Jesus Christ” (1.1). Ignatius goes on to praise his virtues, which tend to reflect a much more Hellenic than Jewish worldview: forebearance (e0piei&keian), virtuous (e0na&reton), per109 fect (te&leion) and his lack of anger (a0or & gaton). He also notes that the bishop is “attuned to the commandments as a harp to its strings”, which recalls an earlier use of the same metaphor by Ignatius in his letter to the Ephesians (4.1) in which he praised the presbyters for being attuned to the bishop as “strings to a lyre”, and exhorted the Church to concord and unity (o(mo&noia, sumfwni/a). This dih&gesiv in which Ignatius praises the bishop, provides us with an insight into the goal of Ignatius’ letter: that the Church gather in unity about their bishop (cf., 2.1, 2). It also serves to ground his insights in the reality of experience: his praise of the bishop is relevant because he actually met him. At this point, a transition occurs (we are alerted to this by his use of the vocative) and Ignatius offers the exhortation, “Therefore as children of the light of truth flee from divisions and false teaching (to\n merismo&n kai\ ta\v kakodidaskali&av).” Following Aristotle’s ta&civ for a rhetorical composition in which he divides the whole into a thesis and proofs (pro&qesiv and pi&stei), we may take this phrase in 2.1 to be the thesis of Ignatius’ letter to the Philadelphians. He expands what he means in the positive by recommending, “Where the shepherd is, there follow like sheep. For many seemingly trustworthy wolves attempt, by means of wicked pleasure, to take captive the runners in God’s race; but in your unity (e9no&thti) they will find no opportunity.” This is the course of action Ignatius advises the Philadelphians to pursue in the future, and it alerts us to the deliberative nature of his letter. It is also worth noting that 2.1 can be defined in rhetorical terms

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as an enthymeme, or a deductive proof. Along with examples (paradei&gmata), enthymemes were the common fare of the orator and served as the building blocks for his arguments. Enthymemes were often statements followed by a supporting reason, in this case “Where the shepherd is, there follow like sheep”, the reason being, “seemingly trustworthy wolves attempt…to take captives the runners…but in your unity they will find no opportunity.” In classical rhetoric, logical arguments were supported by either of these two 110 forms of proof (examples and enthymemes). Following his thesis proposition, Ignatius offers proofs (pi&stei) throughout the remainder of the letter that lend support to his thesis. In the rhetorical handbooks, the proofs for deliberative speeches and letters were often arranged under various heads, or kefa&laia in which the orator sought to advise on future action based on what was expe111 dient (to\ sumfe&ron) or just (to\ dikai&on). Mitchell has noted that in actual speeches and letters, however, such proofs were often organized topically, in which advice was given on various subjects that were 112 pertinent to the audience (Rhet. Her. 3.2.2). In her analysis of 1 Corinthians, Mitchell proposed that 1 Cor. 1:18–4:21 could be understood 113 as the first proof in Paul’s argumentative strategy. Very often, orators began concord speeches by directing the first proof at demonstrating the audiences need for concord, and offering advice suitable for action. This is what Paul seems to have done in 1 Cor. 1:18 ff., as other orators had before and after him, such as Demosthenes (Ep.1) 114 and Dio Chrysostom (Or. 36. 6–7). Is it possible to find similarities in Ignatius’ letter to the Philadelphians? When we look at Ign. Phld.3.1 ff., we seem to find just this. Ignatius warns the Philadelphians to “stay away from the evil plants…” and elaborates on what this entails. Though he denies that there have been real divisions, he admits that there has been a “filtering” (a0podiu+lismo&n). Camelot suggests that this does not indicate the presence of a schism, but an elimination of im115 pure elements. Lightfoot saw in this description of the Philadelphians that they had strained out the heretical doctrines among them, 116 and that no divisions had been caused. Nonetheless, Ignatius is eager to point out that all is not well. He notes that those who repent and enter into the unity of the Church (3.2) shall inherit the kingdom of God, and warns them that this will not be the case for those who followed a schismatic, or strange teachings (3.3). Clearly, in Ignatius’ mind, the situation at Philadelphia was not optimal, and his advice

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was needed in order to rectify the situation. Having stated the problem, that there were divisive elements present in the Philadelphia church, he offers a solution: Be careful to observe one eucharist…that whatever they do they may do it in accordance with God (4.1). This enthymeme serves to appeal to their logical reasoning: “Be careful to participate in one eucharist, for there is one flesh of our Lord Jesus Christ….” By this Ignatius seems to imply that there may have been separate eucharistic meetings in which divisive elements were present. This may have been a situation similar to the one noted in Ign. Mag. 7 and in Ign .Smyr. 6.2, where separate eucharistic services were being held, or where members were abstaining from the common gathering. Lightfoot notes that the situation in Philadelphia may also have been comparable to the one in 1 Cor. 11:18, 20 where divisions over the 117 eucharist were violating the Church’s bond of union. However, Schoedel maintains that there is no evidence in the passage that indicates Ignatius was concerned with a failure on the part of the separatists to reenact the passion of Christ in the Eucharist in a mystical 118 sense. His concern seems to be with a failure to be united with the bishop, presbyters and deacons (4.1). This first proof (pi&stiv) serves to restate Ignatius’ thesis in 2.1 (“flee divisions and false teaching…”), to define the relevance of this affirmation to the Philadelphians by pointing out the dangers that he perceived, and to advise them on the correct course of action to resolving this. It serves to expand Ignatius’ exhortations in 2.1 and in the inscription to the letter in which he repeats his dual concern that there must be no division and an avoidance with false teaching. In 5.1, a sec119 ond proof begins. In her evaluation of 1 Cor., Mitchell noted that Paul addressed specific behavioral and social issues that threatened the unity of the Church in Corinth, namely, sexual immorality and 120 idolatry. In this proof, Ignatius focuses in on the false teaching threatening the Philadelphian Church. He begins by affirming his benevolent intentions towards the Philadelphians as one who seeks their safety (a0sfali&zomai u(ma~v) with a somewhat convoluted expression of affection, personal fear and dependence on the Philadelphians’ prayers, and affirms his commitment to a belief in the incarnation of Christ and the apostolic authority of the Church’s structures (5.1). Ignatius is eager to establish favor with his hearers by putting himself in their debt. He needs their prayers; he is not yet perfect but hopes to attain his inheritance by taking refuge in the gospel. In 5.2 he moves

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into a carefully worded laudation of the prophets in which he both praises their worth and focuses their words and prophecies on Jesus Christ. They are “worthy of love and admiration” but more importantly, they were “approved of Jesus Christ and included in the gospel of our common hope (koinh~v e0lpi&dov).” Having put himself in the debt and having praised the prophets who were evidently highly valued by the congregation, Ignatius turns to a decisive warning: “But if anyone expounds Judaism to you, do not listen to him” (6.1). Ignatius’ use of the word e(rmhneu&h| suggests that he is now concerned not with divisions as such, but with false teaching (Cf., 2.1). This warning is followed by a curious definition of what teachers they should learn what things from: “For it is better to hear about Christianity from a man who is circumcised than about Judaism from one who is not.” Lightfoot suggested that these teachers were gentile Christians with strong Judaic tendencies and not Jewish Christians who were corrupt121 ing the Philadelphians. In any case, Ignatius maintains that the test of authenticity is whether they “speak about Jesus Christ” or not, in which later case they are to be avoided. He exhorts them to flee these false teachers and to gather together with an undivided heart. This recalls his thesis in 2.1, that they shun divisions and flee false teaching, and puts it in the context of specific tendencies that seem to have been present in the Church at Philadelphia. His appeal in 6.2 that they gather together (pa&ntev e0pi\ to\ a0uto\ gi&nesqe) with an undivided heart (e0n a0meri&stw| kardi&a) rounds off the second proof with a restatement of his thesis, and also recalls earlier appeals in his other letters to con122 cord and unity. This brief description of the danger of false teaching is based on his premise that unless they speak about Jesus Christ they are not worth listening to. In other words, teaching (e(rmhnei&a) which focuses on Judaism as opposed to Christianity threatens death to those who listen to it (6.1). A third proof begins in 6.3 with a thanksgiving that Ignatius has not been a burden to anyone (cf. 2 Cor. 11:9, 12:16) and then what appears to be an extended dih&ghsiv in the form of a self-defense. It is not until 8.1 that we understand the key to this section: “I was doing my part, therefore, as a man set on unity (e3nwsin).” This proof appears to have elements of juridical rhetoric to it in that Ignatius seems to be concerned to persuade the Philadelphians to come to certain conclusions about past events. He defends his actions while among them, and to refute any claims of partisanship on his part (cf. 6.3; 7.2). He

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claims that his actions were consistent with his message: “do nothing without the bishop…” (7.1). He heightens this claim by asserting that he was overcome by pneumatic inspiration: “I called out when I was with you, I was speaking with a loud voice, God’s voice…” Far from being motivated by merely human forces, Ignatius vows, on the testimony of his chains, that it was the Spirit himself that was preaching (7.2). What follows is a rhythmic and rhyming proclamation that has the feel of a pneumatic oracle in both tone and format: Xwri\v tou~ e0pisko&pou mhde&n poiei~te Th\n sa&rka u(mw~n w(v nao\n threi~te Th\n e3nwsin a0gapa~te Tou\v merismou\v feu&gete Mimhtai\ gi&nesqe I)hsou~ Xristou~ W9v kai\ au0to\v tou~ patro\v au0tou~

In the Hellenic world, prophetic or inspired utterance was often attributed to the inspiration by a god of designated persons, such as the Pythia at Delphi. Often, longer oracular responses were delivered in verse, in dactylic hexameter, but this was by no means always the 123 case. Ignatius’ poetical recitation of what the Spirit uttered through him may have had the force of such inspired speech not only in his own reckoning, but to his hearers as well. The use of examples (paradei&gmata) were germane to deliberative speeches, but often, these examples could take the form of appeals for imitation of the speaker himself. This was one of Paul’s most impor124 tant rhetorical strategies in 1 Corinthians, according to Mitchell. By appealing to his own example while among them, Ignatius may have sought to offer an alternative to the territorialism of those he termed “schismatics” (3.3). As one who had shown himself to be a “man set on unity”, Ignatius may have sought to counter the dispositions of those 125 who resisted him with his own mediating example. This is why he introduced the proof with a thanksgiving that he had been a burden to no one. By claiming his independence from anyone’s patronage, Ignatius may have sought to establish the credibility of his inspired utterance in 7.1. as one who was speaking for God and not one of the contending factions in the Church. This issue seems to have been at

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stake in 7.2, where Ignatius conceded that some believed he had foreknowledge of the debate. But Ignatius’ firm belief in the divine validation of unity with the bishop allowed him to interpret himself as siding with God’s will. This is clear towards the end of the proof when Ignatius invites his opponents to a repentance characterized by a return “to the unity of God and the council of the bishop” (8.1). After maintaining his independence from the support of anyone in the Church, Ignatius recalled his inspired utterance in their midst as a message from God that the Spirit was preaching through him. As a mouthpiece for God, Ignatius interpreted his actions as those of a man set on unity—the kind of actions he hoped the Philadelphians would imitate him in. In 8.2 we have a final proof, similar in form to a refutatio common to ancient juridical speeches in which one’s opponents were de126 nounced. In this case, however, Ignatius’ words are more concilia127 tory; he is seeking to win them over to his side, not denounce them. Beginning with a parakalo-formula that sets this section apart from the previous, Ignatius focuses on a specific issue that had come up during his stay in Philadelphia: his encounter with some who had dif128 ficulty with Ignatius’ claims. The use of parakalw~ as a transitional 129 word marks this section off as important. Ignatius reiterates his thesis: “I urge you to do nothing in a spirit of contentiousness (kat 0 e0ri&qeian pra&ssein), but in accordance with the teaching of Christ.” What follows is the much debated question concerning what issue may have been at stake in Ignatius’ encounter with his Philadelphian 130 opponents. Schoedel suggests that Ignatius had encountered resistance to a point he was making from some who held the Hebrew Writings in high regard and wanted to engage in further exegesis in order 131 to find scriptural backing for it. Ignatius declined and appealed instead to the “inviolable archives” of Jesus’ passion and resurrection. In 9.1 Ignatius affirms the worth of the priests of Israel (cf. 5.2), but focuses on the High Priest, in ways reminiscent of the book of Hebrews and 1 Clement. The High Priest is Christ, through whom the patriarchs, prophets, apostles and all others enter into the unity of God. In a similar manner to the prelude to his discussion of false teaching (5.2), Ignatius here concedes some value to the phrase “the priests of Israel”, which seems to refer to elements of the “archives” mentioned 132 in 8.2 and likely a reference to the Old Testament. Furthermore, Ignatius stresses the distinctiveness of the gospel, namely, the story of

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Christ’s coming, death and resurrection—something the prophets had preached in anticipation of, but which was available in its fulfillment in the gospel (9.2). In conciliatory fashion, Ignatius remarks that “all these things are good, if you believe in love.” Camelot suggests that by pa&nta o(mou~ kala& Ignatius meant that in Christ the Old and New tes133 taments were bound together in unity. But this is only apprehended through “believing in love” (9.2), as opposed to “doing things in contentiousness” (8.2). Ignatius’ exhortation to do nothing in a spirit of contentiousness, but in accordance with the teachings of Christ is helpfully portrayed by a memorable example from his encounter with opponents in Philadelphia. This final phrase also functions as a kind of e0pi&logov; the closing or summation to the argument in the body of 134 the Letter. Having appealed to himself as an example of “a man set on unity” in the previous proof, Ignatius recalls the confrontation he 135 had there and describes it in terms that are conciliatory. This recalls the thesis of his letter in 2.1 where he exhorts the Philadelphians: “Therefore as children of the light of truth flee from division and false teaching…[for] in your unity they will find no opportunity.” Whether this description of the confrontation is a re-interpretation of the events, or not, is difficult to say. From a rhetorical point of view, what matters is Ignatius’ conciliatory posture. As we shall see in the following section, Ignatius needed the support of the Philadelphians and so could not afford to be divisive. 10.1–11.1 serve as the epistolary closing of the letter and marked 136 the end of the deliberative argument. The author would no longer be offering advice with the goal of persuading his audience, but would 137 be informing or directing his hearers with regard to other matters. In 10.1 we have a traditional request formula that is expanded with 138 background information. Ignatius desires that the Philadelphians do him the favor of taking the time and expense to send a godly ambassador (Qeou~ presbei&an) to Antioch to rejoice with them “when they have assembled” (e0pi\ to\ au0to\ genome&nov) and to glorify the name. This is due to the fact that he has just received news from companions that have met him in Troas that the Church in Antioch “is at peace” (ei0rhneu&ein). As we shall have an opportunity to see more fully in the next chapter, P.N. Harrison’s interpretation of this phrase challenged the Lightfoot-Zahn affirmation that this term related to a persecution 139 the Church had experienced. Instead, Harrison suggested that the term was much more appropriate for describing an end to strife or

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discord. Because of their prayers (as he credits the Philadelphians) Ignatius’ own Church has found peace and a resolution to their discord. Here we see a subtle attempt by Ignatius to connect his request from them to his advice to them: in as much as their prayers brought peace to the Church in Antioch, his own intercessions and advice on their behalf should help in bringing them peace. The sending of an ambassador would not only affirm their part in praying for the peace in Antioch, but would also acknowledge Ignatius’ own embassy to them, through his presence there, through his letters, and through his own companions that lately came through Philadelphia (11.1). This request was very important to Ignatius, as we can see from his other letters from Troas (Ign.Smyr.11.1–3; Ign.Pol.7–8), and may reflect the 141 fact that Ignatius left in a state of some unease from Antioch. Schoedel notes the coincidence of Ignatius’ request and the use of the language of inter-civic diplomacy. One of the important aspects of Ignatius’ letters that has been emphasized in this and other chapters have been the concurrences in vocabulary, symbolism and metaphor with the surrounding Greco-Roman world and with the language of concord that was such a feature of Greek rhetoric. Here again we see such a confluence of traditions. Ignatius asks that they appoint (xeirotonh~sai) an ambassador (presbei&an) for an embassy (presbeu~sai) in order to rejoice (sugxarh~nai) with the Church at Antioch when they have gathered together (e0pi\ to\ au0to&). Ambassadors acted as representatives, and we find both Paul and 1 Clement sending messengers to the Churches they wrote to for similar purposes. Paul hopes that Timothy is sent back in peace (1 Cor. 16:11) and Clement hopes for the same from the messengers he sent to Corinth (1 Clem. 65.1). In 1 Clement 63.3 we are even told why the messengers were sent: “This we have done in order that you might know our only concern has been, and still is, that you should attain peace (ei0rhneu~sai) without delay.” Ignatius’ use of the language of politics in this and other letters indicates that he was concerned with matters that could easily be phrased in such language, and this is something that we have seen all the more clearly with regard to his allusions to inter-communal concord. Ignatius closes with a description of the Ephesian and Smyrnaen Christians who had honored him, and notes that the Lord Jesus will honor them, since they have hoped in him in “body, soul, and spirit with faith, hope, and concord (o(monoi&a)| .” Aside from being traditional

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Christian virtues, these also reflect something of what Ignatius has emphasized in his letter: “body” may reflect Ignatius early praise of the Philadelphians that they “rejoice[d] in the suffering of our Lord, fully convinced of his resurrection…” (Inscr.) and may have had something to do with what Ignatius felt was false teaching there; “concord” represents the unity with the bishop that he has sought to affirm not only this, but in all of his letters. The mention of Smyrnaens and Ephesians together may have been a bit of contra-cultural irony regarding the rivalry that existed between the two cities as civic entities, but that had been overcome among Christians there by their common 142 bond in Christ. Ignatius ends by bidding the Philadelphians farewell 143 (e0rrwsqe) “in Christ Jesus, our common (koinh~|) hope.” In a final, simple farewell, he recapitulates both warnings from his thesis in 2.1 (“flee divisions and false teachings”) by affirming Christ as their only hope and Christ as their common hope simultaneously.

Conclusion As mentioned above, the purpose of this analysis of Ignatius’ epistle to the Philadelphians was not to perform a thorough rhetorical critique of the letter, but to see if commonalities between this and Paul’s 1 Corinthians along with 1 Clement could be discerned. This seems to be the case, judging from the analysis. Ignatius certainly took a deliberative tact in this letter with the Philadelphian Christians. Furthermore, aside from structural similarities with 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement, there is present not only vocabulary consistent with the semantic fields of o(mo&noia and sta&siv but in the case of o(mo&noia the word as well (Inscr.; 11.2). Can it be ventured to call Ign.Phld. a deliberative letter urging concord? From the initial analysis above, this is certainly likely. The conventions, topoi, structure and vocabulary are all present. More than that, the experience of concord and discord seems to lie in the background as well for Ignatius and his Church in Antioch. We hear in his letter to the Romans that not all was well in Antioch: “Remember in your prayers the church in Syria, which has God for its shepherd in my place…. But I myself am ashamed to be counted among them, for I am not worthy, since I am the very least of them and an abnormality.” But within weeks, the news has reached him in Troas that they “are at peace and have regained their proper stature and their corporate life has been

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restored to its proper state” (Ign. Smyr.11.2). Provisionally, then we may consider Ignatius’ letter to the Philadelphians a deliberative letter urging concord, in much the same way as Mitchell has considered this to be the case for 1 Corinthians, and Bakke 1 Clement. In both of those letters, the authors were consciously confronting discord in the churches and availed themselves to the familiar vocabulary and speeches the ancient world addressed such communal divisions with. If this comparison is justified, then Ignatius’ other uses of o(mo&noia may be interpreted in light of his familiarity with the rhetoric of concord that was regaining its posture in history (among the Flavians), literature (in the Second Sophistic) and religion (Judaism 144 and Christianity). As we turn to an assessment of the ways in which Ignatius used o(mo&noia to express his personal and circumstantial concerns, we should keep in mind the many ways he used the term in conformity with both traditional and current trends in the culture that he lived in. Paul and Clement may have given him a precedent for using the concept in his letters to churches facing discord, but Ignatius filled it with nuances that reflected his personal exigencies.

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O(mo&noia in Ignatius of Antioch and his Theological and Historical Contexts Introduction Over the past five chapters we have looked at the various ways in which cultural forces shaped and defined the meaning and uses of o(mo&noia in a wide variety of contexts: in the iconography of the Flavians, in the literature and oratory of the second sophistic, in some of the apologetic enterprises of Hellenistic Judaism, and finally, in the theological writings of the earliest Christians. In each of these contexts, we found that the ways in which o(mo&noia was being used and understood in popular culture could also be found to varying degrees in Ignatius’ own letters. All of these influences were important in shaping the ways Ignatius used o(mo&noia, and the way his hearers would have understood him. It remains to be seen what personal influences shaped Ignatius’ uses of the term, along with the various cultural and religious influences we have already analyzed. For, as with many who preceded him, o(mo&noia was tailored to suit the needs and motives of his own context. Why did Ignatius choose to address the issue of unity in the Church through this term? What issues in his own background may help us to understand why o(mo&noia may have been an appropriate template for the admonitions in his letters? We have seen in the preceding five chapters how Ignatius used the term in ways that were in keeping with applications of o(mo&noia in the culture surrounding him. It remains for us to assess how Ignatius used the term in ways that reflected his own historical situation both in terms of the churches he wrote to, as well as his own personal background.

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O(mo&noia in the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch Before looking more precisely at why Ignatius used o(mo&noia in his writings, it will be useful to look at how he used the term, and what other supporting terms and concepts were added to clarify and strengthen the force of its meaning. Ignatius’ letters were written from two locations, Smyrna and Troas. The first four letters we have from him were written from Smyrna (Eph., Magn., Tral., Rom.) and the last three from Troas 1 (Phld., Smyrn., Pol.). The term itself appears in letters from both locations: In Eph. 4.1,2; 13.1; Magn. 6.1; 15.1; Tral. 12.2; Phld. Insc.; 11.2. Its absence in the letters to the Romans, Smyrneans and to Polycarp can be explained on circumstantial grounds: In his letter to the Romans Ignatius was preoccupied with the issue of his own martyrdom, which he feared Christians there might intervene to prevent happing, and his letter to the Smyrnaeans he was no longer responding to delegates that had been sent to him, but was writing back to those who had hosted him and to their bishop Polycarp in order to strengthen their resolve against the same variety of false teachers that he had countered in his letters to the other churches, and that he had 2 possibly experienced in his own Antioch, and to encourage them in their orderly conduct. The issue of concord was not relevant in his Roman correspondence, and evidently not contested in his letters to Smyrna and Polycarp.

Ignatius’ Epistle to the Ephesians The absence of o(mo&noia in these three letters is offset by the conspicuous presence of the term in his letters to those Churches that sent representatives to him in Smyrna, or in the case of Philadelphia, of whom he was informed by his own helpers Rheus Agathopodi and Philo in Troas. We first encounter the term o(mo/noia in Ignatius’ letter to the Ephesians. Ignatius’ proqe&siv to the letter appears in 3.2: “I have taken the initiative to encourage you (parakalei~n) so that you may run together in harmony (suntre&xhte) with the mind of God (th|~ gnw&mh| tou~ Qeou~). For Jesus Christ…is the mind of the Father, just as the bishops…are in the mind of Christ.” Ignatius goes on to encourage the Ephesians to imitate their presbyters in their harmony with the bishop. Because their presbytery are “attuned to the bishop as strings

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to a lyre”, Christ is being sung in their “unanimity and harmonious love” (o(monoi&a| u(mw~n kai\ sumfw&nw| a)ga&ph|) (4.1). Ignatius turns to the Church itself and encourages them each: “you must join this chorus, every one of you (kat )an! dra), so that by being harmonious in unanimity (su&mfwnoi o!ntev e0n o(monoi&a|) and taking your pitch from God you may sing in unison (e(no&thti) with one voice (e)n fwnh|~ mia~|) through Jesus Christ to the Father…” (4.2). This rich ensemble of images and terms for harmony was a common topos for expressing civic or communal unity, and contemporaries of Ignatius such as the 3 writers of 1 Clement and 4 Maccabees used similar images. The use of the cithara as a metaphor for concord was widespread in antiquity, and the use of the analogy between the chorus and its leader in the writings of orators such as Dio Chrysostom makes Ignatius’ use of 4 these metaphors all the more noteworthy. There are some points of contact with Gnostic imagery and thought in these terms, but Schoedel is right to lean towards the cultural and political traditions of Hellenism as the leading influence on Ignatius’ choice of terms, and 5 not Gnostic speculation. We have already seen some of the points of contact between Ignatius’ description of inter-communal harmony in terms of these images, and the surrounding Greco-Roman culture, but it is worth asking what he meant to communicate through these 6 images. In his proqe&siv (3.2), Ignatius emphasized the relationship between God’s will (gnw&mh| tou~ qeou~) and the bishops in churches throughout the world. Having seen the unity among the leaders (bishop and presbyters in 4.1), Ignatius exhorted the entire congregation (kat )an! dra) to join in this chorus, so that “…[God] may both hear you, and on the basis of what you do well, acknowledge that you are members of his Son (4.2).” This “perfect unity” (a0mw&mw| e(no&thti) between the leaders and the congregation is what allows them to have a share in God. Such an understanding of unity between God and humans was a widely held view in antiquity. However, by it Ignatius was 7 not vouching for an exaggerated mysticism; he was commenting on 8 the relationship between unity on earth and unity with God. Being united together in Christ as his members (me&lh) assured the Ephesian Christians of participation in God; but where there was division (e!riv, 9 merismo&v), this union was compromised (Ign. Phld. 8.1). Ignatius’ metaphor adopts a pragmatic tone in 5.1: “For if I in a short time experienced such fellowship (sunh&qeian) with your bishop,

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which was not merely human but spiritual, how much more do I congratulate you who are united with him (e)nkekrame&nouv) as the Church is with Jesus Christ and as Jesus Christ is with the Father, that all things might be harmonious in unity (e)n e(no&thti su&mfwna)!” This harmonious unity that he described with musical metaphors is followed by another metaphor for the relationship between the Church leaders (specifically, Onesimus, the bishop) and the congregation: that of a mingling together (e)nkekrame&nouv) between the bishop and the Church that resembles the mingling of the Church with Jesus Christ, and Jesus Christ with the Father (5.1). The term e)gkera&nnumi was often used to describe the mixture of liquids, such as water and wine (Rev. 10 18:6), but in this context, the connection with musical images may have been informed by uses in Ps.-Aristotle (De Mundo 6, 399a 17) who compared the universe to a “chorus of men mingling one melodi11 ous harmony.” Ignatius, who saw the whole congregation in Onesimus (1.3) and his companions (2.1), wishes to see the church in Ephesus reflect the kind of unity that he idealizes in the other components of his analogy: the Church and Jesus Christ, and Jesus Christ and the Father. Ignatius uses the rhetorical topos of arguing from the lesser to the greater in order to reaffirm his guiding theme, stated in the proqe&siv: “that you may run together in harmony (suntre&xhte) with the mind of God (th|~ gnw&mh| tou~ Qeou~). For Jesus Christ…is the mind of the Father, just as the bishops…are in the mind of Christ (3.2).” As the bishops represent God to the Church, so the churches reflect their unity with God in their unity with the bishops. Next, Ignatius strengthens his analogy with a warning: “Let no one be misled (mhdei&v plana&sqw): if anyone is not within the sanctuary (qusiasthri&ou), he lacks the bread of God (5.2).” Lothar Wehr saw in this passage a symbolic, metaphorical use of the term qusiasth&rion by 12 Ignatius. In this case what was important was the relationship between the Eucharist and obedience to the bishop and to God. Those who fail to come when the community is gathered together show their arrogance before God by despising his deputy, the bishop. Here, Ignatius’ talk about harmony begins to take a more practical shape. Obedience to the bishop, and his authority over the Eucharistic gatherings were being undermined by those who were not joining in the “chorus of harmonious unity.” This, Ignatius warns, was tantamount to resisting God (5.3). Consistent with his conception of the bishop as the representative of God on earth in Ign.Mag.3.1 (to\n e0pi&skopon o!nta tu&pon

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tou~ patro&v), Ignatius can associate disunity with the bishop with disunity with God. He clarifies this concept in 6.1: “For everyone whom the Master of the house sends to manage his own house we must welcome as we would the one who sent him. It is obvious therefore that we must regard the bishop as the Lord himself.” Onesimus had related to Ignatius their “orderly conduct in God” (th\n e0n qew~| eu)taci&an) and their way of life “according to the truth” (kata\ a)lh&qeian zh~te), and that no heresy was tolerated in their midst. This idealized picture of the Ephesian church serves as justification for why Ignatius can laud them as a church that is “famous forever” (e)kklhsi&av th~v diaboh&tou toi~v ai)w~sin) in 8.1. Their union with the bishop in obedience protects them from heresy (6.2) and discord (8.1) and verifies for all that they belong entirely to God (o#loi o!ntev qeou). In his first uses of o(mo&noia we can observe several things. First, Ignatius used the term to support his belief in the importance of unity with and obedience to the bishop by the local church for the purpose of both a practical and a mystical unity with God, characterized by the gathering together (e0pi\ to\ a0uto&) with the bishop to share in the 13 “bread of God” (tou~ a!rtou tou~ qeou~), the Eucharist. This was not the only occasion for a gathering of the Church, but it was important enough so that Ignatius could sternly warn against those who refused 14 to participate in this cultic gathering. Second, we saw in his uses (4.1, 2) that he was familiar with conventional applications of the term that occurred in Hellenistic speculation as well as in contemporary political speeches. We saw this in Ch. 2 where the choral motif was seen to resemble pagan and imperial cultic ceremonies common in Asia at that time. Thus we can say that Ignatius used o(mo&noia to strengthen his appeals for unity with the bishop in ways that reflected the hierarchies and dispositions of authority and power that were reflected in the Greco-Roman world around him. However, we can also say that Ignatius had internalized the meaning of the concept in some important ways in his speculations about the unity of man with the divine that went beyond conceptions in pagan thinking and in Gnosticism. For Ignatius, o(mo&noia was not just a political catchphrase for an ecclesial (political) harmony nor was it a technical term for a mysticalreligious union with the divine; it described the kinds of human relations in the physical world (church) that reflected divine realities in 15 the spiritual world (heaven). As with the mystery of Christ who was both born of God and of Mary (7.2), so concord between the church

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and the bishop incarnated the unity in heaven between Christ and the Father (5.1). Thus we can see in these first use of o(mo&noia by Ignatius an intention to highlight an incarnational dimension to the concord between the members of the churches and their leaders: concord validated their unity to God, through harmonious membership in the body of Christ (4.2). This ‘incarnational’ view of existence that unites the spiritual and the physical worlds is evident in Ignatius’ recommendations in 9.1– 16 10.2 where there is something of a transition in the letter. Having established the importance of unity and harmony in the church through unity and harmony in obedience with the bishop (3.2–8.2), Ignatius warns of traveling teachers that he has encountered elsewhere and describes the Ephesians rejection of these teachers through two images that we have seen in Ch.2: the image of the building, and the image of 17 the procession (9.1; 9.2). Both these metaphors have been taken by some scholars to have essential Gnostic features to them. Schlier believed that the mhxanh& in 9.1 was related to Mandaean and Gnostic images of salvation, but the language of ascent was not exclusively 18 Gnostic. Instead, the language of divine ascent, which Ignatius and the Gnostics seem to have shared, properly belonged to a common 19 stock of religious images available to both. Far from envisioning a dualistic ascent to the divine, Ignatius grounds his recommendations to the Ephesians by advising that their behavior reflect that of Christ, and that instead of reacting like the world they see “who can be more wronged, who the more cheated, who the more rejected… that you may abide in Christ physically and spiritually” (10.3). Their unity and harmony with the bishop was to be reflected through their rejection of false teachers, and through their imitation of Christ’s behavior towards to world. Ignatius’ next use of o(mo&noia in 13.1 occurs in a new unit of the letter (11–19) in which he offers hortatory comments in the context of 20 “the last times” (11.1). The popular conception of post-apostolic Christianity as a time during which hope in the Parousia began to 21 wane has often been the assumed context for Ignatius’ own letters. The popular theories of Cullman, J.A.T. Robinson and Bultmann were all founded, to some extent, on the idea that the eschatological expectations of the early Church, which they had inherited from Jewish 22 apocalypticism, were disappointed due to the delay of the Parousia. But, some recent scholars have criticized such an understanding of

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early Christian eschatology. D. E. Aune has noted that only a very limited number of citations from the NT can be mustered to support the 23 idea of a delay in the return of Christ. And others, like C. C. Rowland have noted that the apocalyptic background to early Christian notions of the Parousia must also serve as an interpretive key for understanding it. He maintains that this apolyptic context (and not the drift into the philosophical world of Hellenistic thinking, as Schweitzer saw it) 24 was responsible for such a view of Christ’s return. As Larrry Kreitzer concludes in his summary of early Christian views of the parousia: “[The] resource, which is absolutely central to the early Christians as they sought to hold together the reality of what has already happened in Christ and their faith in what is yet to be accomplished, is the confident assurance that they share in the heavenly life of the risen 25 Christ.” This kind of realized eschatology in early Christianity was a standard characteristic that the Apostolic Fathers held in common with the writings of the New Testament, in which the beginning of the 26 eschatological age is associated with the resurrection of the saints. Such a view of the future is present in the letters of Ignatius of Antioch as well, and is expressed in his appeals to the Romans not to prevent his martyrdom: “it is good to be setting from the world to God, in order that I may rise in him” (Ign. Rom. 2.2). In fact, Ignatius has a peculiar way of expressing this hope in the afterlife: he expresses it as “attaining” (e0pitugxa&nein) God. Some fifteen times in his letters, Ignatius uses this term to reflect on his goal beyond the grave. This goal of attaining God is something that occurs not in this life, for Ignatius, but after death. William Schoedel has commented that by this phrase, Ignatius had more in mind than just attaining immortality (personal eschatology), he also viewed his death 27 as a vital part of his own ministry on earth. Thus, Ignatius saw the “achievement of unity in his own church and its realization in the churches of Asia as a certification of his ministry and a sign that there 28 is no further question about his worthiness to attain God.” Recent work on this question by A.G. Mellink promises to offer an important re-evaluation of Ignatius’ conception of his own death as a kind of es29 chaton, but this is not the place to continue such an evaluation. For now it is useful to interpret these last times as held between the tension of “having Christ” in this life (Ign. Mag.12), and “attaining God” beyond the grave (Ign. Rom. 1.2). Or as it Ignatius himself affirmed, “For let us either fear the wrath to come, or love the grace which is

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present, one of the two; only let us be found in Christ, which leads to true life” (Ign. Eph. 11.1). Ignatius continues by using his own and Paul’s witness to exemplify such faithfulness to Christ. Ignatius carries about his chains, which are spiritual pearls, for Christ’s sake, and wants to be associated with the Ephesians because they share this devotion, and because they “have always been in agreement (sunh&|nesan) with the apostles, by the power of Jesus Christ” (11.2). Ignatius clarifies this in his example of Paul, with whom he claims they can be called fellow-initiates (summu&stai), and of whom Ignatius himself desires to be an imitator 30 (12.2). Paul and others passed through Ephesus, which was a “highway of those who are being killed for God’s sake”, and Ignatius hopes to be found in these same footsteps (u(po\ ta\ i1xnh eu(reqh~nai) when he reaches God. The commitment to Christ and faithfulness of the Ephesians and Paul (and soon Ignatius!) leads him to offer the exhortation: “Therefore make every effort to come together (sune&rxesqai) more frequently to give thanks (eu)xaristi&an) and glory (do&can) to God. For when you meet together (e0pi\ to\ au0to\ gi&nesqe) frequently, the powers of Satan are overthrown and his destructiveness is nullified by the unanimity (e0n th|~ o(monoi&a| u9mw~n) of your faith” (13.1). Here we see a conception of concord that is consistent with his other uses (in 4.1–2), but with an extension of meaning that has an outward reference: eschatological peace (13.2). ‘Gathering together frequently’ occurs in the context of giving thanks and glory to God. Wehr has noted the eucharistic implications of this passage by maintaining that although eu0xaristi&a did not have cultic meanings in the LXX or the New Testament, Ignatius, Justin Martyr and the writer of the Didache all used 31 the substantive to denote the Lord’s Supper. As in the previous instance, Ignatius was eager to encourage frequent gatherings (under the authority of the bishop) in which the Eucharist and praise of God might take place. However, while previously Ignatius encouraged unity with the bishop for the purpose of assuring their unity with God, he now emphasizes their eschatological participation in the defeat of Satan. Wehr notes that although the Eucharist was the event around which the faithful gather with their bishop, it was not the cultic act which overthrows the powers of Satan, but their concord and unanim32 ity. Satan is not defeated in the cultic act of participation in the Eucharist, but by their harmony in faith as a community. Ignatius extends the image further: not only does the concord of their faith

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(o(monoi&a| u(mw~n th~v pi&stewv) destroy the devil’s schemes, but the establishment of peace (ei)rh&nh) abolishes all warfare not only on earth but in heaven as well (12.2). Ignatius’ conviction in the relationship between earthly and heavenly realities has Gnostic overtones, but as we have seen, these are interpreted by him not through a divinization 33 of the carnal, but through an incarnation of the divine. As Kurt Niederwimmer suggested, God and the world are not dissolved into each 34 other, but stand in a unity that is free from brokenness. The revelation of God in Christ offers man salvation by opening the heavenly 35 realm to the earthly world, through the incarnation. As he looks towards the eschaton, Ignatius anticipates the final victory of peace over war, and unity over discord. Christians have an obligation to participate in this battle by modeling in their communities this eschatological peace and concord in very practical ways, such as gathering together for the Eucharist and praise of God. This eschatological vision for the Church is further conceived through two important bookends that define the Christian existence: faith and love (14.1). Whether or not it is possible to discern a familiarity with 1 Cor. 12:24, Ignatius’ 36 use of these terms draws him close to Paul. He uses the terms differently, however, by focusing them on the presence of God instead of defining them as personal charismata, as Paul did. Faith and love existing in unity “are God” (geno&mena qeo&v). Schoedel interpreted this difficult phrase to mean that “where faith and love are joined (as be37 ginning and end) in perfect unity, God is present.” Thus “no one professing faith sins, nor does anyone possessing love hate” (14.2). Again, Ignatius grounds his analogies in practical realities. The presence of God in the lives of those who profess Christ is manifest by what they do, and not by what they say. Therefore, those who are in harmony with one another and the bishop have “a share in God” (4.2; 5.3), and God dwells in those who love him rightly (15.3). Ignatius’ eschatological perspective appears in his description of how faith and love are worked out in practice: “No one professing faith sins, nor does anyone possessing love hate…thus those who profess to be Christ’s will be recognized by their actions. For the Work is not a matter of what one promises now, but of persevering to the end (e0an& tiv eu0reqh|~ ei0v te&lov) 38 in the power of faith” (14.2). In this second use of o(mo&noia, then, we encounter a further internalization of the meaning of o(mo&noia by Ignatius. Where his application of the term in 4.1 and 4.2 could be interpreted in the context of

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conventional uses in the surrounding Greco-Roman culture, we also saw that for Ignatius the term helped define the kind of unity that Christians were supposed to exhibit with one another and the bishop for the sake of participating in a unity with God as members of Jesus Christ. The Eucharistic celebration played an important role in this, but it was not the cultic event that was full of potency, but the gathered community bound together in concord around the bishop (5.2). When we come to 13.1, Ignatius’ belief in the importance of concord within the community for the Church’s relationship with God is expanded to include an emphasis on the importance of community harmony in the eschatological culmination of Christ’s victory over Satan (13.1–2). Concord and peace often occurred in close proximity to one another, as we have seen in 1 Clement and in the imperial iconography of the Flavians. But these parallels are secondary to Ignatius’ conception of the gathered community, through the concord of their faith, undoing the wiles of the devil. This eschatological weighting of the importance of o(mo&noia allows us to see that beyond the ‘incarnational’ uses of the term in 4.1 and 4.2, Ignatius also understood o(mo&noia among the Churches to have eschatological implications.

Ignatius’ Epistle to the Magnesians The next occurrence of o(mo&noia is in Ignatius’ letter to the Magnesians. As we have already seen, his use of the term in this letter may have been couched in the imagery of the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east, and the strong hierarchical undercurrents these coin issues had made them useful examples for Ignatius to use in his attempts to validate the authority of the bishop. In 6.1, Ignatius comes to the proqe&siv of his letter: “Therefore be eager to do everything in godly concord (o(monoi&a qeou~), the bishop presiding in the place of God and the presbyters in the council of the apostles and the deacons…entrusted with the service of Jesus Christ.” We saw that Ignatius was himself eager to affirm the authority of the bishop in Magnesia, who was evidently somewhat youthful (3.1). By identifying the bishop with God and the Magnesian Christians with Jesus Christ, Ignatius is able to make affirmation: “therefore as the Lord did nothing without the Father…so you must do nothing without the bishop and presbyters” (7.1). After arguing against those whose Jewish tendencies have threatened the unity of the Church (8–12), Ignatius

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ends the letter by advising them to be “firmly grounded (bebaiwqh~nai) in the precepts of the Lord and the apostles, in order that in ‘whatever you do you may prosper’…together with your most distinguished bishop and that beautifully woven spiritual crown which is your presbytery and the godly deacons” (13.1). Here we see the close association between right belief and communal unity. Ignatius stresses this in the following words: “Be subject (u9pota&ghte) to the bishop and one another, as Jesus Christ in the flesh was to the Father, and as the apostles were to Christ and the Father, that there might be unity (e3nwsiv), both physical and spiritual” (13.2). Unity with the Father, as we saw in Ign. Eph. 4.2, is intimately connected with submission to the bishop and harmony with one another. Ignatius’ use of o(mo&noia to strengthen their commitment to intra-communal unity is reflected throughout his letter to the Magnesians, but especially in 6.1. The reason for this need for unity with one another is that it reflects the incarnational union of the divine with the earthly through Jesus Christ. For this reason, Ignatius can stress, “accept the same attitude as God and respect one another, and let no one regard his neighbor in merely human terms but in Jesus Christ love one another always…be united with the bishop and those who lead, as an example and lesson of incorruptibility” (6.2). Ignatius closes the letter with a similar exhortation in his farewell: “Farewell in godly harmony (o(monoi&a| qeou~) to you who possess an undivided spirit (a0dia&kriton pneu~ma), which is Jesus Christ” (15). Jesus Christ is the source and model of their harmony. To be divided with one another, was akin to separation from Jesus Christ, and therefore God. We can see, therefore, that in his uses of o(mo&noia in his letter to the Magnesians, Ignatius has the same notion in mind that he expressed in Ign.Eph. 4.1–2: unity with one anther and with the bishop was akin to the unity between Jesus Christ and the Father, and possessing an undivided spirit as a community, could be identified with the unity of Jesus Christ himself. This ‘incarnational’ concord was not only a reflection of divine concord, it was divine concord (o(monoi&a| qeou~). Therefore, Ignatius’ use of o(mo&noia in his letter to the Magnesians reflects his own internalization and development of the meaning of the term in which concord was informed by his own incarnational theology of the unity between God and the man through the Church’s participation in the body of Christ. As such, the church modeled the incarnation of Jesus Christ in their godly unity with one another and the bishop.

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Ignatius’ Epistle to the Trallians In his letter to the Trallians, Ignatius also uses o(mo&noia to stress an ‘incarnational’ harmony between members of the Church with one another and the bishop, and with God. Near the end of the letter, Ignatius exhorts them: “persevere in your unanimity (o(monoi&a| u(mw~n) and in prayer with one another. For it is right for each one of you, and especially the presbyters, to encourage the bishop, to the honor of the Father and to the honor of Jesus Christ…” (12.2). Here we see clearly that Ignatius identifies the gathered community in harmony and prayer and in a unity between the bishop, presbyters and the congregation, with the Father and Jesus Christ. In this case, Ignatius speaks of “refreshing” (a0nayu&xein) the bishop “to the honor of the Father…and to…Jesus Christ.” But it is clear that abiding ‘in their concord’ and ‘in their prayers’ involved not only a unity that was earthly, but also a unity that was heavenly. By “abiding in your concord” Ignatius meant the refreshing of the bishop by the presbyters and the congregation, and by “your prayers” Ignatius was obviously referring to the communal act of worshipping God. This union between God and the Trallian Christians was understood in the same terms Ignatius used in Ign. Eph. 4.2: being members (me&lh) of Jesus Christ, in which they attain to the unity of God (cf. Ign. Tral. 11.2). It is worth noting that the “refreshing” of their earthly bishop as a sign of unity was precisely what the churches who had hosted Ignatius did for him (12.1). In the same way that those churches that sent representatives to Ignatius refreshed him, so he exhorts the Trallians to refresh their own bishop. To ‘refresh’ (a)nayu&xein) may have entailed some form of physical relief as well as emotional or spiritual encouragement (12.1). ‘Refreshing’ was also associated with Ignatius’ helpers Burrhus and Crocus (Ign. Eph. 2.1), who were acting as secretaries to him, and may have recalled Paul’s experience of Onesiphorus’ hospitality in Asia (2. Tim. 1:16). This association of concord with hospitality and support of bishops (Ignaitus and Polybius) indicates that Ignatius was encouraging the Trallians to be united with their bishop practically as well as spiritually. He ends with a further reminder: “Be subject (u(potasso&menoi) to the bishop as to the commandment, and likewise to the presbytery. And love one another, each one of you, with an undivided heart (a0meri&stw| kardi&a)| …May we be found blameless in him” (13.2–3). Being found “blameless in him” is Ignatius’ hope not only for the Trallians, who

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will be found as such through their obedience to the bishop and unity with one another, but also for himself, when he reaches God. “Reaching God” (e0pituxei~n) is something for which Ignatius needs their united prayer, since he is still “in danger” of being found disqualified (12.3; 13.3). We can see traces, then, not only of Ignatius’ ‘incarnational’ understanding of concord, but also something of his ‘eschatological’ view of the same: They will both be found in Christ when he reaches God and is united with him, and when they obey their bishop and are united with one another.

Ignatius’ Epistle to the Philadelphians In his letter to the Philadelphians, we have our last uses of o(mo&noia in Ignatius. In the case of the Church at Philadelphia, there is a different background for the context of the letter. Those letters written to the Ephesians, the Magnesians and the Trallians by Ignatius were all in response to a visit by the leaders and representatives of those congregations. Thus Ignatius’ replies to the congregations were informed by secondhand information alone. With the Philadelphians, his letter reflects the exigencies of a personal experience he had among them, in which there was some issue held in contention. Evidently, he had been accused of having had foreknowledge of some dissensions that had existed in that Church, which he addressed through what he alleged was prophetic inspiration. Not everyone had been convinced, especially those with whom he had had some kind of exegetical debate. Ignatius’ letter attempted to both smooth over the misunderstandings that had taken place there, and solidify a more concerted obedience to and unity with the bishop. In his inscription to the letter, Ignatius compliments the Philadelphians as a church which is “firmly established (h(drasme&nh|) in godly harmony (o(monoi&a| qeou~) and unwaveringly rejoices (a0galliwme&nh|… a0diakri&twv) in the suffering of our Lord” (Phld. Inscr.). He greets them “in the blood of Jesus Christ” but then qualifies this with the following: “especially if they are at one with (e0n e(ni\ w3sin) the bishop and the presbyters and deacons who are with him (toi~v su\n au0tw~)| , who have been appointed by the mind of Jesus Christ…” He goes on to defend their bishop as one who has obtained his ministry not by his own effort, but “in the love of God.” For this reason, he exhorts them: “flee from divisions and…[w]here the shepherd is, there follow like sheep…” (2.1). It

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becomes apparent throughout the letter, that all was not well in Philadelphia, that the church was anything but “firmly established in godly harmony”, and that the issue of unity with the bishop had not been settled yet. After warning them against listening to those who “expound Judaism” and do not “speak of Jesus Christ” (6.1), he advises that they “gather together, all of you, with an undivided heart” (6.2). By this he may have meant for the purpose of sharing in the Eucharist, which is what he recommended earlier when advising against following a schismatic (3.3–4.1). But whatever the case, avoidance of divisions and unity with the bishop were the goal (7.2). Ignatius’ incarnational understanding of unity becomes clear from his admonitions: “Do nothing without the bishop…. Become imitators of Jesus Christ, just as he is of the Father” (7.2). The Philadelphians are enjoined to model the divine example of unity (Jesus and the Father) in their own ranks by uniting with the bishop. That Ignatius had more in mind than just communal unity is confirmed when he notes that God is absent from them when anger and disunity are present (8.1). They can be restored to God by repenting and returning to the “council of the bishop” (8.1). We have seen this identification of earthly harmony with the bishop as a model of heavenly union with God before (Ign. Eph. 4.2), and in the case of the Philadelphians, Ignatius’ admonition was directed at both solidifying the authority of the bishop, and preserving the church from false teaching: “For all those who belong to God and Jesus Christ are with the bishop, and all those who repent and enter into the unity (e9no&thta) of the church will belong to God, that they may be living in accordance with Jesus Christ. Do not be misled, my brothers: if anyone follows a schismatic (sxi&zonti), he will not inherit the kingdom of God. If anyone holds to an alien view (e0n a0llotri&a| gnw&mh|), he disassociates himself from the Passion” (3.2–3). Towards the end of his letter, he closes with a string of affirmations about the churches that have honored him by sending Burrhus along as his helper. For this good deed, Ignatius promises, Christ will honor them, for they have put their hope in him “in body, soul, and spirit with faith, hope and harmony (o(mo&noia)” (11.2). This ending echoes the incarnational understanding of unity that Ignatius conceived Christ to have modeled with the Father, and he hopes the Philadelphians will join in this as the Ephesian and Smyrnaean churches have “in body, soul and spirit.”

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From these examples we may surmise that Ignatius was advocating a harmony (o(mo&noia) that was shaped and modified by his understanding of the incarnation and, further, that this concord, which was primarily envisioned as a unity incarnated on earth between the laity and the bishop in a manner that mirrored the unity between the Son and the Father, had an eschatological element to it (i.e., “common hope”). Concord in the church mirrored in the flesh the concord in heaven between the Son and the Father, but it also hoped for the fulfillment of that final concord when all will have “attained” (e0pitu&xein) God. In its cultic manifestation, this unity was primarily celebrated through the Eucharist: “Continue to gather together each and everyone of you, collectively (koinh|~) and individually by name, in grace, in one (mia~)| faith and one (e0ni\) Jesus Christ, who physically was the descendant of David, who is Son of man and Son of God, in order that you may obey the bishop and the presbytery with an undisturbed mind (a0perispa&stw| dianoi&a)| , breaking one (e3na) bread, which is the medicine of immortality, the antidote we take in order not to die but to live forever in Jesus Christ” (Ign. Eph. 20.2). For this reason, Ignatius was eager to excise divisions and false teaching. For discord in the church ruined the incarnation of heavenly unity among its members, and it threatened for those believers the final hope in attaining God. Thus he could say “God does not dwell where there is division” (Ign. Phld. 8.1), as also “Wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the catholic church” (Ign. Smyr. 8.2). We may say, then, that for Ignatius, o(mo&noia was primarily used to advocate a kind of harmony between the congregations and their bishops and other leaders that reflected the heavenly model of unity between Jesus Christ and the Father. At one level, this harmony was very similar to images drawn from the Greco-Roman world around him, such as those of the Roman emperors and their propaganda of concord and peace, or in comparison with local cities in their attempts to broker inter-city harmony in the province. At another level, Ignatius’ use of the term recalls 1 Clement or Philo and their portrayal of concord under the guise of Stoic philosophy, reflecting the harmonious nature of the universe and providing a more mystical understanding of the term as a virtue worth aspiring to attain. All of these may have shaped his thinking, but when we look at the context of his own uses of the term, we must conclude that they did not limit his thinking to these scenarios. For Ignatius, concord was something very earthly

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as well as very heavenly; it was practiced in local communities of faith where the laity gathered around the bishop and the elders and where they broke bread together in unity, and it was mirrored in the unity of the Father and the Son, where the Son obeyed the Father (13.2) and suffered truly, and where the Son was united with the Father (5.1). Whereas in popular uses of the term, o(mo&noia had either described a unity between or a unity among various parties, or was something modeled on nature, or the Roman emperors, in Ignatius’ hands a mediator appeared, so that for him o(mo&noia became a unity between parties, through Christ, with the Father. That is, o(mo&noia was not the end, as it was in general use, but the means to some thing beyond itself: unity with God. Or, as Ignatius put it “You must join this chorus, every one of you, so that being harmonious (su&mfonoi) in unanimity (o(monoi&a)| and taking your pitch from God, you may sing in unison (e9no&thti) with one voice (mia|)~ through Jesus Christ to the Father, in order that he may both hear you and, on the basis of what you do well, acknowledge that you are members (me&lh) of his Son. It is, therefore, advantageous for you to be in perfect unity (a0mw&mw| e9no&thti), in order that you may always have a share in God (qeou~ pa&ntote mete&xhte)” (Ign. Eph. 4.2). This view we have called Ignatius’ ‘incarnational’ understanding of o(mo&noia. Another element that shaped Ignatius’ use of the term was his own impending death, and therefore his reflections on the future. Below the surface of his ‘incarnational’ uses of the o(mo9noia lay what we have called an ‘eschatological’ understanding of the term, in which the unity of the church in harmony with the bishop provided for a participation not only in the presence of God, but also, and finally, in the victory of Christ over Satan through the peace which ends all wars “in heaven and on earth” (13.1–2). Though this understanding of o(mo&noia is muted (and sometimes absent) in Ignatius’ letters, it supplies the appropriate contour to his understanding of the term: o(mo&noia was not simply a state of harmony, a kind of being, or a characteristic of ones nature; it was more like the tune sung by a chorus (Ign. Eph. 4.1), or the path followed by the celebrants in a procession (9.2). It was a way of living the Christian life in the context of the church and a way of “running together” (suntre&xete) to the temple of God and to Jesus Christ “who came from the one Father, and remained with the One and returned to the One” (Ign. Magn. 7.2). It was the way to somewhere and something else: the unity of God. In the same way that Ig-

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natius was longing to be united with God by submitting to his divinely appointed lot to die (Ign. Tral. 12.3), he was encouraging the churches to experience this unity with God by submitting to their leaders, and gathering together in harmony to share the Eucharist (Ign. Phld. 3.2– 4.1). Concord led to union with God in the same way that discord led to separation from God (Ign. Phld. 8.1). It was this union with God (i.e., “attaining God”) that was the one, burning desire of Ignatius. For him, it would come through suffering in imitation of Jesus Christ, but for the churches it would come in the celebration of Christ’s sufferings by sharing the Eucharist together in harmony with the bishop in an imitation of the divine harmony between Jesus Christ and the Father. If they should persevere in this life, they will all one day share in this unity modeled in the Eucharist when they all “attained God” (Ign. Mag. 1.2; Ign. Smyr. 9.2). This future-tense harmony and eschatological vision of all believers attaining God is interpreted by Ignatius through an important concept which we will need to analyze briefly in order to fully understand his uses of o(mo&noia: the “unity of God.”

Ignatius and the ‘Unity of God’ Ignatius chose to use o(mo&noia as a term for describing the kind of unity he believed was required of the church so that through participation in Jesus Christ as members of his body they might have a share in the ‘unity of God’. We see this in his letter to the Philadelphians in which he speaks of the patriarchs, prophets, apostles and the whole church entering through the door of Christ into the ‘unity of God’ (9.1). But what did Ignatius mean by the ‘unity of 39 God’ (e9no&thta qeou~)? Schoedel has argued that ‘unity of God’ should 40 be understood more precisely as a ‘unity from God’. Thus, according to this view, unity was primarily an experience that had to do with “the solidarity of the community in social and cultic terms…” and was 41 one that “lack[ed] deeper mystical significance.” Schoedel’s argument was directed at the view that Gnosticism was the key to understanding what Ignatius meant by ‘unity with God’, notably the 42 views held by Schlier and his followers. Schlier believed that the background to Ignatius’ language of unity was the Gnostic myth of the ‘pneumatikoi’ being united to the savior, in order to reach the 43 ‘pleroma’. He suggested that although Ignatius’ admonitions for

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unity dealt with the practical realities of Christian living, these were founded upon an ontological-metaphysical understanding of the Church and Savior as one, which could be traced to the Valentinian 44 myth of unity with the Savior-God. Bartsch made the same connection between Ignatius and Valentinus, and proposed that Ignatius’ concept of the ‘unity of God’ was derived from oriental and Hellenistic conceptions of the world as ‘one’, and not from Old 45 Testament affirmations of the ‘singleness’ of God. This ‘unity of God’, then, was more akin to a ‘principle of unity’ similar to conceptions of God in the Greek world in which a multiplicity of deities could be 46 found. By extension, the idea of the ‘body of Christ’ was supposed by Bartsch to be bound up in Ignatius’ ideas about the unity of God, and became merged with traditions about the primacy of Christ that were circulating in the Church. Bartsch maintained that the idea of the ‘primacy of unity’ was an Ignatian conception that was mingled with the Christian tradition of the ‘primacy of Christ’, leading Ignatius to emphasize the importance of Christ as the one through whom unity 47 with God was made possible. This view of Ignatius’ uncritical dependence on Gnosticism was questioned early on, however. C.C. Richardson argued that in Ignatius’ uses of e3nwsiv, o(mo&noia, and o(moh&qeia he was either concerned with the unity of the church or unity with the bishop, but not a gnosti48 cizing unity of the believer with God. Richardson also pointed out that Ignatius was familiar with the Pauline notion of the believer’s unity with God through the idea of being e0n Xri&stw~,? a phrase he uses 49 twenty five times in his letters. Such an understanding of unity was based on Pauline thinking and recalls Ignatius’ familiarity with Paul’s understanding of unity in Eph. 4:1–16. Others, such as W.M. Swartley and Virgnia Corwin have also argued that unity in Ignatius was primarily a communal one, and not a mystical spiritual/union with 50 God. This is the perspective that Schoedel also accepts, though he admits that by ‘unity with God’ Ignatius may not have been entirely 51 focused on ecclesial unity. These dissenting views have been useful as correctives to the onesided opinions of the History of Religions School. From our evaluation of Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia we have seen that his understanding of unity and harmony do not simply describe one state (communal harmony) or another (mystical union with God). His understanding was more nuanced. He was pointing in a certain direction; proposing a

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disposition; describing how Christians were supposed to relate to one another as a community in order to be united with God through Jesus Christ. Neither communal harmony nor divine union were possible outside of being ‘in’ Christ as members of his body (Ign. Eph. 4.2; Ign. Tral. 11.2). We saw this in Ign. Eph. 5.1–3: Ignatius congratulated the Ephesians for their unity with the bishop, which he further defined as a unity that mirrored the unity of the church with Jesus Christ, and Jesus Christ with the Father. The dualism envisioned by those who propose a Gnostic background to Ignatius’ understanding of ‘union with God’ falters on Ignatius’ insistence that Christians needed to gather together in harmony with their earthly bishops to break one bread and one cup as the body and blood of Christ (Ign. Eph. 20.2; Phld. 4; Smyr. 6.1–2). But those who advocate a bare political concord of members in the church with their officers and deputies fail to appreciate Ignatius’ mysticism and concern for their spiritual survival. Unity with the bishop made available to them a unity with God because of Jesus Christ: he, being united with God, was also united with humanity and the world (Ign. Smyr. 3.1–3). It was the physical union of Jesus Christ with humanity, validated and confirmed by his birth, sufferings and death that gave Ignatius the key to experiencing union with God. Jesus, united spiritually with the Father, was nonetheless physically ‘in the flesh’ after his resurrection. It was because of this union between flesh and spirit bridged by Christ that Ignatius could say: “But if, as some atheists (that is, unbelievers) say, he suffered in appearance only…why am I in chains? And why do I fight wild beast? If that is the case, I die for no reason; what is more, I am telling lies about the Lord” (Ign. Tral. 10). This possible allusion to Paul’s famous defense of the resurrection in 1 Cor. 15:12–15 may help us better understand Ignatius’ great hope: Christ has been raised physically from the dead, and is now united spiritually with the Father; therefore he too will be raised physically from the dead and be spiritually united with God. Furthermore, the church also may participate in this unity through the body of Christ and be spiritually united with God. This present and future vision of unity with God lay at the foundation of Ignatius’ theology. Hennig Paulsen proposed that through the themes of oneness and unity, Ignatius attempted to hold together these con52 trasting images of a present and future salvation. For Ignatius this salvation would be experienced through his own martyrdom, for the

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church it would come through Christ’s sacrifice—celebrated in the 53 Eucharist, in unity with the bishop. We may say, then, that for Ignatius, the ‘unity of God’ involved participation by the believer with God through Christ that was made possible in the incarnation. Christ’s physical death and physical resurrection, proclaimed in the ‘gospel’ (to\ eu0agge&lion), opened the door for all to come into this ‘unity of God’ (Ign. Phld. 9.1). This unity with God, however, did not take place for the believer in solitude, but only in unity with the church, characterized by an ordered and established leadership (cf., Ign. Tral. 3.1), where their status as members of the body of Christ could be acknowledged (Ign. Eph. 4.2). Into this body, through his sufferings on the cross, Christ has called them, and he is 54 the head of the body of which they are members (Ign. Tral. 11.2). By appealing to the image of the body of Christ, Ignatius sought to communicate the idea that salvation was both present and future. Incarnate in Jesus Christ in the church through his body (Ign. Eph. 4.2), and realized eschatologically when the believer died to this world and rose to Him (Ign. Rom. 2.2), salvation stretched from the present into the eternal unity of God beyond earthly life. In sum, we may say that Ignatius’ great and overriding concern was that there should be concord in the churches with their leaders and unity with God. All of this took place in the very practical and earthly setting of local churches, where believers gathered together around their leaders to give thanks (eu0xarsti&an) and glory (do&can) to God (Ign. Eph. 13.1). The two terms through which he chose to express this concern for unity, o(mo&noia and e3nwsiv, were used primarily to affirm the implications of what he considered the profound mystery of Christianity: that through the incarnation God had united flesh and spirit in Jesus Christ (Ign. Magn. 1.2), and had procured ‘life’ through Christ’s death and resurrection for believers (9.1) that they, as members of Christ’s body, might have a ‘share in God’ as they participated in this heavenly unity on earth through faith and love (Ign. Eph. 14.1– 2), and through concord and submission to their leaders (4.1–2). It was precisely where unity and concord were missing that grave dangers threatened. Thus, for Ignatius, it was no luxury for churches to be united in harmony with their bishop and presbyters, but sheer necessity; for where there were no deacons, presbyters or bishop “no group can be called a church” (Ign. Tral. 3.1). This overriding concern for harmony and unity expressed by Ignatius was no mystical assent into

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the divine or the longing of a lost ‘pneumatikos’ for a return to the unity of the ‘pleroma’; it was a participation in the life of God by believers made possible through the incarnation in which flesh and spirit, faith and love, and earth and heaven had been united in the body of Christ.

Ignatius and the ‘Peace’ in Syria Taken together, these discussions of Ignatius’ uses of o9mo&noia and e3nwsiv point us beyond the question of how Ignatius used these terms in his desire to emphasize unity in the churches to the more obscure question of why he chose to use these terms. Why was Ignatius so eager to confirm the authority of the bishops and the unity of the churches around them in the language of o(mo&noia? Related to this is also the question of how his concern for concord and unity related to the other great undercurrent in his letters: his quest for “attaining to God” through martyrdom? In other words, now that we have seen how Ignatius used the language of concord to advocate unity in the churches of Asia, we must ask why he chose this language to underscore his admonitions and come to some conclusions about what this advocacy of harmony with and submission to the leaders in the churches may reveal about Ignatius’ own circumstances and the situation he left behind him in Antioch. How was Ignatius martyrdom related to his admonitions for concord? W.H. Swartley has commented on the connection between these two great themes: “The key issue in understanding Ignatius is…the relationship between his discipleship…and the unity of the church in Syria (Eph. 21.2; Mag. 14; Tral. 10; Pol. 7.1). Only when the church over which he is bishop is united (and less decisively, the whole church), and only when the church in Syria unitedly celebrates the Eucharist, will his death be a true martyrdom, certifying his attaining God, his true discipleship, and his actual participation in the sufferings of God (the cross) which the Eucharist, when unitedly 55 shared, celebrates.”

According to Swartely, Ignatius’ self-understanding, as a disciple imitating the sufferings of Christ and longing to “attain God” through his death as a martyr, was intimately connected with his desire to see the churches bound together in harmony and peace; especially his own church in Antioch. This understanding of Ignatius’ concern for

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the peace of the Antiochene church has for some time offered an alternative understanding of the background to Ignatius’ letters from that of both the traditional view, that he was a victim of persecution, and the minority view, that he was the fabrication of a forger. This alternative perspective on Ignatius’ historical situation has to a large degree been built on P.N. Harrison’s insights and his suggestion that Ignatius had the cessation of hostilities within the church at Syria in mind when he used the term ei0rhneu&ein to describe the good news that had reached him in Troas (Ign. Phld. 10.1; Smyr. 11.2; Pol. 7.1), and not the end of an outbreak of persecution, as Lightfoot and Zahn be56 lieved. Harrison’s proposal gave new shape to the Ignatian debate, and has offered an alternative to the inconclusive reasons for Ignatius’ arrest and condemnation that Zahn and Lightfoot suggested. Since then, a growing number of scholars have begun to question elements in the Zahn-Lightfoot consensus that have had to do with the persecu57 tion Ignatius was alleged to have been a victim of. It is to this problem that we now turn in order to see if we can better understand the background Ignatius emerged from, and how that may have influenced his choice of terms for advocating peace and unity. Since there is very little information available that informs us about Ignatius’ 58 background besides his own letters, attempts to reconstruct his past must rely on his own words and allusions. It will be useful to briefly review what some scholars have been able to reconstruct from his letters and other sources before an attempt is made to synthesize these and offer any further insights. P.N. Harrison’s reconstruction of Polycarp’s epistle(s) to the Philippians relied on a reconstruction of events in Ignatius’ past. Harrison focused on a single word as his point of departure for his interpretation of the events that led to Polycarp’s epistle. As we have noted, Harrison interpreted the word ei0rhneu&ein to refer to the restoration of peace within the church at Antioch, and not to the peace that 59 followed the cessation of an official persecution against the church. He noted that there were no cases in patristic literature or the lexicons 60 where ei0rhneu&ein was used to refer to the end of persecution. On the contrary, he noted that in Christian literature the term regularly re61 ferred to peace with one another. This was very often the case in the 62 pagan writers and also in the LXX as well. Harrison surmised that Ignatius’ emphasis on unity in the churches was not an idea worked out in response to requests by those delegations which visited him in

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Smyrna, but was a conviction which emerged out of his own experi63 ence of dealing with discord in Antioch. Harrison pointed out the difficulties in understanding ei0rhneu&ein as a referent to persecution: Though Ignatius was concerned with his own martyrdom he never mentioned any persecution in Antioch, or any animosity towards worldly authorities. Instead, Harrison believed that Ignatius’ words and actions revealed another situation. The letters and delegates from the churches were meant to help strengthen and confirm the peace that had newly come to the discordant church and to both support those who had taken Ignatius’ side and stifle the resistance of those 64 who had challenged him. Ignatius had failed to contain a minority opposing him, and the resultant discord had been held to his account, 65 at least in his own eyes. Harrison believed that Ignatius’ selfdeprecatory language could best be understood as genuine regret for having failed in his Episcopal duty to keep the peace over the church 66 entrusted to him. His desire for martyrdom was not abated by the good news of the peace in Antioch that had reached him in Troas because he understood his coming death in terms of Jesus’ own, which won the final victory over death for all, and those of Peter and Paul, in which their discipleship of Christ had been sealed. He may have been influenced by the thinking of the Maccabees, as well, where his own death might have been understood as vicarious, atoning for the faults of his church and ending the persecution against them, as Polycarp’s 67 would in the years to follow. The news of peace in Antioch that was brought to him in Troas was a vindication of his prayers, and a con68 firmation that his sacrifice had been accepted in advance. The urgency, then, for his request that letters be sent to Antioch congratulating them was bound up with his duties as their bishop, who, though on his way to die for them, was still working to secure their concord and unity. Virginia Corwin noted the importance of Harrison’s insights for Ignatian studies and based her assessment of the factions in Antioch 69 in part on his discussion of the meaning of ei0rhneu&ein. She believed that Ignatius’ letters were primarily useful for understanding Syrian 70 Christianity, and not that of Asia Minor. According to Corwin, Ignatius’ concern to foster unity within the churches came from his own experience of schism that resulted from his conflicts with factions in 71 Antioch. Another scholar who saw behind Ignatius’ Letters the spec72 ter of schism was J. Rius-Camps. He went beyond Corwin’s sugges-

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tion of internecine strife and proposed that Ignatius’ very condemnation was a result of the disturbances that had arisen in the church. Dissent arose in the Syrian churches between rival factions and had reached such a pitch that the Roman authorities were forced to inter73 vene because of the public disturbance they were causing. Ignatius, in order to end the strife and the persecution that it had fostered, gave himself over to the authorities as their leader, to be a sacrifice on their 74 behalf. Though Rius-Camps’ overall approach to Ignatius is somewhat convoluted, his insights regarding the context Ignatius emerged from are not only plausible, but attractive. Recently, Christine Trevett has taken up Rius-Camps suggestions concerning Ignatius’ arrest and condemnation in her own analysis of the bishop. Though she, like many, has had problems with his overall reconstruction of the Ig75 natian letters, she found his re-creation of the situation that led to Ignatius’ arrest and condemnation to be insightful. In this regard, Trevett noted the important connection between ei0rhneu&ein and 76 o(mo&noia as terms that reflected the nature the of discord. Like Harrison, she believed that Ignatius’ feelings of guilt were connected with his failure to keep the peace at Antioch, and like Rius-Camps, she felt that Ignatius voluntarily gave himself up to the authorities in order to 77 mitigate the effects of the disturbance. Trevett also suggested that Ignatius had been influenced by 1 Clement in his decision to give him78 self up, modifying an earlier hypothesis of B.H. Streeter. Ignatius’ motives for doing so were inspired by the solution 1 Clement had offered the Corinthians in their own struggle to find unity and peace. According to Trevett, Ignatius’ voluntary sacrifice into the hands of Roman authorities in Syria was in part inspired by the ‘teaching’ of the Roman church. She notes the similarity in language and vocabulary in certain cases between 1 Clement and Ign. Rom., and maintains that Ignatius’ humble disposition reflected his failure to establish 79 (be&baiov) his flock in right doctrine and in loyalty to their leaders. She suggests that in response to his own failures in Antioch, Ignatius might have been inspired by the teaching in 1 Clement of unity 80 through loyalty to the church leaders. Trevett’s association of the letters of Ignatius with 1 Clement hearkens back to earlier observations posted by B.H. Streeter and W. Bauer. Streeter believed that Ignatius was not only familiar with 1 Clement but that he had also used his teachings on Church order to substantiate his own claims for mone81 piscopacy in Antioch. Citing the immense popularity of Clementine

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literature in the east, and in particular in Syria, Streeter surmised that this popularity was due in part to Ignatius who used 1 Clement as “one of the chief weapons wielded by the dominating personality of Ignatius in a lifelong battle for ecclesiastical discipline” and that it “…exercised a creative influence in the development of the powers of 82 the hierarchy in Syria.” In this view, Ignatius interpreted 1 Clement 40.5 as an affirmation of monepiscopal authority. Where Clement had emphasized the importance of order by making an analogy between ancient Israel and the Church in which the High Priest, the Priests and the Levites all followed hierarchically upon one another, Ignatius had taken this model to be a mandate for the kind of order he was fighting for, where the bishop, presbyters and deacons made up the true 83 Church (Ign. Tral. 3.1). But in fact, Ignatius’ interpretation was based on a misunderstanding of 1 Clement, who had based his analogy in part on images gleaned from the epistle to the Hebrews. In a region where the church was characterized by the kind of ecclesiology intimated in the Didache, Ignatius’ interpretation of 1 Clement was not unnatural, according to Streeter, since prophets were already in place as ‘chief-priests’ (Didache, 12). Thus, Streeter believed that the need for monepiscopal authority in a time when church unity was threatened, the influence of 1 Clement, and the personality of Ignatius himself all worked to bridge the gap in the development of Church order 84 between the time of the Didache, and Ignatius’ letters. Streeter’s association of 1 Clement with the context and situation of Ignatius of Antioch is partly dependent on Streeter’s own unique interpretation of early ecclesiastical history, and whether or not his reconstructions have any merit, his association of these two western and eastern contemporaries is not implausible and invites further investigation. Another unique interpretation of early ecclesiastical history was put forward by Walter Bauer, and he made a similar association between Ignatius and Clement. For Bauer, however, the influence of 1 Clement on Ignatius reflected the attempts of the Roman church to extend its control over other churches. Bauer suggests that Ignatius was familiar with 1 Clement based on Ign. Rom. 3.1. This teaching may have included 1 Clement and possibly even 1 Peter, and may have en85 couraged Ignatius to seek out their aid in his struggle. Bauer proposed that Antioch may even have received material support from Rome, based on an interpretation of the controversial phrase in Ign. Rom. Inscr. ‘prokaqhme&nj th~v a0ga&phv’ that Rome had supplied the

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needs of many churches with monetary gifts (cf., Euseb. E.H. 4.23.10). In such a manner Rome’s support for the disposed presbyters in 1 Clement could also have included financial assistance, and a similar method of support may have been extended to Ignatius’ situation as 86 well. Like Streeter, Bauer noted the importance of Roman figures 87 (such as Peter and Clement) in the ecclesiastical structures of authority in the east, and comes to the conclusion that these were not original, but advocated later by Rome to shore up their church-wide 88 authority. Also like Streeter, Bauer’s thesis was (and is) highly creative as well as controversial. But his association of 1 Clement with Ignatius remains plausible, even if the circumstances he imagines to be at the root of the connection between these two writers are not. Trevett stands in this tradition of creative interpretations of the relationship between the writers of earliest Christianity with one another. With regard to Ignatius and 1 Clement, Trevett proposed that Ign. Rom. 4.1–2 and 1 Clem. 56 share similarities that indicate a possible dependence on one by the other. 1 Clement 56 begins as an intercession for those who caused the disturbance at Corinth that they might be protected and corrected by the discipline of the Lord’s reproval (56.1–6). They will be rescued from distress (56.8), the sword (56.9) wild beasts (56.11) and will come to the grave like “ripe wheat harvested at the proper time (56.16). This passage seems to echo Ign. Rom. 4.1–2, with a twist: Ignatius fears their intercessions (cf., Ign. Rom. 1.2; 4.1), and desires to be harmed (mortally!) by the wild beasts in order to become wheat ground to become pure bread. The use of common terms (Si~tov, ta&fov) and images (harvested wheat, hungry beasts) point to a possible connection between the two writings, but like Streeter, Trevett has to posit a misunderstanding of 1 Clement by 89 Ignatius to establish the parallels. A stronger case for Ignatius’ knowledge of 1 Clement 54 may be made in Trevett’s suggestion of the apparent similarity between Clement’s recommendation to the schismatics in Corinth that they voluntarily leave the church in which they caused discord with the promise that they would be received and welcomed in other churches for doing 90 so, and Ignatius’ own actions. Clement hypothetically describes those repentant agitators of discord who are now filled with love (54.1) voluntarily leaving the church in order to restore the peace (ei)rhneue&tw). For doing so, such a one will win “great fame in Christ, and every place will receive him” (54.3). Those who sacrifice themselves for the

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‘flock’ would be in a long succession of noble men and kings, whose blood had also ransomed their peoples (1 Clem. 55). “Many”, Clement hails, “have given themselves over to death, that they may rescue their subjects through their own blood” (55.1). Ignatius’ arrest and condemnation, which he professes to have entered into voluntarily (e9kw&n, Ign. Rom. 4.1), could reflect his adoption of the ‘teaching’ of 1 Clement on the matter of internal discord in the church. His contentious personality may well have exacerbated tensions already present in the church at Antioch, and recognition of this may have led him to offer himself up to the authorities in order to save his church from official intervention, pace Rius-Camps. Trevett suggests that it was not only Ignatius’ failure to keep the peace at Antioch, but his highhandedness, and thus his complicity in the discord, that led him to of91 fer himself up as 1 Clement had recommended. This may explain why Ignatius was so prone to use self-deprecatory language concerning his relationship with his church. As Schoedel has suggested, he may have understood the challenge to his authority in Antioch, and the ensuing 92 discord, to have called into question the value of his ministry there. Thus, he may have hoped to be poured out as an offering (spondisqh~nai) to God on the altar (qusiasth&rion e3toimo&n) in the arena with the church at Rome surrounding him like a chorus (Ign. Rom. 2.2). This language, as we have noted before (ch. 4) is similar to that expressed in 4 Macc. where the 7 Maccabean martyrs were an a0nti&yuxon that saved their people from further persecution—much in the way that 1 Clement portrayed the noble gentile rulers doing. Ignatius also saw himself as an a)nti&yuxon (Ign. Smyr. 10.2) and the whole tone of his letter to the Romans is brimming with the hope that he may reach his goal, and thereby become: a word (2.1), an offering (2.2), a Christian (3.2) pure bread (4.1), a sacrifice (4.2), an imitator of the suffering of his God (6.3), a man (6.3), somebody (9.2) if he but reach God (qeou~ e)pitu&xw) through his death. 93 There seems to be a case for Ignatius’ knowledge of 1 Clement. Trevett’s case is compelling, but we are left, as in the case of Streeter’s parallels, with historical similarities that are supported by alleged misreadings of 1 Clement by Ignatius. If we look beyond specific references and textual parallels, we find many other coincidences between the two writings. In particular, and importantly for our purposes, it is illuminating that 1 Clement and Ignatius both direct their letters to situations of internal discord in the church with reference to the po-

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litical vocabulary of peace and concord. In fact, their use of o(mo&noia is not only similar, but unique (save two cultic references in Hermas) among the New Testament writings, the Apostolic Fathers and the 94 Apologists. Not until Irenaeus and Clement of Alexandria does the term reappear in Christian writing. Both writers attack discord, both mandate loyalty to the established leaders, both describe healthy community in terms of peace and concord, and both use the terms in ways that reflect contemporary secular uses. Whether or not Clement and Ignatius both faced internal discord alone, or heresy as well, has 95 been a well debated issue but, at the very least, they both saw only one solution to their problems: unity with the church’s leaders. We saw in ch. 5 that in comparisons between Ign. Phld. and 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement there were rhetorical similarities which pointed to the possibility that Ignatius may have written a o(mo&noia-letter to the Philadelphians in a manner similar to 1 Corinthians and 1 Clement, as 96 argued by Mitchell and Bakke. Is it possible, then, that Ignatius was influenced by 1 Clement’s unique application of the Flavian ideal of concord and peace to the church? Could Ignatius’ use of the term (o9mo&noia) reflect his knowledge of the appeals and teachings of the Roman church to the Corinthians in their battle against discord? Instead of positing a misunderstanding of 1 Clement’s ecclesiology (Streeter) or the imagery of 1 Clement 54–56 (Trevett), might it not be possible to see in Ignatius’ adoption and adaptation of the language of concord a very clear understanding of, and a familiarity with, 1 Clement? We have seen throughout the previous chapters how Ignatius’ literary and cultural world was hemmed in with those who used the term around the time he lived: Philo from Alexandria, Paul from Tarsus, Josephus from Jerusalem (and Rome), Clement from Rome, Hermas from Rome, Plutarch from Chaeronea, Dio Chrysostom from Prusa, and Aristides from Smyrna, not to mention the iconographic representations of Rome and the east that saturated civic life. Can it be that his spiritual world, hemmed in as it was by the theology of John and the writings of Paul, was also shaped by the teachings that emanated from Rome? Streeter’s observations regarding the popularity and influence of Clementine literature in the east, particularly within Syrian 97 Christianity, make this a very real possibility. The similarity in the approach to discord by the two writers gives further weight to this possibility. The possible connection between Ignatius and 1 Clement also adds credence to the suggestions posited by Harrison and others

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that discord was at the heart of the disturbances each addressed, and not persecution. It seems very likely then, that Ignatius used o(mo&noia in his letters because he found it to be relevant to his particular situation, and possibly because he was inspired by Clement’s teaching in his own battle against schism in his epistle to the Corinthians.

Conclusion From Harrison’s suggestion that eu0rhneu&ein referred to the restoration of peace within the church at Antioch to Trevett’s proposal that Ignatius gave himself up as a sacrifice for the discord he had partly been responsible for in that same church, a point of contact between the desire for martyrdom that Ignatius professed and his urgent proclamation of the need for unity around the bishop can be discerned. This was Swartley’s key to understanding Ignatius, but for our purposes, it may also serve as a guide for better understanding Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia. Though it is not possible to isolate a specific outbreak of persecution under which Ignatius may have been arrested and condemned, the vicissitudes of rule by the mobs and governors were frequent enough to allow for the possibility. The question why Ignatius was arrested is not as easy to come by. However, by taking into account Ignatius’ exhortations to the communities he wrote to on concord and unity within the church with their leaders, the authority of the bishop, the danger of schism, the significance of the gathered community around the Eucharist, and the centrality of physical unity (in the church) for the sake of spiritual unity (through Christ with God), and joining these with his own reflections on his coming death, his life as a sacrifice and ransom (a0nti&yuxon, peri&yhma), his selfdeprecatory language (e1ktrwma, ou0de\ a0cio&v, e0ska&tov), and his hope for a final union with God (qeou~ e0pitu&xw), the plausibility that he was the victim of internal discord at Antioch, which resulted in his public condemnation, seems preferable to the traditional view that he was merely a victim of persecution. If discord was the great evil that lay behind Ignatius’ letters and in his recent past, new light may be shed not only on his uses of o9mo&noia but on the meaning of his letters as well. The question quickly follows: what was the source of this discord? Though this opens a debate that reaches beyond this dissertation, the sources are apparent enough in his letters, regardless of how precisely they are defined: docetism on one end of a spectrum

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and judaizing on the other end both of which resulted in tendencies that became a threat to the unity of the church and the authority of its leaders. In ways similar to Paul’s letters to the Corinthians, and Clement’s letter to the same church a generation later, the exact nature of the opposing views have been overshadowed in Ignatius by the primacy of unity and concord within the church and with their leaders. As Ignatius maintained: “faith is the beginning, love is the end, and the two, when the exist in unity (e9no&thti), are God. Everything else that contributes to excellence follows from them” (Ign. Eph. 14.1). The same sentiments are echoed in 1 Clement 49.5 ff: “Love unites us with God…. Love knows of no schisms, love leads no rebellions, love does everything in harmony (o(monoi&a)| ”, and in Paul: “…be like-minded (to\ au0to\ fronei~te), live in peace (ei0rhneu&ete) and the God of love and peace will be with you” (2 Cor. 13:11). What we find in common in each of these early Christian writings is the struggle for unity and peace within communities where other forces, whether those of personal ambition or of distinct theological challenges, threatened the integrity and harmony of the Church. An evaluation in this chapter of Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia have lead us to conclude that in advocating peace and unity to the churches in the language of concord, Ignatius was not only influenced by the cultural and political nuances of the term that were available to him from the surrounding Greco-Roman world, but had internalized the meaning of the word to some degree, giving it added poignancy for his concerns. We saw that he primarily advocated a o(mo&noia that was understood as ‘incarnational’; that is, he envisioned a concord that was grounded in the incarnation of Jesus which made it possible for individuals to participate in his body as members through being united with their leaders and the church (Ign. Eph. 4.1–2). This concord was not primarily political (i.e., the sophists), nor mystical (i.e., the Gnostics), but was “a union of flesh and spirit” (i.e., the body of Christ). Added to Ignatius’ uniquely nuanced vision of the church in concord was the latent eschatological dimension to it: the churches in concord with their leaders were joined in the ‘unity of God’ as members of the body of Christ, and participated in the eschatological victory over Satan’s war and division through the peace and concord won by Christ (13.1–2). In imitation of Christ’s victory through suffering, Ignatius longed for death (Ign. Rom. 7.2) so that he too might be poured out as an offering on the altar prepared for him (2.2), and be a

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ransom and sacrifice for the churches (Ign. Eph.8.1; Smyr. 10.2). His message of unity and his calling to martyrdom were, like Christ his 98 forerunner, bound together. Ignatius’ ‘incarnational’ and ‘eschatological’ uses of o(mo&noia allow us to see how he had internalized the meaning of the word for application in specific ways that served his 99 concerns. Though he was shaped by cultural and literary influences, and though there were strong religious undercurrents the pulled be100 low the horizon of his thinking, o(mo&noia in the hands of Ignatius was carved to suit his most important and final exhortations: “Farewell in godly harmony (o(monoi&a| qeou~) to you who possess an undivided spirit (a0dia&kriton pneu~ma), which is Jesus Christ” (Ign. Magn. 15).

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I G H T

Summary and Conclusions We began our research into Ignatius and Concord by looking at one of his final sayings: “Since (as I have been informed) the church at Antioch in Syria is at peace (ei0rhneu&ei) through your prayer, I too have become more encouraged in a God-given freedom from anxiety (e0n a0|merimni&a| qeou~)—provided, of course, that through suffering I reach God (dia_ tou~ paqei~n qeou~ e0pitu&xw), that I may prove to be a disciple by means of your prayer.” (Ign. Pol. 7.1)

In light of the research that has been undertaken, these words appear less enigmatic. In part, their full sense must remain shrouded in mystery because we simply do not know what transpired in Syria that gave Ignatius such grave concerns and that placed him in such dangerous turmoil. But their general meaning seems to be clearer. Discord, in whatever form and due to whatever causes appears to have been at the root of the problem. Ignatius’ fixation on the importance of concord with the appointed leaders seems to bear this out. Though we gain some sense of the opposing theological forces that threatened churches from Syria to Troas (docetism and judaizing), we are overwhelmingly confronted with the graver threats that were mustered by division and discord (Ign. Phld. 8.1). War in heaven and on earth was not silenced by orthodox beliefs alone but with orthodox practices as well. Ignatius warns that the powers of Satan’s destructiveness would be overthrown by the “concord of your faith” (Ign. Eph. 13.2), and further that faith and love marked out the Christian’s perfection and unity with God (14.1). Though Ignatius is at pains to point out the dangers of heretical teaching, these are dangerous primarily because they threaten the unity of the church: “Flee, therefore, the evil tricks and traps of the ruler of this age, lest you be worn out by his schemes and grow week in love. Instead, gather together, all of you, with an undivided heart” (Ign. Phld. 6.2).

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In deciding to pass over the vexing questions of authorship and dating, this dissertation has focused on the question of the purpose of these letters with a view to understanding why Ignatius wrote to the churches and what these letters revealed about his own background. The focus of this thesis has been to inestigate whether Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can be evaluated in the context of the culture and age between the Flavians and the Antonines with the result that his uses of the term are found to be in continuity with literary, iconographic and rhetorical trends that were normative between the 80s and the 130s AD; and whether Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can be evaluated in the context of the little that may be known about his background with the result that his uses of the term help better illumine the purpose of his letters by directing us to the personal experiences that likely preceded his appeals for concord and in the churches he wrote to. In Chapters Two to Six, Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia were evaluated against the backdrop of a rich and varied cultural, literary and religious background. We saw in Chapter Two how o(mo&noia emerged in Athens as a political watchword near the end of the Peloponnesian Wars. Promoted by the sophists in their demagoguery, o(mo&noia entered the world of Greek political discourse not out of the mouths of priests and poets, but out of the tongues of orators and politicians. There it ever found its home, though it might be used in widely varying contexts. From Alexander it found its way into the world of the Latins and Sabines in the Roman Republic. With the fall of the Gracchi, Roman Concordia wore the colors of the nobility and came to be associated with the patrician virtues minted on coins and celebrated in temples and shrines. Perhaps these patrician trappings caused Octavian to prefer Pax to Concordia in his imperial iconography. However, the last of the Julio-Claudians reintroduced the term on coins in his waning years without many reservations. Beginning with Vespasian, the Flavians embarked on a systematic strategy of bolstering the legitimacy of their dynasty and added to the Augustan Pax the Flavian Concordia, along with other virtues. By the age of Trajan and Hadrian, Concordia had become a normal part of imperial iconography and had begun to lose its novelty, though not its vitality. In the east, o(mo&noia resurfaced as Augustus and his successors began approving Imperial cult temples throughout the provinces and, beginning with Domitian, o(mo&noia coins began to appear more frequently between the rival cities of Asia Minor. This introductory chapter gave us a broad view of the

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use and meaning of the term through the beginning of the second century, and solidified its place in the context of the politics and iconography of the civic world of the Roman Empire. In Chapter Three we saw how o(mo&noia featured in the iconography of the Imperial cult and on the o(mo&noia-coins of Asia minor. Projecting the Roman Pax throughout the provinces, the Imperial cult became a catalyzing icon among Greek provincials for reinterpreting their roles and identities as subjects of Rome. In the collage of images that redefined their relations with Rome, o(mo&noia figured as a component in the rituals surrounding the cult of the emperors. The emergence of the o(mo&noia-coins contributed to the spread of this message of peace and concord in the name of the emperors, and was featured on coins struck between the major cities of the province. Ignatius reflected a familiarity with both of these media presentations of Roman concord. In his letter to the Ephesians he admonished the church to be united with the bishop and used images that recalled the ceremonies of the Imperial cult and the religious processions that decorated the landscape of civic life in the east (4.1–2; 9.1–2). He also promoted his admonitions for concord with the familiar images of the o(mo&noia-coins in his letter to the Magnesians (5.1–6.1). His familiarity with the metaphors for unity that the rulers of his day promoted gave him the license to redefine these in the context, or for the sake of, the churches he was writing to. He did not emphasize the concord of the Emperor, but the concord of God in his admonitions to the churches, and his own ignominious journey to Rome was transformed into a pilgrimage of sacrifice where he, in the footsteps of Paul, would die as an offering on behalf of the churches. In our first evaluation and comparison of Ignatius with his surrounding culture we discovered that his uses of o(mo&noia were in continuity with the iconographic uses which projected Roman power and peace throughout the Greek east, but we also found that he could use these very images to promote his own concerns, reifying the Imperial icons with ecclesiastical meaning. In Chapter Four we explored the way the provincial elite manipulated the Imperial peace to secure their places within the webs of power that emanated from Rome. Dio Chrysostom and Aelius Aristides acted as mouthpieces for their emperors, promoting the status quo and advocating a Greek concord in Imperial dress. The rise of the Second Sophistic contributed to the reification of classical ideals that suited the exigencies of Greek subordination in a time of Roman

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dominance. Among the virtues of the past that were put to work in this cultural revival among provincial Greeks, o(mo&noia found advocates among the orators and sophists who proclaimed concord and peace for personal and imperial gain. Advocating submission to the power configurations of the present, provincials supported and benefited from the new hierarchies of power. Ignatius reflected some knowledge of these trends. In many ways, his uses of o(mo&noia echoed those of the orators. Like them, he advocated submission to the appointed authorities, and with them, he framed o(mo&noia in the language familiar to any who frequented the theatres to hear the sophists publicly declaim. Though he was not a beneficiary of imperial power like provincial elites such as Dio Chrysostom or Plutarch, Ignatius viewed power and authority in ways that were analogous to that supported by these men. God, like the emperor, was represented in his deputies, the bishops, and submission to the appointed authorities was a legitimate acknowledgement of the ultimate authority they represented. Uses of the term by the provincial elite such as Dio and Aristides and by a vagabond overseer of a religious sect bear witness to a widespread understanding of o(mo&noia as a term that had meaning in the power configurations of the age, where compliance and resistance to authority were problems faced at all levels of society. In Chapter Five we moved closer to the world of Ignatius via the writings of several Hellenistic Jewish authors. Philo, the most prolific Jewish writer of the first half of the first century was familiar with o(mo&noia but seems to have intentionally avoided it in his two most political treatises. This, we surmised, may have had to do with the fact that o(mo&noia was not as politically evocative as ei)rh&nh during the time of the Julio-Claudians. Though his uses of the term betray Platonic influences, his religious convictions reshaped o(mo&noia in the service of his definitions of Jewish ethnic unity, chiefly around the Law, or God. Josephus used the term in similar ways, but he was more overtly a proponent of political o(mo&noia as a client and beneficiary of Flavian patronage. The writer of 4 Macc. used the term in ways reminiscent of both Philo and Josephus, but his asianic rhetorical framework joined the term to a wider field of metaphors and images associated with concord and discord. In comparing Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia with those of the writer of 4 Macc., a host of similarities became apparent. The many commonal-

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ities between the two writings vouch for a common literary and cultural milieu somewhere in Asia, possibly Syrian Antioch. Both writers reflected the exigencies of persecuted communities of faith enduring in the face of powerful opposition. Both understood and interpreted o(mo&noia as a divine virtue reflecting their faithfulness and access to God. Finally, both made large and immoderate use of the style and form of Asianic rhetoric, a rhetorical genre wildly popular in the east, but fading before the ascendancy of literary Atticism as the Second sophistic churned up more and more of the classical past and moved deeper into the second century. These observations led us to conclude that Ignatius imbibed some of the interpretations and influences of Jewish uses of o(mo&noia. In Chapter Six we moved another step closer to Ignatius’ thought world and evaluated uses of o(mo&noia as they occurred among two early Christian writers. Though admittedly absent from Paul’s writings, o(mo&noia seems to have shaped Paul’s rhetorical approach to discussing concord and discord in Corinth through the genre and form of the pe&ri o(monoi&av speech. By evaluating previous research it became apparent that many of the terms and concepts utilized by Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians were a part of the semantic fields of o(mo&noia and sta&siv and would have been suggestive to anyone hearing or reading his letter of the familiar discussions of concord and discord. These findings were further supported by looking at similar and more overt applications of the pe&ri o(monoi&av speech by Clement of Rome. In his epistle to the Corinthians, the familiar imperial terminology of concord and peace surfaces, and is applied in very generic ways to the context at hand. In its form and content, 1 Clement serves as a virtual model for the pe&ri o(monoi&av speech, conforming to many of the rhetorical forms that characterized such speeches. An evaluation of one of Ignatius’ letters against the backdrop of the pe&ri o(monoi&av speech allows for the possibility that Ignatius himself wrote such a letter to the Philadelphians. An analysis of the form and content of the letter confirmed this possibility and allowed us to conclude that Ignatius may have been familiar with the deliberative rhetorical genre of the concord speech. This would place him in the context of literary and rhetorical trends popular around the turn of the century, and the specific modeling of the pe&ri o(monoi&av speech would place him in continuity with both Paul and Clement in their attempts to deal with and suppress conflict in the church. Not only does this al-

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low us to assess Ignatius in the context of and in continuity with his contemporary culture, but we are able to establish links between his approach to discord and those of the earliest Christians. In the final chapter, Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia were evaluated not against the backdrop of external influences such as Greco-Roman culture, the Second Sophistic, Hellenistic Judaism, or earliest Christianity but with regard to internal influences that his letters either provided or implied. We learned that his uses of o(mo&noia were shaped by an overriding concern for unity with the bishop and with God. In his hands, the term took on more profound meanings than those he inherited from normative uses of the term in the surrounding culture. Ignatius used the term to express both an incarnational concord, and an eschatological concord, both of which he sought to impress upon his hearers as the kind of concord available to those in harmony with the bishop and God. An evaluation of each of his uses of the term led us to conclude that his overriding concern for concord reflected in some ways the experiences that immediately preceded his letters. Instead of the general opinion that Ignatius was a victim of persecution, his letters seem to betray the fact that he was much more the victim of discord in his church in Syria. Using o(mo&noia as a hinge with which to evaluate external and internal evidence, can we say anything more about why Ignatius wrote his seven letters? Based on our observations, we can say that Ignatius, broken by the discord in his own church and shamed with a difficult journey to an ignominious death, sought to admonish the churches he had contact with, almost as a last testament, that they avoid schism by staying united and submitted to the bishop, presbyters and deacons appointed over them. Heretics and false teachers would try and subvert them as they had his own church, and through their teachings cause division and disunity with the leaders. This he desired for them to avoid at all costs, warning them to “flee from divisions, as the beginning of evils” (Ign. Smyr. 8.1). Ignatius’ relief at hearing news of the peace that had been regained by the church in Antioch reflects not the end of presecution, but the resolution of the discord there, perhaps by virtue of his own sacrifice, for these are the terms by which he understood himself and his destiny (Ign. Rom. 2.2; Ign. Smyr. 10.1). Ignatius wrote these letters out of the context of his own experience of discord, and for this reason, concord, unity and submission to the leaders carried such freight for him.

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What can we say about Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia? It is clear that Ignatius was using the political language of contemporary culture when he chose to use o(mo&noia to express his concerns to the churches. Throughout Chapters Two to Six we were able to see clearly the ways in which he both imitated and conformed to popular metaphors, images and political uses of the term o(mo&noia. However, we were also able to see ways in which Ignatius was willing to adapt the term to his purposes. Ultimately, he was not interested in importing into the church the kind of concord that public officials advocated in the civic contexts of the Greco-Roman world. Ignatius was interested in painting a picture of what relationship with God looked like on earth, and in these terms, o(mo&noia became distinctly ‘incarnational’ in that it represented in earthly relationships a heavenly reality. Therefore, unity with the bishop was a heavenly mandate and a reality that had to be lived out, not just a commandment. This would have been particularly important to Ignatius if his circumstances in Antioch involved discord between himself and unruly parties in the church. We also saw that in Ignatius’ mind o(mo&noia had eternal, or eschatological ramifications as well. Not only was concord a matter of present submission to the bishop in order to validate the believer’s union with God (Ign. Eph. 4), concord defined a way of existing that would ultimately usher in the end of the ages and define the age to come (Ign. Eph. 13). Concord was both a present reality to be practiced concretely in daily life and worship among believers, and a future reality that would define who belonged to God and who didn’t. We may conclude, then, by maintaining that our thesis, namely that Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can be evaluated in the context of the culture and age between the Flavians and the Antonines with the result that his uses of the term are found to be in continuity with literary, iconographic and rhetorical trends that were normative between the 80s and the 130s AD, and that Ignatius’ uses of o(mo&noia can also be evaluated in the context of the little that may be known about his personal circumstances and background with the result that his uses of the term help better illumine the purpose of his letters by directing us to the events and experiences that likely preceded his appeals for concord and in the churches he wrote to has been adequately validated. Our assessments of the use and meaning of o(mo&noia in the Greco-Roman world and in the writings of Ignatius of Antioch allow us to conclude that the term o(mo&noia does in fact serve as a useful

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hinge for evaluating and understanding why Ignatius wrote his letters. In the end, it has served to illumine more clearly the purpose of Ignatius’ letters by helping us associate his concern for unity and concord in the churches he wrote to with his own experiences of discord elsewhere. As a hinge, then, the word o(mo&noia has allowed us to sharpen our undestanding of Ignatius and in his Letters a little more. The ancient question regarding the date of composition remains an enigma. We may indeed have to wait for some new discovery from ‘the sands of Egypt’ to further substantiate the opinio communis for the vexed question of dating. However, we can say that as a hermeneutical device for interpreting Ignatius’ letters, o(mo&noia has been useful in illuminating connections between Ignatius and his culture, and between Ignatius’ past and his own writings. The trajectories these new insights offer for further evaluating the Ignatian corpus may lead us not forward into new insights regarding the development of the early Church, but back into its evolution as the question is put anew whether the struggle between heresy and orthodoxy better characterized early Christianity, or the struggle between unity and discord.

Notes Chapter One 1

This is the only apparent reference to his Roman persecutors, but no indication is given that he is a prisoner as a result of persecution by the Romans. Much more, in Ignatius’ eyes, his assailants are the docetists (Ign. Tral. 10.1) and Judaizers (Ign. Phld. 7.1)

2

Ignatius’ Epistle to the Romans has a separate textual transmission from the other six letters because it was connected to the Ignatian martyr acts; Cf., Schoedel (1985) pp. 3–4

3

Cf., most recently, Lechner, (1999) pp. 75–113

4

Cf., Harnack (1958), vol. 1, pp. 398–405; Lightfoot (1989) vol. 2, pp. 452–471

5

Cf., Brown (1963) pp. 37–65; 97–119, for dating based on lexical and grammatical evaluations. Also Lightfoot (1989) 2.1, pp. 233–279

6

Lightfoot (1989) 2.1, p. 273

7

Ibid., p. 267

8

The question of dating and authorship have had a lengthy history, not only in modern times, but since the Reformation age as well. Useful source-critical investigations of the Ignatian debate have been compiled and the reader is referred to these for further information and detail. A very brief review of the high-points will serve our purposes in introducing the theme of this dissertation. For a bibliography on Ignatian studies before the 20th century, see ANF vol. 9, pp. 10–15. For thorough evaluations of recent scholarship on Ignatius, including the arguments for and against the consensus dating and authorship, see Hammond-Bammel (1982); Munier (1993) pp. 359–484; Paulsen (1996) pp. 933–953; and Melink (2000) pp. 13 ff.

9

Zahn (1873); Lightfoot (1989) pt. 2

10

Cureton (1845); Schoedel (1985) pp. 3–4

11

Cf.: Snyder (1998) p. 559; Schoedel (1987) pp. 40, 43

12

Weijenborg (1969); Joly (1979); Rius-Camps (1979)

13

Hübner and Vinzent (2000) and Lechner (1999)

NOTES

198

14

Hübner (1997) pp. 67–71, (2000) pp. 203 ff.; Lechner (1999) pp. 306–307

15

Hilgenfeld (1902) pp. 279 ff., Joly (1979) pp. 71–73

16

ZAC vols. 1–3 (1997–99)

17

Hübner (1997) pp. 46–47

18

Hübner (1999) pp. 39–129

19

Hübner (1997) pp. 54–59

20

Ibid., p. 59

21

Ibid., pp. 60 ff.

22

Lindemann (1997), p. 186–189

23

Ibid., p. 191

24

Schölgen (1998), pp. 16–25

25

Edwards (1998), p. 226

26

Lechner (1999), pp. xxii–xxiv

27

Ibid., p. 57

28

Ibid., p. 104

29

Ibid., p. 110–112

30

Lindemann (2002), p. 158

31

Ibid., p. 159: “L. setzt für seine Argumentation immer wieder das Ergebnis voraus, obwohl dessen Richtigkeit zuvörderst erwiesen oder zumindest plausibel gemacht werden müsste.”

32

Ibid., p. 160

33

Ibid., p. 161

34

Paulsen (1985); Scheodel (1985). A forthcoming critical commentary in the Vandenhoek and Ruprecht series on the Apostolic Fathers by R. Staats on Ignatius is eagerly awaited

35

Lindemann (2002), p. 161

36

Lindemann (1997), p. 186

37

Cf.: Kampmann (1996); Franke, Nollé (1997)

38

Weber (1912), pp. 67–96

39

Kampmann (1996), pp. 1–5

40

Von Papen (1908), p. 168; Weber (1912), p. 112

41

Kiennast (1964), p. 51–63

42

Merkelbach (1978), pp. 287–296

43

Kampmann (1996), pp. 20 ff.

44

On Concordia, cf. Levick (1978) and Hölscher (1990); on Greek provincials, cf. Jones (1978) and Sheppard (1984); for Christian uses, cf. Welborn (1987), Mitchell (1992) and Bakke (2000)

NOTES

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Chapter Two 1 Philostratus, Vit. Soph. 481, coins this term. He proposes that the 4th century BC Aeschines founded this ‘Second Sophistic’ but apart from naming three intervening orators of little renown, follows Aeschines with Nicetes of Smyrna, who lived in the age of Nero(!), (Vit. Soph. 507, 511). We will discuss the ‘Second Sophistic’ in more detail in ch. 4 2 See Gagarin and Woodruff (1995), p. 248–253 3 Thraede (1994), p.182: Thaede notes that though this is the first attributed use of the term, there is some discrepancy regarding its date, which may have been in 406 BC after all 4 For instance: eu0nomi&a, i0sono&mia; Moulakis (1973), p. 22 5 Sinclair (1930), p. 320 6 Baldry (1965), p. 64; Baker (1936), p. 512 7 Baker (1936), p. 516 8 Thraede (1994), p. 84 9 Romilly (1976), p. 253–56 ff. 10 Ibid., pp. 254, 264 11 Ibid., p. 260 12 Kennedy (1985), p. 514 13 Moulakis (1973), p. 57 14 Ibid. 15 Baker (1936), p. 515 16 Cornford (1936), p. 320 17 From translation by A.D. Lindsay (1906), in Plato, Republic (London: 1976) 18 Thraede (1994), p. 186 19 Moulakis (1973), p. 102 20 Tarn (1942), p. 124 21 Tarn (1979), p. 399 22 Stoneman (1997), p. 7: E. Badian and A.B. Bosworth represent a “decisive swing of the pendelum” in Alexander studies, away from the more enchanted perspectives of Tarn and Victor Ehrenberg, starting in 1958 with Badian’s critique of Tarn’s aticle in Badian (1958), p. 425–444 23 Thraede (1994), p. 201; Moulakis (1973), p. 28ff.. Both question Tarn’s emphasis on Alexander’s formulation of o(mo&noia which dismisses much of its political background from Thucydides onwards 24 Tarn (1979), p. 435, n.2: Arrian 7.11.8–9; Plutarch, de Alex Fortuna 1.6 (329 b, 330 e), and Alexander 27. Arrian is largely dependant on Ptolemy, and Plutarch in part on Eratosthenes

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NOTES

25 Tarn (1979), p. 448 26 Von Arnim, SVF (1903–05), vol. 1, frag. 537 27 The earliest O(mo&noia-coin may in fact be a combination with the goddess Demeter, from Metapontum in Italy: BMC (Italy), (1837), p. 244, no. 59 28 Mionnet (1837), I, p 279, no. 619; Pera (1984), p. 119 29 Theriault (1996), p. 42 30 Ibid., pp. 22–23 31 Ibid., p. 33 32 Robert (1968), p. 445 33 Thraede (1994), p. 195 34 Tarn (1930), p. 82 35 cf., IG IX, 2, 507; IG XII, 5, 870; SEG, I, 363 36 Tarn (1930), p. 84; Cf. IG XII, 7, 15; IG XII 5, 1065; IG IX 2, 1100 37 Thraede (1994), p. 196 38 Thraede (1994), p. 204, and Momigliano (1942), pp. 111–120, consider the account legendary, though in a recent entry in the LIMC, Hölscher (1990), p. 493, does not find the evidence against such an early dating compelling 39 Theriault (1996), p. 6 ff. 40 Levick (1978), p. 221 41 Thraede (1994), p. 209 42 Hölscher (1990), p. 403; Thraede (1994), pp. 210–211 43 Cf. Crawford (1974), p. 415 (vol. 1) 44 Crawford (1974), p. 429 (vol. 2), p. 436 (vol. 1) 45 Thraede (1994), pp. 211–212 46 Scullard (1982), p. 111 47 Alfödly (1988), p. 83 48 Scullard (1982), p. 111 49 Cary, and Scullard (1979), p 248 50 Scullard (1982), p. 231 51 Thraede (1994), p. 214 52 This can be seen as early as Xenophon (Mem. 4.4.14) 53 Thraede (1994), p. 212; Scullard (1982), p. 159 54 Thraede (1994), p. 228 55 Mattingly (1937), pp. 109–111; Thaede (1994), p. 228 56 Scullard (1982), pp. 162–163; Crawford (1974), p. 494, no. 41–42 57 Ferguson (1993), pp. 128–29; Tarn (1933), p. 131 58 Scullard (1982), p. 171

NOTES

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59 Skard (1967), p. 207 60 Purcell (1998), p. 100 61 Cairns (1989), ch. 4 62 Ibid. p. 92 63 Ibid. p. 107–108 64 Crawford (1974), p. 529, no. 4 65 Kent, Overbeck, Stylow (1973), no. 114 66 Cairns (1989), p. 108 67 Thraede (1994), p. 223. In the Greek east, this was not the case, as coins and temples were erected in celebration of the peace and concord Augustus had secured (more below) 68 Cairns (1985), p. 211–212 69 Scullard (1982), p. 208, (See also note 2, p.450); Hölscher (1990), p. 493 70 Nicomedia and Pergamon, in 29 BC; Cerfaux, Tondriau (1956); Scullard (1982), pp. 235–236. Considerable rivalry between the cities of the Greek east soon developed over the privilege of being wardens (neokoroi) of an imperial cult temple (see below) 71 GIBM 4, 894, 1.2–13 72 Imhoof, Blumer (1918), p. 140, 36; See also Grant (1946), pp. 271–272 73 Hölscher (1990), p. 493 74 Ibid. 75 Ibid. 76 Fears (1981), p. 892 77 Pekary (1966–67), p. 106 78 CIL IV.1.92–94 79 Pekary (1966–67), p. 108–128 80 British Museum Catalogue (BMC) Emp. I. 91, 137, 116 tbl. 24,14; 139, 132–134 tbl. 25, 4–7; Pekary (1966–67), p. 128; Hölscher (1990), p. 494 81 Grant (1954), p. 140–143, tbl. 49; BMC Imp. I. 152, 36–37, tbl. 28, 4; Hölscher (1990), p. 487 (no. 106) 82 BMC Imp. I. 209, 61–63, tbl. 39, 15–16 (Nero); BMC Imp. I. 317–318, 55–61, tbl 55, 17–18 (Galba); BMC Imp. I. 368, 1, tbl. 60, 15 (Vitellius); Amit (1962), pp. 33–169. 83 BMC Imp., I. 305–306, 61–63, tbl. 51,19; Holscher (1990), p. 494. Coins celebrating CONCORDIA PRAETORIANORVM and CONCORDIA PROVINCIARVM are oblique references to the lack thereof in those very contexts. As a rule, the mention of CONCORDIA in relation to specific contexts tended to bear witness to the presence of discord and strife, as was particularly the case with coins minted in the Greek east from the late first century AD

NOTES

202

onwards (see below, ch. 3) 84 Scullard (1982), p. 303, 306 85 IG IV (2) 1, 80–1 86 Garzetti (1976), p. 187. Cassius Dio appropriately called Nero the “last of the sons of Aeneas.” (Cass. Dio. 58.29.3) 87 BMC Alexandria 18, 150 88 Theriault (1996), p.156 89 Holscher (1990), p. 494 90 Salmon (1986), p. 210, 212 91 Garzetti (1976), p. 233 92 Ibid., p. 253 93 BMC Emp. I 385, 81–85, tbl. 61, 16–18 94 BMC Emp. II 113, tbl. 20, 3; BMC Emp. II 12, 65–66, tbl. 19, 4 95 Hölscher (1990), p. 495 96 BMC Emp. II, 246, 136 tbl.47, 11 97 Kampmann (1996), p. 27–28; Mionnet, III, 226, 1263 98 Southern (1997), p. 45 99 Salmon (1986), pp. 228, 235 100 Southern (1997), p. 59 101 I.Ital. 13.1, p. 195 (AD 96) 102 Mattingly (1930), BMC 3, no. 16 103 Salmon (1986), pp. 268–272; Bennett (1997), pp. 37, 51; BMC Emp. III 1–2, 4– 9, tbl. 1, 2–5 104 Bennett (1997), p. 53 105 Garzetti (1976), p. 309; Bennett (1997), pp. 56, 63–65 106 Bennett (1997), pp. 71–72; BMC Emp. III 140, 27; 143, 700 107 Hölscher (1990), p. 495; Bennett (1997), p. 131 108 Fears (1981), p. 890 109 Brent (1999), pp. 27 ff., 51, 61 110 Schowalter (1993), pp. 27 ff. 111 Fears (1981), p. 913; Bennett (1997), pp. 63 ff. 112 Ibid., pp. 921–22; Cf. Harl (1996), pp. 93 ff. 113 Schowalter (1993), p. 78 114 Fears (1981), p. 924; Cf. Fears (1974), p. 123 115 Ibid., ; BMC Imp. III, p. 38, no. 56 116 Alston (1998), pp. 200–201 117 Wallace-Hadrill (1995), p. 80, 92

NOTES

203

118 Beranger (1967), p. 481 119 Ibid., p. 483–484; BMC Emp. III 414, 1182–84, tbl. 78, 9 120 Saller (1982), pp. 33–36 121 BMC Emp. II 350, 249 tbl. 67, 17 122 BMC Emp. IV., p. CXV 123 RIC V 2, p. 223, no. 17

Chapter Three 1

Hölscher (1990), pp. 494–95; Cf., BMC Emp.ii, 73. 358, pl. 12, 4, 88

2

Price (1984), pp. 174 ff. In his groundbreaking re-evaluation of the Imperial cult, one of Price’s major contentions is that the images of power that appeared in the Greek east were largely a response by provincials to the iconography disseminated from Rome. We will see below how significantly o(mo&noia featured in this response by Greeks to Roman rule

3

Price (1984), pp. 7 ff.

4

Ibid., p. 15. See also Fox (1986), pp. 39 ff.

5

Beard, M., North, J., Price, S. (1998), pp. 318, 348

6

Alfoldy (1988), p. 154

7

Fox (1986), pp. 39–41; Importantly, Lane Fox notes how both Greek and Roman religion influenced each other, and evoked shared sentiments which expressed themselves in many ways, not least of which was a “lively, traditional religiousness” (p. 40)

8

Fox (1986), p. 40

9

Edwards (1996), p. 52

10

Fox (1986), p. 40

11

Beard, North, Price (1998), pp. 318ff.

12

Fox (1986), pp. 75–80

13

See above, ch. 2

14

Beard, North, Price (1998), p. 361

15

Edwards (1996), p. 94

16

Garnsey and Saller, (1987), p. 190

17

Ibid., pp. 165–67

18

Edson (1973), p. 939

19

Price (1984), p. 32

20

Deissmann (1927), pp. 363 ff.

21

Ferguson (1993), pp. 187–188

NOTES

204

22

Price (1984), p. 52

23

Ibid., pp. 56–58. Others who received divine honors included the likes of Scipio Africanus, Flamininus and even Marius.

24

Garnsey and Saller (1987), p. 165

25

Hammond (1973), p. 939

26

Ibid.

27

Price (1984), p. 67

28

Ferguson (1993), p. 193. See also an inscription from Priene celebrating his achievements (OGIS 458).

29

Cf. Sherk (1993), pp. 124–127

30

Ibid., p. 197

31

Ibid., p. 496

32

Robert (1949), pp. 206–38

33

Hammond (1973), p. 939

34

Mitchell (1993), pp. 100–102

35

Beard, North, Price (1998), p. 353

36

Garnsey and Saller (1987), p. 190

37

Mitchell (1993), p. 117; Beard, North, Price (1998) p. 361

38

Fox (1988), p. 39

39

Mitchell (1993), p. 113

40

Bowersock (1982), pp. 172–3; Price (1984), ch. 6

41

Forsch. v. Eph. 3, no. 70

42

Fox (1988), p. 40; Edwards (1996), p. 52

43

Price (1984), pp. 74ff., 100

44

Liebescheutz (1979), p. 167

45

Garzetti (1976), p. 253

46

Cf. ch. 2

47

Scott (1936), pp. 2–17

48

Inscriptions include those from: Rhodes (IGR iv. 1138); Lesbos (IGR iv. 14); Phylae in Egypt (IGR i. 1296)

49

BMC Imp. II, p. xlix

50

Scott (1936), p. 38

51

Ibid., p. 44–45

52

Ibid., p. 48; 55

53

Ibid., p. 61; Pliny the younger was himself a flamen of Titus in the city of Comum (CIL V. 5667, 5239)

54

Scott (1936), pp. 79–81

NOTES

55

205

Ditt. Syll. 3, 819; Waddington (1912), p. 604, no. 11

56

Ibid., p. 89; IGR, IV, 846

57

Windisch (1925), pp. 240 ff.

58

Keil, J. (1919), pp. 117–118

59

Ditt. Syll. 3, 821 E

60

Friesen (1993), p. 36; Inscriften von Ephesus. 3. 710 b,c

61

Knibbe (1980), pp. 750 ff.

62

Friesen (1993), pp. 158–59

63

Ibid., pp. 68–69; See also Price (1984), ch. 6

64

Friesen (1995), p. 239

65

According to Friesen (1995), pp. 229–232, neokoros initially was used as the title of a temple warden, but by Roman times had come to be used of officials of the Imperial cult. By the late first century, neokoros had come to mean the official provincial Imperial cult temple approved by the Emperor and the senate.

66

Macro (1980), pp. 682–83

67

Magie (1950), p. 635

68

Price (1984), p. 65

69

Friesen (1993), p. 90; 119

70

Ibid., p. 158

71

Mionnet (1837), 3.93 no. 235

72

Friesen (1993), pp. 50ff.; 154–55

73

Kampmann (1998), p. 385

74

Mitchell (1993), p. 210

75

Merkelbach (1978), pp. 287 ff.; Friesen (1995), pp. 238 ff.

76

Broughton (1938), pp. 740–41

77

See Friesen (1995), p. 235, for discussion and sources.

78

Cf. Pliny, Ep. 70, 71

79

Franke (1987), p. 84

80

Cf. I.Perg. 256

81

Franke (1987), p. 87

82

Ibid., p. 91

83

Ibid., p. 90

84

Kienast (1964), p. 51

85

Franke (1987), p. 90 does not subscribe to Kienast’s interpretation of the o(mo&noia-coins.

86

Ibid., (1968), p. 24

NOTES

206

87

Weber (1912), pp. 115 ff.

88

Ibid.

89

Kienast (1964), p. 53

90

Weber (1912), p. 102 notes the coincidence of dating of o(mo&noia-coins and the Pythian games celebrated at Hierapolis.

91

Papen (1906), pp. 161–182

92

Ibid., p. 168

93

Merkelbach (1978), pp. 288–89

94

Franke (1968), p. 21

95

Merkelbach (1978), pp. 290 ff.

96

IGR 3.66 reads of the Bithyniarch: th_n e)pi_ th~| proo&dw| dia&dosin. Cf. Merkelbach (1978), p. 291

97

Franke (1987), p. 93 notes that there are over 400 extant o(mo&noia-issues from around 160 different areas throughout the Greek east.

98

Kampmann (1996), p. 21

99

Ibid., pp. 92 ff.

100

Sheppard (1984), pp. 229–53

101

Kienast (1995), p. 279 ff.

102

Dio Chrysostom encourages Nicomedia and Nicaea to embrace o(mo&noia with each other, and so secure greater leverage against corrupt provincial governors. Or. 38.40 ff. See also Swain, pp. 223–224

103

Kampmann (1998), pp. 375–6

104

Ibid., (1996), p. 27

105

“Neokoros…became a coveted title in spite of early efforts in Asia to moderate its impact. The explosive spread of the term indicates not merely a new city title of local significance, but a fundamental shift in the identification of these cities…[that]…changed the public discourse of religion and identity in the eastern Mediteranean for centuries to come.” Friesen (1995), p. 236.

106

Die Altertumer von Pergamon, 8/2 (1890) §§ 438, 395

107

Kampmann (1998), p. 385

108

Ibid., p. 383

109

Price (1984), p. 130

110

Translation from Holmes (1999)

111

The difficult question regarding the emergence of the monepiscopate has a lengthy history of debate associated with it which will not be addressed at this point.

112

Schoedel (1995), p. 50

113

Cf. mi&a gnw&mh: Thuc. 1.121, 6.17; Dem. 10.59; Isoc. 4.139; au)th~| gnw&mh|: 1 Cor.

NOTES

207

1:10, Rev. 17:13. 114

Plut. Cam. 150; Aristid. Or. 23.31

115

Brent (1999), p. 214

116

Ibid., p. 218

117

Cf. Joly (1979), p. 76, who questions this personification of the angels in Rev. 1:17 ff.

118

Brent (1999), p. 218

119

Ibid., (1998), p. 30

120

Brent (1999), p. 233

121

Schoedel (1995), p. 12

122

Harrison (1936), pp. 81–103; see also Rius-Camps (1979), p. 142

123

Cf. Eph. 4:1–16; 1 Clem. 34.5–6

124

Cf. an inscription to Hadrian which reads: Qeoi_v Sebastoi~v kai_ Qeai_v Sebastai~v kai_ O(monoi&a| Sebasth~| kai_ Qea~| Rw&mh: IGGR 4, 522 (= OGIS 479).

125

I.Ephesos 1a 18d 12–16

126

IGR iv 1608c

127

Brent (1998), pp. 48–49

128

Cf., Vitellius in Suet. Vit. 15

129

Cf. ch. 2

130

Hölscher (1990), pp. 494–95 notes that from the beginning of Vespasian’s reign one of the dominant images on coins was of a seated Concordia, holding a patera with cornucopia. Cf. BMC Imp ii. 12, 65–66, pl. 2,2 (these originate from Syrian mints and date between 69 and 70–72).

131

Brent (1999), p. 240. Apart from the superior claims, is there a hint of the final battle to be won by Christ, establishing peace in Heaven and Earth envisioned by the Seer in Rev. 20?

132

Schlier and Bartsch are in mind here, along with their recent advocates Hübner and Lechner.

133

Brent (1999), p. 233

134

Rogers (1991), pp. 82 ff.

135

Price (1984), p. 189; Cf., I. Ephesos 1a 27 lines 279–84.b

136

Rogers (1991), p. 84

137

Brent (1998), pp. 40–42

138

Brent (1998), p. 58

139

Burkert (1985), pp. 102 ff.

140

Rogers (1991), p. 83. Probably every two weeks.

141

Bremmer (1994), p. 40

142

Holmes (1999), pp. 246–47; Cf. Didache, The Epistle of Barnabas, Didascalia,

NOTES

208

Apostolic Constitutions, and On the Teaching of the Apostles. 143

Aristophanes Ran. 717; Plutarch Quomodo adulator 1, 49e; and later Clement Alex., Exc. ex Theod. 86.

144

Eph.- Magn. (Maender) BMC Ionia 174, 106 (Mionnet Suppl. VI 242, 1059); Smyrn. - Eph. BMC Ionia 111, 407; Smyr.- Eph.- Perg. Mionnet Suppl. VI 134, 370.

145

Price (1984), p. 129

146

Franke (1987), p. 89

147

Harl (1996), pp. 109–111

148

Ibid., p. 100

149

Cf. Kampmann (1996), p. 101, catalogue 13.1 #1: OMONOIA PERGAMHNWN EF.

150

I.e., that the civic concord advertised between the two cities on the rv. of coins came under the authority of the emperor, pictured on the obv. of the coin.

151

Brent (1998), p. 30–58

152

Brent (1999), p. 70, 71

153

Cf. Fishwick (1973).

Chapter Four 1

Both may have lived from about 40 AD into the second decade of the second century.

2

Inappropriately coined as such by the third century nostalgic Philostratus.

3

Swain (1998), p. 24 ff.

4

Kennedy (1994), p. 231

5

Wallace (1996), p. 23. This was an artificial language revived by litterateurs who did not care for what had become of attic Greek during the hellenistic period.

6

Bowie (1974), pp. 167 ff.

7

Swain (1998), pp. 40; 88–89

8

Anderson (1993), pp. 103–106

9

Bowie (1974), p. 192; Anderson (1993), p. 113

10

Anderson (1989), pp. 147–152; Anderson (1993), p. 30

11

Kennedy (1994), pp. 238–240

12

Anderson (1989), p. 152; Local prominence, exemptions from taxes and cultural status were usually the most that sophist gained, generally at a regional level.

NOTES

13

209

Groningen (1965), p. 54

14

Bowie (1974), p. 169; Anderson (1993), p. 23; Groningen, (1965) p. 47

15

Theriault (1996), p. 156

16

Weber (1912), p. 106

17

Harris (1964), p. 24–25

18

Ibid., p. 17

19

Williams (1990), pp. 7 ff. (Letters 47 and 48 deal with a notice Pliny sent to Trajan for the purpose of validating his inspection of colonial Apamaea’s finances; letters 23 and 24 concern themselves with the proposal to build a new bath-house; letters 58 through 60 deal with the matter of a provincial (Flavius Archippus), whose status as a citizen and his rights to exemptions as a philosopher are called in to question.)

20

Sherwin-White (1966), pp. 527 ff.

21

Sheppard (1984), pp. 243–44

22

On Dio generally, see von Arnim (1898) and Desideri (1978). For Dio and civil discord, see Jones (cit.) pp. 95–104, and for his relationship with other cities see Swain (1998), pp. 225–241; with Alexandria, Berry (1993), pp. 82–103.

23

See especially Orations 39,40 and 41, and also Or. 32 and 34.

24

On reciprocity in the ancient world, see Lendon (1997),pp. 64–66.

25

See Swain (1998), pp. 224–225

26

Ibid., p. 222

27

Ibid., pp. 222–223

28

On the idea of resistance in the literature of the Second Sophistic, see Swain (1998), chs. 1–2; Bowersock (1969); Bowie (1982), pp. 29–57

29

See P.A. Brunt’s evaluation of the philosophical influences on Dio’s writings in Brunt (1973), pp. 19 ff.

30

Swain (1998), p. 220

31

This is a topos that 1 Clement uses in his own concord letter to the Corinthians, cf. 20.1–12.

32

On philosophers and o(mo&noia (38.5); on those who engage in warfare (38.20); on true primacy (38.35). Dio’s implications are obviously veiled, but his resistance to Roman hegemony as a Greek was duly tempered by his status as a Graeco-Roman aristocrat. B.F. Harris quotes A.N. Sherwin-Williams as proposing that Dio was working for a “reconciliation of the Hellenistic and Roman” as a way of preparing the way for the later ideal of the communis patria of the later Empire in Harris (1991), p. 3869.

33

On the struggle for primacy between Greek cities in the Principate see, Ruge (1893–) PW 17; Sheppard (1984), pp. 231–240; Robert (1977), pp. 1–43

34

See Ruge (1893–), ‘Nikaia’ and ‘Nikomedia’ RE 17 on the geographical and

NOTES

210

demographic proximity of the two cities; see Or. 38.22 on kinship and family ties. 35

Cf. Aristides Or. 23 for the use of this familiar political example of the vices of discord.

36

Robert (1977), pp. 2–3

37

Swain notes that from the reigns of Claudius to Domitian, both cities shared the titles mhtro&poleiv and ‘first city’, but that Nicomedia was given the further privilege under Domitian of adding prw&th to its titles and was attempting simultaneously to have Nicaea divested of the same title. See Swain (1998), p. 220 and n. 127 in Swain (p. 220) for further discussion on the numismatic evidence and debate.

38

Robert (1977), pp. 23 ff.

39

On cities in Asia Minor troubling the governors, see Magie (1950), p. 635.

40

In fact, during Pliny’s tenure as proconsul of Bithynia, Nicomedia itself was garrisoned with a mounted cohort. Magie (1950), p. 603.

41

See discussion in Jones (1978), p. 87: “Tithes were possibly a rent or tribute collected by Roman officials resident in Nicaea, or it might be a reference to the tax-farmers who were formerly headquartered in Nicaea.”

42

Dio’s mention of Nicomedia’s special function as ‘metropolis’ seems to indicate that this title was presently not shared with Nicaea, that it was in fact theirs alone (38.31). See also, 38.39.

43

Ruge, ‘Nikomedia’ RE 17, pp. 487–88

44

See Swain (1998), p. 239, n. 189, on the disadvantages of a divided provincial council and the prosecution of governors.

45

It is unclear what this might be, although it is conceivably a provincial suit against a governor. Jones (1978), p. 88

46

Cf. chapter three; See also Kienast (1964), pp. 59–61, but contra see also Sheppard (1984), pp. 231–232 and Jones (1978), p. 84.

47

Swain (1998), p. 225

48

Sheppard (1984), pp. 238–240

49

Swain (1998), p. 225

50

See Lendon (1997) on honor and power (pp. 24–25), on patronage and clientele (pp. 57–66), on o(mo&noia and the city (pp. 73–77).

51

Bakke (2000), pp. 121 ff. Bakke points out that this is especially the case in 1 Clement, but also in other contemporary writers such as Dio Chrys. 40.35; Aristid. 27.35; Philo Spec. Leg. 2.141 and Ignatius Eph. 2.2.

52

Boulanger (1932), p. 111

53

Swain (1998), p. 259. Many Greeks of his class may have shared his view of Rome as chief hegemon over a League of Greek cities, ruling for their benefit and prosperity, and existing much the early Greek Leagues, such as the

NOTES

211

Amphyctionic League in the fourth century BC. Cf. Oliver (1950), pp. 979–980. 54

Boulanger (1932), p. 128

55

Ibid., p. 149; Swain (1998), p. 272.

56

Kennedy (1994), p. 239

57

ca. 178 AD

58

Boulanger (1932), p. 154

59

Oliver (1953), pp. 874–884

60

Sandbach (1936), p. 685

61

Oliver (1953), p. 871

62

Boulanger (1932), p. 134

63

Swain (1998), p. 288

64

Boulanger (1932), p. 377

65

Merkelbach (1978), pp. 287 ff. ; Boulanger (1932), p. 381. See more below on the importance of temples and games for identifying the imperial cult as the under-lying issue in the rivalry.

66

Boulanger (1932), p. 372

67

Ibid., p. 376

68

Swain (1998), p. 292

69

Behr (1981), pp. 365–66, note 1.

70

Kampmann (1996), p. 21

71

Merkelbach (1978), p. 289

72

Ibid., p. 289

73

Weber (1912), p. 115

74

Ibid., p. 122

75

Merkelbach (1978), p. 292

76

Ibid.

77

Oliver (1953), p. 980

78

Ibid., pp. 889–91

79

Boulanger (1932), p. 380

80

Swain (1998), p. 291–92

81

Brunt (1998), pp. 272, 276

82

From Behr (1981), English translation.

83

Cf. Ananias and Sapphira in Acts 5:4. Schoedel (1985), p. 109, notes that doing things ‘without’ (xwri&v) the bishop is reminiscent of the language of politics and administration in which the authority of the leaders was asserted.

84

Schoedel (1985), pp. 61–62

85

Ibid., p. 64

NOTES

212

86

Cf. ‘sw~ma’, TDNT vol. 7, p. 1038; The fable of Menenius Agrippa may stand behind such a view of the state as a corporate entity.

87

Schoedel (1985), p. 116

88

Ibid., p. 55

89

Wehr (1987), pp. 76–77

Chapter Five 1

A glance through The Philo Index will indicate that sta&siv and e)irh&nh, which featured more prominently in the public language of the Augustan era, also appeared more frequently in Philo than o(mo&noia.

2

Colson (1954), LCL p. 296, notes that the Greek Alexandrians may have enlisted Flaccus’ support against the Jews who may have sought to enlarge their privileges by appealing for full citizenship of Alexandria—something the Greeks resented due to the refusal of Jews to participate in Greek public life.; Cf. Sherwin-White (1972), pp. 820–28 who notes that Flavius may instead have aligned himself with the anti-semitic faction in Alexandria due to his desire to conciliate local enemies and mitigate the chances of prosecution for maladministration—something looming for Flaccus who saw his friends in Rome succumb to Gaius’ executioners.

3

Bell (1924), p. 11

4

Goodenough (1967), p. 1. It is worth pointing out that Goodenough also mentions the discrepancies between the succession of events that led to the rioting as narrated by Philo himself in Leg. ad. Gaium and In Flaccum, p. 15.

5

s.v. o(moqumado&n, in LS.

6

Cf. Borgen (2000), s.v., O(mo&noia occurs a mere thirteen times in the whole of Philo’s extant writings.

7

Grabbe (1994), p. 373

8

Goodenough (1967), p. 19; Smallwood (1970), p. 3

9

Baraclough, p. 450

10

This would have been especially the case with Plato and Aristotle, who exercized notable influence over Philo. Concordia was not unknown among the Julio-Claudians, especially for Tiberius, who restored the Concordia Temple in 10 AD. Sallust (Catil. 6.2) and Livy (cf. 3.57.7; 3.67.7) used the term Concordia while Polybius (6.46.7) used o(mo&noia.

11

Smallwood (1987), p. 228

12

Borgen (2000), p. 243

13

Thraede (1994), pp. 236–37

NOTES

14

Ibid., p. 236

213

15

Brunner (1972), p. 137

16

Isocrates could speak of concord in ethnic terms, as he did in the Philippics; but it must be stressed that his concept of a “concord of the Greeks” was not based on a sense of religious superiority over the barbarians, but a cultural one that was ultimately rooted in the independent polis, such as Athens. In fact, one might say it was the political culture of the Greeks that made them superior to the Persians in Isocrates’ estimation.

17

See Thrade (1994), p. 236 for suggestions.

18

From to Dio Chrysostom: Cf., Aristotle. Nic. Eth. 8.14.1162a 16–22; Musonius Rufus, 69.16; Dio Chrysostom Or. 38.13

19

Rengstorf (1975); There are 21 occurences of o(mo&noia/o(monoe&w in BJ and three occurences in C. Ap.

20

Rajak (1983), p. 91, suggests that sta&siv was one of the key underlying themes that dominated the BJ.

21

Rajak (1983), p. 140

22

Brunt (1977), p. 149

23

Ibid., pp. 151 ff.

24

The classic appeal by the Demos to Solon was for a cancellation of debts and a redistribution of land.

25

Brunt (1977), p. 149

26

Ibid., p. 150. Such language and imagery would have had clear social and political dimensions to them in the eyes of pagans and Greeks who read the BJ.

27

Ibid.

28

Mayer (1976), p. 272

29

Brunt (1977), p. 152

30

Rajak (1983), pp. 120 ff., notes several factors which may have contributed to social unrest in the mid first century AD in Palestine: the completion of Herod’s Temple shortly before the arrival of the procurator Florus (66) left 18,000 laborers unemployed (AJ, 20.219); the great famine under Claudius in 47–49 AD; and Nero’s last, wild escapades which left Roman Imperial administration in disarray.

31

Rajak (1983), p. 91

32

It is worthwhile noting here that this same dynamic was reflected in the description of sta&siv by a contemporary of Josephus in Rome, the author of 1 Clement (cf. 1 Clem. 3.3). Another important image of sta&siv in the BJ is the dynamic of the young versus the old, a theme possibly picked up from Thucydides as well (cf. Alcabiades in Thuc. 5.43.2).

33

Rajak (1983), p. 135

NOTES

214

34

See Ibid., pp. 91–93

35

Schwartz (1990), pp. 36 ff.; Thackeray (1929), pp. 111 ff.

36

Again, key terms such as ei)rhnika/ and stasia&zontev occur in close proximity to Josephus’ use of o(mo&noia, indicating an overriding political use of the term.

37

The view maintained by Rajak and Thraede that Josephus used o(mo&noia in ways reminiscent of Hellenistic Judaism and Philo falters on the evidence for a distinctly political use of the term typical of Greek and Roman reflection on political unanimity.

38

Wilamowitz-Moellendorf (1900), p. 10

39

Ibid., p. 8

40

Ibid.

41

Rhode, E. (1886), p. 183

42

Willamowitz-Moellendorf (1900), p. 9

43

Cf. Kennedy (1994), chs.

44

Willamowitz-Moellendorf (1900), pp. 22–25

45

Ibid., pp. 26 ff.

46

Rhode (1886), p. 186. He goes on to note that the antithesis to Aristides was Hadrian of Tyre, who was trained in Asia and was immensely popular there, producing many more sophists among his followers than the Athenianschooled Aristides. According to Rhode, although the intellectual influences on the Second Sophistic were attic, the rhetorical influences were asianic, leaving him to conclude (against Philostratus) that the real forefathers of the Second Sophistic were not the fifth century BC attic orators, but the asian orators of the Hellenistic age.

47

Bowie (1974), pp. 167 ff.; Swain (1998), pp. 20 ff.

48

Bowie (1998), p. 647

49

Dupont-Sommer (1939), pp. 22–24

50

Ibid., p. 60

51

Ibid., pp. 67 ff.

52

Ibid., pp. 76 ff.

53

Ibid., p. 77

54

Breitenstein (1976), p. 13

55

Ibid., pp. 18–21

56

Dupont-Sommer (1939), p. 84 also suggested dependence. We shall look more closely at the relationship between 4 Macc and the Ignatian Epistles in the following chapters.

57

Breitenstein (1976), p. 52

58

Ibid., p. 175

NOTES

215

59

baqei~an ei)rh&nhn is a term which occurs in 1 Clement, and which had important associations with o(mo&noia which we will explore when we treat 1 Clement in the next chapter.

60

sumforai~v is another important term that appears in 1 Clement 1:1

61

Cf. 1 Clement 1:1; 2:2; 30:1

62

Brunner (1972), p. 135

63

Quotes from: The New Oxford Annotated Bible, eds. B.M. Metzger, R.E. Murphy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), pp. 342–361 (ap)

64

Breitenstein (1976), pp. 151–157

65

See below in the comparisons with Ignatius’ uses of this term.

66

Such a conclusion might give some support to those who date 4 Macc to the 40’s AD (Bickerman, et al), i.e. to the time between the writings of Philo and Josephus.

67

Renehan (1972), p. 238. See also Klauck (1989), p. 452

68

See Perler (1949), p. 47 ff.; Renehan (1972), p. 233; Breitenstein (1976), p. 22.

69

See below, p. 126

70

Sieben (1978), p. 4

71

Ibid., pp. 15–16. For instance, in Ign. Mag. the bishop encourages respect for the hierarchy of leadership over the church in the political and diplomatic language of concord.

72

Norden (1958), pp. 509–511. Norden exclaimed: “Es gibt wohl kein Schriftstück jener Zeit, welches in annährender so souveraner Weise die Sprache vergewaltigte!”

73

Riesenfeld (1961), p. 315

74

Ibid., p. 316

75

Brown (1963), pp. 15–17

76

Ibid., p.21

77

Ibid., p. 81

78

Ibid., p. 65

79

Groningen (1965), pp. 49 ff.

80

Perler (1949), p. 48

81

Ibid., p. 50

82

Ibid., p. 52

83

Breitenstein (1976), p. 18

84

Ibid., p. 22

85

Norden (1958), vol. I, p. 419

86

Cf. Klauck (1989), p. 156

87

Cf. Brown, R. (1997), pp. 368 ff., 389–90; Carson, Moo, Morris (1992), pp. 166,

NOTES

216

451 for dating of Johannine literature. 88

Schoedel (1992), p. 384, gives 110 AD as the traditional dating.

89

See below, ch. 7, on o(mo&noia and unity (e9nw&siv) with God.

90

Perler (1949), p. 48

91

Jonge (1988), p. 149

92

Cf. Perler (1949), p. 51

93

Frend (1963), p. 198. Cf. ch. 3

94

Boyarin (1999), p. 20

95

Campenhausen (1936), pp. 1 ff.

96

Ibid., p. 53

97

Ibid., p. 47

98

Bowersock (1995), pp. 79 ff.. However, he has posited, along with van Henten, that Asia Minor may have been the region in which both Ignatius’ letters and 4 Macc. were composed.

99

Ibid., p. 81

Chapter Six 1

Kennedy (1984); Betz (1979)

2

Kennedy (1984), pp. 18–19

3

Welborn (1987), p. 334

4

Ibid., pp. 334–335

5

Cf. Arist. Rhet. 1.3.5; [Cic.] Rhet ad Her. 3.2.3; Quint. Inst. 3.8.34

6

The handbooks list these: Arist. Rhet. 1.9.40; Cic. De Orat. 2.335; Quint. Inst. 3.8.36

7

Various sources note concord as appropriate to deliberative rhetoric: Arist. Rhet. 1.4.7; ps-Arist. Ad Alex. 2.1424 B; even as letters: Isoc. Ep.1–3, 9; Dem. Ep. 1.

8

Mitchell (1992), pp. 25–63

9

Cf. Ste. Croix (1981); Theissen (1982)

10

Litfin (1994), pp. 89, 124

11

Mitchell (1992), pp. 68–182

12

Bakke (2000), pp. 65–176

13

Cf. Mitchell (1992), pp. 184–294, and Bakke (2000), pp. 205–277

14

Mitchell (1992), pp. 184–185

15

Bakke (2000), pp. 216 ff.. A key element in Bakke’s evaluation of 1 Clement is

NOTES

217

his dependence on D Helholm’s linguistic theory. Cf. Helholm (1993), pp. 123– 151. 16

Ibid., p. 211; Cf. Kennedy (1963), pp. 303–321

17

Ibid., p. 212

18

Cf. Dio Chrys. Or. 38; Aelius Aristid., Or. 24

19

Ibid., pp. 218–232

20

Ibid., p. 233

21

Weiss (1977, rpt.), ch. 1

22

Welborn (1987a)

23

Wellborn (1987a), p. 29

24

Ehrhardt, vol. 2, pp. 10–12

25

Welborn (1987a), p. 32; Welborn lists a series of terms which Paul shared with the political culture of his day, such as scismata (1 Clem. 46.6), eris (Jos. Ant. 14.16.1), erides (Appian, Bel Civ., 2.2.6), zelos (Lys., 2.48), dichostasia (Plut. Mor. 478E–497A).

26

Ibid.

27

Welborn (1987b), p. 47

28

Ibid., p. 57

29

Cf. Calvin (1959, rpt.), p. 8

30

Mitchell (1992), p. 1

31

Ibid.

32

Quote from: the Muratorian Cannon “First of all to the Corinthians (to whom) he forbids the heresy of schism” Hennecke (1963), 1.44, lines 42–43; Bauer (1971), p. 220.

33

Mitchell (1992), p. 19

34

Ibid., p. 64

35

Ibid., p. 65

36

Ibid., p. 68; Mitchell argues her point in opposition to the partition theories espoused by scholars old and new; from Weiss (1910) to Welborn (1987c).

37

Cf. Thuc., 5.31.6; Polyb., 2.62.4; Jos. AJ 10.107. Other terms with a similar use and meaning included: tauto phthengesthai “to utter something” (Dio Chrys. Or. 334.17) and tauto phronein “to think the same thing” (Aristid. Or. 24.52).

38

Cf., Herodt. 7.219; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 7.59.8; Plut. Mor. 481 C.

39

Mitchell (1992), p. 75

40

Ibid., pp. 77–78; Concordia in Rome and O(mo&noia in the Greek world had all the paraphernalia of gods (see above, ch. 2).

41

Cf., Lys. 25.21; Isoc. Or. 5.45; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 6.23.2.

42

Cf., Isoc. Or. 4.138; Dem. Ep. 1.5; Dio Chrys., Or. 48.6.

218

NOTES

43

Cf., Xen., Cyr. 8.15; Sen. Ep. 53; Dio Chrys., Or. 38.15; Aristid., Or. 23.31.

44

Cf., Polyb., 2.61.11; Plut. Marc. 10.1; as well as Christian literature, 1 Clem. 33.3; Ign. Pol. 1.1.

45

Mitchell (1992), p. 110

46

Aristotle (Eth. Nic. 8.9.4–5) and Cicero (Rep.1.32.49), for example.

47

Cf., Livy, 2.32.12–2.33.1; Dio Chrys., Or. 33.16; Aristid., Or. 24.38.

48

Mitchell (1992), p. 159

49

Cf., Plato, Rep.5.470 C–D; Jos. BJ 2.11; Plut. Mor. 815 B.

50

Martin (1994), ch. 6

51

Mitchell (1992), p. 161; See also Meeks, (1983) pp. 89–90.

52

Bakke (2000), p. 15

53

Bowe (1988), pp. 60 ff.

54

Ibid., p.67

55

Jaubert (1971), p. 32

56

Bakke (2000), p. 35

57

Ibid., pp. 205–277; pp. 218–232.

58

Bakke (2000), p. 72 ff. Bakke’s reliance on different linguistic theories is less important than his compilation of terms which intersected with the semantic fields of o(mo&noia and sta&siv.

59

Jal (1961), p. 120; Jal notes that the doublet ‘pax-concordia’ was often used to describe interior peace throughout the Empire, but especially in Rome. This can be seen from as early as Cicero Att. 9.9.2, Livy 4.10.8, and Sallust Ep Ad Caes. 1.6.5.

60

Bowe (1988), p. 135 ff.

61

Welborn (1992), p. 1059

62

Lightfoot (1869), p. 63; cf. Lindemann (1992), p. 51

63

Brunner (1972), p. 140

64

Eggenberger (1951), pp. 95 ff.

65

Unnik (1950), p. 185

66

Ibid., p. 188; Lindemann (1992), p. 77.

67

Brunner (1972), p. 140

68

Eggenberger (1951), pp. 151–154. Certainly this recalls the intensification of the Imperial Cult’s iconography under the Flavians and, in particular, Domitian’s megalomaniacal insistence on being addressed dominus et deus.

69

It is interesting to note that Ignatius of Antioch takes up similar ideas, praising silent bishops, and those whose deeds speak more than their words (Ign. Eph. 15.1–2; Phld. 1.1).

70

Wengst (1987), p. 113–115

NOTES

219

71

Brunner (1972), p. 128

72

Cf., Ign. Eph. 4; 13.1

73

Cf. Lindemann (1992), p. 116, who is somewhat cautious about a parallel with 1 Cor. 12:12–31; Hagner, p. 197, who sees a parallel clearly, and possibly even with Rom. 12:4 ff.

74

Horrell (1996), p. 260

75

Wengst (1987), p. 117

76

Fischer (1976), pp. 3, 12

77

Bakke (2000), p. 232

78

Cf. Lindemann (1992), p. 14, 23–24

79

Eggenberger (1951), p. 104; Dio goes on about introductory matters in 40.1–19, before getting to his theme in 40.20. He himself calls his lengthy approach a harangue (tr. H.L. Crosby, LCL), “Tivos ouv heneken eireka panta touton ton logon” (40.16).

80

Fischer (1976), p. 15

81

Streeter (1929), pp. 156–157

82

Lindemann (1992), p. 126–128; Lindemann notes that Clement’s use of bishops and deacons is not yet tech. Terminology and, further, that there is only a latent apostolic succession involved, and nothing so developed as Tertullian’s regula (Tert. Praescr. Haer. 37).

83

Fischer (1976), p. 77, n.245; see also Lightfoot (1869) p. 126.

84

Welborn (1992), p. 1059

85

Rhode, J. (1968), p. 224–226

86

Hagner (1973), p. 264, notes that this may reflect knowledge of John 14:15, 21,23 and that at the very least, it was “Johnanine in tone.” Tarelli (1947), p. 208 claims that knowledge of the gospel or a saying source was probable.

87

Lindemann (1992), p. 15

88

Mikat (1969), p. 37.

89

Wengst (1987), p. 106

90

Ibid., p. 108–109

91

Eggenberger (1951), p. 196

92

Welborn (1992), p. 105

93

Wengst (1987), p. 106 ff.

94

Bakke (2000), p. 15

95

Mitchell (1991), p. 64

96

Cf. 1 Clement’s use of o9mo&noia and ei)rh&nh.

97

Goodspeed (1993, rpt.), s.v., sta&siv.

98

Trevett (1992), p. 94

NOTES

220

99

Cf., Bakke (2000), ch. 3; Mitchell (1992), ch. 3.

100

Mitchell (1992), pp. 186 ff.; Bakke (2000), pp. 216 ff.

101

Ibid., p. 21

102

Mitchell (1991), p. 23

103

White (1972), pp. 29 ff.

104

Mitchell (1991), p. 23

105

Cf. 1 Cor. 1:1; 2 Cor. 1:1

106

Kennedy (1984), p. 23

107

Ibid., p. 24

108

Galatians 1:1 ff.

109

Schoedel (1985), p. 196

110

Kennedy (1984), p. 16

111

Cf. Rhet. Al. 32.1439a

112

Mitchell (1991), p. 203

113

Ibid., p. 207

114

Ibid., p. 208

115

Camelot, p. 122, n. 2.

116

Lightfoot, Part 2, vol. 2 (1989, rpt.), p. 256

117

Ibid., p. 258

118

Schoedel (1985), p. 198

119

Both Camelot (1969), p. 158, and Schoedel (1985), p. 200, see at 5.1 a transition. Schoedel, p. 201, notes the importance of the use of the vocative in this section as a transition marker; Cf., 2.1.

120

Mitchell (1991), pp. 225–226

121

Lightfoot, Part 2, vol. 2 (1989, rpt.), p. 264

122

Ign. Eph. 13.1; Ign. Tral. 13.2. Camelot (1969), p. 125, ends this section in 6.1.

123

Cousland (2000), p. 834

124

Mitchell (1992), pp. 47 ff.

125

How effective this example will have been is hard to tell, especially since his need to justify his actions seems to point to the fact that he was not as much of a mediator as he conceived himself to be.

126

Kennedy (1984), p. 24

127

Cf. 8.1, “The Lord forgives all who repent, if in repenting they return to the unity of God and the council of the bishop.”

128

Schoedel (1985), p. 209

129

Bjerkelund (1967), p. 189

130

Schoedel (1978), pp. 97–106

NOTES

131

221

Schoedel (1985), pp. 207–209

132

Ibid., p. 208

133

Camelot (1969), p. 131. Cf. Lightfoot (1989), pt. 2, vol. 2, p. 275

134

See Mitchell (1992), pp. 290 ff

135

“All these things together are good if you believe in love (9.2).”

136

Schoedel (1985), p. 212

137

Mitchell (1992), p. 292

138

White (1971), pp. 93 ff.

139

Harrison (1936), pp. 83 ff.; Lightfoot (1989), pt. 2, vol. 2, p. 277. The term is used with reference to an end of persecution in 4 Macc. 18.4, which does lend some support to the Lightfoot-Zahn interpretation. However, as Harrison has noted, neither in the NT or the rest of the Apostolic Fathers is such a use forthcoming, nor even in Ignatius’ own letters (cf., Ign. Tral. Inscr.; Ign. Smyr. 11.2).

140

Harrison (1936), pp. 83–84

141

Streeter (1929), pp. 175 ff.; Rius-Camps (1979), pp. 140 ff.

142

Cf. Aristides Or. 23

143

Cf. Ign. Eph. 1.2; 21.2

144

Of course, not all of Ignatius’ letters are modeled on the pe&ri o(mo&noiav speech as Ign. Phld. may have been, but if it is possible to show that Ignatius was familiar with this kind of speech, as we have tried to do in this chapter, then his other uses may certainly have been informed by these specific applications of the term.

Chapter Seven 1

Schoedel (1985), p. 11

2

Cf. Donahue (1978), p. 82

3

1 Clement 34.5–8; 4 Maccabees 8.4.

4

Cithara as an analogy for harmonius human relations (Philostr. Vit. Apoll. 6.30); chorus and leader (Dio Chrysostom Or. 14.4)

5

Schoedel (1985), p. 52; Cf., Hipp. Ref. 8.9.2; Epiphan. Pan. 31.6.3–4.

6

Cf. ch. 3

7

A view held by Schlier, Bartsch and others who see in these images Iranian mysticism or Gnostic ideas present.

8

Schoedel (1985), p. 53

9

Could this have been why Ignatius was so eager to vindicate himself through martyrdom, because in his own Church, this union between leader and Church

NOTES

222

had been compromised, leaving martyrdom as the only avenue open to him as a way of gaining unity with God (qe&ov e)pitu&xein)? See below. 10

S.v., e)gkera&nnumi, BAG; kera&nnumi, L.S.

11

Schoedel (1985), p. 55

12

Wehr (1987), p. 68

13

Wehr (1987), p. 179

14

Ign. Eph. 5.2–3; Magn. 4.1; Tral. 7.1; Phld. 4.1; Smyr. 6.2. H.W. Bartsch suggested that Judaistic and docetic groups were each meeting separately and holding eucharistic gatherings that fit their prejudices, in Bartsch (1940), pp. 36–40.

15

Meinhold (1979), p. 59

16

Schoedel (1985), p. 65

17

Ibid., p. 65 surmises that these teachers had come from Ephesus to Smyrna, but it may be more appropriate to view these teachers as itinerant.

18

Schlier (1929), p. 122; Michaelis (1975), p. 92; Cf., 1 Clem. 31.1; Philo Agric., 101 “o0rqh\ o9do&v.”

19

Schoedel (1985), p. 67, n. 22

20

Ibid., p. 71

21

Schweitzer (1981), p. 325–29

22

Kreitzer (1997), pp. 872–73

23

Aune (1975), pp. 103 ff.

24

Rowland (1985), p. 293

25

Kreitzer (1997), p. 873

26

Beal (2000), p. 341

27

Schoedel (1985), p. 29

28

Ibid.; See also Swartley (1973), pp. 81–103 below.

29

Mellink (2000)

30

Rathke (1967), p.28

31

Wehr (1987), p. 82; Lightfoot (1989), pt. 2, vol. 2, p. 66; Cf. Ign. Eph. 5.2; Phld. 4; Smyr. 7.1, 8.1; Justin Mart. Apol. 1.65.3; Did., 9.1.

32

Wehr (1987), p. 91

33

Meinhold (1979), p. 59

34

Niederwimmer (1956), p. 40

35

Ibid., p. 26

36

Rathke (1967), p. 98

37

Schoedel (1985), p. 76

38

Cf. Ign. Rom. 3.3

39

Cf. Ign. Phld. 8.1, 9.1

NOTES

40

223

Schoedel (1985), p. 21

41

Ibid., 22

42

Cf. Schlier (1929), p. 101; Bartsch (1940), p. 52; Meinhold (1979), pp. 57 ff; but also Mauer (1949), pp. 67–71

43

Schlier (1929), p. 101

44

Ibid., 102

45

Bartsch (1940), p. 52

46

Ibid., p. 18

47

Ibid., pp. 43–44

48

Richardson (1935), p. 33

49

Ibid., p. 35

50

Swartley (1973), pp. 101–102; Corwin, pp. 247 ff.

51

Schoedel (1985), pp. 21–22

52

Paulsen (1997), p. 150

53

Paulsen (1997), p. 149

54

This is similar to Paul’s concept of the body of Christ in Eph. 4:15–16.

55

Swartley (1973), p. 102

56

Harrison (1936), pp. 81–87. Lightfoot (1989), pt. 2, vol. 1, pp. 3 ff.; Zahn (1873), pp. 243 ff.

57

Streeter (1929), pp. 175 ff.; Corwin (1960), pp. 25 ff., 80–87; Rius-Camps (1979), pp. 140 ff.; Schlatter (1984), pp. 465–69; Schoedel (1985), pp. 11 ff; Trevett (1992), pp. 60–65.

58

Regarding the Ignatian ‘Acts of Martyrdom’ and their value cf. Lightfoot, pt. 2, vol. 2., (1989, rpt.), p. 22 for the standard rejection of the ‘Acts’ and Bolhuis, pp. 143–153, for a more optimistic view.

59

Harrison (1936), pp. 81 ff.

60

Ibid., p. 84

61

Ibid., p. 83. Cf. Mk. 9:50; 1 Thes. 5:13; Rom. 12:18; 2 Cor. 13:11; 1 Clem. 56.12, 63.4.

62

Cf., 1 Macc. 6.60; Sir. 28.9; Polyb. 5.8.7; Diog. Laert. 2.5; Dio Cass. 37.52, 77.12.

63

Harrison (1936), p. 89

64

Ibid., p. 97

65

Ibid.

66

Ibid., p. 98

67

Ibid., p. 101, 91. Cf. Ign. Eph.21.1; Smyr. 10.2; Pol. 2.3; 4 Macc. 6.29; 17.21; Mart. Pol. 1.1.

68

Ibid., p. 102

NOTES

224

69

Corwin (1960), pp. 9–10, 25

70

Ibid., p. 29

71

Ibid., pp. 28, 61. The alleged ‘Essene’ identity of his opponents has been questioned by scholars.

72

Rius-Camps (1979), p. 140

73

Ibid., p. 142

74

Ibid.

75

Trevett (1992), p. 12; Joly (1979), pp. 121–128; Hammond-Bammel (1982), pp. 62–97.

76

Trevett (1992), p. 57

77

Ibid., pp. 60–61

78

Ibid., p. 65; (Trevett differs from Streeter who suggested a similar connection between the two Apostolic Fathers in that he believed Ignatius misunderstood 1 Clement’s ‘teaching’ on the hierarchies of the church, while Trevett believed Ignatius picked up 1 Clement’s teaching on voluntary exile in 1 Clem. 54 ff.).

79

Trevett (1989), pp. 45–46

80

Ibid., p. 46

81

Streeter (1929), p. 155

82

Ibid.; Streeter calls 1 Clement the magna charta for Episcopal authority in Syria for the following generations.

83

Ibid., p. 157

84

Ibid., p. 176–77

85

Bauer (1971), p. 121

86

Ibid., pp. 122–23

87

Cf. Gosp.of Peter; Clementine Recognitions; 1 Clement; pseudo-Clementines.

88

Bauer (1971), pp. 111 ff.

89

Trevett (1989), pp. 46–47; Cf. Streeter (1929), p. 157.

90

Trevett (1989), p. 47; Trevett (1992), p. 65.

91

Ibid., p. 48; Cf. Rius-Camps (1979), p. 142.

92

Schoedel (1985), p. 13

93

Cf. Perler (1944), pp. 413–451; Beyeschlag (1966), pp. 299 ff.; Bauer, Paulsen, (1985), pp. 72 ff.

94

Cf. Hermas Man. 8.9; Sim. 9.15.2

95

Rhode, J. (1968), pp. 217 ff.

96

Cf. ch. 6; Mitchell (1992), p.64; Bakke (2000), p. 65 ff.

97

Streeter (1929), pp. 153 ff.

98

The influence of Johnannine theology on Ignatius has been advocated by many (cf., Mauer, C. Ignatius von Antiochien und das Johanesevangelium (Zürich,

NOTES

225

1949)) allowing for the distinct possibility that Ignatius was familiar with Jesus’ prayer for unity in John 17:20 ff. 99 100

I.e., the iconography of the Flavians, the o(mo&noia-coins of the Greek east, the orators of the Second Sophistic. I.e., Philo, Josephus, 4 Maccabees, Paul’s 1 Corinthians, 1 Clement.

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Index ·A· Actium, 27, 40 Agrippa, 99, 106 Agrippina, 30 Alexander, xvii, 19–23, 33–34, 39, 69, 71, 79, 84, 190 Alexandria, 27, 31, 73, 96, 98, 102– 103, 184 ambassador, 32, 54, 69–71, 91, 136, 143, 153–154 Amphyctionic League, 83 Antioch, xi, 1–3, 6, 8, 11–12, 43, 54, 87, 110–111, 116, 118, 120, 122, 143, 153, 155, 157–158, 163, 177, 178– 181, 183, 185, 189, 193–195 Antonine, 36, 80 Antonines, 11–12, 16, 68, 76, 85, 190, 195 Antoninus Pius, 70–71, 82 Antony, 27 Aristides, xv, 11, 13, 53, 64, 68, 70–71, 79–87, 90, 92, 104, 109, 115, 127– 128, 134, 184, 191–192 Aristotle, xv, 19–20, 126, 145, 147, 160 Arrian, xv, 34, 69, 111, 118 Asclepius, 80 Asia Minor, 10, 12–13, 36, 45–46, 49– 51, 60–61, 67, 73, 90, 122, 140, 179, 190 Athens, 15–19, 50, 76–77, 81–85, 100, 109, 190 Attici, 68 Atticism, 68, 108–110, 115, 117, 193 Augustus, xvii, 22, 27–36, 38, 40, 43, 45, 49, 51, 56, 61–63, 82, 84–85,

99, 105, 107, 190

·B· Bartsch, 174 Bauer, 130, 180–182 Baur, 2 Betz, 126 bishop, 1–6, 8, 10, 12, 52–56, 60–61, 67, 87–92, 119, 121, 134, 140, 142, 146, 149, 151–152, 155, 158–162, 164, 166, 168–172, 174–177, 179– 181, 185, 191, 194–195 Boulanger, 81 Bowersock, 122 Brent, 53–58, 64 Brunt, 103

·C· Caesar, 26, 28, 31, 33, 41, 55, 60, 105, 107 Campenhausen, 121 Carthage, 25 Catiline, 25 Cato, 26 Cicero, xv, 24–26, 28, 30, 109, 126 Clement, xv, 5, 55, 89, 112, 124–128, 130, 134–146, 152, 154–156, 159, 166, 171, 180–183, 186, 193 Commodus, 80 competition, 38, 42, 45–46, 48–49, 72, 82, 86

INDEX

244

concord, 2–3, 10–12, 17–18, 20–33, 35–36, 44, 46–49, 52, 56, 61, 63, 65, 68, 70–73, 75–76, 79, 81–82, 84–92, 96, 98–99, 101–102, 105– 108, 112–114, 116, 118–119, 122– 123, 126–135, 137–139, 142–144, 146, 147–148, 150, 154–155, 158– 159, 161, 164, 166, 168, 171, 175– 177, 179, 184–186, 189–195 Concordia, 11, 15, 24, 26–27, 29–33, 35, 41, 47, 56, 63, 67, 78, 99, 190 Corinth, 55, 125–127, 129–141, 143– 145, 148–149, 151, 154–156, 180, 182, 184–186, 193 Crassus, 26 Cureton, 5

·D· deacons, 53, 60–61, 88–91, 121, 139, 149, 166, 169, 176, 181, 194 Delphi, 151 Demosthenes, xv, 18, 53, 132, 148 dextrarum junctio, 78 Dio Cassius, 29, 49, 122 Dio Chrysostom, xv, 11, 13, 32–34, 47, 50, 64, 67, 69, 72–73, 78, 81, 84– 85, 87, 90, 92, 104, 108, 111, 115, 127–128, 132, 134, 137, 139, 148, 159, 184, 191–192 Dionysius, xvi, 68, 96, 111 discord, 3, 13, 15, 17, 45, 47, 54, 59, 61, 65, 72–73, 75–76, 80–84, 86, 97, 105–107, 119, 127, 129, 131–135, 138–142, 144, 154–156, 161, 165, 171, 173, 179–180, 182–183, 185, 189, 192–196 discordia, 24–25, 28 docetic, 2 Domitian, 30–35, 41, 43–44, 49, 51, 53, 56, 61, 69, 73, 82, 85, 190 Domitilla, 43

·E· Edwards, 39 Eggenberger, 137–139, 142 elders, 55, 91, 141, 172 Ephesus, xiii, 4, 35, 41–42, 44–46, 49, 51–52, 55, 58–59, 61, 70–71, 78, 82, 116, 140, 160, 164 eschatological, 129, 162–166, 169, 171–173, 176, 186–187, 194–195 eucharist, 139, 149, 164 Eucharist, 53–54, 57, 89, 146, 149, 160–161, 164–166, 170–171, 173, 176–177, 185 Eusebius, xvi, 4–6, 8

·F· festival, 37, 50, 57, 75, 83, 91 Flaccus, xvii, 96–97, 212 Flavians, 10–12, 32, 35, 37, 44–45, 58, 63–64, 85, 102, 105, 107–108, 110, 123, 156–157, 166, 190, 195 Franke, 10, 47, 48 Frend, 121

·G· Gaius, xvii, 30, 41, 44, 96–99 Galba, 30–31, 33 games, 11, 42, 49, 83–84 Gnosticism, 2–3, 6, 161, 173–174 Gracchi, 24, 27, 190

·H· Hadrian, 35, 69, 79, 110, 190 harmony, 12, 15, 19–21, 24–26, 29, 32, 47, 51–53, 55, 60, 63, 72, 75, 78, 80, 85–88, 90–91, 96, 99, 101, 106–107, 111–114, 119, 123, 134–

INDEX

137, 158–162, 164–177, 186–187, 194 Harnack, 5, 8 Harrison, 54, 153, 178–180, 184–185 Hellenism, 18, 22, 78, 81, 98, 159 Herodes Atticus, 69, 79 Hierapolis, 4, 10, 49 Hippolytus, xvi, 6, 8 Holy Spirit, 59, 137, 143 Horace, xvi, 27, 29, 40 Hübner, 6–9

·I· Imperial cult, xi, 11, 13, 31–32, 35–46, 48–63, 67, 78, 81–82, 84, 87, 89, 92, 99, 123, 125, 142, 190–191 incarnational, 162, 166–170, 172, 186– 187, 194–195 Irenaeus, xvi, 4, 6, 8, 122, 184 Isocrates, xvi, 17–19, 26, 28, 53, 72, 81, 84, 91, 109, 127

·J· Jesus Christ, 52–57, 59–63, 88–90, 119, 131, 144, 146–147, 149–150, 158–160, 164, 166–173, 175–176, 187 Jewish wars, 103 116, 118 Jews, 11, 32, 44, 93, 96, 98–101, 104– 107, 111–112, 115, 119–121, 123, 137 Josephus, xvi, 41, 95, 100, 102–107, 115, 123, 125, 136, 184, 192 Julio-Claudians, 43, 97–98, 102, 190, 192 Julius Bassus, 74

·K· Kampmann, 10–11, 50–51 Kennedy, 126

245

Kienast, 48, 50 Klauck, 118 koinon, 40, 68, 74, 77, 81–82

·L· Lechner, 6–9 Lightfoot, 2, 5–6, 8, 136, 148–150, 153, 178 Lindemann, 7–10 Livia, 29–30, 82 love, 19, 39, 55, 59–60, 62, 88, 90, 112–114, 118–119, 133, 136, 141– 143, 150, 153, 159, 163, 165, 167– 169, 176–177, 182, 186, 189 Love, 136, 141, 147, 186 Lucius Verus, 79 Lucullus, 26 Luke, 97, 117

·M· Maccabees, xv, 95, 108–109, 116, 159, 179 Magnesia, 4, 58, 60–61, 63, 87, 89– 91, 166–167, 169, 191 Manlius, 24 Marcus Aurelius, 69, 79–80, 82 Metropolis, 22 Mitchell, 126–128, 130–135, 144–146, 148–149, 151, 156, 184 Moses, 101, 137, 140 Moulakis, 16

·N· neokoros, 44–46, 51–52, 82 Nero, 30–32, 35, 41, 44, 64, 92, 110 Nerva, 32–33, 35 Nicaea, 47, 61, 74–78, 81, 84 Nicomedia, 40, 41, 61, 69, 73, 75, 76, 77, 78, 81, 84

INDEX

246

Noetus, 6–9

·O· Octavian, 26–28, 56, 190 Opimius, 24–25, 29–30 Origen, 4, 6 Otho, 31, 135

·P· paganism, 38, 123 parousia, 163 Parousia, 162–163 Paul, xv–xvii, 8, 62, 89, 91–92, 116, 124–136, 138, 141–142, 144–149, 151, 154, 155–156, 164–165, 168, 174–175, 179, 184, 186, 191, 193 Paulsen, 9, 175 pax, 26–27, 33, 36, 56, 134 peace, 1, 15, 17, 23, 25, 27–28, 31, 33– 34, 36, 38–39, 40, 49, 52, 54, 56, 62, 64, 67, 72, 75, 80, 83, 86–87, 91, 96–97, 99, 101, 103–107, 112, 114, 123, 126–127, 134–135, 137, 139, 142–143, 146, 153, 155, 164, 166, 171–172, 177–178, 180, 182, 184, 185–186, 189, 191, 193, 194 Peloponnesian, 16, 190 Pergamon, 10, 35, 40–41, 45–46, 49– 51, 55, 61, 70–71, 79–80, 82, 140 Perler, 111, 117, 120 persecution, 1, 54, 114, 118, 120, 122– 123, 141, 153, 178–180, 183, 185, 194 persecution, 111, 113–114 Persians, 21, 213 Philadelphia, 4, 143–150, 152–156, 158, 169–170, 173, 184, 193 Philo, 41, 95–102, 106–108, 112, 115, 117–118, 123, 125, 133, 136, 158, 171, 184, 192 Philostr, 15, 49, 109 Philostratus, xvii, 15, 69, 80–81

Phrygia, 10 Plato, xvii, 17, 19–20, 72, 115, 129 Pliny, 33–34, 47, 69, 71, 86 Pliny the Elder, xvii, 24 Plutarch, xvii, 16, 24, 46, 53, 64, 72, 74, 85, 108, 113, 115, 118, 127, 184, 192 Polemo, 71 Polemon, 49, 69, 81 Polycarp, xvi, 1, 4, 6–7, 54, 90, 120, 122, 143, 158, 178 presbyters, 53, 60–62, 88, 89, 90, 91, 121, 135, 139, 147, 149, 158–159, 166, 168–169, 176, 181–182, 194 Presbyters, 54 Price, 38, 40, 42, 45 priesthood, 140 procession, 11, 50–51, 54–55, 57–58, 64, 78, 83, 91, 120, 162, 172 provincial, 11, 30, 37, 39, 45–46, 50– 52, 64, 68, 70–71, 73–74, 77–79, 81–82, 84, 86–87, 104, 110, 191– 192

·R· rhetoric, 3, 12, 15, 18, 23, 25, 30, 59, 62, 68, 78–79, 87, 95, 108–111, 116–118, 125–131, 133–134, 136– 137, 139, 144–148, 150–151, 153– 154, 160, 184, 190, 192–193, 195 Rius-Camps, 6, 179–180, 183 Rome, xiii, 1, 4, 8, 23–33, 35–40, 42– 43, 45, 47–48, 54, 56–57, 62–64, 68, 70–72, 74–76, 79–81, 83–87, 103–105, 108–110, 126, 130, 136, 138, 143, 145, 181, 183, 184, 191, 193

·S· Sallust, xvii, 25–26, 129 Sardis, 46, 49, 116 Satan, 164, 166, 172, 186, 189

INDEX

Schlier, 162, 173 Schoedel, 9, 54, 89, 149, 152, 154, 159, 163, 165, 173–174, 183 Second Sophistic, 16, 64, 67–70, 95, 108–111, 115, 125, 135, 156, 191, 194 Sejanus, 29 Smyrna, 1, 4, 6–9, 41, 49, 51, 59, 61, 69, 78–80, 82, 140, 158, 179, 184 sophists, 15, 17, 23, 32, 34, 36, 50, 68–71, 73, 79–81, 92, 127, 134, 136, 186, 190, 192 Sparta, 16, 18, 50, 76, 81–84 Stoics, 20, 25 Streeter, 139, 180–184 Swain, 74, 84

247

Varenus Rufus, 74 Vespasian, xvii, 30–31, 33, 36, 41, 43– 44, 56, 105–107, 190 Virgil, xviii, 27 Vitellius, 30–31, 33

·W· Welborn, 126–127, 129–130, 133, 136, 141, 143

·X· Xenophon, xviii, 16–17, 19, 69

·T· Tarn, 20–21 Thera, 23 Thucydides, 16, 18, 104, 136 Titus, 31–32, 43–44, 106 Trajan, 2, 13, 16, 30, 33–36, 41, 43, 47, 51, 69, 71, 73, 85, 92, 106, 110, 190 Tralles, 4 Trevett, 180, 182–185

·U· unity, 2–3, 10, 12, 13, 16–18, 20–21, 24–25, 32, 35, 53, 55, 59–60, 62– 64, 78–79, 83, 88–90, 96–97, 99– 100, 104, 112–115, 118–120, 122– 124, 129–132, 135, 138, 142, 145– 153, 155, 157, 159–181, 184–189, 191–192, 194–196 Unnik, 134, 137

·V· Valentinus, 8, 174

·Z· Zahn, 2, 5–6, 8, 153, 178 zealots, 31, 41, 103–104, 106–107, 184 Zeno, 20

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