In the Image of Origen: Eros, Virtue, and Constraint in the Early Christian Academy 9780520965089

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Providence, Eros, and Constraint
2. Dialectic and the Training of the Mind
3. Moral Formation and the Path to Scripture
4. Paradise and the Cave
5. Paideia, Loss, and Prospect
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Classical Literature Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation, which was established by a major gift from Joan Palevsky.

In the Image of Origen

transformation of the classical heritage Peter Brown, General Editor

I. Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity, by Sabine G. MacCormack II. Synesius of Cyrene: Philosopher-Bishop, by Jay Alan Bregman III. Theodosian Empresses: Women and Imperial Dominion in Late Antiquity, by Kenneth G. Holum IV. John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late Fourth Century, by Robert L. Wilken V. Biography in Late Antiquity: The Quest for the Holy Man, by Patricia Cox VI. Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt, by Philip Rousseau VII. Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, by A. P. Kazhdan and Ann Wharton Epstein VIII. Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, by Raymond Van Dam IX. Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition, by Robert Lamberton X. Procopius and the Sixth Century, by Averil Cameron XI. Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity, by Robert A. Kaster XII. Civic Coins and Civic Politics in the Roman East, a.d. 180–275, by Kenneth Harl XIII. Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, introduced and translated by Sebastian P. Brock and Susan Ashbrook Harvey XIV. Gregory the Great: Perfection in Imperfection, by Carole Straw

XV. “Apex Omnium”: Religion in the “Res gestae” of Ammianus, by R. L. Rike XVI. Dioscorus of Aphrodito: His Work and His World, by Leslie S. B. MacCoull XVII. On Roman Time: The Codex-Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity, by Michele Renee Salzman XVIII. Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and “The Lives of the Eastern Saints,” by Susan Ashbrook Harvey XIX. Barbarians and Politics at the Court of Arcadius, by Alan Cameron and Jacqueline Long, with a contribution by Lee Sherry XX. Basil of Caesarea, by Philip Rousseau XXI. In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, introduction, translation, and historical commentary by C. E. V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Rodgers XXII. Ambrose of Milan: Church and Court in a Christian Capital, by Neil B. McLynn XXIII. Public Disputation, Power, and Social Order in Late Antiquity, by Richard Lim XXIV. The Making of a Heretic: Gender, Authority, and the Priscillianist Controversy, by Virginia Burrus XXV. Symeon the Holy Fool: Leontius’s “Life” and the Late Antique City, by Derek Krueger XXVI. The Shadows of Poetry: Vergil in the Mind of Augustine, by Sabine MacCormack XXVII. Paulinus of Nola: Life, Letters, and Poems, by Dennis E. Trout XXVIII. The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran, by Elizabeth Key Fowden XXIX. The Private Orations of Themistius, translated, annotated, and introduced by Robert J. Penella XXX. The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity, by Georgia Frank

XXXI. Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, edited by Tomas Hägg and Philip Rousseau XXXII. Subtle Bodies: Representing Angels in Byzantium, by Glenn Peers XXXIII. Wandering, Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity, by Daniel Caner XXXIV. Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century a.d., by Noel Lenski XXXV. Merovingian Mortuary Archaeology and the Making of the Early Middle Ages, by Bonnie Eff ros XXXVI. Qus. ayr ‘Amra: Art and the Umayyad Elite in Late Antique Syria, by Garth Fowden XXXVII. Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, by Claudia Rapp XXXVIII. Encountering the Sacred: The Debate on Christian Pilgrimage in Late Antiquity, by Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony XXXIX. There Is No Crime for Those Who Have Christ: Religious Violence in the Christian Roman Empire, by Michael Gaddis XL. The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq, by Joel Thomas Walker XLI. City and School in Late Antique Athens and Alexandria, by Edward J. Watts XLII. Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination, by Susan Ashbrook Harvey XLIII. Man and the Word: The Orations of Himerius, edited by Robert J. Penella XLIV. The Matter of the Gods, by Clifford Ando XLV. The Two Eyes of the Earth: Art and Ritual of Kingship between Rome and Sasanian Iran, by Matthew P. Canepa

XLVI. Riot in Alexandria: Tradition and Group Dynamics in Late Antique Pagan and Christian Communities, by Edward J. Watts XLVII. Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa, by Leslie Dossey XLVIII. Theodoret’s People: Social Networks and Religious Conflict in Late Roman Syria, by Adam M. Schor XLIX. Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome, by Susanna Elm L. Shenoute of Atripe and the Uses of Poverty: Rural Patronage, Religious Conflict, and Monasticism in Late Antique Egypt, by Ariel G. López LI. Doctrine and Power: Theological Controversy and Christian Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, by Carlos R. Galvão-Sobrinho LII. Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and Dissent at the End of Late Antiquity, by Phil Booth LIII. The Final Pagan Generation, by Edward J. Watts LIV. The Mirage of the Saracen: Christians and Nomads in the Sinai Peninsula in Late Antiquity, by Walter D. Ward LV. Missionary Stories and the Formation of the Syriac Churches, by Jeanne-Nicole Mellon Saint-Laurent LVI. A State of Mixture: Christians, Zoroastrians, and Iranian Political Culture in Late Antiquity, by Richard E. Payne LVII. Constantine and the Captive Christians of Persia: Martyrdom and Religious Identity in Late Antiquity, by Kyle Smith LVIII. In the Image of Origen: Eros, Virtue, and Constraint in the Early Christian Academy, by David Satran

In the Image of Origen Eros, Virtue, and Constraint in the Early Christian Academy David Satran

university of california press

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu. University of California Press Oakland, California © 2018 by The Regents of the University of California Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Satran, David, author. Title: In the image of Origen : eros, virtue and constraint in the early Christian academy / David Satran. Description: Oakland, California : University of California Press, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: lccn 2017038791 (print) | lccn 2017042166 (ebook) | isbn 9780520965089 () | isbn 9780520291232 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: lcsh: Christian education—History—Early church, ca. 30–600. | Origen—Influence. | Gregory, Thaumaturgus, Saint, approximately 213– approximately 270. Classification: lcc bv1465 (ebook) | lcc bv1465 .s23 2018 (print) | ddc 270.1092—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017038791 Manufactured in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Shari

contents

Acknowledgments xiii Introduction 1 1. Providence, Eros, and Constraint 29 2. Dialectic and the Training of the Mind 55 3. Moral Formation and the Path to Scripture 89 4. Paradise and the Cave 129 5. Paideia, Loss, and Prospect 160 Notes 179 Bibliography 201 Index 225

ack now ledg m ents

This book has been long in the making. Its origins were in a vague instinct that this text had more to tell us than it had been allowed to relate, that certain emphases and oddities were more meaningful than arbitrary. My initial probings were presented in a number of lectures, and then a decade intervened as other obligations and tasks took precedence; the project came to fruition over the past five years. During such a long period of time, not a few debts are incurred, and there are many to whom I am deeply grateful. As a young graduate student I had my initial encounter with Gregory and his Thanksgiving Address in the pages of Peter Brown’s The Making of Late Antiquity (1978). It was decades later before I turned seriously to the text, and during that interim Peter’s influence on my scholarly path and vision had become far more decisive. It is with enormous gratitude and a sense of true satisfaction that I am able to see this book appear in a series so closely identified with Peter and his incalculable contribution to the study of the late ancient world. Robert Wilken, who showed me enormous kindness during my time as a graduate student and afterward, first awakened my interest in the Thanksgiving Address within the context of early Christian paideia in his article “Alexandria: A School for Training in Virtue” (1984). xiii

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Early, halting intimations of the project began as lectures in varied contexts. Sandy (Sanford) Budick invited me to participate in a remarkable conference on the topic “Paradigms of Learning in Diverse Cultures” at the Hebrew University’s Center for Literary Studies ( Jerusalem 2000). The following year, I was privileged to deliver versions of this lecture at the Yad Ben-Zvi Institute in Jerusalem and at Smith College; the latter invitation was extended through the generosity and friendship of Richard Lim, Scott Bradbury, and Karl Donfried. On several occasions I was able to discuss aspects of the project with the members and students of the Department of Religion at Princeton University. The warm confines of that department and 1879 Hall have been an academic home away from home over these past three decades, and this is an opportunity to thank my many colleagues and friends there. I am especially grateful to John Gager and Martha Himmelfarb, who have been far more than hosts to me and to my family over these many years. The initial stage of turning random thoughts and slim lectures into the present volume was undertaken in Philadelphia in the spring of 2011, while I enjoyed the intellectual camaraderie and support afforded by the Herbert D. Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies of the University of Pennsylvania. Both David Ruderman and Natalie Dohrmann helped to insure a gracious and comfortable research environment. (A substantial dose of inspiration was provided during those months by the kind folk of Bodhi Coffee.) For thirty years the Department of Comparative Religion has been my academic home, and I am keenly aware of the inestimable stimulation this project has received from my colleagues and students at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. I would like to mention especially my colleagues Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony, Serge Ruzer, Zeev Weiss, and Reuven Amitai, who provided support and encouragment. Steve Kaplan’s role goes beyond that of a colleague: though an ocean now separates us, our daily conversations were, for many years, one of the mainstays of my life at the university. A special note of gratitude is owed my

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teacher and doctoral adviser, and subsequent colleague and friend, Michael E. Stone. Michael has been a constant presence in my university career, and, in other contexts I have tried to express the full range of my debt toward him. My close friends and colleagues Debby Gera and Marc Hirshman have been constant models of intellectual curiosity and rectitude. Their work has inspired my own, and our study in common (chevruta) has been both a source of support and a reminder of the true goal of the intellectual pursuit. I am particularly grateful to Debby for her insights and advice at various stages of the writing. This book never would have come to fruition if not for the efforts of another colleague: David Fishelov’s support went far beyond words, and at a key juncture in the life of the project he wielded the tools of coercive persuasion. My own words can scarcely express my gratitude for his friendship. It is no small thing that Eric Schmidt, the editor of the Transformation series at the University of California Press, saw this volume through to publication. His good counsel and support were outweighed only by his remarkable patience and his conviction that the project could be brought to fruition. I am grateful to the readers of the press for their learned comments, both encouraging and chastising. The sharp eye and trained ear of Marian Rogers, my copy editor, helped turn a rough and somewhat uncertain manuscript into something far more worthy of publication. My student Anita Shtrubel provided invaluable research and editorial assistance in the final stages of this project. Her unfailing good humor also contributed its share. My family has accompanied this project from its inception. Daniella, Shai, and Dafna saw their father pondering many of the issues discussed here as they were discovering their paths toward adulthood; their partners, Ohad and Noa, have become our own as well; our grandchildren, Uriel, Naomi, Avigail, and Ella, have come into this world and begun their own paths during the active writing of this book. They all have granted me far more than they could imagine. Shari, my beloved partner

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in all, has been the pillar of support and the incisive voice that made this book possible, and it is dedicated to her. In writing about the extraordinary role a teacher can play in the life of a student, I have had much opportunity to think of those, no longer present, who were fundamental in my own formation: my parents, Harold and Selma Satran, whose love guides me still; Neil P. O’Doherty, who taught me the art of reading and the craft of composition, and opened the doors to the life of the mind; Anne Lebeck and John Andrew Moore, my first teachers of Greek and much more; Jochanan Wijnhoven, who introduced me to the beauty of the Hebrew language and set me on the path to Jerusalem; Carlo Maria Cardinal Martini, an exemplar of wisdom and humility; R. J. Zwi Werblowsky, whose wide learning combined elegance with deep generosity. May their souls be bound up in the bond of life.

Introduction

The Thanksgiving Address offered to Origen by a grateful student is a well-known document, yet one that has been cited far more often than it is read closely. Written on the occasion of his departure from his teacher at the conclusion of an extended period of study in Caesarea Maritima in Roman Palestine, most likely during the period 233–240 CE, the composition provides a highly stylized but also emotionally charged account of the young man’s tutelage under the most prominent Christian theologian and exegete of the third century. One of the very few “personal” accounts by a Christian author to have survived from the period before Constantine, the Thanksgiving Address has much to teach us regarding the content and methods of higher education in the early church as well as the atmosphere that surrounded such studies. The Address of Thanksgiving to Origen embraces an hour, a decade, and an age: an hour of rhetorical brilliance, nearly a decade of educational and moral progress, an entire age of Greco-Roman paideia as a cultural ideal. As such, the work demands to be appreciated and understood, at one and the same time, as an individual rhetorical achievement, the prolonged spiritual formation of a young man, and the culmination, perhaps subtle transformation, of centuries of cultural 1

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practice. As a record of enduring (albeit shifting) cultural practice, the document provides an extended account of the process of philosophical education in the ancient world. Deeply traditional language and themes witnessed by works ranging over a millennium—from classical Athens through the gradual demise of the Greco-Roman philosophical schools in late antiquity—find striking expression in this description of the school of Origen. Equally striking, though, has been the lack of appreciation of the unique value of our composition in this regard: while studies of Christian education in Alexandria and Caesarea may have regarded the Address as an invaluable cultural record, there has been far too little appreciation of its deeply personal aspects, as the author presents the scope of his educational and spiritual journey under the guidance of Origen during the course of almost a decade. Portions of this process are narrated in lively terms and evocative detail, while other aspects, some potentially significant and of enormous interest, are set down in frustratingly abbreviated or indeterminate fashion. Despite its uneven quality, we possess a noteworthy and rare account of an individual’s intellectual and moral growth—a literary creation of largely unappreciated interest and value. Finally, these cultural and personal records are preserved within a stylized rhetorical framework. Commonly perceived as a piece of stock oratory—a speech delivered in Origen’s presence on the speaker’s departure from the city of Caesarea—the text encompasses a full range of performative aspects and affects. Indeed, the author’s rhetorical sophistication and highly mannered presentation could leave the reader with the impression that the Address is nothing but a patchwork of tropes in the service of an overarching and culturally conservative narrative. The ultimate aim of the present study is to convince the reader just how mistaken and deeply unfortunate this conclusion would be. Read attentively, the work allows us to appreciate how the intersection of rhetorical construction, personal experience, and cultural tradition offers a window into a remarkable episode in the history of education and spiritual tutelage.

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history and rhetoric Every document presents its readers with a peculiar series of challenges, limitations, and frustrations. The Thanksgiving Address to Origen is no exception in this regard, and a number of the work’s qualities and difficulties deserve some preliminary attention, as they have determined the nature of scholarly discussion thus far and have served as stimuli for the present study. The Address is hardly an unknown or neglected work: we enjoy an excellent critical edition, translation, and commentary prepared by Henri Crouzel, one of the twentieth century’s premier scholars of Origen.1 In the decades since Crouzel’s own work, there have been a number of translations into different languages, with varying degrees of annotation and discussion.2 While the work has not yet been the focus of either a monograph or extended investigation, it has merited the attention of a number of authors in significant articles and briefer discussions in the course of a wide variety of research projects.3 These have illuminated variegated aspects of the text as well as providing points of entry to the contexts necessary for the understanding of some of the finer details of the work. The problem of recent research, therefore, has not been one of neglect but of the manner of attention that the work has attracted. With very few exceptions, there has been virtually no attempt to read the composition as an integral text in order to penetrate and appreciate its own internal logic and meaning. Even those signal attempts to assess the importance of the Address have done so largely, or exclusively, in terms of its “contribution” to the understanding of surrounding texts, figures, and contexts. Clearly, and logically, the principal framework of explanation and reference has been the subject of the Address itself: the transcending figure of Origen, his writings, and his thought. Not only have students of the work come largely from the ranks of Origen scholars, but the work itself often has been regarded as either an appendix or an ancilla to the

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corpus Origenianum. A number of the most helpful and enlightening readings of the Address have been devoted precisely to the question of what the composition can teach us about Origen and his thought. In one of the most incisive treatments of the Address in past decades, for example, Joseph Trigg has turned our attention to the distinctive harmony between the Address, its author’s purpose, and Origen’s own broader theological and ecclesiastic perspective.4 A number of recent, praiseworthy examinations of Origen as exegete and teacher have turned to the portrait of the educator in the Address in their attempt to establish central values and methods of the Caesarean school and its master.5 In various other instances, the Address has been enlisted to secure one aspect or another of the Origenian heritage. There remains a strong measure of truth, neverthless, in Crouzel’s judgment dating back half a century: “Le Remerciement est constamment utilisé dans les livres et articles traitant d’Origène, mais il a été peu étudié en lui-même.”6 Two opposing yet interlocked difficulties lie at the foundation of this imbalanced approach, each serving as a stumbling block in approaching the work. On the one hand, there has been an inordinate, if not surprising, focus upon the historical information to be gleaned from the Address; on the other, the text has elicited a certain scholarly wariness, almost recoil, as a result of its highly rhetorical nature. The common impulse, accordingly, has been an attempt to rescue the “hard” facts from the composition and give large portions of the composition a wide berth. The search for solid historical data begins understandably with the problem of authorship and the strong desire to tie the Address to an individual, the arc of whose life can both provide context and anchor the text itself. The composition traditionally has been attributed to Gregory, bishop of Neocaesarea in Pontus (Asia Minor) and celebrated as the “Wonder-Worker” (Thaumaturgus).7 The attribution—found in the manuscript tradition and in (nearly) all modern printed editions of the work—had been widely, almost universally, accepted until strong doubts were raised by Pierre Nautin a half century ago. Nautin’s argu-

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ments received a vigorous response by Henri Crouzel, and their respective positions laid the ground for the last generation of scholarship, which largely has accepted Crouzel’s defense of the traditional attribution.8 Italian scholars who have been at the forefront of the most recent scholarship on the work, however, have returned to Nautin’s arguments and raised further doubts regarding the ties between the Address and the figure of Gregory of Pontus. It would be fair to describe the current status of the question as undecided, with a consensus for the traditional identification, alongside a vocal, unrelenting opposition.9 Much attention and the corresponding attempts to discuss the work within a broader framework have focused on the presumed author of the work as Gregory Thaumaturgus. The varied attempts that have been made to link our work with the somewhat shadowy forefather of Cappadocian Christianity have contributed examinations of the Address within the larger trajectory of the development of the Christian community in late Roman Asia Minor, yet have done little to dispel the uncertainty regarding authorship. These “biographical” approaches provide interesting and creative readings of aspects of the composition in relation to subsequent presentations of the presumed author (especially the vita of Gregory Thaumaturgus by his illustrious fourth-century spiritual descendant, Gregory of Nyssa), but the central core of the Address and its significance remain curiously impervious to these readings. Often unstated is the irresistible lack of correlation, in terms of both style and content, between the Address and other works attributed (generally with a far larger degree of confidence) to the figure known as the WonderWorker.10 It is uncertain whether the argument can be resolved. I am convinced, however, that even if we were to leave aside the doubts regarding the identity of the author of the Address and were to assume him to be identical with Gregory, bishop of Pontus, we would still face a series of questions. Can we establish a literary or theological connection between the Address and the other works attributed to Gregory? Is there a compelling link between the portrait of the author of the Address and the conglomeration of fact and legend associated with the Thaumaturgus?

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Is there any sense in which our knowledge of the career of Gregory Thaumaturgus aids our understanding of the Address and our attempt to discern the significance of the work? I have yet to see any indication, whether in the ample scholarship or on the basis of my own examination, that any of these questions can be answered positively. It is principally for these reasons that the present study has taken a stance of scholarly agnosticism on the question of authorship. Consequently, I shall attempt to divorce these considerations from the body of the study, asking neither how the biography of Gregory Thaumaturgus is reflected in the Address nor how the Address can further our understanding of the writings and career of that figure. I prefer to regard the testimony of the Address as a distinct and integral document, both instructive on its own terms and demanding its own form of analysis and interpretation. The author of the Address, for reasons of convenience and convention, I will continue to call Gregory—though without any further attribution or assumption. Alongside this central concern, other studies have focused on specific details of the text, large and small, for their possible contribution to the understanding (or simple documentation) of contemporary phenomena. A noteworthy example of this “mining” of the Address has been the pronounced interest in the spare information offered regarding Gregory’s legal education: students of the history of legal institutions and training in the Roman Empire have enthusiastically embraced the relatively meager details on this score recorded in the work.11 No less striking in this regard has been the fairly extreme concentration of attention on the structured educational program in the Address and its broad appreciation as critical evidence for an Alexandrian-Caesarean curriculum of study. As we shall see, there may be ample reason for caution and even some skepticism here. This disproportionate focus on the presumedly historical (or factual) aspects of the Address may be responsible, paradoxically, for an equal measure of scholarly “disappointment” in the face of the profound silence of the work in many other respects. After all, given the

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very limited nature of our knowledge of the cityscape of Caesarea in the time of Origen—as well as the truly remarkable silence of Origen himself in this regard12—couldn’t we have hoped that the Address might afford us a glimpse of the city, its monuments, and its institutions? In fact, the work may well indicate that the pupil shared his master’s surpassing disregard for the physical reality of the urban context in which he lived for years. Similarly, there are so many details we might have wanted to know about the “school” of Origen: the nature of the physical setting in which instruction took place, the structure of the day, the rhythm of the week, the relationship between the students. Ultimately, the composition hardly advances our efforts to imagine the physical and social conditions under which Gregory spent years of his life in close proximity to his beloved teacher. Yet the concentration of scholarly attention on these and other questions, whose answers unhappily are not going to be teased from the text of the Address, has allowed a series of other issues to go largely unexplored. However disappointing the composition may be in its lack of prosopographical specificity or its relative lack of concern with the “concrete” details of the Caesarean context, Gregory’s report must be studied and valued for what it does offer: one of the very richest and most intimate portraits we possess from antiquity of the inner lives of a student and his master. The Address allows us rare entry into the world of a deeply impressionable young man, from his initial encounter with the teacher who is to become the sole focus of his intellectual and emotional life, through the prolonged period of tutelage and achievement, and finally to the wrenching necessity to conclude his studies and depart from his master. It is our most “intimate” representation of a late antique school setting and the powerful relationship that stood at its center. In fact, it is precisely the force and quality of this representation that has given rise to the other stumbling block. Origen received a student carefully groomed in the late antique culture of persuasion. There can be no more telling witness to Gregory’s educational background than the Thanksgiving Address itself: composed almost a decade following the

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conclusion of his formal rhetorical training and subsequent “conversion” to the life of philosophical and scriptural inquiry, the work still reveals the trademarks of the traditional exercises and techniques of the school of the rhetor. The elaborate rhetorical stratagem that opens the Address— the injunction to remain silent in the face of the enormity and grandeur of the subject balanced by the danger that such silence might be misinterpreted as ingratitude—presents the sort of theme that might have been carefully rehearsed in any advanced framework of rhetorical training. Though (here too) Gregory provides frustratingly little detail concerning his schooling in the art of rhetoric, we can securely locate him along the arc defined by figures such as Menander and Libanius.13 Nor is this impression of polished artistry dependent merely on individual elements of the composition: the elaborate overall structure and symmetry of the Address speak equally of its position within the orbit of high literary culture. (In the penultimate chapter of this study, the detailed examination of the closing portion of the text, I will return to the question of the overall structure and integrity of the work as a whole.) This artistry has proven a significant complication. Prior to his arrival in Caesarea and confrontation with Origen, Gregory had been launched on that highly prized educational path that extended from primary instruction in the rudiments of grammar through the advanced study of rhetoric in its diverse branches. This was, of course, the great educational and cultural system that provided the infrastructure of that “archipelago of Paideia,” in H.-I. Marrou’s admirable image, which spanned the later Roman Empire. Despite its classical origins and foundation in Greco-Roman literature and values, this system was shared by upwardly mobile Christians, and some of the most notable figures of both the pre- and post-Constantinian church were its fully fashioned products. One of the possible extensions of this higher rhetorical training was the study of Roman law, and it was precisely this pursuit that was interrupted by Gregory’s meeting with Origen. This thoroughgoing rhetorical training poses a problem for both the author and the (modern) reader on a series of intertwined levels.14 From

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the outset of the work, Gregory expresses recurrent concern over his inadequacy to address the task that he has undertaken. Although he initially agonizes over the deficiencies of his Greek as a result of his concentrated exposure to the study of Roman laws (in Latin), his anxiety quickly shifts direction: it is precisely his deep training in rhetorical style that is likely to compromise his ability to present properly the revered object of the composition. The problem has become one of the appropriate restraint and the fitting level required of the language in which he represents his teacher. This issue recedes into the background for large portions of the composition but remains unresolved, only to assert itself forcefully at the close of the work: Let my address draw to a close here—overly bold where it ought not to be, but reasonably expressing gratitude, I think, in accord with our ability, and while we have said nothing worthy, at least we have not fallen totally silent. And besides I have uttered a lament, as those who depart from dear ones are accustomed to do; it may be affected, but it contains no manner of flattery and is neither overly archaic nor elaborate. Indeed, I know for certain that it is fitting for him and not fabricated, truthful in every way, of sound intention, and pure and whole in purpose. (18.203)

It is difficult to escape the feeling that Gregory protests too much, too artfully. Further complicating the extended expression of concern that opens the work, moreover, is the inescapable fact that this very concern and its highly ritualized confession is itself a well-known rhetorical theme, one that Gregory would have carefully studied and internalized in his earlier studies of the art of composition and speech. Does this reduce his anxious concern to nothing more than an opening gambit in a developed literary exercise? Speaking against this conclusion is the inescapable fact that Gregory’s studies in Caesarea were, in no small measure, an extended exercise in reversing many of the lessons and effects of his earlier rhetorical education. Among the most powerful aspects of the description of his training under Origen are the stages in the forceful unraveling of the orator’s tricks and manners, which he had acquired and internalized during years of schooling. His narrative, the

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unmistakable product of that education and artistry, dwells at length and with expressiveness on this facet of his reeducation at the hands of a philosopher. The reader is asked to accept the implicit assertion that the rhetorical commitment and orientation of the author who composes the Address after years of intensive tenure in Caesarea are essentially different than they were at his point of arrival. Does this complex and deeply self-conscious interplay between shifting levels of rhetoric drastically undercut our ability to accept Gregory’s work as a representation of his experience under Origen’s tutelage? One of the primary aims of this study is to convince the reader that the Thanksgiving Address is not only a work of high rhetorical skill—for it is surely that, and perhaps even to its own detriment—but also a vibrant portrait of the relationship between a teacher and a pupil. To secure this conviction, however, requires our ability to regard Gregory’s work as more than simply a rhetorical exercise, to understand its textuality as a passageway rather than a barrier, as a window rather than a reflective mirror. Yet we cannot simply pass around or through the rhetorical status of the work: the reader must ask how to proceed from Gregory’s text (and its often extravagant textual character) to the engagement with an underlying reality, personal and social. In what manner can we hope to approach the teacher, the pupil, and the myriad concerns that occupy their years together when our knowledge of all of these is mediated by a literary work that not only creates distance through its language and style but is also keenly aware of its own status as a rhetorical display. The Address, in this regard, provides a striking instance of a much broader problem, one that has become paramount in the last generation of historical scholarship. The very concept of the text, a fortiori the selfconscious literary text, has become a stumbling block in the path of our project of understanding and representing the past. Currents in scholarship of the past decades have raised very real concerns about our ability to penetrate the irreducible textuality of all of our written sources from the past. Whether in the practice of certain forms of cultural history or through the more general embrace of the “linguistic turn,” the text itself

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came to be perceived as far more than a distorting or retarding filter but as a potentially impenetrable border between the contemporary reader and the past. A widening chorus concluded that only a naive and misplaced confidence allowed that the “reading” of compositions would actually bring us closer to the reality of the past. So thoroughgoing was this pessimism that eminent figures within the historical community— and hardly those who could be suspected of attempting to resurrect an old-fashioned positivism—felt the need to call upon colleagues to resist the conclusion that “a text is only evidence of itself, of its own order.”15 Among the variant voices that maintained a measure of optimism coupled with a renewed sensitivity and understanding of the inherent permeability of the textual structure was that of Gabrielle Spiegel, a historian of medieval France. In a series of articles, distinguished by strong theoretical underpinnings together with straightforward examples of historical practice, Spiegel sought a way out of the methodological morass born of “textual reductionism,” and offered a fresh proposal for embracing the textuality of our records—not an obstacle but an opportunity to glean precious historical information. In her formulation of the “social logic of the text,” Spiegel pointed to the deeper connections between the nature of a text and the historical and cultural context that gave birth to the work and in which it flourished.16 In the case of the Address, therefore, the challenge is neither to evade nor to ignore the high rhetoric of the composition but to reckon with and profit by it. While scarcely a transparent window through which the reader should expect to gaze unimpeded, the style and purpose of Gregory’s work serve as a refractive lens that demands our active participation and continuous critical engagement. In this regard, it is crucial to recognize still further the likelihood that rhetoric neither conceals nor distorts but actually casts a new light, enhancing certain features of an underlying reality. First, and most immediately striking perhaps, is Gregory’s own consciousness of both the problem and the prospect of rhetorical entrapment. His sophisticated use of the tools of rhetoric is complicated, as we have seen, by his transformed attitude

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toward his own past, and especially his prior education in this art, as well as by his acute awareness of the complexity of the specific context: a formalized, public expression of gratitude toward his teacher, the very man whose instruction and example demanded this intellectual reorientation and reevaluation. In a very real sense, therefore, Gregory undercuts his own rhetoric and warns the reader of its potential effects. Closely related is the paradoxical presence of rhetoric in Gregory’s own training in philosophy. His recurrent warnings regarding the dangers of stylistic manipulation are effectively compromised by his harsh confrontation with the highly persuasive, even “forceful,” speech of Origen, particularly in the early stages of Gregory’s initiation to philosophical studies in Caesarea. The reader, together with Gregory, is faced with the role of a transformative art of persuasion in the hands of his new guide and master. In these complex circumstances, the enduring presence of rhetoric serves neither as an external trapping nor as a textual hindrance but rather as a privileged point of entry to the understanding of an essential aspect of the relationship between student and teacher. No less fascinating and revealing is the student’s own struggle with his rhetorical past in light of this training and his new purpose. We become witnesses to Gregory’s continual struggle to escape the limits and inclinations of his earlier education in the attempt to give clear and accurate formulation to the substance and measure of his new intellectual and spiritual formation. The reader encounters, not infrequently, the student’s seeming inability to provide precise and unembellished expression of his newly, and presumably painfully, acquired philosophical learning. In these instances, Gregory’s rhetoric, both as stylistic quality and formative intellectual ballast, provides a uniquely revealing vantage on the challenges and limitations of his educational journey. In corresponding fashion, we are able to enjoy privileged evidence of those contexts and themes that allow Gregory’s individuality (of thought and expression) to emerge—at times despite his earlier training and at others with the additional power afforded by his rhetorical

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background. In these instances, especially in the concluding sections of the Address, the work’s artistry actually enhances and heightens the essence of Gregory’s message.

paideia and platonism Two principal areas in which the Address has left an uncertain and variable imprint on scholarship thus far have been assessments of the status of Greco-Roman “higher education” and research into the more particular conditions of advanced philosophical and theological studies in varied Jewish and Christian contexts of an Alexandrian milieu. In the one case, the full potential of our text to illumine a field of study has not been appreciated sufficiently; the other, somewhat paradoxically, has been the object of excessive attention, perhaps even serving as something of a distraction. This has determined certain modes of reading of the text and inhibited other possible approaches, inevitably serving to mask a number of the work’s peculiarities and promises. It is noteworthy that the significance of our composition for the understanding of the history of education in late antiquity has not been given its due. Studies of education, primary and advanced, in the GrecoRoman world have flourished in the past decades, as has research into the multiform intellectual context of the early Christian centuries.17 But there has been too little interface between these fields of investigation. Students of Greco-Roman educational theory and practice often have been content to either overlook or acknowledge only in passing the relevance or importance of Christian sources. For example, a recent collective volume offering a comprehensive and detailed survey of “education in Greek and Roman antiquity” includes, in the course of fifteen chapters and nearly five hundred pages, not a single reference to either the school of Origen or the Thanksgiving Address.18 Similarly, numerous studies of the intellectual and social formation of “upwardly mobile” Christians of the early centuries dutifully speak of the encounter with GrecoRoman paideia but in the most general terms and without full benefit of

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our newly enriched understanding of the processes and contexts that inform that word and its underlying institutions. Gregory’s Thanksgiving Address to Origen provides an opportunity to correct that imbalance. It offers us a unique vantage on one of the most promising points of cross-fertilization and mutual illumination: the arena of philosophical education. Gregory describes in vivid terms and arresting detail his transition from the study of rhetoric to induction into the world of philosophy under the guidance of Origen. His progress in the different areas of philosophical inquiry is marked, and the text provides us with one of the more elaborate surviving descriptions of a curriculum of advanced study. At the center stand the field of ethics and the question of moral character, anchored by the image of Origen himself, teacher in both word and deed. Far too little work has been accomplished, however, in deciphering the precise details of Gregory’s intellectual and spiritual “formation” and its relationship to contemporary accounts, particularly among Platonist circles. While many of the elements of this educational program are well attested, and the process as a whole would seem to cohere closely with contemporary curricula and with what we know of philosophical training in the Greco-Roman world, especially in the Platonic schools and academies, the presentation is highly personal in tone and affords us a far more vivid and experiential description of the arduous path toward advanced knowledge. Once again, one observes the very limited range of reference to the Address in recent scholarship on the “schools” of the late ancient philosophical traditions. While the account of the study circle of Plotinus, as preserved in Porphyry’s vita of his teacher, has been combed meticulously for every hint of the underlying educational process, Gregory’s account has been virtually ignored.19 By contrast, in discussions of one of the most intriguing “institutions” of the early Christian world, an Alexandrian school or academy that functioned from the final decades of the second century CE, the influence of the Address has been overwhelming. Scholars have debated the character and purview of such an Alexandrian school for more than a

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century.20 Though there is currently a clear consensus that such a school must have existed and that the youthful Origen served as a pivotal figure, virtually everything else remains uncertain or the subject of argument. While some are inclined to regard the school as an ecclesiastically oriented institution, devoted to advanced catechetical instruction, others envision a thoroughly personal establishment, dependent largely on the personal charisma of its central figure and to varying degrees estranged from local episcopal authority. The very idea of the school as an institution is prone to debate, as is the question of the line of succession of those who stood at its head. As to the origins of the school, the shadowy figure of Pantaenus looms large in this regard as a sharp reminder of how little we actually know about the initial stages of Alexandrian Christianity. Even more conjectural is the suspicion that the school of Alexandria is actually a Christian version of an earlier Jewish academy, dating back to the time of Philo and probably still earlier.21 The Address, with its extended and often detailed description of the educational curriculum that Gregory encountered, has become an important piece in these discussions. The evidence of the composition naturally has been the central testimony for the existence of a comparable academy in Caesarea under the direction of Origen, newly relocated to that city.22 The broad scholarly assumption has been that the relative largesse of detailed information regarding the Caesarean institution could be read back to inform our knowledge of its Alexandrian forerunner. It is crucial that we also recognize the potential circularity of the argument, particularly in light of the very special character of the evidence drawn from the Address. Gregory describes the intimate pedagogical relationship with his revered master Origen: the educational process described is intensely personal, and it would be parlous to draw institutional conclusions. The present study will not take up directly the broader, thorny questions surrounding the Alexandrian and Caesarean “schools,” though themes discussed here will be, I hope, of relevance for those investigations. Similarly, two closely related areas of investigation regarding Origen’s activity fall outside the scope of my discussion: the

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establishment of the library in Caesarea23 and Origen’s relations with Jewish teachers and the Jewish community there.24 Fascinating in themselves, as well as for our broader understanding of the figure of Origen, neither receives a substantial contribution from our reading of the Address. The present study also does not propose to engage directly in the perennial controversy surrounding Origen’s “Platonism”—its nature, extent, or very existence. This concern surrounded the Alexandrian thinker in his own lifetime and continued to accompany his legacy, a permanent factor in the polemics regarding his orthodoxy during the fourth through sixth centuries. In a very real sense, this argument remains woven into the fabric of modern scholarship on Origen, from the divide between German (Protestant) and French (Catholic) scholarship of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries through the rather different fault lines of current research.25 The recent claims of M. J. Edwards (Origen against Plato) in this regard, as well as the counterclaims of his critics, have brought the question back to the center of scholarly discussion.26 Without directly tackling the question of Origen’s Platonism, however, the study of the Address contributes some perspective on the issue. What is undeniably apparent from any engagement with the work is that, scripture aside, the primary “classical” texts for our appreciation of Gregory’s account are drawn from the dialogues of Plato. Similarly, among the contemporary authors who most profitably illumine the Address are those broadly representative of second-century Platonist thought. Nor can it be coincidental that the most important contributions of modern research in illuminating certain aspects of Gregory’s account are provided precisely by scholars who have explored the complex and rewarding ramifications of second- and third-century Platonism. To identify echoes or reverberations of Middle Platonic (or nascent Neoplatonic) themes and concerns in Gregory’s Address is not intended, of course, to rule out other sources of influence, philosophical or otherwise. Indeed, as already emphasized, the nature of intellectual experience under Origen’s direction was wide-ranging and comprehensive in nature, consciously rejecting a tendency to any form of

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narrow allegiance or parochialism. Yet we do well to remember that this inclusive attitude was also a characteristic of imperial Platonism, yet another factor that certainly made that philosophical tendency particularly attractive for Origen and his students. Ultimately, the heart of the issue for this study is the indelible presence of Plato and his writings within the Address itself. I will argue that the Platonic influences on the work are varied in nature—some subtle and carefully nuanced, others marked and unmistakable. On the one hand, the reader encounters quite explicit echoes, allusions, and references to Platonic imagery and argument, as well as to the figure of Socrates himself; on the other, there are more general presentations of philosophical positions that are in accord with Platonic concerns yet remain somewhat elusive. Certainly the most significant Platonic presence in the Address is the overarching model of education and intellectual progress, dependent in large part on the dialogues of the so-called middle period.27 Indeed, a largely unappreciated aspect of Gregory’s account has been the centrality of both the erotic paradigm of ascent (Symposium, Phaedrus) and the model of the Cave (Republic bk. 7) in his presentation of the totality of his educational experience with Origen. Read in this fashion, the work offers vivid testimony to the inescapable tension between the commitment to intellectual and spiritual growth—as “embodied” in the life of the master and in the intimate relations of the study circle—and the wider ethical obligations of the individual within his society.

structure and themes This study presents a new approach to the Address, attempting to take account of its deeper literary structures as well as its salient themes. The four central chapters (1–4) follow the flow of the composition, offering a form of running commentary on the text, while providing detailed examination of the principal issues and concerns that arise during the course of Gregory’s education and its literary representation. The closing chapter (5) expands on certain themes of this study

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and assesses the Address as a vantage point on seminal issues in Christianity of the fourth century. Throughout this study, I have attempted (at times with limited success) to curtail my use of the vocabulary of “stages” or “steps” with regard to Gregory’s progress within Origen’s pedagogical scheme. The further I have delved into the Address, the greater my conviction that a number of the most problematic conclusions concerning the work have been the result of the imposition of a simplistic linear approach to its perception and presentation of intellectual progress. That the educational path is in its essence a gradual process generally encourages us to emphasize and to reify its graded nature: the measured movement from one task to the next, the ascent from the current level—of skill, of knowledge, of achievement—to the proximate and more elevated one. This conception—ineluctably reinforced by our own contemporary educational culture of graded progress from subject to subject, from examination to examination—is apt to lead us astray in our attempt to understand the intimate pedagogy of late antiquity. Lessons were slowly and painstakingly acquired; the path was most often circular and repetitive. Skills were acquired and accumulated, and the different disciplines were never simply stepping stones left behind but part and parcel of recurrent areas of training and discipline. While it is tempting, therefore, to read Gregory’s account of his training in dialectics and ethics as (earlier) stages in his ascent to theological inquiry and scriptural exegesis—and these areas of learning are undoubtedly preparatory, in the sense of being both prerequisite and necessary—they are in no sense eclipsed by his accession to those lofty pursuits. The ability to think and speak clearly and critically, the commitment to the strictest level of behavior and inner discipline— these remain active, indeed essential, fields of endeavor and achievement even when engaged in “higher” activities. Further, Gregory’s account features a concomitant marker of ancient educational theory and practice: a virtually timeless, unbounded quality. As opposed to a modern educational framework, based on a rigidly scheduled program of the timely completion of tasks and stages, there is

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no sense of temporal markers within the process that Gregory describes. Indeed, a very important part of the effect achieved by the author in his account of both the dramatic opening and the harsh conclusion of his tutelage under Origen is directly drawn from the fact that only the beginning and the end are sharply demarcated: everything that transpires between them seems to take place with little or no regard for the boundaries of space or time.

Providence, Eros, and Constraint (Chapter 1) At the very heart of the Address lies the complex, fraught, and intimate relationship between a student and his master. This relationship is the very raison d’être for the composition, permeates virtually its every sentence, and determines in large measure the structure and cadence of the work. The Address, then, is not only born of Gregory’s relationship with Origen and conceived as a literary means to preserve, to memorialize, the connection between them; it is itself a testimony whose form and content present a crucial phase in the development of that relationship. Chapter 1 examines the report of the earliest stages of their association. Gregory’s account of the winding path and unseen forces that led him from his homeland in Asia Minor to the port city of Caesarea in Roman Palestine serves as prelude to his dramatic rendering of the early days in the orbit of Origen. That description includes some of the most striking and audacious passages of the entire work, replete with passion and desire. The chapter examines closely the stages of attraction, exhortation, and entrapment by which Gregory is drawn into the world of study with Origen. The process entails three distinct but closely interrelated movements: the motif of providential guidance by which Gregory is led to Caesarea and the initial acquaintance with Origen, the force of erotic attraction that ultimately informs the teacher-student relationship, and, finally, the theme of coercive persuasion through which Gregory is literally compelled to shed old habits of thought and practice.

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The conjunction of these elements of guidance, eros, and compulsion—illumined by a wide variety of Greco-Roman and early Christian sources—raises sharply some very basic perceptions of freedom of will and choice. To what extent does this forceful intervention, whether angelic or human (Origen), whether by verbal coercion or erotic infatuation, impinge upon the ability of Gregory to choose his path freely and to decide autonomously? What are the educational implications of this apparent restriction of the student’s freedom? The potent blend of eros and constraint that characterizes this portion of the Address (as well as its repercussions throughout the work) is deeply indicative of the actors’ thought and behavior. Indeed, recent developments in both moral philosophy and behavioral psychology cast extraordinary illumination on our text. Still closer to the question, as well as to the composition before us, is the role of constraint as a creative agent. Can creativity actually depend upon (perhaps even, flourish under) certain forms of coercion? Can less freedom actually be more conducive to creativity?

Dialectic and the Training of the Mind (Chapter 2) The practical expression of this pedagogical constraint, an unsettling amalgam of persuasion and coercion, forms the central theme of chapter 2. From the moment that Gregory accedes to this new authority and has given up all thought of escape from Origen’s orbit, he finds himself confronting a prolonged and demanding regimen. In part—and this is certainly the part that has drawn much of the scholarly attention paid to the Address—this is the curricular regimen that characterized both the study of rhetoric and philosophy in late antiquity: the recognized cycle of study (known precisely by that name, the enkyklios paideia) of subjects that prepare the young man for the rigors of advanced training. In quite another sense, however, the overall regimen cannot be reduced to a subject heading nor can its intensity, both intellectual and emotional, be regarded in strictly academic terms.

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Gregory was being stripped of a store of bad habits accumulated during his education up until that time. Those first days in Origen’s intense, overwhelming presence—as well as the coming years—were to be a prolonged exercise in learning how to think and to speak cleanly, precisely. It was not only the necessity of leaving behind the full bag of easy rhetorical tricks, though that too was part of the process; it was first and foremost the resolution to value truth over appearance, and the devotion to an examination of matters with only that purpose in mind. Learning to accomplish this in a single-minded manner, however, was only half the struggle. Following that came the commitment to giving voice to these new understandings in the least meretricious fashion: in plain language, unadorned and straightforward. To accomplish all this required the ability to free oneself of myriad tendencies and inclinations, an ongoing exercise in the replacement of innumerable, deep habitual tendencies. This is the process Pierre Hadot has described as learning to dialogue, to live dialectically—the central, indeed fundamental, aspect of learning to live a philosophical life. Closely related to this question of habitual inclination is the concern regarding acquired behavior and attitudes that might obstruct the student’s progress. Among the prerequisites of the apt student is the ability and willingness to confront, appreciate, and assimilate diverse doctrines from a broad range of sources. Origen is described repeatedly in this long, central portion of the Address as an unrelenting guide, constantly on the lookout to uproot intellectual habits and predispositions that might narrow his disciple’s intellectual field of vision or impede his deeper understanding.

Moral Formation and the Path to Scripture (Chapter 3) In his now classic delineation of the fundamental distinction between our modern conception of “higher education” and that of the late classical world—Marrou’s “civilization of the Paideia”—Peter Brown described the ancients’ “overwhelming tendency to find what is exemplary in

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persons rather than in more general entities. . . . No student ever went, as we do, to a university conceived of as an impersonal institution of learning. . . . He would always have gone to a person—to Libanius, to Origen, to Proclus. The most poignantly expressed relation in the ancient and medieval worlds was that between teacher and pupil.”28 Despite the salience of his observation and its wide acceptance, we have had the benefit of few detailed investigations of this uniquely defining master-pupil relationship. While the significance and ubiquitousness of the “spiritual guide” often have been remarked—and in a series of classic studies by Ilsetraut and Pierre Hadot placed at the very forefront of scholarship29—we still suffer from a dearth of detailed case histories of these relationships. At the very heart of this relation lies the question of moral preparation. The final approach to the study of scripture is not only the result of intellectual preparedness but equally a result of ethical progress and concomitant spiritual advancement. A series of lengthy and vivid discussions punctuate Gregory’s account of ethical instruction, in order to emphasize the purity of mind and soul required for philosophical inquiry. The attitude and attendant practice would appear closely related to the concept of “purification” (or purgation) as it appears in Origen’s own writings as well as in contemporary philosophical sources. And here, once again, the issue of guidance and instruction arises: progress in the study and practice of philosophy seems to have been accompanied, perhaps shadowed, by the forceful direction and guidance of the spiritual master. The portrayal of Origen’s godlike nature throughout the Address resonates clearly with contemporary Middle Platonic speculation on “likeness to God” as the summit of human effort; yet it equally calls up images of the stages of purification preliminary to the approach to things divine. What is most striking, however, is the extent to which Gregory, despite his reliance upon these formulae and his dependence on a broad range of ethical topoi, succeeds in presenting his own precarious status with regard to the strict demands of moral training. The presentation of Origen, his near apotheosis in certain sections of the Address, serve consist-

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ently not only to pay homage to the master but to emphasize the limits of the progression of his pupil. It is, in fact, the role of spiritual guide, so central to the understanding of late ancient Mediterranean spirituality, that defines the position of Origen throughout the composition. Entrusted by Gregory’s guardian angel with the young man’s care and nurture, Origen is shown at every juncture to reveal more than human qualities: his ascetic control of the bodily passions, his deep discernment of the needs of his student, his own unparalleled, in fact, unlimited, powers of understanding—all these bring Gregory to speak of his master within a discourse of the practical possibility of divinization. Indeed, the path to scripture in the Address is in many respects a discourse on Greco-Roman and early Christian conceptions of the human-divine continuum. This remarkably elevated representation of Origen would appear to be directly linked to the ultimate goal of the overarching course of study: the attainment of the state of moral and intellectual purity necessary for the study of scripture. Only through active engagment with the varied fields of philosophy—the acquisition of virtue, discernment, and wisdom, as exemplified by Origen’s paradigmatic state of being and knowledge—can scripture be approached. Given what we know of Origen’s own reflections on varied aspects of biblical hermeneutics—not a few of them compiled in the first fourteen chapters of the Philocalia, the fourthcentury anthology of the controversial Alexandrian’s writings—the reader reaches this point in the Address prepared for a signature revelation of his exegetical prowess. Might we not have expected Gregory to provide either theoretical insight into Origen’s practice of lectio divina or, perhaps, examples of that practice? Yet here, when his account reaches these highest matters, Gregory suddenly (and frustratingly) falls silent. His few observations depart from the rigorously philosophical tenor of the description of his own studies, as he dwells on the unique status of Origen as an inspired exegete. While the interpretation of scripture may be the ultimate aim of the rigorous training in Caesarea, there is no explicit indication of the methods of instruction or of the practice by which this could have been transmitted or inculcated.

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Paradise and the Cave (Chapter 4) The Thanksgiving Address to Origen is, in fact, born of a violent rupture in Gregory’s life. The conditions that led him into Origen’s orbit, the nature of the attraction between the student and his teacher, the manner and substance of the schooling over a period of years, and the wondrous portrayal of his master—the lengthy and highly stylized account of all these ultimately is presented to the reader as a direct consequence of their termination. So long as the pupil thrived and grew in his teacher’s presence, his voice was unnecessary, even undesirable. Gregory’s departure from the school creates the circumstances that demand his address: he is compelled to break the fitting silence of a pupil before his master and, in strangely novel fashion, speak while his teacher listens. The leave-taking address (logos suntaktikos) is a well-documented rhetorical trope and served as standard school exercise of the sort in which Gregory must have been well trained. Furthermore, it may be possible to reconstruct, or at least hypothesize, a Sitz im Leben: a discrete occasion behind the composition. I will argue, in fact, that the closing section of the composition almost certainly corresponds to an oral address of appreciation, most likely delivered in the presence of Origen himself. At the core of the final sections of Gregory’s work is this harsh tension between silence and speech. The composition opened with a high rhetorical flourish, emphasizing the inappropriateness, the virtual impossibility, of a speech of praise and thanksgiving—were it not, of course, for the ethical counterweight, the pending guilt of ingratitude. The work as a whole is presented as a discharge of this obligation. Undoubtedly true enough, but the closing pages of the work provide a still more immediate context: a leave-taking ceremony, in which the student breaks his extended role of listener and speaks before his teacher, a gift of sorts, a ceremonial courtesy prior to departure, an assurance that his years have left their indelible impression. It is a “performance”—highly ritualized and yet no less deeply felt—that also serves as the final link in the bond between master and pupil.

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The artistry of this final portion of the Address lies in the tension between divergence and harmonization. The body of Gregory’s actual “speech” before Origen—a lament and exhortation based on a striking exercise in biblical exegesis—differs stylistically and thematically from virtually everything that has preceded it. At the same time, certain lexical elements within this scriptural address as well as the framework that enfolds it correspond closely with the larger Address in a variety of striking ways. In literary terms, this section is an accomplished rhetorical piece, standing on its own in structure and scope, yet also deeply intertwined, lexically and thematically, with the early sections of the work, and especially the description of Gregory’s early career and the events leading up to his encounter with Origen. The overall effect is one of carefully designed inclusio, as these final passages echo and reverse both the themes and vocabulary introduced at an earlier stage. Nevertheless, it is possible to argue that this final piece, while now intricately woven into the overall context of the composition, once had an independent role: perhaps as the core of an actual address delivered by Gregory before his teacher on the eve of departure. The principal themes and controlling imagery of Gregory’s farewell discourse are drawn from scriptural depictions of banishment, loss, and exile: the primordial expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden, gospel portraits of waste and perdition, the captivity of the Israelites in Babylonia. The effect is irresistible, as the student relates his personal loss at having to depart the school in Caesarea to a series of biblical events of truly cataclysmic proportions. The theme and attendant images serve at once to emphasize his former happiness and well-being in sharp contrast to the desolation that awaits him. A striking problem lurks behind this controlling imagery and argument, however. While the dramatic potential of the expulsion from the garden and associated themes of exile and abandonment are masterfully exploited and lend expressive depth to Gregory’s sense of impending loss, the significance of the event remains unclear. Gregory claims (repeatedly) neither to know nor to comprehend the cause of his

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“punishment” and attendant woeful condition. Nothing in his account has prepared us for the moment, and we find ourselves genuinely confused by his departure from Origen. If so remarkably fortunate as to have found his way (or to have been guided) into the “paradise of God,” the presence of Origen—what could be sufficiently compelling to cause him to fall away from this paradigm of perfection and to distance himself from the divine? In short, the conditions and rationale underlying this rift are left to our imagination in what would seem to be the sending forth of the pupil by the master himself. What did Origen say to those leaving his study circle? Which words could have prepared or reconciled his disciples to their reemergence in the world of sound and fury? How would he have brought them to accept their obligation to return to a life from which he had so forcefully and persuasively removed them? This quandary would appear to correspond closely with a problem lying at the very core of classical moral inquiry and at the center of Plato’s Republic—and it may well be precisely this discussion that underlies Gregory’s own self-presentation in the Address. Just as Plato’s potential philosopher-rulers are constrained (painfully) to ascend from their shadow-like existence and to partake of the dazzling reality of the realm of truth, so are they later compelled to descend and return to their former abode and its dwellers. Ultimately, if never explicitly, Plato’s cave is no less an omnipresent figure in Gregory’s work than the biblical paradise. Indeed, two myths construct the arc of the Thanksgiving Address, one scriptural-cosmogonic, the other philosophical-educational. The fact that they are held together in tense but fruitful coexistence is in itself eloquent witness to the complexity of the pedagogic experience that Origen offered his pupils.

Paideia, Loss, and Prospect (Chapter 5) The concluding chapter of this study opens with an attempt to assess the nature of loss, which plays so central a role in Gregory’s Address. To what extent do notions of absence, departure, and exile bring us to the very

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heart of the work? Is there a manner in which the very existence of the Address is determined by these concepts that, in turn, determine our own reading of the text? These concerns then allow one to appreciate the Address and its major themes within a somewhat different context: an invaluable point of conjunction, an intellectual and spiritual bridge of sorts, between themes first developed by early Alexandrian authors (Jewish-Hellenistic and Christian) and the formative Christian literature and thought of the fourth century. No less significant, though, are broader issues of continuity. Conflicts between academic and ecclesiastical authority, the flowering of spiritual instruction and guidance, debates over human progress and perfection—these and other central concerns find seminal expression in Gregory’s account. Fully appreciated, the Address serves as an unexpected but remarkably prescient prelude to a series of transformations in late ancient Christian thought and practice. Among the most elusive questions facing the student of the preConstantinian church is the manner in which certain structures of early Christian life were either modified or radically altered in the wake of imperial intervention and ecclesiastical institutionalization. A particularly intriguing instance of these shiftings of intellectual attitudes between the third and fourth centuries touches upon the figure of the charismatic teacher and his relationship with the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Needless to say, Origen has attracted considerable attention in this regard, precisely because of his deeply ambivalent (and often outspoken) stance on the question of teaching authority and church leadership.30 Gregory’s account of the intellectual environment attendant on his studies with Origen both sharpens and lends enormous breadth to the broader discussion of the question. Closely aligned with these concerns are the new models of spiritual and intellectual instruction and discipleship within ascetic contexts, and their representation in the emergent hagiographical literature of the fourth century and beyond. Finally, the Address allows some concluding thoughts on its significance as an educational document, both in terms of long-range historical trajectories and in the light of modern discussions and insights.

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Note on the Citation of the Thanksgiving Address to Origen Throughout this study, references to the Address are given in parentheses, e.g., (7.93), according to the accepted divisions of the text into sections and paragraphs. My translation of the text does not attempt to preserve the heights (or, at times, complexity) of Gregory’s prose. Rather, its aim is to provide a straightforward English rendering of the work, with an emphasis on the clearest possible reflection of the verbal repetitions and echoes that run throughout the text and that provide our most trustworthy guide to the central themes and concerns of the author. I have regularly consulted and am deeply indebted to previous translators, principally Henri Crouzel and Michael Slusser.31 Ultimately, however, neither they nor I have solved the innumerable lexical and syntactic difficulties of the Greek text—much remains to be accomplished in that regard, as in others.

on e

Providence, Eros, and Constraint Tu m’hai di servo tratto a libertate per tutte quelle vie, per tutt’ i modi che di ciò fare avei la potestate. You drew me out from slavery to freedom, by all those paths, by all those means, that were within your power.1

The opening pages of the Address are so highly stylized, so unmistakably the product of an author trained in the mechanics of the GrecoRoman rhetorical tradition, that the reader might despair of any possible encounter with the living relationship between teacher and student. This conclusion would be natural and yet mistaken. Gregory’s text, while deeply inflected by the training he had received and so successfully assimilated, is at the same time one of our very rare, documented points of entry to the intimacy of ancient educational practice. Nowhere is this more tangible or poignant than in his evocation of the earliest stages of the relationship with Origen: the unpredictable path that led him from his home in northern Asia Minor to the coast of Palestine, the unlikely nature of their initial encounters, the unforeseen emotional depth of Gregory’s attachment. Indeed, there is an opportunity to turn what might be perceived as a textual cul-de-sac, the highly rhetorical framing of his initial encounter with Origen, into a privileged means of access. Behind Gregory’s language, traditional and formulaic in 29

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its basic features, lies invaluable testimony to intimacy and its cultural expression.

providence Having weighed the constraints of silence (1.1–2.20) against the offense of ingratitude (3.21–30), Gregory reluctantly embarks on his “thanksgiving address” (logos charistērios [3.31]), and from the outset issues of agency and freedom come to the fore. Deeply conscious of the need to offer hymns and praises of gratitude toward the Deity, yet overwhelmed by the concomitant impossibility of doing so in a fitting manner, Gregory describes God as the “leader and cause of all things” (3.32). Turning to a more accessible and appropriate object of thanksgiving, the Savior and the “first-begotten Word,” Gregory assigns the corresponding title of “creator and pilot of all things” (4.35). These functions and concomitant titles would appear to be neither accidentally nor loosely attributed; rather they have been chosen to emphasize the guidance and control that the Deity, in its different aspects, exercises over both the natural world and human affairs.2 Descending the scale of divine hierarchy, Gregory ultimately focuses on his very own angelic escort. Here, the theme of divine oversight is both strengthened and personalized: “appointed by some great judgment to manage and to raise and to guide me from childhood” (4.40), this guardian figure served as Gregory’s own “personal pedagogue” (4.43). In a proleptic summary of the circumstances that were to bring him ultimately to Caesarea Maritima and to Origen, Gregory acknowledges the unfailing intervention of this angelic guide: Aside from his being good in every respect altogether, he was my tutor and guardian. . . . Both then and still today he rears and trains and leads [me] by the hand; and above all else he arranged to introduce me to this man [Origen]. . . . With truly divine and wise foresight he [the angelic guide] brought us together and contrived this meeting as my salvation. I can only suppose that he foresaw this earlier, from my first birth and upbringing. (4.44–46)

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Gregory’s experience is, of course, deeply rooted in a broader cultural ambience: the acute sense of the presence of an invisible guide, the confidence in an unseen but no less real companion, were staples of widely variant forms of late ancient spirituality.3 Gregory’s angel is repeatedly described in terms drawn from the realm of training and education: “personal pedagogue,” “nourisher and protector,” “divine pedagogue and true guardian,” “good guide and protector.” No less significant, however, is the emphasis on the elements of “foresight” and “management” (oikonomia), which lend a providential atmosphere to the passage. This theme represents in many respects the infrastructure of the entire opening movement of Gregory’s narrative. As his personal story unfolds (5.48–72), relating the unlikely chain of events that brought him into the sphere of Origen in Caesarea, Gregory also deepens his reflection on the guiding hand of divine providence. This alone could make sense of the series of personal circumstances that were to lead him from birth and childhood in a distant land plagued by “misguided ancestral customs” (5.48) to an unforeseen and unintended destination, bathed in the light of the “true sun” (6.73). Following a prolonged description (5.50–54) of his youthful awakening to the power of reason (logos), human and divine—which scholars continue to find perplexingly ambiguous4 —Gregory offers a very few, but enticing details of his early education. Following the elementary stages of study, and through the concerns and efforts of his mother, he had been sent to study rhetoric in order that eventually he might too acquire that profession. In this manner, the chain of events had been set in progress. At this stage, Gregory’s “divine pedagogue and true protector, ever wakeful” (5.57), takes matters under control: the rhetorician (and teacher of the Latin language) to whom Gregory has been entrusted suddenly finds himself moved, “by a more divine inspiration” (5.61), to employ his estimable powers of persuasion in order to encourage his charge to study Roman law (5.58–61). In this manner, Gregory’s teacher too had become an unwitting agent of the divine plan concerning the student’s ultimate destination.

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A tone of forcefulness and purpose pulses throughout this account of divinely inspired progression from rhetoric to the study of Roman law: “When I became a student of these very laws, whether of my own will or not, somehow bonds already had been forged” (5.62). While the ultimate consequence couldn’t have been appreciated by Gregory or those around him, the geographical effect was immediate: transfer to the city of Berytus, present-day Beirut, on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean—“most Roman in character and with a highly regarded school for the study of the law.”5 This was quickly to prove a further and essential component of the divine scheme. For only several years earlier (233/4?) a very differently motivated journey had transpired further south along the Mediterranean coast: under circumstances not completely transparent to the modern historian, though certainly far from irenic, Origen had departed his native city of Alexandria in order to take up duties as teacher and presbyter in the city of Caesarea on the coast of Roman Palestine.6 While these relocations, to Berytus and Caesarea respectively, had closed the distance between the unknowing student and his divinely appointed teacher, the two men would have remained, nevertheless, at a significant remove from each other. One further strategem was required, or in Gregory’s words, “How then was this too contrived?” (5.65). If concern regarding Gregory’s education and professional career, on the one hand, and the bitter ecclesiastical strife surrounding Origen over questions of episcopal authority, on the other, had sufficed to this point, providence now had set the wheels of the imperial administration in motion: the governor of Roman Palestine abruptly summoned Gregory’s brother-in-law, an expert in legal affairs himself, to report to his service in Caesarea. As soon as he had settled there, he sent for his wife, Gregory’s sister, and the military consort who escorted her to the administrative capital in order to rejoin her husband also served as a traveling companion for her brother (5.65–67). To the vicarious agencies of Gregory’s legal career and the ecclesiastical politics of Alexandria had been added the designs of the Roman governor of Palestine. (Historians might have wished that Gregory had been just a bit more gener-

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ous at this stage of his narrative in sharing the names of the actors involved and a few other precious details—yet here too, as previously observed, we encounter a characteristic reticence, ordained perhaps by the restraints of the literary genre or by the influence of the man who was to become Gregory’s spiritual master.) However unknowing Gregory may have been at the time, none of this occurred accidentally or by chance; indeed, the purposiveness of all these events and the necessity of all those involved would become starkly apparent in retrospect: “Everything, then, was moving us: good will toward our sister, our studies, and even the soldier, since he too should be mentioned” (5.69). And while the actual events may have been “manifest,” the underlying mechanism and its salvific implications remained “hidden” (5.70) to Gregory. Ultimately, however, Gregory was to recognize both the higher purpose and the true agent behind this remarkable concatenation of decisions and determinations: It was not the soldier, then, but some divine fellow-traveler, a good guide and guardian. . . . He was the maker and mover of all things until by every contrivance he would bind [us] with this cause of so many good things for us. . . . And when, having come through so much, he entrusted the management to this man, the divine messenger perhaps rested here as well, not from weariness or fatigue, for the race of divine servants is untiring, but because he had entrusted [this] to a person who would satisfy as far as possible all providence and care. (5.71–72)

“This man,” the unnamed Origen, is more than simply the destination to which the angelic consort safely had delivered his charge—he was to become the next (and final) stage of stewardship. The “divine fellowtraveler” and “good guide and guardian” now transferred to “this man” the very management (oikonomia) with which he had been charged, entrusting him with the providence (pronoia) and care (epimeleia) for his charge. Gregory had, at long last and by means of every possible divine mechanism, been united with Origen. For Gregory, the outcome was to be as beneficent as it had been unforeseen and yet inevitable: “truly the first, the most precious of all days for me, if it need be said,

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when the true sun first began to rise on me” (6.73)—the beginning of his new life. Within this extended narrative of angelic guidance and providential care, questions arise concerning the element of choice and Gregory’s own measure of freedom: his expressions of unlimited gratitude to the Deity and his attendant angel have necessary implications for our understanding of the degree of autonomy exercised by the human agent himself. Gregory’s account heightens this concern through the use of decidedly determinative language: the protective spirit “rears and trains and leads [me] by the hand” (4.44); his own acts followed “more under constraint than willingly” (5.50); the decision to study in Berytus was truly “willing and unwilling” (hekōn kai akōn) and the result of “bonds [that] had already been forged” (5.62); by means of the closely coordinated train of events “everything was moving us” (5.69), though we remained “blind and unknowing” (5.70); finally, under the guidance of that angelic consort who had been the “the maker and mover of all things” (5.71), Gregory was “entrusted” (5.72) to Origen. We might well expect the preeminent motif of divine providence to recede, once Gregory has arrived in Caesarea and entered the gravitational field of Origen. (Having heard him preach? Actively recruited by another student or, perhaps, by Origen himself? Once again, our composition is frustratingly taciturn.) And so it does, as Origen takes center stage, and the presence of both divine and angelic actors is reduced and modulated in the central portion of Gregory’s text. Yet the closely attendant concern over the limitations of human agency and the underlying question of Gregory’s exercise of free will had not been resolved by his arrival in Caesarea and entrance into the circle of Origen. Quite the opposite, in fact: it could be argued that it was there, under the influence and tutelage of Origen, that Gregory was to experience the most acute and significant curtailment of his freedom. To appreciate this is to enter into the very special nature of the relationship between the student and his master.

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presence The initial encounter with Origen—the first real day of Gregory’s life—was far from idyllic. Though retrospectively enshrined as “the most precious of all days . . . when the true sun first began to rise,” Gregory records the beginning of the relationship as both emotionally charged and filled with misgiving. Indeed, his tersely vivid description of those early days with Origen suggest extreme uneasiness: “At first, like wild animals or fish or birds that have fallen into the nets of hunters or fishermen, we attempted to slip away and to escape, desiring to withdraw from him either to Berytus or to our fatherland” (6.73). While this may have been the aftereffect of the long journey to Palestine or simply the shock of Caesarea and the young man’s consequent disorientation, Gregory is quite explicit about the desire to flee his new teacher: we can safely assume that the encounter with Origen must have been, alternately, one of deep fascination and equally profound discomfort. But escaping Origen was no easy matter: “He contrived by every stratagem to bind us to [him], he employed every manner of argument, leaving no stone unturned, as the saying goes, and exercised all his powers” (6.74). The image of the student as a trapped bird, fish, or beast is striking, though not peculiar to our text, and in a rather distinct homiletic context Origen himself was to exploit the motif in order to describe the conditions under which the soul of the catechumen “changes and transforms itself and becomes better and more godly than it was formerly.”7 Gregory’s acute initial sense of being “trapped” or “bound” is arresting, nonetheless, and will become both more prominent and significant in the course of his account. The full implications of Origen’s forceful tutelage continue to emerge in the subsequent account of his introductory exhortation to his students. The subject would seem to have been a highly traditional call to take up the life of philosophical inquiry: “The only ones to live the life that truly is proper to rational beings are those who strive to

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live uprightly, and who know first themselves for who they are and next the really good things, which a person ought to pursue, and the truly bad things, which one must flee” (6.75). Ignorant of the unique endowment of reason (logos), the majority of men wander like “brute beasts” (alogoi); seeking material goods, fame, and physical well-being above all else, they develop only the skills and pursue only the professions likely to bring them such rewards. Indeed, Origen continues, the attainment of true piety (eusebeia), piety toward the “ruler of all things,” is impossible for anyone who does not choose to lead a philosophical life (6.76– 77, 79). The exhortation was unrelenting: “I cannot recount now how many such words he offered urging us (protrepōn) to practice philosophy, not one day alone but for most of those first days that we remained with him” (6.78), Gregory concludes. But it was neither the torrent of words nor the arguments themselves that left the deepest impression; for while the message itself may have been somewhat commonplace, this new teacher certainly was not. Indeed, the effect of Origen’s protreptic discourse on the superiority of reason (logos) was hardly limited to the realm of strictly rational demonstration. Speaking forcefully and with unusual artistry, Origen’s address “shook” the new students, and the peculiar power of his words ultimately proved well-nigh irresistible: “We were struck by his discourse from the outset, as if by a dart, for it was a mixture of a seductive grace with persuasion and a certain constraint (anankē)” (6.78). Gregory proceeds to intensify the sense of vacillation and uncertainty that underlies his powerlessness as he falls under Origen’s control: “On the one hand, we resisted devoting ourselves to the life of philosophy, still not entirely persuaded; and, on the other hand, for some unknown reason we were unable to depart, but were constantly drawn to him by his words, as if under certain still greater constraints” (6.78). Whatever lingering doubts or unwillingness remained, however, the students ultimately could not withstand the sheer force of Origen’s presence, as he continues to press them to accept the life of philosophy, explaining that only in that way could they attain true piety. Gregory can no longer resist:

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Until, as he poured out more and more arguments like these one after another, he finally rendered us completely immobile through his arts, like those who have been bewitched (gegoēteumenous), supported in his words, I know not how, by some divine power. (6.80)

The effect and efficacy of Origen’s teaching might seem, at this juncture, to have taken on a slightly more menacing character; indeed, Gregory’s carefully constructed description invites us to regard his experience within the perspective of a far older tradition of instruction and exhortation. In the course of one of his interrogations on the subject of virtue, Socrates is famously reported to have brought Meno, his unwitting “partner” in conversation, to the point of such complete intellectual desperation and confusion (aporia) that Meno lashes out with a devastating assessment of his relentless interlocutor: Socrates, before I even met you I used to hear that you are always in a state of perplexity and that you bring others to the same state, and now I think you are bewitching (goēteueis) and beguiling me, simply putting me under a spell, so that I am quite perplexed. Indeed, if a joke is in order, you seem, in appearance and in every other way, to be like the broad torpedo fish, for it too makes anyone who comes close and touches it feel numb, and you now seem to have had that kind of effect on me, for both my mind and my tongue are numb, and I have no answer to give you. Yet I have made many speeches about virtue before large audiences on a thousand occasions, very good speeches as I thought, but now I cannot even say what it is. I think you are wise not to sail away from Athens to go and stay elsewhere, for if you were to behave like this as a stranger in another city, you would be driven away as being a sorcerer (goēs).8

The accusation by Meno is a particularly harsh one, and scholars are deeply divided in their understanding of Plato’s intention here: how does this assessment correspond with different facets of Socratic selfpresentation, and why does it come so disturbingly close to Socrates’s own criticism of the rhetorical practices of others? One thinks particularly of the Platonic portrayal of Gorgias (and his allies) and that

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sophist’s own presentation of persuasive language as a form of sorcery.9 Underlying these perceptions of extreme verbal force—speech that can stun, even paralyze, those addressed—is the nexus of rhetoric and magic, the intersecting spheres of the artfully powerful word and of invasive, coercive power.10 Not only does Gregory’s presentation of Origen vividly recall the Platonic passage, but most interesting, perhaps, is that here too one senses a measure of ambivalence in the resulting portrait. Are we expected to regard with perfect equanimity the (divine?) powers of Origen, which leave his young hearers immobilized and “bewitched”? In fact, the complexity of the characterization may be surmised from the subsequent discourse by Gregory on the dangers of enchantment and his warning that logos (human speech and argument) penetrates the ears to make an impression on the mind and determines it; and it decisively persuades those once possessed that it is to be cherished as true and to remain within, false and deceptive though it be, like a dominating sorcerer (goēs kratōn), causing the one deceived to be his champion. (13.155)

This is only the first of a number of complex, and even somewhat startling, Platonic echoes that the composition holds in store for us. Yet this is far more than simply a literary conceit or device, for it marks the onset of Gregory’s very serious challenge to the reader to envision his new teacher in deeply Socratic terms. Ultimately, however, as unsettling as this initial encounter with Origen must have been, its unnerving quality would seem to have been balanced quickly by a strong sense of trust and reassurance: And, indeed, he stung us with the goad (kentron) of friendship (not easily overcome but sharp and most effective) and of kindness and of good disposition: so favorable toward us that it showed in his very tones as he addressed and conversed with us. He was not trying to encircle us with words, but rather, with intention honest and benevolent and helpful, to save us and to establish us as partners in the good things of philosophy. (6.81)

At the foundation of the uneasy reconciliation with this troubling master is a recognition of his remarkable status: Origen is himself the

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divinely endowed bearer of “the instructor of piety, the saving Logos”— all-powerful yet “hidden, and neither easily nor even with difficulty known to the multitude” (6.82). The unnerving nature of Gregory’s treatment at the hands of Origen—alternately bound, trapped, pierced, paralyzed, stung11— remains inescapable, however, and demands closer attention. Why should the grateful student, in the course of a carefully designed and highly charged encomium, have accented so sharply the forceful, even irresistibly coercive, behavior of his revered teacher? The next stage in Gregory’s account of their relationship adds a further aspect of Socratic modeling, a new dimension of complexity, and offers, perhaps, a path toward a deeper and more satisfying explanation.

eros The encounter with the master—the dramatic process by which Gregory has fallen into the “net” of Origen and been forcefully introduced to the world of philosophical inquiry, from its very inception a meld of intertwined attraction and discomfort—suddenly takes on a new urgency and level of intensity: “Like a spark landed in the midst of our soul, the love (erōs) for the most attractive Word (Logos), holy and most desired in its unspeakable beauty, and for this man [Origen] who is its friend and advocate, was kindled and inflamed” (6.83). “Gravely wounded” by the intensity of this passion for the Logos and its bearer, Gregory reports that, against all expectations and common sense, “I was persuaded to neglect all the matters or studies that seemed suitable for us, even my beautiful laws, as well as my native land and relatives, both those close at hand and those from whom we were removed. One thing was dear and beloved to me: philosophy and its guide, this divine human being” (6.84). This deep (erotic) desire for the Logos and for Wisdom and the complementary attraction toward Origen—the friend and advocate of the Logos, the “head of the school” of philosophy—becomes a passion so overwhelming as to cause Gregory to turn his back on family, friends, and vocation.

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This is, perhaps, the earliest of a remarkable series of passages throughout Gregory’s Address where one feels that the student has imbibed deeply from his teacher and displays a careful adaptation of his instruction. The passion Gregory describes cannot but remind us of that described by Origen himself on multiple occasions as the intense desire for the Logos; nowhere so famously and boldly, however, as in his description of the Bridegroom of the Song of Songs: And the soul is moved by heavenly love and longing when, having clearly beheld the beauty and fairness of the Word of God, it falls deeply in love with His loveliness and receives from the Word Himself a certain dart and wound of love. . . . If, then, a man can so extend his thinking as to ponder and consider the beauty and grace of all the things that have been created in the Word, the very charm of them will so smite him, the grandeur of their brightness will so pierce him as with a “chosen dart”—as says the prophet (Isa 49:2)—that he will suffer from the dart Himself a saving wound, and will be kindled with the blessed fire of his love.12

The wound, the dart, the flame—all these shared and essential features of the erotic attraction toward the Logos—leave us little doubt that Gregory’s account reflects years of tutelage in Origen’s school. Further, Gregory’s insistence that this overpowering attraction was not only toward the divine Word but equally to its earthly conduit and spokesman bears a striking relationship to his teacher’s own daring formulation of the intertwined role of the Logos and its human interpreter: How blessed it is to be wounded by this dart! Those men who talked together, saying to each other, “Was not our heart burning within us in the way, whilst He opened to us the Scriptures?” (Lk 24:32), had been wounded by this dart. If anyone is wounded by our discourse, if any is wounded by the teaching of the Divine Scripture, and can say, “I have been wounded by love,” perhaps he follows both the former and the latter.13

Confident in the essentially scriptural moorings of this erotic dimension, Gregory’s very next words upend the reader’s expectations and thrust us forcefully into a very different context: “ ‘And the soul of Jonathan was bound to [the soul of] David.’ I read this only later in the sacred writ-

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ings, but earlier I experienced it no less distinctly than it was recorded, as it was prophesied in most distinct terms” (6.85). The extended passage that follows describing the erotic bond between Jonathan and David—an explicit model for that between student and teacher—is grounded in the striking interpolation of the scriptural figures within a classical framework of discussion, as Gregory now forges a link between his own experience and that of generations of “lovers of wisdom” extending back to the young men who surrounded Socrates. Beneath the guise of the scriptural narrative—“The soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David” (1 Sam 18:1)14 —Gregory speaks of the deep emotional attachment through which he is bound to Origen, making broad use of traditional Greek vocabulary and imagery associated with the experience of friendship and love: For Jonathan was not bound to David as a whole, but his soul, the higher parts, which are not cut off when the apparent and visible elements have been cut off from a person, and which will not be constrained by any means, for they never move involuntarily. For the soul is free and not imprisoned in any way. . . . So has not “the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David” perfectly expressed in the very fewest words what I experienced? Those things that, as I said, will never be forced apart involuntarily will not easily be parted even voluntarily by an act of will. For I think that the power to break these sacred and loving bonds does not belong to the inferior party, who is fickle and easily misled and could not do the binding by itself in the first place, but to the superior one, who is stable and not easily shaken, and is more capable of fashioning these bonds and this sacred knot. Therefore, it was not the soul of David that was bound by the divine word to the soul of Jonathan, but just the opposite: the soul of the inferior is described in the passive as being bound to the soul of David. The greater, since it is self-sufficient, would not choose to be bound to its inferior, but the inferior, in need of assistance from its better, ought to be attached to the superior as one bound. That way the latter, remaining independent, takes no harm from its communion with its inferior, while the other, undisciplined in itself, when it is bound and conformed to the greater is held under the sway of the greater without being injured in the least by the constraints of its bonds. So also it was the role of the one who excelled, and not

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of the lesser, to forge the bonds; it is proper to the inferior to be bound and to be as it were powerless to escape from the bonds. By such constraints this David, having bound us, holds us now as ever since that time, nor even if we wished could we be freed from his bonds. Not even if we should depart will he let go our souls, since he holds them thus “bound” according to the terms of holy scripture. (6.86–92)

This remarkable account of erotic pedagogy and the intimate bond between teacher and student—despite its explicit anchoring in the scriptural record and its characters—is clearly based on principles of friendship and love that can be traced from the dialogues of Plato through the philosophical traditions contemporary with our text. The recurrent designation of David as the “superior” (to kreittōn) and Jonathan as the “inferior” (to cheirōn) corresponds to the familiar taxonomy of the active “lover” (erastēs) and the passive “beloved” (erōmenos) and the orderly relationship between them.15 Yet with a crucial difference. The essential inequality of the relationship between the teacher and student, between Origen and Gregory— the former (the superior) completely in control and the latter (the inferior) under his control—represents a basic inversion of the structure and dynamic of the traditional erotic relationship. While the older “lover” (erastes) was classically the one struck by desire for a youthful “beloved” (eromenos), and their relationship had its basis in that hierarchical attraction, Gregory’s narrative describes his own attraction to his unmoved master. This inversion, of course, is not at all Gregory’s invention, but rather the extrapolation of the Socratic/Platonic reversal of the erotic situation. Perhaps the most apt illustration of the fundamental understanding that underlies this pedagogy of eros can be drawn from the Handbook (Didaskalikos) of Platonism composed by the second-century Middle Platonic philosopher Alcinous16 —a figure, as we shall see, of recurring interest for the appreciation of Gregory’s text. In the course of his discussion of “friendship,” Alcinous turns to “erotic love” (erōs):

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Erotic love is also in its way a form of friendship. There is an honorable form of love, which is that of a noble soul, there is a base form, which is that of a bad soul, and there is a median form, which is that of a soul in a median state. . . . That there are three is indicated particularly by the fact that they have aims which differ from one another. The one that is base is directed only at the body, dominated by pleasure and in this respect taking on a bestial character; the noble one is directed only at the soul, which demonstrates its suitability for promoting virtue; and the median one is directed at the combination of body and soul, being attracted to the body, but directing itself also towards the beauty of the soul.

And thus concludes his examination: The person who is a suitable object of love, also, occupies a median position, being neither bad nor good. For this reason the personification of Love should be identified, not as a god, but rather as a daemon—never entering into an earthy body, however, but “transmitting to men what comes from the gods” (Symposium 202e), and vice versa. Generally speaking, given that love is distinguished into these three aforementioned species, the love of the good lover, being free from passion, can be regarded as an art, and hence has its place in the rational part of the soul. Its aims are to discern the worthy object of love, to gain possession of it, and to make use of it. One selects such a one on the basis of whether his aims and impulses are noble, are directed towards Beauty, and are strong and ardent. He who sets out to gain such an object of love will not gain it by spoiling or heaping praises on his beloved, but rather by restraining him, and demonstrating to him that life in his present state is not worth living. When he captures the affections of his beloved, he will make use of this position by passing on to him the means by which he may become perfectly exercised in virtue; and the aim for this pair is to progress from being lover and beloved to becoming friends.17

The passage is complex—a not-atypical amalgam of Platonic, Aristotelian, and Stoic elements18—but illustrates well the basic pedagogical “inequality” that lies at the very heart of Gregory’s discussion as well. As in the text of Alcinous, David/Origen will restrain his beloved and demonstrate that his present life is “not worth living” (Symposium 216a),

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using his influence over Jonathan/Gregory to assist him in his progress toward the perfect exercise of virtue. Before concluding the discussion of Gregory’s remarkable description of the relationship between Jonathan and David (and, of course, his own with Origen), some very brief remarks are in order regarding the history of the exegesis of the underlying biblical text (1 Sam 18:1). The early intepretation of this verse can be summarized with the utmost economy: virtually nonexistent. With the exception of the passage before us, premedieval Christian commentators would appear to have shown virtually no interest in this verse and its possible significance. (This silence includes, interestingly enough, Origen himself.) It might be noted that rabbinic commentators were equally reticent: with the exception of an isolated comment in the tractate Avot (“The Ethics of the Fathers”)—where the relationship of Jonathan and David is noted, without further elaboration, as an example of unconditional love, “contingent upon nothing”—this verse and its context are scarcely explored.19 Given the bold use that Gregory makes of the text here, one is tempted to draw the conclusion that it may have been, in fact, the exception that proves the rule: the binding of the souls of Jonathan and David was deemed a theme better served by silence than by explicit interpretative discussion. Moreover, the silence of the ancients concerning Jonathan and David is curiously mirrored in the reservation of modern scholarship regarding this passage in Gregory’s Address: the boldness of the description has been passed over in telling silence by most readers of the work, and the suggestion that the relationship between Gregory and Origen may have been homoerotic in nature has itself been greeted with further silence or embarrassed denial.20 It is fascinating, precisely in this context, to see how several generations later in the fourth century this description of the intimacy between teacher and student may have been interpreted and partially neutralized. Gregory of Nazianzus’s funeral oration for his contemporary and colleague Basil of Caesarea provides one of the most celebrated descriptions from the fourth century of the intense bonding between male

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friends.21 In the course of his description of Basil’s youthful studies, prior to the return to Cappadocia to assume ecclesiastical duties, Gregory somewhat hesitantly breaks the course of his narrative: Up to this point my discourse has proceeded smoothly, bearing me along on an even, and very easy, and truly royal highway in my praises of this man. But now I am at a loss for words and know not which way to turn, for my speech has encountered an obstacle. At this point I should like to profit by the occasion to add some facts concerning myself to what has been said, and to delay a little in my narrative to tell you about the origin, the circumstance, and the beginning of our friendship, or, to speak more exactly, about our full accord of heart and nature. For the eye is not wont to turn away readily from attractive sights, and if it is forcefully drawn away, it is wont to return to them again. And the same is true of discourse when there is question of narrating what is very pleasing to us. Yet I fear the difficulty of the undertaking, and I will speak, therefore, with all possible reserve. If loving regret forces me beyond bounds, pardon this most just of all feelings, not to experience which would be a great loss, at least in the judgment of intelligent men.22

The following pages of Gregory’s oration are then devoted to a stirring account of the intimate relationship that developed between the two young men during their time together as students in Athens. Initially, this is the result of Gregory’s intervention on behalf of Basil, in order that he not be subjected to the hazing customarily accorded newcomers. “This was the prelude to our friendship,” Gregory writes. “This was the spark that enkindled our union. It was thus that we were struck with a mutual love.” A subsequent incident finds the two young men united against their fellow students: “This was the second step in our friendship, no longer a spark but a flame that burned bright and high. . . . In this way I restored his good spirits, and by this mutual experience, I bound him to myself all the more.”23 The deepening relationship between Gregory and Basil took its course from there: Then, as time went on, we mutually avowed our affection for each other, and that philosophy was the object of our zeal. Thenceforth we were all in

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all to each other, sharing the same roof, the same table, the same sentiments, our eyes fi xed on one goal, as our mutual affection grew ever warmer and stronger. Carnal loves, centered on that which passes away, also pass away, like the flowers of spring. The flame does not endure when the fuel is exhausted, but disappears along with what kindles it. Desire, likewise, does not abide when its source wastes away. But those loves which are pleasing to God, and chaste, since they have a stable object, are on that account more lasting, and, the more beauty is revealed to them, the more does it bind to itself and to one another those whose love is centered on the same object. This is the law of the love beyond us. We were impelled by equal hopes in the pursuit of learning, a thing especially open to envy. But envy was absent, and emulation intensified our zeal. There was a contest between us, not as to who should have first place for himself, but how he could yield it to the other, for each of us regarded the glory of the other as his own. We seemed to have a single soul animating two bodies. And while credence is not to be given to those who claim that all things are in all, we at least must believe that we were in and with each other. The sole object of us both was virtue and living for future hopes, having detached ourselves from this world before departing from it. With this in view, we directed our life and all our actions, following the guidance of the divine precept, and at the same time spurring each other to virtue, and, if it is not too much to say so, being for each other a rule and a scales for the discernment of good and evil.24

There is no small force in the argument that the model for the portrayal of these two celebrated friends may have been our Gregory’s description of his highly charged relationship with Origen.25 We can observe, however, a significant transformation of the account in the Address to suit the nature of the relationship between the classmates in Athens: Gregory and Basil shared a bond forged between equals, and the erotic language blends effortlessly into the newly emerging rhetoric of friendship. The highly charged inequality of the relationship between master and disciple gives way to the description of the mutual and shared attraction of male friends. Yet one cannot help but be struck by the failure of Gregory of Nazianzus to introduce the figures of David and Jonathan into his text: what more eloquent (and quintessentially scriptural) expression

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could he have found for the depth of feelings that he shared with Basil? We are left with the possibility that this level of exegetical boldness could no longer be tolerated and that Gregory of Nazianzus, in the course of toning down some measure of the erotic discourse, might also have “discarded” the example of David and Jonathan. Indeed, despite this quite remarkable reticence of later Christian tradition regarding the scriptural model employed by Gregory in the Address, the mode of relationship so powerfully presented in our text was to have a long and influential afterlife within a variety of ecclesiastical contexts. This ideal of spiritual bonding between same-sex lovers/ friends, as described by Gregory, would seem to presage aspects of both attitude and practice that would emerge in monastic contexts in the following centuries and continue to play an important role in later medieval and Byzantine educational and religious contexts.26 Yet there remains one centrally important respect in which Gregory’s description of the nature of the relationship between David and Jonathan (and clearly, by extension, his own relationship with Origen) would seem unique, differing from both contemporary parallels, such as the discussion by Alcinous, and subsequent Christian usage of the motif. In his overwhelming emphasis on the inequality of the relationship—stressing the fact that the soul of the inferior party is bound to the soul of the superior—there is an incessant employment of the imagery of binding and constraint. In the presentation of David and Jonathan as exemplars of the “bond” of love, Gregory does not miss an opportunity to describe the utter dependence of Jonathan upon David and his inability to free himself from their relationship: So also it was the role of the one who excelled, and not of the lesser, to forge the bonds (desmoi); it is proper to the inferior to be bound and to be as it were powerless to escape from the bonds. By such constraints (anankē) this David, having bound us, holds us now as ever since that time, nor even if we wished could we be freed from his bonds. Not even if we should depart will he let go our souls, since he holds them thus bound, according to the terms of holy scripture. (6.91–92)

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So striking is the imagery of “bondage” in this highly charged context that we are tempted to wonder whether the scriptural proof text has not been associated in some fashion with the world of erotic coercion, whose binding spells and amulets (Greek katadesmoi = Latin defixiones) similarly bound persons to one another.27 Can there be some sense in which the erotic constraints upon Jonathan/Gregory are being imagined and consequently described in vivid terms borrowed from the nexus of magical practice and desire? Gregory’s presentation of the deeply erotic nature of pedagogy— central to the Greco-Roman tradition but virtually unexplored by early Christian authors—should be recognized, nevertheless, as an integral part of a still more central and encompassing theme of the Address: it has become essential that we return to the overarching motif of coercion and freedom.

constraint In fact, the theme of constraint, even bondage, has been present at every juncture of Gregory’s account from the outset: his initial encounter with the salvific Logos, while still a youth, took place “more under constraint (katēnankasmenos) than willingly (hekōn)” (5.50). Subsequently, led by his divine guardian to the study of law in the city of Berytus, Gregory recalls that he pursued this path “willing and unwilling” (hekōn kai akōn), but, in fact, the “bonds” (desmoi) had already been forged (5.62). Finally, Gregory’s arrival in Caesarea was accomplished by his eminently resourceful guide and protector in order that he might be bound (sundēsetai) (5.71) to a human guardian, Origen. From the very beginning, his relationship with Origen is characterized by constraint and necessity. Describing their initial meeting as “the first real day for me, the most precious of all days,” Gregory immediately continues to observe that when “like wild animals or fish or birds that have fallen into the nets of hunters or fishermen, we attempted to slip away and to escape,” Origen “contrived by every stratagem to

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bind us to him (sundēsasthai); he employed every kind of argument . . . and exercised all his powers” (6.73–74). Subsequently, exhorted to persevere in the life of philosophy, Gregory recalls: I cannot recount now how many such words he offered urging us to practice philosophy, not one day alone but for most of those first days that we remained with him. We were struck by his discourse from the outset, as if by a dart, for it was a mixture of a seductive grace with persuasion and a certain constraint (anankē). But we were turning matters over in our mind and considering: on the one hand, we resisted devoting ourselves to the life of philosophy, still not entirely persuaded; and, on the other hand, for some unknown reason we were unable to depart, but were constantly drawn to him by his words, as if under certain greater constraints (anankais). (6.78)

This rhetoric of pedagogical constraint, as we have seen, then takes on strikingly erotic overtones, in which the language of binding, anchored exegetically in the scriptural account of David and Jonathan, becomes a recurrent and central theme. In fact, though scarcely remarked in studies of the Thanksgiving Address, the semantic field of “bond” (desmos) and “binding” (sundein) truly dominates Gregory’s account of this initial period under Origen’s tutelage (6.73–92): no fewer than twenty occurrences of the noun and varied verbal forms recur in less than five pages of the Greek text.28 As we have seen, however, it is not only the lexical variants of “binding” that contribute to this portrayal of involuntary behavior on the part of the new student. A wide array of Greek vocabulary stands behind the presentation of Gregory’s new existence as marked by force, power, compulsion, coercion, and constraint. Preeminent among these are varied forms and constructions of the Greek lexeme anankē—ranging from the simple notion of need through varied levels of forceful constraint to the abstract conception of Necessity as a cosmic imperative.29 Unlike the notion of “binding”—limited almost exclusively to the section of the text under immediate consideration—the role of “necessity” or “constraint” is represented prominently throughout the work, and particularly as Gregory describes his

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continued progress in the life of philosophy. In the course of his instruction in ethical doctrine, Gregory notes that Origen was constraining (anankazōn) us, if one may say so, to act justly through the proper action of our soul, to which he persuaded us to apply ourselves. . . . Thus he educated by constraining (anankazōn) us, if one may say so, to act justly. (11.138, 140)

And yet, once again, in his description of the highest level of the curriculum, the study of sacred scripture, Gregory observes: So that whether one is hard of soul and distrustful or eager to learn, one might be constrained (anankazoito) in some manner, by learning from this man, to understand, to choose to believe, and to follow God. (15.178)

This is a point to which I shall return and focus attention, naturally, in the coming chapters, within the context of Gregory’s growth and development under Origen’s instruction. It may be worthy of note already, however, that in similar fashion to the resounding silence regarding the erotic character of the relationship between teacher and student, here too critical response has been both partial and largely dismissive: one observes a pronounced tendency to treat these expressions of “constraint” as purely rhetorical and, therefore, of minimal significance.30 In directly related fashion, Gregory reports (6.78) that the peculiar forcefulness of Origen was a combination of “persuasiveness and constraint,” a tandem that recurs with some frequency throughout the composition. It is precisely here that the motif of coercion seems most striking. Greco-Roman literature, for the most part, perceives and presents the concepts of persuasion and force as antipodal entities and their roles as dichotomous alternatives. There is certainly a sense in which Gregory’s own intensive training in the culture of words of persuasion was about to be confronted by the counterweight of coercive words and deeds. In fact, this easy demarcation had always been something of an ideal construct, and the tightly intertwined roles of persuasion and force in their early Christian context have yet to be fully

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assessed. For Gregory, indeed, Origen’s words would seem to have been as much goad as guide.31 The undeniably coercive character of Gregory’s initiation into the study circle in Caesarea in our text would seem to sit uneasily with our accepted understandings of central notions of Origen’s philosophical position—specifically his famed defense of human freedom of will— and his presumed educational outlook. For example, his “notion that the charismatic leader should evoke free obedience. After all, God’s providential design to restore all rational creatures to free obedience is the mainspring of his cosmology, and the leader who mediates the divine should scarcely indulge in a compulsion which God himself so rigorously eschews.” Or the closely aligned perception that “in the eyes of contemporary as well as later critics, Origen’s teaching was weakened by his philosophical and subjective perspective. His focus on intellectual reflection ignored the problems of everyday life and unruly passions.”32 In fact, the treatment that Gregory receives in these early days may not be nearly so discordant as we suspect, but rather demands an alternate vantage—namely, the process of correction that awaits the unruly soul when perceived from a soteriological perspective. In his discussion of an assembly of difficult scriptural passages (e.g., Exod 4:21, 7:3; Ezek 11:19–20) that had been employed to cast doubt on the divine endowment of free will, Origen responds in the following manner: It is as when a man who suffers from ignorance and want of education, and becomes conscious of his personal defects either from the exhortation of his teacher or from his own reflection, entrusts himself to one whom he believes to be capable of leading him on to education and virtue. When he so entrusts himself, his instructor promises to take away his lack of education and to implant in him education, not as if it counted for nothing in regard to his being educated and escaping from his ignorance that he should have brought himself to be cured, but because the instructor promises to improve one who desires improvement.33

Ultimately, all of humankind will be brought to the desired state of salvation—understood by Origen as the state characterized by Paul as one

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of subjection or submission (1 Cor 15:28)—though the mechanism of individual progress and salvation remains a divine mystery: But this subjection will be accomplished through certain means and courses of discipline and periods of time; that is, the whole world will not become subject to God by the pressure of some necessity that compels it into subjection, nor by the use of force, but by word, by reason, by teaching, by the exhortation to better things, by the best methods of education, and also by such merited and appropriate threatenings as are justly held over the heads of those who contemptuously neglect to care for their own salvation and advantage and their spiritual health. For even we men, in training slaves or children, restrain them by means of threats and fear so long as their age renders them incapable of listening to reason; but when they have acquired an understanding of what is good, profitable and honourable then the fear of blows may cease and they can be persuaded by word and by reason to acquiesce in everything that is good.34

This somewhat veiled and cautious, yet nevertheless daring, presentation of the mechanism of salvation—ultimately associated in the following centuries with the much-censored doctrine of the universal restoration (apokatastasis)35—concludes with an expansive discourse on the pedagogic individuation demanded by the process: But how, consistently with the preservation of free will in all rational creatures, each person ought to be dealt with, that is, who they are whom the Word of God discovers to be prepared and capable and so instructs; who they are whom he puts off for a time; who they are from whom the word is utterly hidden and who are destined to be far away from the hearing of it; who again they are that despise the word when it is declared and preached to them and consequently are visited with God’s corrections and chastisements and pressed into salvation and whose conversion is as it were compelled and extorted; who they are for whom God even provides special occasions for salvation, so that sometimes a man has obtained an assured salvation when his faith was revealed by a mere answer; from what causes or on what occasions these things happen, or what the divine wisdom sees as it looks into these men or what movements of theirs will lead God to arrange all these things thus, is known to God alone and to his only-begotten Son, through whom all things were created and restored, and to the

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Holy Spirit, through whom all things are sanctified, who proceedeth from the Father himself, to whom is the glory for ever and ever, Amen.36

Constraint and chastisement become instruments toward the progress of the individual, progress whose final consummation points far beyond the limits of this earthly existence. For Origen, it would appear that these means are not at all incompatible with the power of persuasion and the exercise of free will—they are, it would seem, a necessary corollary.37 Or, as observed by one of the most influential modern theorists of human freedom of the will, The possibility that a person may be liberated through submitting to constraints that are beyond his immediate voluntary control is among the most ancient and persistent themes of our moral and religious traditions.38

Indeed, when fully appreciated, this consistent and pervasive “rhetoric of constraint”—force, compulsion, binding, necessity—raises a series of interesting questions and challenges for the reader of the Address. How are we to understand the meaning of Gregory’s “conversion” under constraint? What is the goal of this charged educational environment? To what purpose has the student been alternately cajoled and coerced, stripped of his freedom and reduced to an almost complete state of dependence, emotional and intellectual? Why has the student been thrown on the defensive and forced to reexamine painfully all his prior knowledge and certainty? How does the portrayal of Origen as a teacher of forceful means, both persuasive and coercive, correspond with his prominent (and well-documented) espousal of human freedom as both a metaphysical and an ethical principle? Finally, what sort of pedagogical ideal or vision is predicated on this pronounced limitation of personal autonomy? Before accompanying Gregory on the next stages of his educational journey under the influence of Origen, we would do well to take the full measure of its extraordinary inception. It is difficult to think of another account from antiquity—pagan, Jewish, or Christian—that describes in such expressively forceful terms the initial terms of attachment and

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attraction between teacher and student. While Gregory clearly invites the reader to liken the figure of Origen to that of Socrates and to regard the student/narrator as the hapless object of his erotic charms, captivated by his persuasive speech and held in check by his powerful presence, the level of rhetoric and the artful deployment of the language of both love and enchantment go far beyond the traditional Socratic portraiture. In fact, Gregory has presented so thorough an impression of his submission to Origen—coupled with the unique comparison of the master and his new disciple with the figures of David and Jonathan— that the reader has no recourse but to reflect on larger themes of necessity and coercion in their relation to conceptions of freedom of will.

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At the very heart of the Address (7.93–15.183) is the record of Gregory’s study and progress under Origen’s tutelage. Gregory’s description provides the record of a Christian—though not overtly Christianized— version of the traditional course of studies leading to the specialized investigation of the fields of philosophy. Many of the elements of this educational program are well attested, and Gregory’s account as a whole would seem to cohere closely with the curriculum underlying contemporary philosophical training in the Greco-Roman world. This educational tradition has two major components: the central commitment to the time-honored propaedeutic program of preparatory subjects (the enkyklios paideia) and the reflection of a version of the tripartite division of the principal subjects of philosophical inquiry: logic, ethics, and physics. As observed in our discussion in the introduction to this book, the highly traditional nature of this program has been the focus of a great part of the scholarly attention devoted thus far to the Address. Of equal interest for scholars have been the details, major and minor, in which the account offers forceful testimony to the general outline of the Alexandrian theological tradition, particularly the efforts made a generation earlier by Origen’s predecessor, Clement, to construct from the foundations of contemporary Platonism a serviceable philosophical 55

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outlook for his ideal (“Gnostic”) Christian.1 While explicitly scriptural in its ultimate aim (skopos)—an aspect to be discussed at length in the following chapter—Gregory’s course of training appears not to have been overtly Christian either in its broader structures or in its individual components. In fact, one of the most striking features of the Thanksgiving Address is the marked absence of specifically Christian features in the educational plan that it describes and prescribes. The text is organized around a fairly straightforward presentation of the principal stages of Gregory’s educational journey: the initiation into the arena of dialectic argumentation, the cycle of propaideutic subjects designed to prepare the student for the core of the philosophical curriculum, and the principal parts or fields of the study of philosophy itself. The earliest stage represents a natural continuation of the process of attraction and coercion described in the previous chapter, while the subsequent level serves as a stage of transition, both pedagogically and narratively, to the mature study of the major areas of philosophical inquiry. In both instances, Gregory’s description of his training calls upon a host of traditional motifs and can be amply documented from general practices of Greco-Roman education. Further, particular emphases allow us to bring our text into a more closely defined relationship with a number of contemporary authorities. These shared aspects, however, can only serve as a point of departure for our inquiry. The present chapter, while based on the contours of this common curricular program, has an alternative focus and goal: at its core lie the unique tone of Gregory’s account and the highly experiential nature of his description of the arduous path toward advanced knowledge. It is crucial in this regard that we avoid the temptation to overly systematize his account and thus fail to appreciate the deeply subjective and personal nature of Gregory’s meditation on the topics studied and lessons learned.2 While in basic accord with contemporary accounts of the encyclical program of study and the basic divisions of the philosophical curriculum, his report should neither be taken as a precise description of the linear progression of the student

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nor be placed in a literary straitjacket and read in unfailing accord with our knowledge of curricular theory and practice. Indeed, at the very heart of this central section of the Address lie a series of concerns and emphases that depart from strictly formal presentation. And precisely for this reason Gregory’s narrative of his training and progress is able to both reflect and illumine broader currents in the educational thought and practice of the Greco-Roman world. Indeed, one of the keys to our discussion lies in the intersection of these familiar educational paths with a particular reflection of the pedagogical process that resonates tellingly with trenchant emphases in the writings of Origen himself. Neither a handbook of doctrine nor a shorthand account of the desired formation of a student—though with striking affinities with both these sorts of contemporary evidence—the Address places an emphasis on those singular concerns that Gregory perceived as both central and inescapable in the teaching of Origen.

nature and nurture Launching into the narrative directly from his preceding description of the erotic attraction that bound him to his new teacher—“Having thus caught us from the start and completely taken the measure of us”— Gregory presents an extraordinarily vivid, perhaps even alarming, account of the earliest stages of his tutelage. The passage (7.93–96) opens with an extended characterization of Origen and his methods, based in varying degrees on a series of metaphorical tropes. Gregory describes, employing the elaborate and intertwined imagery of a farmer tending fallow soil or a gardener cultivating a wild plant, the fashion in which Origen crafts and molds his various students, drawn from diverse educational backgrounds and each presenting peculiar difficulties and challenges. He concludes: When he perceived something in us that was not useless, unprofitable, and devoid of hope, he hoed, turned over, watered, did everything he could, applied his every skill and care, and hedged us in. And since our agitated

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soul, as overgrown as it was undisciplined and impetuous, kept sending up and yielding thorns and thistles and every sort of wild weeds and plants, he cut off and uprooted all of these by refutations and by prohibition. (7.95–96)

The density of the imagery, florid in every sense, might be unparalleled in its lavishness but in other respects situates Gregory’s account within a well-known and widespread tradition. At the outset of the Euthyphro, Socrates admits the seeming coherence of the accusation against him regarding corruption of the youth, since “it is right to care first that the young should be as good as possible, just as a good farmer is likely to take care of the young plants first, and of the others later.”3 The treatise by Pseudo-Plutarch on the education of the young and the first books of Quintilian’s Institutes of Oratory—deeply influential from their composition in the first centuries CE through pedagogical discussions of the early modern era—similarly liken the training of the student to an agricultural undertaking: “A piece of land is good by nature, but without care it grows waste, and the better it is by nature, so much the more is it spoiled by neglect if it be not worked. Another piece is forbidding and rougher than land should be, but, if it be tilled, straightway it produces noble crops. What trees if they are neglected do not grow crooked and prove unfruitful? Yet if they receive right culture, they become fruitful, and bring their fruit to maturity.”4 More than a century following our text, the famed rhetors Libanius and Themistius would use the metaphor freely; the former most tellingly in his revealing reports on the progress of his pupils in their training.5 In fact, the theme of the teacher as farmer or gardener is distributed broadly throughout discussions of the educational process in Greek and Roman literature and constitutes a firmly established motif in formative discussions of classical paideia.6 Interestingly, the discussion where the richness of the imagery most closely rivals that of Gregory is found at the outset of Philo of Alexandria’s De agricultura, his detailed exegesis of Genesis 9:20–21. Philo distinguishes carefully between the description of Noah as a “cultivator”

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(geōrgos) as opposed to a “worker of the earth” (gēs ergatēs), the Septuagint designation of Cain. While the latter is a simple laborer, motivated only by concerns of profit, the cultivator looks beyond personal gain to the well-being of that which has been placed in his care: This person will be keen to cultivate the trees that are wild, while those that are cultivated he will increase in growth through his care. He will prune back those trees that have spread themselves out through an abundance of nourishment, while those that have been impeded and restricted he will develop by extending their natural growth. Well-formed plants with many tendrils he will extend along the earth in trenches that are not very deep, while those that are not bearing good fruit he will wish to improve by the grafting of other stems onto the trunk at the roots and by a most intimate unification. In fact the same occurs in the case of human beings, with the result that adopted children settle firmly in the families of others through the excellences that they have made their own. So he will pull out roots and all and throw away countless plants whose fruit-bearing growths are infertile and which, because they have been planted close by, cause great harm to those plants that do bear fruit. Such is the skill that relates to plants growing out of the earth. But let us now examine in turn the skill of cultivating practised by the soul.7

Philo’s expanded figural understanding of this imagery and its relevance to the context of the passage in the Address will be addressed below, but it is already worthy of note that Gregory has taken care to present Origen as a “good cultivator” (agathos geōrgos) and to portray him attending to his prospective students with an “agricultural skill” (geōrgikē technē). The imagery was scarcely foreign to early Christian literature, most often in a spiritual and metaphorical context. Origen, following Clement of Alexandria, compares the word of scripture to a small seed dependent on the diligent labor of the skillful farmer and the fertility of the earth. . . . Although when first approached it seems small and insignificant, if it find a skillful and diligent farmer, as it begins to be cultivated and handled with spiritual skill, it grows into a tree and puts forth branches and foliage.8

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And he proceeds there to request that his own homiletic efforts be characterized by “the art of spiritual agriculture, the skill of a husbandman.” The request is itself patterned upon an exemplary model, the divine Pedagogue, for in the famous discussion of free will in the third book of his treatise On First Principles, Origen had already extended the metaphor to the realm of divine care: There is a certain rock, whose surface is covered with a little earth, into which if seeds fall they spring up quickly; but having sprung up, because they have no root, “when the sun arises they are scorched and wither away.” (Mt 13:5–6) Now this rock is the soul of man, hardened through carelessness and made stony through evil. . . . So, too, the great Farmer of all nature (ho megas pasēs phuseōs geōrgos) delays the benefit which we should consider quick, for fear lest it should prove superficial.9

Here we see, quite obviously, the combination of the traditional Greco-Roman imagery with an exegesis of the agricultural themes so central to the parables of Jesus, particularly those found in Matthew chapter 13. Perhaps it was just such interpretation that Gregory recalled in his opening description of Origen as “a good cultivator faced with ground lying fallow or that had never been good but salty and parched, rocky and sandy, or maybe not entirely barren and infertile but even quite fertile, though arid and neglected, ground made harsh with thorns and wild brush and hard to work” (7.93). For the reader, it serves as a further reminder of Gregory’s consistent tendency to merge the role played by his teacher with that traditionally ascribed to a divine actor. Underlying this enduring presentation of the teacher-pupil relationship in vivid agricultural imagery is a fundamental issue of pedagogy, both ancient and modern: nature and nurture—the relationship between the character and the cultivation of the student. As we have seen, Gregory clearly describes Origen’s assessment of the student at the outset of the training in order to determine his natural aptitude and abilities: “Taking in such [people], fully encompassing them with his agricultural skill (geōrgikē technē) and apprehending not only what is seen by all and visibly manifest, but also digging down and testing their

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innermost parts” (7.95). This preliminary inspection of the student, based on the cultural assumption that only certain individuals can hope to profit from the course of advanced studies, is paralleled in a broad range of Greco-Roman sources.10 The locus classicus for this discussion is, of course, Plato’s opening presentation of the education of the guardians in the sixth book of the Republic (485b-487a) and his emphasis on the natural requirements for philosophical training: “a pursuit that no one can adequately follow unless he’s by nature good at remembering, quick to learn, high-minded, graceful, and a friend and relative of truth, justice, courage, and moderation.”11 No less interesting in the present context is his comment on the consequent cultivation of those possessing the necessary aptitude: “Now, I think that the philosophic nature as we defined it will inevitably grow to possess every virtue if it happens to receive appropriate instruction, but if it is sown, planted, and grown in an inappropriate environment, it will develop in quite the opposite way, unless some god happens to come to its rescue.”12 Finally, at the conclusion of his discussion of the lengthy period of philosophical training, Plato returns to the theme: “We have to select the most stable, the most courageous, and as far as possible the most graceful. In addition, we must look not only for people who have a noble and tough character but for those who have the natural qualities conducive to this education of ours.”13 This interrelationship of the student’s natural abilities and the teacher’s cultivation of skills, knowledge, and virtues was to become one of the most enduring formulae of the Greco-Roman educational discussion. It is illuminating to examine briefly the centrality of the topos in diverse second-century forerunners of Origen. In his Handbook (Didaskalikos) of Platonism, whose relevance for our text already has been observed, Alcinous opens his presentation with an assessment of the qualities of the prospective philosopher: “The first necessity is that he be naturally apt at those branches of learning which have the capacity to fit him for, and lead him towards, the knowledge of intelligible being, which is not subject to error or change.” Shortly

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afterward he warns: “These natural qualities, if they are combined with correct education and suitable nurturing, render one perfect in respect of virtue, but if one neglects them, they become the cause of great evils.”14 Yet another contemporary Platonist, Albinus, offers a similar diagnosis in his discussion of how (and in what order) different students should approach the writings of the master: “He then, who is, according to nature, well born, and according to age is in the season for philosophizing, and according to a predilection, for the sake of exercising himself, is proceeding to reasoning, and he, who, according to a habit, has been previously initiated in instruction, and has been drawn aside from political circumstances, will begin from the Alcibiades.”15 Closely parallel in this regard is a series of discussions in the final decades of the second century by the influential physician and philosopher Galen of Pergamum, whose works are no less important for our understanding of textual and interpretative practices than for our appreciation of the finer points of the relationship between teachers and their pupils. Of especial relevance here are Galen’s keen observations regarding the nature and aptitude of students prior to their embarking on a challenging course of study.16 “That our individual natures are entirely different we can learn clearly from the children who are brought to our attention,” Galen remarks, and he proceeds to examine the implications of this diversity of natural tendencies and capacities for the early stages of education: In this way, then, we see that some children are naturally truthful or liars and have many other differences of character about which there is now, in all likelihood, no need to speak, because some of these children are very easily educated while others benefit not at all. We must not, on that account, neglect the young, but we must rear them in the best habits. If their nature will accept the advantage of our care, they could become good men. If they should fail to accept this attention, the blame would not be ours.

Galen concludes his observations with familiar imagery: The education of children in some way closely resembles horticulture. For all his careful attention, the farmer could never make a bramble bush pro-

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duce a bunch of grapes. To begin with, the nature of the bush does not admit such a perfection. Again, even though vines may in themselves be fruitful, they will produce inferior fruit or none at all if the farmer has neglected them and left them to nature alone.17

There is, in fact, a singular text of Origen that is both of general relevance to the Thanksgiving Address and of unique significance in our attempt to appreciate this stage of Gregory’s education. In the Philocalia—that prescient anthology of Origen’s writings compiled in the mid-fourth century, slightly more than a century after his death and several decades before the Mediterranean Christian world was to be engulfed in a bitter controversy over his teachings and legacy—Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus included a short letter that Origen had sent to “his most thorough and estimable son” Gregory.18 Leaving aside the vexed question of the precise relationship (if any) between the addressee of the letter and the presumed author of the Thanksgiving Address, the affinities between the two documents cannot be dismissed. The letter is intended for a student in whom Origen would seem to have had a serious personal and professional interest, and its opening section preserves a lapidary formulation of Origen’s views on the relationship between Christianity and Greco-Roman paideia, emphasizing the propaedeutic value of the traditional GrecoRoman curriculum for the subsequent study of scripture. The basic thematic overlap between this letter and the Address is both striking and significant.19 Of particular interest is the opening paragraph, which offers an acute analysis of the native aptitude of the student for the intended course of study: As you know, a natural quality (euphyia) for understanding can, with disciplined practice, achieve as far as possible what one may call its purpose, the thing for which the exercise is intended. Your natural quality can, therefore, make you an accomplished Roman lawyer or a Greek philosopher of one of the reputable schools. Nonetheless, I have desired that with all the power of your natural quality you would apply yourself, ultimately, to Christianity.20

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The emphasis on the nature of the student is striking and repeated three times in these opening sentences. As we have seen, the question of “innate capacity” or “natural ability” is one much discussed by a variety of Greco-Roman authors in their attempts to clarify the prerequisites of any successful investigation or examination, whether of a literary text or a philosophical doctrine. One is struck, though, by the divergence in the two presentations: Origen’s cool, terse assessment of the student’s capacity in contrast to Gregory’s extended and colorful account of the forceful harnessing of that ability. Further, in comparison with the vivid portrayal of Gregory, the language used by Origen is distinctly controlled and drawn from the vocabulary of current philosophical discussion.21

encyclical studies and the divisions of philosophy We have begun to appreciate the force of Gregory’s early training with Origen and the initial efforts made to break old habits and to prepare the young man in his conversion from the world of rhetoric to that of philosophical pursuit. The colorful description of the process, the vivid imagery of cultivation and domestication, have served both to situate Gregory’s account in a long tradition of educational and philosophical literature and to highlight the central aspects of his personal transformation. What remains to be seen are the fruits of this transition and its deeper coherence with what we know of Origen’s intellectual and spiritual world. Initially, it might be useful to return to Origen’s own exhortation to his exemplary student, the opening paragraph of which has been cited directly above. As a host of readers have observed, the immediate continuation of Origen’s letter coincides even more clearly with Gregory’s Address. After expressing his ardent wish that the student might apply his abilities to neither (Roman) law nor (Greek) philosophy, Origen sets the recommended curriculum toward the true goal, the pursuit of Christianity:

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I have, for this reason, prayed that you would accept effectively those things from the philosophy of the Greeks that can serve as a general education or introduction (enkyklia mathēmata ē propaideumata) for Christianity and those things from geometry and astronomy that are useful for the interpretation of the Holy Scriptures. For just as the servants of philosophers say concerning geometry, music, grammar, rhetoric and astronomy that they are adjuncts to philosophy, we say this very thing about philosophy itself with regard to Christianity.22

This passage—one of the clearest expressions of his concern with the role of preparatory “profane” studies in the intellectual development of a Christian theologian and exegete—has played a central, perhaps overwhelming, role in virtually every discussion of Origen’s educational vision. The theme, of course, is a far older one, based on an established, though fluid, Greco-Roman perception of the so-called propaideutic subjects as the preparation for intensive philosophical inquiry.23 The locus classicus, once again, is the discussion of the education of the guardians in Plato’s Republic. Exposed at a younger age to the beneficial effects of music, poetry, and physical training, the candidates possessing the necessary natural aptitude are now tutored in a series of “compulsory” subjects: arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and harmonics. Their exposure to this course of preparatory studies allows the lengthy ascent from the darkness of the Cave: “All this business of the crafts we’ve mentioned has the power to awaken the best part of the soul and lead it upward to the study of the best among the things that are.”24 This marks the very beginning of the long tradition of curricular discussion that after almost a millennium was to crystallize in the late ancient and medieval canons of the “liberal arts” known as the trivium (grammar, dialectic, rhetoric) and quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy).25 It was a theme that Origen inherited in the most direct sense from his Alexandrian predecessors, Jewish and Christian. Philo had dedicated an entire treatise, “On the Mating with Preliminary Studies” (De

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congressu), to the elaborate allegory of Sarah, Abraham’s wife, and Hagar, her handmaiden.26 There he discussed the complexities of the relationship between the patriarch’s initial attachment and devotion to the handmaid Hagar, symbol of the subjects of preliminary study, and the consequent consummation of his love for Sarah, wisdom herself. After adding personal testimony of his own lengthy “courtship” with the preliminary studies, Philo proceeds to draw together the strands of his allegory in an elegant (and deeply influential) summation: And indeed just as the school subjects (enkyklia) contribute to the acquirement of philosophy, so does philosophy to the getting of wisdom. For, philosophy is the practice or study of wisdom, and wisdom is “the knowledge of things divine and human and their causes.” And therefore just as the culture of the schools is the bond-servant of philosophy, so must philosophy be the servant of wisdom.27

This movement from the preliminary and inferior value of the studies preparatory for philosophy to the analogous relationship between philosophy and wisdom was to form the basis for the classic medieval formulation holding philosophy to be the handmaid of theology (philosophia ancilla theologiae).28 The Philonic discussion and its exegetical foundation were adopted in their entirety by Clement of Alexandria, who both embraced and elaborated the scriptural allegory.29 It is no surprise that Origen was to become heir to this tradition. In addition to the letter to his student quoted above, he found multiple expressions for this hierarchical relationship between the subjects of study—for example, his injunction that the only proper object of love is God and the virtues of the soul: “Even when it [the passion of love] is expended on the study of geometry or music or arithmetic or similar branches of learning, neither in this case does it seem to me to be used laudably.”30 In fact, this appreciation of the importance of propaedeutic studies was widespread and could be considered standard fare of the philosophical schools, as demonstrated by this formulation in the secondcentury Handbook of Platonism (Didaskalikos) of Alcinous:

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The introductory ceremonies, so to speak, and preliminary purifications of our innate spirit, if one is to be initiated into the greater sciences, will be constituted by music, arithmetic, astronomy, and geometry, while at the same time we must care for our body by means of gymnastics, which will prepare the body properly for the demands of both war and peace.31

This wider tradition, coupled with Origen’s thorough internalization of the Alexandrian exegetical adaptation of the curricular theme, comes to full expression in Gregory’s account. Conscious of the need to attend to the “lower aspect of the soul” (8.109)—that part of us “amazed by the immensity, wonder, and intricate, all-wise fabrication of the world, and dumbfounded and laid low by astonishment”—Gregory enumerates those preliminary studies that Origen took care to demand of his student: Then he aroused [this part of the soul] and set it straight with other lessons, those in physics, clarifying each of all the existing things, and most wisely differentiating them into their most basic elements, and then wove them together by reason and ran through the nature of the whole and each of its parts, and the multiform turning and variation of the things in the universe. Until having borne [us], by his clear teaching and his arguments, those he had learned and those he had discovered about the sacred management of the universe and of immaculate nature, he established a rational wonder in place of an irrational one in our souls. . . . As a truly unshakable base for everything else, he laid down geometry as a kind of sure foundation; then he drew us up to the very heights through astronomy, as if by means of a sort of ladder leading to heaven from both teachings he was making the heavens accessible to us. (8.110–111, 114)32

Alongside Gregory’s presentation of the recognized cycle of propaedeutic studies, we observe his organization of the overall course of studies according to the widespread division of philosophy (and the philosophical curriculum) into three principal fields: dialectic (7.98– 108), ethics (9.115–12.149), and theology (13.150–15.183). This threefold division, originally Stoic in conception, was broadly accepted in virtually all Greco-Roman philosophical circles. This wide acceptance of the

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three fields, however, was often represented in a range of variations— for example, physics and metaphysics substituting for theology—as well as an interchange in the order of the different fields.33 On Gregory’s part too, despite some uncertainty, it appears that he understood each of these to be an independently recognized field or “part” (7.102) of the study of philosophy and the concomitant curriculum. Indeed, Origen himself acknowledges the traditional partition in his fourteenth homily on Genesis, noting there that philosophy is “divided in three parts: logic, physics, and ethics.”34 A telling variation on this threefold division receives expression in one of Origen’s most influential compositions: the prologue to his Commentary on the Song of Songs. Here, Origen famously creates a correspondence between scriptural wisdom and that of the Greeks, by means of the figure of Solomon and the three works (Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs) traditionally attributed to his authorship: The following ideas have been able to come our way about this subject. There are three general disciplines by which one attains knowledge of the universe. The Greeks call them ethics, physics and enoptics [or metaphysics]; and we can give them the terms moral, natural and contemplative. . . . The moral discipline (moralis) is defined as the one by which an honorable manner of life is equipped and habits conducive to virtue are prepared. The natural discipline (naturalis) is defined as the consideration of the nature of each individual thing, according to which nothing in life happens contrary to nature, but each individual thing is assigned those uses for which it has been brought forth by the Creator. The contemplative discipline (inspectiva) is defined as that by which we transcend visible things and contemplate something of divine and heavenly things and gaze at them with the mind alone, since they transcend corporeal appearance. . . . Thus, Solomon, since he wished to distinguish from one another and to separate what we have called earlier the three general disciplines, that is moral, natural and contemplative, set them forth in three books [Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs], each one in its own logical order.35

Of special interest for our own discussion, however, is the seeming absence of the field of logic or dialectic in this “scriptural” version of

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the tripartite scheme and the pointed explanation offered by Origen in that context: Some among the Greeks, of course, add a fourth [discipline], logic, which we may describe as reasoning (rationalem). Others have said that logic does not stand by itself, but is connected and intertwined throughout with the three disciplines that we mentioned first. For this logic is, as we say, rational, in that it deals with the meanings and proper significances and their opposites, the classes and kinds of words and expressions, and gives information as to the form of each and every saying; and this branch of learning certainly requires not so much to be separated from the others as to be mingled and interwoven with them.36

In Gregory’s presentation, “dialectic” (8.109) certainly stands as a proper field or part of philosophy in its own right, but at the same time it too is clearly “mingled and interwoven” with all the other branches of philosophical training. Indeed, dialectic as a guide to rational judgment and reasoning will assert its prominent, perhaps preeminent, role in the formation of Origen’s student.

dialectic: the training of the mind and soul As we have seen, the imagery of cultivation is employed by Gregory initially to invoke a tone of pedagogical rigor, the quest to forcefully and skillfully transform the student from his unruly, undisciplined state. But the trope takes on a further significance, connected directly with the subject matter of this early stage of instruction. It is, in fact, a particular type of “cultivation” that Origen practices, for when his student’s “agitated soul, as overgrown as it was undisciplined and impetuous, kept sending up and yielding thorns and thistles and every sort of wild weeds and plants, he cut off and uprooted all of these by refutations (elenchoi) and by prohibition” (7.96). These “refutations” administered to the “agitated soul” are our first indication that the initial training Gregory encounters is in the field of dialectic—explicitly mentioned

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only at the conclusion of this lengthy discussion (7.93–108). The ensuing passage removes any doubt regarding the underlying Platonic inspiration of Origen’s instruction and brings the agricultural imagery to its culmination: Taking hold of us, at times, he would trip us up in speech in quite Socratic fashion (sōkratikōs), whenever he caught us fighting the reins like wild horses, bounding off the road and running about every which way, until through some persuasion and some constraint (anankē), with the speech from our mouth as [placed] under a bit, he reduced us to silence before him. . . . When he had made us suitable and prepared us sufficiently to accept the words of truth, only then, as into soft, well-tilled soil, ready to push forth what would come from the seeds, he began to plant lavishly. He did the sowing of the seeds at the right time, and all the rest of the cultivation at its right time, appropriately accomplishing each task and with reason’s own means. (7.97–99)

The challenge confronting the student—the logical analysis of argumentation, syllogistic reasoning, the discerning judgment of claims of truth—is explicitly presented as “Socratic” (sōkratikōs) in nature.37 The two proximate images cement this understanding: the unbroken horses are clearly a reflection of the famous Platonic image in the Phaedrus (246a-e),38 and the enforced silence of the student immediately recalls the effect of perplexity (aporia), perhaps especially Meno’s charge that the effect of the Socratic refutation (elenchus) has been to reduce him to silence.39 Only when the student had been brought to this state, Gregory concludes, could the process of “cultivation” be brought to its successful completion. Indeed, Gregory’s explication here, including the extension of the agricultural imagery into the discussion of dialectic, is clearly dependent upon Platonic precedent. Toward the conclusion of the Phaedrus, in the famous argument for the primacy of “living, breathing discourse” over a written record, Socrates observes that “the man practiced in the dialectical art chooses a proper soul and plants and sows within it discourse accompanied by knowledge—discourse capable of helping itself as well as the man who planted it, which is not

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barren but produces a seed from which more discourse grows in the character of others.”40 Most decisively, in the seventh book of the Republic, in the description of the education of the guardians, the philosophical curriculum, and the path toward the knowledge of the good, we encounter dialectic as the culmination and essence of that course of study. Having described the course of preliminary subjects (arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and harmonics) as a necessary stage and a manner of “prelude,” Plato presents dialectic as the “song” itself. Dialectic, according to Socrates there, is “the only inquiry that travels this road, doing away with hypotheses and proceeding to the first principle itself, so as to be secure. And when the eye of the soul is really buried in a sort of barbaric bog, dialectic gently pulls it out and leads it upwards, using the crafts we described to help it and cooperate with it in turning the soul around.” And he concludes: “We’ve placed dialectic at the top of the other subjects like a coping stone and . . . no other subject can rightly be placed above it.”41 Plato’s modern readers remain remarkably uncertain regarding the precise parameters and definition of this training in dialectic.42 Nevertheless, both the term and its signification were to become central components of subsequent Greco-Roman philosophical discussion. Despite the emphasis on the role of Plato as the originator of dialectic and the preservation of the tradition within the Academy, the discipline of logic and dialectic became heavily suff used with both Aristotelian and Stoic elements. Much of our detailed knowledge of the aims and purpose of dialectical training is drawn from Stoic sources or reports on their teaching.43 At the heart of these reports is the tension between a narrowly technical sense of dialectical training and the broader Platonic understanding of dialectic as the art of dialogue itself and, therefore, the essential component of philosophical pursuit. Perhaps most telling in this regard, and particularly apposite for Gregory’s discussion, are the accounts of the Chrysippean notion of dialectic:

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Without the study of dialectic the wise man will not be infallible in argument, since dialectic distinguishes the true from the false, and clarifies plausibilities and ambiguous statements; and without it it is impossible to ask and answer questions methodically. . . . Only in this way will the wise man show himself to be penetrating, sharp-witted and, quite generally, formidable in argument. For it belongs to the same person to discuss correctly and to reason correctly and to test dialectically what is under discussion and to respond to what is asked; all these things belong to the man skilled in dialectic.44 [Wise men] cannot be deceived or err . . . if dialectic is, according to us, the science of how to discuss correctly . . . [the wise man] must be expert in discussion, and he who is expert in discussion must thereby be skilled both in answering and in questioning . . . [wise men] are irrefutable and self-sufficient in their apprehension of the assertibles, refuting in addition the hindering argument and prevailing upon their opponents; for they must both be unmoved by refutation and be fortified in their assent against the opponents.45

The inescapable conclusion in much Stoic (and Middle Platonic) thought was “that the wise man is always a dialectician. For all things are observed through study conducted in discourses, whether they belong to the domain of physics or equally that of ethics. As to logic, that goes without saying.”46 Gregory’s lengthy presentation of dialectic is set firmly within this context of contemporary philosophical discussion. In fact, the Address has been appreciated far too little for the central role that dialectic plays in Gregory’s education. He provides a remarkably extensive account, both a description and a defense, of the importance of serious and prolonged exposure to the demands of dialectic: As for lacking judgment and being impetuous—consenting to everything, whatever it might be, even if it happened to be false, and often contradicting, even if it happened to be true—in this regard too he educated us, with the aforementioned arguments and various others. As this part of philosophy is multiform, he accustomed us to cast away testimonies and reject them neither haphazardly nor by chance, but to examine precisely not only those things that are plain to all. . . . That is why he taught us to investigate

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not just the externals that strike one immediately, which are sometimes deceptive and dishonest, but also the inner realities, and to sound each thing lest it ring false; and when we learned to trust ourselves on those things, then to deal with the externals and reach an opinion on each. Thus the part of our soul that judges concerning words and arguments was educated in reasonable fashion. (7.102, 105–106)

Gregory’s account stands as a testimony to the extensive and eclectic nature of the art of dialectic in the schools of the second and third centuries. The early Jewish and Christian philosophical traditions completely shared this concern with the ability to reason clearly, to analyze closely, and to frame an argument convincingly. Here too, the writings of Philo of Alexandria offer rich evidence for his commitment to the study of dialectic.47 Particularly interesting in this regard is his discussion in the De agricultura, cited above, of Noah as a “cultivator.” After having introduced dialectic together with geometry as theoretical and preliminary studies—since they “make no contribution to the improvement of character, but do sharpen the intellect by not allowing any blunt approach” to the problems at hand—Philo expands on the structure of the divisions of philosophy and the role played by dialectic or logic: They say, therefore, that the threefold structure of philosophy was likened by the ancients to a field, with its physical part compared to trees and plants, its ethical part to the fruits which are the purpose of the plants’ existence, and its logical part in turn to a fence and enclosure. For just as the enclosing wall acts as a protection for the fruit and the plants in the field and wards off those people who wish to sneak in and ransack them, in the same way the logical part of philosophy acts as a very strong safeguard for the other two parts, ethics and physics. Whenever through highly revealing arguments and indubitable demonstrations it clarifies ambiguous expressions with a double meaning, exposes the plausibilities of sophistic tricks, and destroys that greatest temptation and menace for the soul, seductive deceit, it makes the intellect like smoothened wax, ready to receive the imprints of the science of nature and ethics that do no harm and are well tested.48

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Closely parallel is Philo’s praise of dialectic as the art that “distinguishes true argument from false, and convicts the plausibilities of sophistry, and thus will heal that great plague of the soul, deceit.”49 It is precisely in this spirit that Gregory’s own philosophical training would appear to have begun. The last generation of scholarship has come to appreciate the extent to which Origen was deeply versed in Stoic logic, a skill that he introduced freely into his writings and in a wide variety of contexts: interpretative, theological, and apologetic.50 While examples abound, particularly in his exegetical works, most interesting perhaps are the very explicit reflections in one of his mature works, the encyclopedic treatise Contra Celsum against pagan criticism of Christianity, where the term “dialectic” appears no fewer than ten times. Initially, Origen would appear to be using the word derisively and in a markedly defensive fashion: declaring his preference for gospel demonstration over “Greek proof based on dialectical argument” (1.2), defending the witness of miracles over the “dialectical wisdom of the Greeks” (1.38), and admitting that the apostles did not possess “Greek dialectical or rhetorical arts” (1.62). As the argument develops, however, Origen’s use of the term grows positive, as he notes Plato’s competency in dialectic (2.12), the conjuncture of “truth and dialectical argument” (2.51), and the power of certain “rational insights and dialectical speculations” (5.20). But his most telling employment of the term comes in the course of his withering analysis and dismissal of the arguments of Celsus himself—a reckless opponent whose errors come as the result of the fact that he does not speak like a “man skilled in argument” (3.42), that is, a dialektikos.51 In response to Celsus’s core claim that only the ignorant and uneducated are drawn to Christianity, Origen turns to a scriptural prescription (Titus 1:9) regarding the bishop and accents the final phrase “and to refute (elenchein) those who contradict it”; these closing words indicate, according to Origen “that by his wisdom he may restrain those who speak vainly and deceive souls.”52 In fact, Origen proceeds to explain, the careful use of words and close argumentation lies at the very heart of his defense of the faith:

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May words be given to us, like those which are described in Jeremiah, where the Lord said to the prophet: “Behold, I have put my words in thy mouth as fire. Behold, I have this day set thee over nations and kingdoms, to root out and to destroy, to abolish and to pull down, to build up and to plant.” ( Jer 1:10) For now we also need words to root out ideas contrary to the truth from every soul which has been distressed by Celsus’ treatise or by opinions like his. . . . Then, since we must not stop with rooting out and destroying the things just mentioned, but in place of the things rooted out must plant a planting which is of God’s husbandry, and in place of what is destroyed must construct a building of God and a temple of God’s glory, we must therefore pray to the Lord who bestowed the gifts described in Jeremiah, that He may give words also to us which build up the doctrines of Christ and plant the spiritual law and the prophetic words corresponding to it.53

Finally, in the face of Celsus’s untempered degradation of Christianity as intellectually inferior, Origen offers a spirited demonstration of its commitment to the art of dialectic: He (Celsus) also quotes another phrase of Plato where he says that through “the use of questions and answers” (ἐρωτήσεσι καὶ ἀποκρίσεσι χρωμένων) understanding illuminates those who follow his philosophy. Let us show, then, from the holy scriptures that the divine Word also exhorts us to study dialectic (προτρέπει καὶ ὁ θεῖος λόγος ἡμᾶς ἐπὶ διαλεκτικήν). Solomon says in one place “Education that is unchallenged (ἀνεξέλεγκτος) goes wrong.” In another place Jesus the son of Sirach, who left us the book of Wisdom, says “The knowledge of an unwise man is unexamined words (ἀδιεξέταστοι λόγοι).” Accordingly “proofs are friendly” (Εὐμενεῖς οὖν ἔλεγχοι) even more among us who have learnt that a leader of the gospel must be “able to refute the adversaries.” (Titus 1:9) If however, some are idle, and do not take the trouble to give heed to Bible-reading, and to search the scriptures, and do not obey Jesus’ command to seek for the meaning of the scriptures and to ask God about them and to knock for the truths locked up inside them, that is no reason for supposing that there is no wisdom in scripture.54

On other occasions, Origen observes a scriptural phrase ( Jer 1:5) of particular exactitude and significance as “exceedingly dialectical” (dialektikōtata) or marvels how the evangelist John has chosen his words

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with such precision that “one might marvel how accurately and, as some would say, dialectically, he has set them forth.”55 There would appear to have been, certainly in this respect, a close correlation between Origen’s own education and practice and the careful training of his students in the earliest stage of their studies. And there is no lack of evidence that, in accord with Gregory’s account, the regimen of dialectic must have had a broad influence on all those who came within Origen’s orbit.56

theology and the widening of vision As Gregory’s account unfolds we come to understand the extent to which the field of dialectic and logic is not simply a branch of philosophical training but a pervasive and continuous element in Origen’s overarching program of intellectual and moral formation.57 Indeed, as we have seen, the goal and scope of dialectic extend beyond the simple appreciation of a cogent argument or the recognition of a logical fallacy. Gregory reports how Origen brought his pupils to the “proper frame of mind” or manner of life (7.99) in which they were prepared to accept the truth. The art of dialectic could be applied to the “obtuse or duplicitous aspects of the soul” as well as to varied “ailments of the mind” (7.100). In fact, there is a very thin line dividing this part of Gregory’s philosophical education from his subsequent training in moral theory and practice. While Gregory’s extended presentation of the field of ethics (9.115–12.149)—“the great, good fruits of philosophy, the divine virtues concerning how to act”—will be examined in greater detail in the following chapter, it is important to recognize the degree to which that discussion complements the immediately preceding section on the dialectical art. Just as Origen earlier had taken in hand the wild growths of the “unruly soul” and carefully cultivated them by the art of “refutations and prohibition” (7.96), he now turns to the art of virtue in order to create “an undisturbed and steady condition toward the impulses of the soul” (9.115). In a manner comparable to that by which dialectical

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reasoning would uproot the soul’s “lack of judgment and impetuosity” (7.102), ethical instruction was intended to bring our impulses under control, by the very process of beholding and coming to understand the soul’s impulses and disorders. This knowledge more than anything enabled our soul to be restored from its discord, and to move from confusion to what is settled and disciplined. By seeing itself as in a mirror, it beholds the very origins and roots of evil, its whole unreasonable side, from which unnatural disorders arise in us; and also its best part, the rational, under whose control it remains self-determined, free from harm and passion. (9.118–119)

Origen’s plan, in brief, has been to turn his students into “the kind of people who are masters of the impulses themselves, not just masters of doctrines and well informed about our impulses” (11.137). There is much more to be said regarding the role of ethics in this educational plan, but it is crucial to recognize the manner in which Gregory portrays the fields of both dialectic and ethics as closely allied components of the (trans)formation of the individual. Why is this so crucial? And to what higher goal does it eventually lead? The central role of training in dialectic and its broadest ramifications would appear to reassert themselves at a climactic juncture in the narrative. Gregory’s survey of the philosophical curriculum eventually leads to its very summit: an extended presentation (13.150–15.183) of Origen’s teaching on theology, defined as “the most necessary thing of all—the knowledge of the cause of all things” (13.150) or “the greatest matter of all, the knowledge of the divine and of piety” (14.165).58 At the outset of the exposition, we learn that this exalted field of study requires an exposure to “all the doctrines about the divine”—with the marked and singular exception of those held by the “atheists” (atheoi), opinions that might “defile the soul” and are compared to an impurity that would render the hearer unable to enter the precinct of a temple.59 Aside from such extreme and malignant views, however, it is positively incumbent on the student who has achieved this level of instruction to gain knowledge of the entire range of opinions regarding the divinity:

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He deemed those worthy to philosophize who with every energy had read all the writings of the ancient philosophers and singers, neither excluding nor disdaining any of them, . . . neither biased in favor of one nation or philosophical doctrine, nor yet prejudiced against it, whether Greek or barbarian, but listening to all. (13.151, 153, emphasis added)

This final phrase is, indeed, an unmistakable verbal echo of the earlier characterization (7.106) of dialectic as the discipline through which “the part of our soul that judges concerning words and arguments was educated in reasonable fashion”—and this in the sharpest distinction to “the judgments of elegant rhetoricians as to whether something is Greek or barbarian in its expression, for that is an insignificant and unnecessary thing to learn.” In the same manner, then, that the scope of dialectical training was the “concern for all who would deliberate on any matter whatsoever and seek to avoid being misled,” the presentation of Origen’s teaching on theology would seem to emphasize identical qualities of unimpeded judgment and careful reasoning applied to the broadest range of views and opinions. In fact, though scarcely remarked, the great bulk of the discussion devoted by Gregory to the field of “theology”—no less than five pages of Greek text—contains virtually nothing of his master’s views or teachings regarding the subject itself. That Origen held clearly defined and carefully delineated opinions on the wide range of topics associated with “theology” (or metaphysics or the theoretical sciences) is abundantly clear to every reader of the first three books of his On First Principles; those views continued to find expression, sometimes modified, in the exegetical, homiletic, doctrinal, and polemic works of his mature decades in Caesarea.60 We cannot help but be struck, then, by Gregory’s silence in this regard. Rather, he expounds at length, and with true rhetorical flourish, the psychological and epistemological foundations of Origen’s teaching on this subject. In very real fashion, he presents us with what we might regard as the dialectical basis for theological inquiry. Origen’s insistence on the student’s broad exposure to the

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(nearly) unlimited range of opinions and doctrines concerning the divine was, according to Gregory, a wise and very sound method, lest one isolated doctrine from one group or another be the only one heard and promoted: if it should happen not to be true, by entering our soul as the sole truth it might mislead us, and by forming us in isolation it might make us its own, no longer able to cast it off or to wash it out, as if we were woolens dyed with some intense dye.61 Human speech (logos) is a powerful thing and easily twisted about, variegated in its artifices and sharp; it penetrates the ears to make an impression on the mind and determines it; and it decisively persuades those once possessed that it is to be cherished as true and to remain within, false and deceptive though it be, like a dominating sorcerer, causing the one deceived to be his champion. (13.154–155)

Gregory continues his exposition, stressing still further the extent to which dialectical training lies at the core of Origen’s concern. The remarkable potency (and peril) of argument forms the very core of Gregory’s discussion of theological inquiry, as he attempts to explain the nearly inescapable predilection for a single and exclusive philosophical position among those who claim to pursue wisdom: The human soul in turn is easily led astray by argument and quite eager to assent. Even before it exercises judgment and examines something on all sides it is ready, either from its own dullness and weakness or because its reasoning power is inadequate to the tiring precision demanded by serious investigation, to hand itself over without a care to arguments and teachings that are often false and that, being themselves erroneous, mislead those who hold them. Not only that, but even if another argument should wish to put it straight, it is no longer accessible or open to persuasion, but clings to what it has, as if some relentless tyrant held it fast. (13.156–157)

Underlying this tyrannical entrenchment, unfazed by rational counterargument nor open to a persuasive demonstration, is the unreasoning “impulse” (hormē: 14:159, 162) that often defines the initial commitment to philosophy and the positions forged at that time. Unable to examine or

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question their youthful motivation, philosophers like these are hardly lovers of wisdom, rather men “so in love with [their] views as no longer even able to listen to arguments with an unprejudiced soul” (14.161). The resultant condition is described in terms of a complete breakdown of philosophical reasoning: If truth be told, each has nothing other than the irrational impulse toward philosophy to support these very teachings, and no other criterion of what he supposes to be true than (paradoxical as it is to say so) uncritical accident: each likes the opinions he first encountered, and since he is, as it were, bound by them, he can no longer accept others. (14.163)

This portrait of epistemological failure is neither original to Gregory— though I’m not certain that we have a comparably vivid description in contemporary sources—nor is it unrelated to certain perceptions and tendencies within the philosophical schools of the time. There is ample evidence, which has been neatly and cogently collected, that current notions of “adherence,” or even “allegiance,” had made the question of philosophical association with (and within) a certain school or stream a matter of doctrinal, perhaps dogmatic, obligation. There seems to have developed, during the early centuries of the Common Era, an increasing sense of the exclusivity of philosophical identity, among both individuals and collectives, which had contributed to a certain “hardening of the lines.”62 Nor was this tendency limited to the philosophical schools. It is particularly interesting to note the low opinion Galen of Pergamum (129–199) had of contemporary practitioners of philosophy and medicine in this regard: People admire this or that particular physician or philosopher without proper study of their subject and without a training in scientific demonstration, with the help of which they would be able to distinguish between false and true arguments; some do this because their fathers, others because their teachers, others because their friends were either empirics or dogmatics or methodics, or simply because a representative of a particular school was admired in their native city. The same applies to the philosophical schools (haireseis): different people have for different reasons become Platonists, Aristotelians, Stoics, or Epicureans.63

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Galen gives particularly sharp expression of this disdain in his famous observation—in justification for not even attempting to explain to certain physicians the basis of his own successful prognosis—that “one might more easily teach novelties to the followers of Moses and Christ than to the physicians and philosophers who cling fast to their schools.”64 Indeed, it was within the context of the charged atmosphere of religious competition and polemic that certain of Origen’s predecessors already had remarked on the narrowness of philosophical orthodoxy. In a highly stylized description of his own philosophical search for truth, Justin Martyr, the second-century heresiologist and proponent of proto-orthodoxy, offered an etiological narrative for the multiplicity of philosophical schools: For in fact, philosophy is the greatest, the most valued possession. It alone leads and unites us to God. Those who turn their mind to philosophy are truly holy. But most people have forgotten what philosophy is and why it was sent down to men. For [if they remembered,] there would be no Platonists or Peripatetics or Speculatives or Pythagoreans, since this knowledge is one. I want to say why [philosophy] came to be [so] many-headed. It happened that those who followed next, after the ones who had first treated [philosophy] and had therefore come to be held in honor, made no inquiry into the truth but rather, struck by [their masters’] perseverance and selfdiscipline, and by the strangeness of their statements, just thought that the things each one learned from his master were true. Afterwards they themselves, when they passed such things on to their successors, together with whatever else seemed to fit in, were called by the name by which the father of their doctrine was called.65

And it was essentially along these very lines that Origen himself replied to the claim of the second-century pagan critic Celsus that Christians accept everything on faith rather than “follow reason and a rational guide in accepting doctrines.” Origen accordingly observes that the matter was hardly one-sided: As this matter of faith is so much talked of, I have to reply that we accept it as useful for the multitude, and that we admittedly teach those who cannot

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abandon everything and pursue a study of rational argument to believe without thinking out their reasons. But, even if they do not admit it, in practice others do the same. What man who is urged to study philosophy and throws himself into some school of philosophers at random or because he has met a philosopher of that school, comes to do this for any reason except that he has faith that this school is better? He does not wait to hear the arguments of all the philosophers and of the different schools, and the refutation of one and the proof of another, when in this way he chooses to be a Stoic, or a Platonist, or a Peripatetic, or an Epicurean, or a follower of some such philosophical school. Even though they do not want to admit it, it is by an unreasoning impulse that people come to the practice of, say, Stoicism and abandon the rest; or Platonism, because they despise the others as of lesser significance; or Peripateticism, because it corresponds best to human needs and sensibly admits the value of the good things of human life more than other systems. And some, who at their first encounter were alarmed at the argument about providence based on the earthly circumstances of bad and good men, have too hastily concluded that providence does not exist, and have adopted the opinion of Epicurus and Celsus.66

Ultimately, however, the question at hand—confronting both pagans and Christians and their respective students—goes far beyond mere extramural polemics. A crucial internal issue is at stake: the ability and willingness to confront, appreciate, and assimilate diverse doctrines from a broad range of sources, including those that have not been deemed authoritative. Origen’s educational practice in Caesarea should be appreciated as an expression of a formative principle of Alexandrian Christianity as well as a conscious alternative toward emerging forms of discourse regarding heresy in early Christianity. Influential spokesmen of the late second century and early third century, prominently Irenaeus of Lyon and Tertullian of Carthage, had given eloquent expression to a central feature of early Christian heresiology: they helped to speed and to crystallize the transition in the understanding of the word “heresy” (hairesis) from its earlier sense of “teaching” or “school” or “allegiance”— whether Platonic, Hippocratic, or Pharisaic—to the new and encom-

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passing sense of a pestilent sect whose danger lies in direct proportion to its distance from the truth and its threat to the church.67 Origen’s conscious preservation of an earlier, more original understanding of “heresy” (hairesis)—as a choice, a school, or a teaching—enables him to develop a critique that is concerned not so much with the identification of doctrinal error but with the inability to encounter and investigate a variety of opinions. No passage captures Origen’s views in this regard as well as his response, once again to a charge by Celsus, that Christians “have spread to become a multitude, they are divided and rent asunder, and each wants to have his own party.” Origen observes: To this we will reply that any teaching which has had a serious origin, and is beneficial to life, has caused different sects. For since medicine is beneficial and essential to mankind, and there are many problems in it as to the method of curing bodies, on this account several sects in medicine are admittedly found among the Greeks, and, I believe, also among the barbarians such as profess to practise medicine. And again, since philosophy which professes to possess the truth and knowledge of realities instructs us how we ought to live and tries to teach what is beneficial to our race, and since the problems discussed allow of considerable diversity of opinion, on this account very many sects indeed have come into existence, some of which are well known, while others are not. Moreover, there was in Judaism a factor which caused sects to begin, which was the variety of the interpretations of the writings of Moses and the sayings of the prophets. So then, since Christianity appeared to men as something worthy of serious attention, not only to people of the lower classes as Celsus thinks, but also to many scholars among the Greeks, sects inevitably came to exist, not at all on account of factions and love of strife, but because several learned men made a serious attempt to understand the doctrines of Christianity. The result of this was that they interpreted differently the scriptures universally believed to be divine, and sects arose named after those who, although they admired the origin of the word, were impelled by certain reasons which convinced them to disagree with one another. But the sects in medicine would be no good reason for avoiding it; nor would anyone who was endeavouring to act rightly hate philosophy, alleging the existence of many sects as an excuse for his hatred of it. Similarly, the sacred books of Moses and of the prophets ought not to be despised because of the sects among the Jews.68

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The justification that Origen offers, however, is not based on the simple existence of sects and schools in other spheres: it is founded, rather, on the epistemological benefit in their existence. With 1 Corinthians 11:19 as his proof text—“Indeed, there have to be factions among you, for only so will it become clear who among you are genuine”69—Origen produces the bold claim that the existence of divergent opinions (haireseis) should be applauded rather than deplored: The man who is qualified in medicine is he who is trained in the various sects and who after examining the several schools of thought with an open mind chooses the best; and a man who is well advanced in philosophy is he who by having known about several schools of thought is trained in them and follows the doctrine which has convinced him. So also I would say that a man who looks carefully into the sects of Judaism and Christianity becomes a very wise Christian.70

By (re)defining the “heretic” in the principal sense of being exclusively sectarian and therefore dogmatic, Origen challenges the growing dynamic of contemporary Christian heresiological discourse. In doing so, he establishes the opposition (both his own and of those who study with him) to the “closure” that characterizes both the single-minded adherents of a hairesis as well as the narrow-minded champions of selffashioned orthodoxy. Gregory’s Address offers a direct and clear reflection of this principle of “open access” to variegated forms and sources of knowledge. This was a stance, already contested in Origen’s time, which would become even more difficult to propound and defend as Christianity developed and took on new and often more restrictive forms of identity in what Rowan Williams has termed “the great shift in Christian self-understanding which we associate with the age of Constantine . . . a new development in Christian reflection on the boundaries and the definition of the Church.”71 The tendency to commit oneself uncritically to a single philosophical position without consideration of alternative possibilities receives its ultimate expression in Gregory’s discussion through a marvelous series of extended and vivid images (14.166–168): the fate of such an

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individual is likened to somebody immersed in a bog, lost in a dense forest, or trapped in a labyrinth.72 And in dramatically rhetorical fashion, Gregory concludes, “There is nothing—no labyrinth so involved and complicated, nor forest so dense and tangled, nor plain or bog so perilous—that holds those who enter it so fast as does human discourse (logos)” (14.169). The solution to the dilemma, though, lies ready at hand for the fortunate pupil in the schoolroom in Caesarea: [Origen] did not introduce us to one particular doctrine of the philosophers, nor allowed us to wander on our own, but he introduced us to all in his desire that there be no Greek doctrine with which we would be unacquainted. And he himself went in with us, going ahead and leading us by the hand as if on a hike, in case we met something crooked and deceptive and misleading. He was like an expert who, since from long involvement in arguments he is neither unfamiliar with nor unskilled in any of them, may himself stay safely on high ground, and by extending a hand to others might save them by pulling them out if they are in over their heads. (14.170–171)

The subsequent discussion introduces a sharp divergence, as the treatment of theology and its dangers suddenly gives way to a frustratingly terse presentation of Origen as interpreter of scripture—a passage that will receive the attention it fully deserves in the following chapter. Following this climactic interlude, however, Gregory offers a closing summation of the intellectual plenitude that characterized the period under Origen’s tutelage: Therefore, nothing was unspeakable, nothing was concealed and inaccessible. It was possible to learn every doctrine, both barbarian and Greek, both the most esoteric and the most public, both divine and human; encompassing them copiously and examining them thoroughly, taking our fill of everything and enjoying the good things of the soul. Whether a traditional teaching of truth or some other thing called by whatever name, we possessed in him an amazing authority and a provision filled with the most beautiful objects of contemplation. (15.182)

This beautiful coda celebrates the openness of the atmosphere of instruction, the accessibility of diverse opinions and subjects, as well

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as, of course, the remarkable presence and influence of Origen. The repetition of the key phrase “both barbarian and Greek” emphasizes, once again, the inclusive nature of the curriculum and returns us to the earlier occurrences of the phrase (7.107; 13.158) and the recurrent link between dialectical judgment and intellectual breadth. We are reminded once more that training in logic—language and reasoning, analysis and demonstration—lies at the very heart of Origen’s educational program, “connected and intertwined” with all other fields and subjects.

habit and freedom The previous chapter concluded with a series of questions regarding the relationship (and the tension) between the presence of various forms of constraint (or necessity) and the personal freedom of the new student. During the course of the present chapter, it has become increasingly evident that these questions were neither incidental nor tangential to the central concerns of Gregory’s composition; indeed, different forms of expression of this pedagogical constraint comprise the major themes of the chapter. The intense and prolonged course in dialectic (or logic) is described as a potentially coercive process that effectively strips the prospective student of encumbrances from his past studies and challenges a series of deeply engrained intellectual habits. This wrenching detachment from long-seated intellectual habits and the slow, painful, and painstaking formation of fresh ones lie at the very heart of Gregory’s tutelage under Origen. Without this primary allegiance to clarity of perception and speech, often achieved under the heavy yoke of the master’s sharp rebuke and equally stinging criticism, no liberality of thought and expression could have awaited. The ability to shake off preconceptions and see things clearly, the casting off of rhetorical ornaments for the plain sense of things—these were the freedoms that Gregory earned while laboring under harsh constraints.

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This is the process that Pierre Hadot described as learning to live dialectically—the essential aspect of learning to live a philosophical life.73 Intimately related to these questions is Origen’s deep concern regarding habitual attitudes that might impede the student’s progress. Among the central demands made of the student is the intellectual capacity to encounter, engage, and examine a broad range of doctrines and beliefs drawn from a variety of source and authorities. Origen’s educational practice in Caesarea, as we have seen, should be appreciated as a conscious alternative toward emerging forms of heresiological discourse in early Christianity. By defining the “heretic” in the principal sense of being exclusivist or dogmatic, he has marked his own educational alternative to the “closure” and dogmaticism that characterizes the adherents of a heresy (hairesis): their infirmity lies not only in doctrinal error but even more so in their inability to engage and investigate a variety of opinions. The discussion of the natural tendency to commit oneself uncritically to a single philosophical position without consideration of alternative possibilities is likened, in a series of extended metaphors, to the fate of one immersed in a bog, lost in a dense forest, or trapped in a labyrinth. This training of the soul depends on the presence of a master who challenges, at times forcefully, even coercively, the comfortable intellectual assumptions and posture of the student. A still more complete appreciation of Origen’s harsh pedagogy of persuasion and coercion will emerge in the following chapter of our study: an examination of the presentation of ethics (moral formation) and the goal of scriptural study as keys to the formulation of these and other aspects of Gregory’s training. The rigorous program is designed to enable the student to break the hold of entrenched habits, moral as well as intellectual, in order to begin to determine the shape and limits of a new freedom in both his intellectual development and his ethical comportment. A more satisfying understanding of these issues demands the investigation of a further series of themes in Gregory’s extended presentation of his educational formation: the precise role of the figure

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of Origen in the progressive stages of Gregory’s training; an appreciation of the relationship between master and student that touches upon the often paradoxical and highly charged tension between the role of imitation and the demand for a measure of individual creativity; finally, the complex nature of the closely intertwined themes of imitation and assimilation to the image of the divine.

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Having explored the initial strategies by which Gregory is first inducted into the school of Origen and subsequently trained in the preparatory scheme of dialectics and encyclical studies—through complementary measures of captivation and captivity—we now approach the very heart of the educational process. As already discussed, an extended portion of Gregory’s Address (9.115–15.183) is devoted to the two central fields of philosophical instruction: ethical instruction (9.115: “the highest matters of all, . . . the divine virtues concerning behavior”), which leads almost seamlessly into theology (13.150: “the most necessary thing of all—the knowledge of the cause of all things”). These two paramount fields of study are themselves the entry to the study of scripture and its innermost meaning. The deconstruction of habituated patterns of thought and establishment in their place of a foundation for critical judgment—the initial and necessary achievement of Gregory’s training—were in themselves neither goal nor end. The capacity for reception of novel concepts and their measured examination, the ability to engage in moderate and carefully reasoned investigation of claims and their substantiation, were never understood by the ancients as isolated aspects of the conversion to the pursuit of wisdom. The mental habits required for 89

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exacting thought and penetrating speech could only be achieved, and that achievement ultimately secured, through the parallel appreciation of virtues and their practical acquisition. In Pierre Hadot’s formulation of the path of philosophical training, “learning to dialogue” had to be accompanied by “learning to live.”1 It is not only propaedeutic training of an epistemological nature that concerns Origen. Closely related to his concern with the natural inclination and abilities of the student is a keen interest in varied forms of acquired behavior and attitude that might obstruct the student’s progress, namely, the question of moral preparation. A series of lengthy and vivid discussions comprise Gregory’s account of the ethical progress necessary to achieve the “purity” of mind and soul required for philosophical inquiry. Indeed, not only the details of the curriculum and the understanding of traditional Greco-Roman education as propaedeutic tie the classroom experience of the Address to the broader context of Origen’s work and the Alexandrian tradition. Still more central and significant is the understanding of ethical preparation and moral purification as essential stages of the pedagogical process. Gregory’s account of his ethical training, understood broadly as both the fulcrum and the focus of the Address, is more misleading and elusive than often appreciated. Its central position within the composition (9.115–12.149), coupled with the presumedly straightforward adoption of contemporary philosophical attitudes and terminology, may have lulled readers of the Address into a series of comfortable yet questionable conclusions. First, Gregory’s presentation of the passions and the virtues has yet to receive the sort of rigorous examination that it surely deserves; as a result the common assessment of the work’s philosophical status as derivative or commonplace remains distressingly premature. Within the present context, a few preliminary thoughts might be offered. The traditional (and seemingly unexceptional) nature of Gregory’s discussion, in fact, may mask interesting matters of detail and nuance. This is not to

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claim by any means that the author possessed a highly original or creative philosophical mind; even superficial impressions would seem to indicate that his acumen was limited and that his account may reflect a certain lack of understanding of Origen’s teachings in the field of ethics. Yet lack of originality and even misunderstanding hardly render a report insignificant. Gregory’s text may well afford us a glimpse (all too rare) into the transfer and assimilation of certain aspects of the Platonic-Stoic amalgam within a school framework. Beyond the level of creative “mistakes” in the exposition of a tradition—certainly worthy of our attention2—the workmanlike, if occasionally imprecise, presentation of traditional material holds its own fascination, perhaps especially so in a work not expressly philosophical in character. Indeed, there is good reason to suspect the possibility that Gregory’s shortcomings are themselves indications of some of the more subtle or, perhaps, less-welldefined aspects of the school tradition itself. And beyond all this, of course, lies the intriguing prospect of uncovering a previously unappreciated interpretation or debate partially masked by the “clumsy” account of the neophyte. These mistaken assumptions, moreover, may have promoted a somewhat shallow reading of this section, as if Gregory’s sole purpose was to provide a shorthand (and secondhand) account of ethical theory. Yet this section of his work is in no sense an epitome or handbook, such as those authored by the second-century Platonists Albinus and Alcinous—works, as already observed, that hold special importance for our understanding of the Address. Gregory’s discussion is neither systematic nor inclusive, certainly not in the manner of that genre, and there is no reason to think that he would have expected readers to turn to his composition as a stage in their philosophical education. It is virtually indisputable that Gregory was well acquainted with such handbooks and would not have deluded himself in that regard. Further, the presumed centrality of this lengthy section has presented its own pitfalls for the reader. It has been tempting to see this as the very

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heart of the Address, and its subject as the finest accomplishment of Gregory’s years in Caesarea and the professed aim of Origen himself: “a school for training in virtue.”3 There is, as well, significant contemporary evidence for the preeminence of ethical instruction, and the case certainly can be made.4 Yet there is also considerable evidence to the contrary, both internally on the basis of Gregory’s text and in light of what we know of his teacher and the witness of his writings. In Gregory’s presentation as well as in Origen’s own discussions of the matter, the third and crowning field of philosophy is “theology” or some variation on that topic.5 Interestingly, Gregory himself gives little indication of the actual subject matter of his theological education—save, as we saw in our preceding discussion, its decidedly inclusive character—but he is quite explicit about the final destination of all theological inquiry: the investigation of scripture. There is abundant supporting evidence from Origen for this path of progression, though the details of its development may be less linear than we assume. At any rate, the relation between moral development and biblical study must be taken into account in our attempt to assess their respective significance. While it is tempting to read Gregory’s training in dialectics and ethics as stages in his ascent to theological inquiry and scriptural exegesis—and these areas of learning are undoubtedly preparatory, in the sense of preceding and necessary—they remain active fields of endeavor and achievement even when the student has become engaged in “higher” activities. The fact that the educational path is in its essence a gradual process has encouraged us to emphasize and describe its graded nature: the movement from one task to the next, the ascent from the current level to the proximate and higher one. This mental concept—inevitably reinforced by our own educational culture of graded progress from subject to subject, from examination to examination—is apt to lead us badly astray in our attempt to understand the intimate pedagogy of late antiquity. An exceptionally helpful corrective in this regard is the metaphor introduced by Rafaella Cribiore in her discussion of “general education” in the Greco-Roman world:

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In climbing the hill of learning, the “athlete” did not go straight up the slope but proceeded in slow circles. Each circle expanded and enriched the compass of the preceding—in addition to introducing some new material—and embraced authors and exercises that were introduced previously, but were now used with a different purpose and in greater depth. . . . It is tempting to see this view of education as a vertical ascent to be climbed in circles represented to some extent in the frequently used expression enkyklios paideia. This phrase is usually taken to mean “general education,” with the adjective enkyklios (“circular”) pointing to the completeness of the program which had to envelop a student. It is possible that it also hinted at the multiplicity of the educational circles involved and at the cyclic revisiting of the same texts. When I mention circles of education in what follows, the reader should visualize a student in ancient times walking up a hill along circular paths.6

The path was circular and repetitive. Just as basic skills and fundamental sources were acquired and then regularly revisited, so the broader disciplines were never left behind but themselves provided the regular spheres of training and discipline. Finally, this section of the Address must be understood within its proper context. Here, as throughout, the unwavering focus of the composition remains the portrayal of the teacher and the educational experience of his student. The Address demands, correspondingly, our own resolute appreciation of this intent: the description of Gregory’s ethical training under Origen’s watchful eye (and firm hand), whatever its theoretical underpinnings, should not be allowed to lose its intensely personal focus. Even in the course of a seemingly “textbook” exposition of the emotions or of the virtues, Gregory never abandons the narrative of his encounter with the human figure (though perhaps something more than that) who changed the entire course of his life and its purpose. Indeed, unifying this lengthy presentation is the towering figure of Origen himself: inculcating the virtues, not only in speech but by deeds; accompanying and safeguarding his pupils, lest they go astray in their pursuit of higher truths; embodying the search for the inner meaning of scripture, divulged solely to the one who enjoys true

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“communion with the divine spirit.” We meet here a certain intensification of the earlier portrayal—the charismatic master, who erotically entranced and forcefully fashioned the newly recruited student, is now presented as a paragon whose every utterance and action serves as an exemplification of the intellectual and spiritual ascent. The evolving portrait is also one of underlying continuity, however, and our appreciation of several salient features of this central portion of the composition will depend, to no small degree, on our ability to recognize their dependence on and amplification of earlier themes. And here, once again, the self-consciously rhetorical constructions of the author should not be allowed to delimit our own investigation. The artistry of the Address, especially the idealizing, encomiastic quality of the portrayal of Origen, detracts neither from its seriousness of purpose nor from its underlying emotional strength. No less important will be the assessment of a wide range of tensions within the portrayal of Origen, his character, and his teaching. Certain of these tensions are virtually announced by the author himself, as he strives to reconcile contradictions, apparent or feared, within the object of his encomium. Should any limit be placed on Origen’s approximation to heavenly status, or can he confidently be pronounced to have bridged the divine-human divide? How acutely can the revered teacher be shown to have curtailed his students’ freedoms or forcefully curbed their natural desires and inclinations? Other tensions, more subtle but no less significant, need be teased out of the description and may have been “unnoticed” by Gregory himself. Does the presentation of the ethical system embraced (and embodied) by Origen dovetail with his assessment of the epistemological impediments that encumber his students? Is there a conflict, perhaps even contradiction, between the psychological models underlying critical aspects of Origen’s teaching? Finally, is there a point beyond which the author no longer is willing (or able) to afford us a vantage on the master and the progress of his pupils?

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passions and virtues The Address offers an extended description of the student’s training in the field of ethics—“the highest matters of all, on whose account the whole race of philosophers labors most, as if expecting to reap from the varied orchard of all the other branches of learning the great, good fruits of philosophy, the divine virtues concerning behavior (peri ēthos), out of which arises an undisturbed and steady condition toward the impulses of the soul” (9.115). The extended discussion (9.115–12.149) that ensues offers a rich account—albeit often dense and at times thick with apparent repetition—of both ethical theory and moral formation. The strong emphasis on the latter, the practical modification of habitual action and behavior, is emphasized at the outset with the explicit focus of the teacher on the student’s “dispositions (ēthōn) and modes (tropōn)” of life (9.117). At the foundation of Gregory’s presentation lies a psychological appraisal of the soul, its disturbances, and their control. The “undisturbed and steady (atarachos kai eustathēs) condition” necessary for the successful regulation of the impulses of the soul is, in the first instance, to be achieved through “the observation and understanding of the soul’s impulses and passions. This knowledge more than anything enabled our soul to be restored from its discord, and to move from confusion to what is settled and disciplined. By seeing itself as in a mirror, it beholds the very origins and roots of evil, its whole unreasoning side, from which unnatural disorders arise in us; and also its best part, the rational, under whose control it remains self-determined, free from harm and passion. Then, having come to an exact understanding of these things that are in it—all that springs from our inferior part, flooding us with licentiousness or squeezing and choking us with pettiness, such things as pleasures and desires or griefs and fears, and every subdivision of evil that comes under these headings—it would cast these things out and remove them from its path” (9.118–120).

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This vivid portrait of the soul, its divisions, and its warring tendencies is broadly based, of course, on Stoic principles and definitions. The basic division of the soul into its higher, rational (logikon) and its lower portions; the identification of the varied impulses (hormai) and passions (pathē) that plague the soul as the underlying causes of disorder and confusion; the explicit mention of “pleasures and desires or griefs and fears” as the opposing pairs fomenting concern and disquiet; and, finally, the condition to be achieved as that “free from harm and passion”—each of these components, as well as their unified arrangement, points to a psychological infrastructure based on a Stoic foundation.7 At the same time, the passage’s terminology and emphases had become widespread philosophical currency by the time of our text, and there is a notable sense in which Gregory’s discussion lacks the sort of definitional precision that might have allowed identification with a current stream or voice within that school. In fact, it is probably more accurate to see it as a Stoicizing psychology that had become part of the philosophical lingua franca of Greco-Roman philosophy of the imperial period.8 This successful cultivation of the higher elements in our soul, Gregory continues, is the necessary condition for the flourishing in the soul of the “divine virtues” (theiai aretai) and their desired effects: wisdom, able to judge first the very movements of the soul, and from those we get an understanding, in things external to us, of whether they belong to goods or evils; and moderation, the power of choosing these things rightly from the beginning; and justice, which renders to each his due; and the guarantee of all these things, courage. (9.122)

Over the coming pages of the text (9.123–12.149), the discussion of the virtues in the format of the basic Platonic quartet—wisdom (phronēsis), moderation (sōphrosunē), justice (dikaiosunē), courage (andreia)9—is expounded in a seemingly repetitious manner. This ethical instruction, then, parallels by and large the normal prescription of the era: a Platonic formulation of the virtues adumbrated by key elements of Stoic psychology. Here, as elsewhere, notable parallels for several

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aspects of the discussion are to be gleaned from the Middle Platonic Handbook of Alcinous with its pronouncedly integrative outlook.10 Even toward the close of his discussion—when the list of virtues is expanded to include “piety” (eusebeia), and there is explicit mention of divine inspiration as essential for their successful attainment—it is far from certain that Gregory’s account of the moral formation of the student diverges from current philosophical discourse.11 Indeed, if there is a demonstrably Christian element in this discussion, it is exceedingly subtle and far from conclusive. In general, as in his preceding treatment of the emotions, Gregory’s account appears to be neither of great subtlety nor a reflection of deep understanding on his part, but rather an amalgam of philosophical commonplaces of the time.12 There is ample evidence that the presentation of moral theory in the Address is largely in accord with Origen’s thought on these matters, and, therefore, good reason to suspect that what lies before us is, in part, a student’s occasionally confused summation of his master’s teaching. Nevertheless, it would be mistaken to dismiss Gregory’s account too quickly as undeserving of further attention. His presentation of ethics and the inculcation of virtue, even if fundamentally derivative and devoid of originality, can serve, at the very least, as an important witness to teachings regarding the classical virtues that formed a continuum between pagan and Christian frameworks of study. Finally, it is quite likely that in the practiced hands of a historian of ancient philosophy this portion of Gregory’s work could be teased to reveal a series of philosophical currents and contemporary debates concerning the nature (and context) of moral behavior that were very much alive for Origen and his students.13 This section of the Address still awaits this manner of careful reading. Perhaps most striking in this presentation of ethical theory and practice is the extent to which Gregory’s discussion is of a piece with the emphases, both rhetorical and conceptual, that characterized his preceding discussion. The opening representation of the virtues as the “fruits” to be gathered from the philosophical orchard is not only an established motif of the Alexandrian theological tradition, as previously observed,

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but equally a variation on the larger trope of the cultivation of the student. The careful development of horticultural imagery further intensifies in Gregory’s subsequent discussion of the control of the rational part of the soul over the disturbances caused by the passions: “At their very start, and just as they spring up, it would rise up against them and not let them grow even a little, but lay them to waste and destroy them completely. But since the things that arise from our higher part are truly good, these it would nourish and preserve, tending them from the first and protecting them until they reach perfection” (9.120–121). In essence, we are witnessing an internalized version of the process of cultivation, initially described by the pupil as practiced by the discerning teacher; here, within the context of the school and under the guidance of the teacher, the pupil’s own internal “gardener,” the rational portion of his soul, is the agent responsible for preservation and nourishment. Our immediate interest in Gregory’s report of his moral education is not dependent, however, on the precise determination of either its philosophical pedigree or acumen. Crucial for our deeper understanding of Gregory’s report and its presentation of his training in the school of Origen are a series of central themes—topics that serve both to link his account to broader frameworks of ethical instruction of that period and to reveal particular aspects of his own experience. The following sections of this chapter will focus on two intertwined yet potentially opposed themes: first, the tendency toward a certain interiorization of the virtues and the goal of assimilation to the divine; second, the tie between word and deed in moral training, which introduces the active, even domineering, role of the teacher. The tense relationship between these themes receives special expression here and links this portion of the Address with a number of the work’s recurrent concerns.

from care of the self to deification Following the initial exposition of the passions, their dangers, and their remedy through the pursuit and practice of the four principal virtues

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(9.115–126), Gregory’s account digresses somewhat, as he emphasizes the irenic and artlessly truthful (i.e., nonpolemical and nonrhetorical) nature of his composition (10.127–132) and the remarkable character of Origen in comparison to other teachers of the philosophical arts (11.133– 136). If thus far his account of the passions and the virtues has been fairly straightforward and based largely upon standard definitions and formulations, from this point on the discussion becomes somewhat more nuanced and focuses on the internal effects and rewards of virtuous behavior. This emphasis first appears in the renewed discussion of the quality of justice. The obligation to act justly (dikaiopragein), according to Gregory, was revealed by Origen to be the need to pay the utmost care to the soul’s proper (or authentic) action (idiopragia). The argument deserves to be cited at length: He even constrained us, if one must say so, to act justly (dikaiopragein) through the proper action (idiopragia) of our soul, to which he persuaded us to apply ourselves; he turned us aside from a life of many business affairs (polupragmosunē) and of the tumultuous public square, elevating us to examine ourselves and to occupy ourselves with things that really matter. This is what it means to act justly (dikaiopragein) and that is the genuine justice spoken of by certain ancient philosophers, who called it, I believe, the proper action (idiopragia) and the one most efficacious for obtaining happiness for themselves and for those close to them, if indeed it is the property of this virtue to distribute to each person what is worthy and appropriate. For what else could be more proper to the soul and what else more worthy than to take care of itself, not looking outside, engaging in the business of others (allotriopragein), nor, so to speak, doing itself the worst injustice, but turning inward toward itself, to devote itself to itself and thus to act justly (dikaiopragein)? (11.138–140)

As several commentators have indicated, the passage is based closely on Plato’s famous discussion of the role of justice in the harmony of the components of the soul in the fourth book of the Republic, a doctrine acknowledged by Origen himself as well as by his Alexandrian forerunners, Philo and Clement.14

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Interestingly, the term idiopragia—variously translated as “proper,” “authentic,” or “individual” action—figures prominently in Gregory’s discussion, as well as in the passages from both Clement and Origen, but is not to be found in Plato’s Republic, their obviously common source.15 Most significant, perhaps, is the distinctive focus of Gregory’s discussion, despite his presumed dependence on a Platonic/Alexandrian shared tradition. On the one hand, Gregory is unique among these authors in the sheer extent of his detailed reference to the underlying Platonic text, creating a sort of pastiche of the argument, while preserving the key concepts emphasized in the citation above (dikaiopragein/polupragmosunē/allotriopragein). On the other hand, Gregory alone has almost completely abandoned the primary sense of the Platonic passage: the central role of the virtue of justice in the balance or harmony of the soul’s components.16 In essence, his discussion hijacks the Platonic source in order to present a particular understanding of the “proper action” of the soul: care of the self in contrast to concern with external (and, therefore, extraneous) matters. Following this discussion, Gregory advances his argument by turning to the virtue of wisdom (phronēsis). Just as the true meaning of acting justly has been revealed to be the responsibility of attending to one’s inner being, in similar fashion, according to Gregory, Origen taught that “to be wise (phronein), then, is nothing less than being present to the soul itself and to both desire and endeavor to know ourselves.” Indeed, he continues, this teaching is “the noblest achievement of philosophy, the one ascribed to the most clairvoyant of the demons as an entirely wise injunction: ‘Know yourself’ ” (11.141). The Delphic maxim is, of course, a fixed feature of the Platonic philosophical tradition, occurring in no less than six of the dialogues, but it features principally (and most prominently) in the First Alcibiades, where the entire final movement of the composition (124b-135e) is devoted to the consideration of this question.17 The Alcibiades was widely studied in late antiquity, there being no doubt among ancient readers that the dialogue was a genuine work of Plato, and it would appear likely that Gre-

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gory too was deeply influenced by its doctrine of the necessity of the individual to care for his soul. If there were any uncertainty regarding the central role played by that Platonic dialogue in the development of Gregory’s argument, the immediately following passage removes all doubt: It was well said by the ancients that this is truly the task of wisdom, that this is divine wisdom, since it is truly the same virtue in God and in humanity, since when the soul takes care (meletōsēs) to see itself as in a mirror, it is also seeing in itself the reflection of the divine intelligence, if it should be worthy of such communion, and is following a certain unspeakable path to this deification. (11.142)

The portrayal of the soul “taking care to see itself as in a mirror” depends directly on the mirror imagery (132c-133c) at the conclusion of the Alcibiades. While Gregory had earlier (9.119) used the image of the mirror in order to emphasize the need to root out the unruly passions that we discover within ourselves, the mirror now functions as a means for the soul to go beyond its mortal bounds and explore its true nature.18 Through the perception (or reflection) of the divine mind (theios nous), having achieved the desired state of communion (koinōnia), the soul has begun to follow the ineffable path to deification (apotheōsis).

“becoming like god” In fact, Gregory’s entire discussion of the study of ethics is framed by brief introductory and concluding statements expounding the supreme goal of this area of philosophical endeavor. By acquiring the divine virtues, as we have seen, the individual attains “an undisturbed and steady condition toward the impulses of the soul.” In this manner, Gregory continues, Origen enabled his students to achieve a state “free from grief and insensible to all evils, well ordered and calm, and to become godlike (theoeideis) and truly happy” (9.115–116). This opening prescription, as we have seen, presents a wonderful amalgam of philosophical

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ideals, combining Stoic prescriptions for the ordered state of the soul, free from all passions and disturbances, with the Platonic aim of assimilation to the divine. Characteristic of a variety of intellectual currents in the imperial period—but especially of the thinkers and texts representative of an intermediate or middle stage in the development of the Platonist tradition19—this is clearly the continuum that provided the foundations of Gregory’s philosophical education. This introductory statement of the aim of ethics is carefully balanced by the closing declaration: “I think that everything has no other goal than to come to God (proselthein tōi theōi), having been likened (exomoiōthenta) to him in purity of mind, and to remain in him” (15.149). At the very core of Gregory’s report, therefore, lies an issue that has become central to the last generation of scholarship on Plato’s ethics. The ideal of an “assimilation to the divine” (homoiōsis tōi theōi) in the thought of Plato himself, as well as in that of his successors for roughly a millennium, has become a keen object of research as well as a subject of debate over these past decades.20 We meet the idea in a series of different Platonic contexts, but the locus classicus for almost all subsequent discussions is found in the (highly enigmatic) digression of the Theaetetus: But it is not possible, Theodorus, that evil should be destroyed—for there must always be something opposed to the good; nor is it possible that it should have its seat in heaven. But it must inevitably haunt human life, and prowl about this earth. That is why a man should make all haste to escape from earth to heaven; and escape means becoming as like God (homoiōsis theōi) as possible; and a man becomes like God when he becomes just and pious, with understanding.21

A similar sentiment was already present in the exhortation on the afterlife delivered by Socrates in the hour before his death: “No one may join the company of the gods who has not practiced philosophy and is not completely pure when he departs from life, no one but the lover of learning. It is for this reason, my friends Simmias and Cebes, that those who practice philosophy in the right way keep away from all bodily

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passions, master them and do not surrender themselves to them.”22 Perhaps still closer is the characterization of the mental state of the true philosopher in the Timaeus: On the other hand, if a man has seriously devoted himself to the love of learning and to true wisdom, if he has exercised these aspects of himself above all, then there is absolutely no way that his thoughts can fail to be immortal and divine, should truth come within his grasp. And to the extent that human nature can partake of immortality, he can in no way fail to achieve this: constantly caring for his divine part as he does, keeping wellordered the guiding spirit that lives within him, he must indeed be supremely happy. . . . And when this conformity is complete, we shall have achieved our goal: that most excellent life offered to humankind by the gods, both now and forevermore.23

Yet it is in the Republic that the theme reaches full expression: “Then the philosopher, by consorting with what is ordered and divine and despite all the slanders around that say otherwise, himself becomes as divine and ordered as a human being can.” And immediately before introducing the myth of Er: “For the gods never neglect anyone who eagerly wishes to become just and who makes himself as much like a god as a human can by adopting a virtuous way of life.”24 The extent of the influence of this Platonic ideal can probably best be appreciated in the Handbook of Alcinous, where we find a survey of these texts in chapter 28, which is dedicated to the theme of the proper end of human efforts. Citing one passage after another, the author remains sensitive to the differing contexts and emphases of Plato’s usage, and even to the tensions between them.25 Despite the diversity, Alcinous is able to conclude the overview with a summary prescription: We can attain likeness to God, first of all, if we are endowed with a suitable nature, then if we develop proper habits, way of life, and good practice according to law, and, most importantly, if we use reason, and education, and the correct philosophical tradition, in such a way as to distance ourselves from the great majority of human concerns, and always to be in close contact with intelligible reality.26

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As commentators have observed, while the account in the Handbook of Alcinous does little to resolve the inherent tensions within the Platonic theme, it does provide powerful testimony of that theme’s centrality in philosophical discourse of the second century CE. Still more important for our understanding of Gregory’s discussion, however, is the degree to which the theme was adopted and developed by Alexandrian thinkers, both Jewish and Christian. An explicit citation of the formulation in the Theaetetus (176a-b) is found in the writings of Philo of Alexandria when he considers the need for the righteous to escape this mortal life and its attendant evils: This truth found noble utterance in the Theaetetus, where a man highly esteemed, one of those admired for their wisdom, says: “. . . Having no place among the gods in heaven, of necessity they [evils] hover around the mortal nature and this earthly sphere. Wherefore we ought to fly away from earth to heaven as quickly as we can; and to fly away is to become like God, as far as this is possible; and to become like Him is to become holy, just, and wise.”27

While this passage offers Philo’s sole explicit citation of Plato on assimilation to the divine, the theme features prominently in his works. In discussing the need for leaders “to follow God” in his beneficent actions, he notes “these things good rulers must imitate if they have any aspiration to be assimilated to God (exomoiōseōs tēs pros theon).”28 Closely related is the prescription that, in light of his rational nature, “a man should imitate God (mimeisthai theon) as much as may be and leave nothing undone that may promote such assimilation as is possible.”29 The ideal ultimately finds its purest expression in the primordial state of the first human being: Consorting and having fellowship with these beings, the first man surely passed the time in undiluted well-being. He was closely related and akin to the Director, because the divine spirit had flowed into him in ample measure, and so all his words and actions were undertaken in order to please the Father and King, in whose footsteps he followed along the highways that the virtues mark out, because only those souls are permitted to approach him who consider the goal (telos) of their existence to be assimilation to the God who brought them forth (tēn pros ton gennēsanta theon exomoiōsin).30

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Although a century and half was to intervene—a period of remarkable ignorance regarding the presumably intertwined paths of the Jewish and Christian communities—Clement of Alexandria appears to renew the discussion almost precisely at the point where Philo had left it. With even greater frequency than his Jewish-Hellenistic predecessor, he both alludes and makes explicit reference to the definition in the Theaetetus (176a-b): “The philosopher Plato puts forward happiness as the goal of life and says it consists in ‘the greatest possible likeness to God.’ ”31 More telling, however, are his efforts to incorporate the Platonic teaching within an explicitly Christian context, as in the following description: This, therefore, is the life-work of the perfected gnostic, viz., to hold communion with God through the great High Priest, being made like the Lord, as far as may be, by means of all his service towards God, a service which extends to the salvation of men by his solicitous goodness towards us and also by public worship and by teaching and active kindness. Aye, and in being thus assimilated to God, the gnostic is making and fashioning himself and also forming those who hear him, while, so far as may be, he assimilates to that which is by nature free from passion that which has been subdued by training to a passionless state: and this he effects by undisturbed intercourse and communion with the Lord.32

Here, as elsewhere, both Philo and Clement provide the backdrop to Origen’s own application of the idea as well as its role in Gregory’s composition. Interestingly, and unlike his Alexandrian predecessors, Origen does not appear to have made similarly explicit reference to the Platonic formulation from the Theaetetus. Yet his frequent discussions of the ethical dimension of human participation in the “divine image” draw directly upon the earlier tradition: Moreover the marks of the divine image in man may be clearly discerned, not in the form of his body, which goes to corruption, but in the prudence of his mind, in his righteousness, his self-control, his courage, his wisdom, his discipline, in fact, in the whole company of virtues; which exist in God

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essentially (per substantiam), and may exist in man as a result of his own efforts and his imitation of God (per industriam et per imitationem dei), as the Lord points out in the gospel when he says: “Be ye merciful, as your Father also is merciful” and, “Be ye perfect, as your Father also is perfect.” Here we are clearly shown that in God all these virtues exist for ever and that they can never come to him or depart from him, whereas men acquire them gradually and one by one.33

Most striking here is the linking of the theme of the “imitation of God” with the explicitly ethical context of the discussion of the classical virtues. Writing some two decades later, in his Contra Celsum, Origen returns to the same themes: Images and votive offerings appropriate for God, which have not been made by vulgar [common] workmen, but which are made clear and formed in us by the divine Logos, are the virtues which are copies of the firstborn of all creation. For in him there are patterns of righteousness, prudence, courage, wisdom, piety, and the other virtues. Accordingly, there are images in all who, according to the divine word, have made for themselves prudence, righteousness, courage, wisdom, piety, and the products of the other virtues. We are persuaded that it is fitting for them to give honour to the prototype of all images, “the image of the invisible God,” the only begotten God.34

Perhaps most apposite, though, are Origen’s explorations of the “glorification” of the visage of Moses (Exod 34:29–30; 2 Cor 3:7–11) in his Commentary on the Gospel of John. “So far as the literal sense is concerned,” he observes, “there was a divine epiphany in the tabernacle and in the temple, which were destroyed, and in the face of Moses when he had conversed with the Divine Nature.” This scarcely exhausts the significance of the event, of course: But so far as the anagogical sense is concerned, the things that are accurately known of God might also be referred to as the visible glory of God that is contemplated by the mind which has the aptitude for such contemplation because of its pre-eminent purification (katharotētos), since the mind that has been purified (kekatharmenos) and has ascended above all material

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things, that it may scrupulously contemplate God, is made divine (theopoieitai) by what it contemplates. . . . Consequently, the figurative meaning of the glorification of Moses’ face is that his mind was made godlike (theopoiēthentos).35

This presentation of the godlike quality of the human mind, properly trained and purified, would appear to have been precisely the aim of Gregory in his initial portrayal of Origen: For I intend to speak about a man, or about someone who seems and appears to be a man, but to those capable of perceiving the extent of his condition, he has already completed the better part of the preparation for his removal to the divine [realm]. . . . But now as I am about to call to mind his most godlike [trait]—where his inner self is related to God, since although for the moment it is enclosed in what is visible and mortal, yet it is struggling with the greatest industry to become like God. (2.10, 13)

Ultimately, however, Gregory’s entire discussion—the systematic presentation of Origen’s program of ethical instruction, the consequent cultivation of the inner self, and the eventual goal of deification—gives way to a series of fundamental self-doubts and recriminations: And still, despite his wholehearted efforts, he has yet to raise us from our slowness and sluggishness and make us just and wise and temperate or courageous, since we lack so much, who neither possess nor come anywhere near to any virtue, human or divine. For they are great and lofty, and none can be obtained by anyone unless God breathes in the power. We were not born in such a fortunate condition, nor, we confess, are we yet worthy to reach them, since by reason of indifference and weakness we neglect to do all those things that those must do who aim at the best and court perfection. Therefore we are still on the way to being just or temperate, or possessing any of the other virtues. (12.145–147)

The reality of these innate encumbrances, the all-too-human frailties and limitations that make progress painfully slow and final success unimaginably remote, return Gregory abruptly to the presence of the teacher himself and to the very essence of his relationship with Origen:

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But this wonderful man, friend and guide to the virtues, first made us lovers, because we were fiercely in love with love, perhaps the only way he could. By his own virtue he instilled a passionate love for the attractiveness of justice, whose golden countenance he truly displayed to us, for wisdom to which all have recourse, for the true and most desirable wisdom, for godlike moderation, which is the soul’s good health and peace for all who possess it, for his most amazing courage. (12.147–148)

In the face of resistance, perhaps despair, at the very prospect of true and lasting moral progression, then, Gregory invokes Origen and his erotic inculcation of the attraction to a life of virtue. Having given expression both to the severity of his limitations and the crucial role played by his teacher in their rectification, Gregory is able to return to the promise of assimilation to the divine: If we desire and work to acquire for ourselves what everyone must have who is neither godless nor infatuated with pleasure, namely, to be God’s friend and supporter, we would also occupy ourselves with the other virtues. Then, not unworthy and filthy but with every virtue and wisdom, we might draw near to God, escorted as if by a good guide and very wise priest. I think that everything has no other goal than to come to God, having been likened to him in purity of mind, and to remain in him. (12.149)

This qualification introduced into Gregory’s account, the recognition of an inherent impediment in our independent efforts to attain a state of ethical perfection, and the concomitant necessity for an external source of strength and support—all these focus our attention on an essential aspect of Gregory’s account of his spiritual development.

word, deed, and compulsion One of the most striking aspects of the discussion is the emphasis on the nonverbal quality of Origen’s teaching, imparted “not by words alone but by deeds as well” (9.118). Closely allied with the widespread ideal in the ancient world of the desired harmony of word and deed— concordet sermo cum vita36 —the motif runs like a pedagogical thread

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through the entire argument. Thus Gregory’s initial description of his education in the virtues: He did not teach us how to act by standard definitions such as “wisdom is knowledge about good and evil or about what to do and what not to do”; indeed, [he taught us] that this kind of learning is vain and unprofitable, if the word be unsupported by works, and if wisdom does not do what is to be done and avoid what is not to be done, but simply provides its possessors with knowledge of these things, like many people we see. Likewise with moderation. . . . . The same holds for justice, and even for courage. This man did not explain to us about virtues in that fashion, in words, but rather called us to deeds, and he called us even more by deeds than by what he said. (9.123–126)

Origen approaches the inculcation of virtue not simply as an exercise in ethical theory—though this too would have been part of Gregory’s training—but within a tradition of moral training, based upon the premise that the pursuit of wisdom is a way of life and not simply a system of thought.37 Indeed, it would appear to be precisely this quality that set Origen apart from other teachers of philosophy whom Gregory had encountered: At first I did not encounter very many of them, just a few vaunted as teachers, but all of them in their philosophizing stopped at words. This man too at first used words to exhort me to philosophize, while preceding the verbal exhortation with his deeds. He did not just recite memorized formulas; on the contrary, he did not even think it worthwhile to speak if he could not do so with a pure intention and striving to put his words into action. (11.134–135)

Underlying the emphasis on proper actions and deeds in Gregory’s training are the teacher’s own persuasive and forceful words of encouragement. Based on a Greco-Roman tradition of moral exhortation, adopted and amplified in early Christian homiletic and literary practice, Origen builds as well on an Alexandrian tradition of protreptic speech.38 His method was one of total ethical immersion, leaving very little either to chance or to the unaided capacity of the student:

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He wanted to turn us into the kind of people who are masters of the impulses themselves, not just masters of doctrines and well informed about our impulses. He pushed even the doctrines in the direction of deeds, and placed before us not just a small portion of each virtue but its entirety, if we could but understand, right before our eyes. (11.137)

In somewhat paradoxical fashion, Gregory’s emphasis on the translation of words into deeds, and the significance of the latter in Origen’s moral instruction, lead him directly to an extended discussion of the interior nature of ethical training, which was discussed above. That extended discussion deserves to be revisited, this time with due attention to both its opening and closing sentences and their pronounced emphasis on the forceful nature of Origen’s role in Gregory’s development: He even, if one may say so, constrained (anankazōn) us to act justly by the proper action of our soul, to which he persuaded us to assent. Inducing us (apagōn) to put aside the endlessly busy activity of this life and the turmoil of public places, he incited us (eparas) to look carefully at ourselves and to do what was really our responsibility. . . . Thus he educated by constraining (anankazōn epaideue) us, if one may say so, to act justly. (11.138–140)

In similar fashion to the initial circumstances of his tutelage, so here in the advanced stages of ethical instruction to inwardly virtuous behavior, Gregory continues to employ language of coercion: describing Origen as one who “induces” and “incites” the student to proper action and whose “constraining” guidance frames the entire discussion. Once again, we are confronted with Gregory’s ongoing perception and consistent presentation of his educational experience as one of limited autonomy, in which, to at least some extent, he perceives and presents his achievements as the outcome of some measure of compulsion. Even these advanced stages in the study and practice of philosophy are described as accompanied by the forceful presence and direction of the spiritual guide. The perplexing relationship of persuasion and constraint that characterized his initial period with Origen would appear

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to have been the harbinger of a continually porous borderline that was to accompany Gregory throughout his years of training and tutelage. This extended description of Gregory’s training in the theoretical and practical aspects of ethics (“a school for training in virtue”) is itself preparatory and, perhaps, purgative. The discussion of these matters serves as component in the ascent that was also to include training in theology—“the knowledge of the cause of all things” (13.150). Yet even the presentation of “divine doctrine” in the following sections would seem to be instrumental: the discussion broaches no real theological problems or issues as such. Indeed, for an extended passage of his text (13.150–14.173), as we saw in the previous chapter, Gregory determinedly speaks rather about questions of a decidedly psychological and epistemological character—the dangers and pitfalls awaiting the student of theology, the difficulty of divorcing oneself from received opinion and liberating one’s mind from earlier and fixed philosophical positions and allegiances—without engaging a single substantive question associated with contemporary discussions of theology.39 Eventually, Gregory’s prolonged, somewhat meandering presentation of the difficulties of “theology” concludes with Origen’s instruction to his students to attend to God alone and to his prophets (15.173). It would seem, finally, that we have reached the acme of the educational program, the very purpose and apex of the curriculum.

scripture as acme and the exegete as paradigm The lengthy process of dialectical training, the demanding spiritual exercise with its awareness of different levels of virtue and their practice, the detailed exposition of epistemological pitfalls facing the unwary student of “knowledge of the divine and of piety” (14.165)—all of these have brought the successful and devoted pupil to the study of

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scripture. In a very real sense, only in this final stage of instruction do Origen’s students appear to diverge from their pagan contemporaries. Following the study of all forms of philosophical systems and the range of views regarding the divinity—barring those deemed “atheistic” and, therefore, malignant by nature—the Address describes the encounter with scripture. These paragraphs (15.173–182), which lead directly into the concluding peroration, describe Origen’s supreme powers of exegesis, bestowing upon him the twin titles of interpreter and prophet. This section, all too brief and sadly lacking in specificity, brings us to the very heart of the matter: the deeply rooted conviction, shared by Origen and his Alexandrian predecessors, both Jewish and Christian, that the entire cycle of liberal disciplines (enkyklios paideia) and the different fields of philosophy itself were essentially “propaedeutic” studies preparing the student to approach the sacred writings. Yet even at this point of “divergence,” a number of the salient features of Gregory’s account provide strong witness for the traditionally Greco-Roman character of Origen’s instruction in this regard as well. From the outset of his polemic against the second-century pagan critic Celsus in defense of Christianity and its scriptural foundation, Origen repeatedly emphasizes the philosophical essence of the biblical writings. Despite its simplicity of expression and consequent accessibility, and its seemingly unsophisticated presentation of the divinity, scripture was a polyvalent and demanding body of texts. Unwilling to cede the rewards of allegorical exegesis to the exclusive use of GrecoRoman myth and literature, Origen insisted that among Christians “there will be found to be no less profound study of the writings that are believed; we explain the obscure utterances of the prophets, and the parables in the gospels, and innumerable other events or laws which have a symbolical meaning.”40 This commitment to the philosophical kernel of scripture had the clearest educational implications for Origen, and he challenged his opponent’s claim that the followers of Jesus were unequivocally opposed to Greco-Roman wisdom:

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But if you were to show me teachers who give preparatory teaching in philosophy (pros philosophian propaideuontas) and train people in philosophical study, I would not dissuade young men from listening to these; but after they had first been trained in a general education (enkykliois mathēmasi) and in philosophical thought I would try to lead them on to the exalted height, unknown to the multitude, of the profoundest doctrines of the Christians, who discourse about the greatest and most advanced truths, proving and showing that this philosophy was taught by the prophets of God and the apostles of Jesus.41

Origen’s vision of higher Christian education, outlined here in nuce, corresponds almost precisely to the contours of Gregory’s training. The crucial juncture in this process, as indicated in the passage above and confirmed by the Address, lies in the transition from general philosophical insights and discussion to the truths of scripture. The precise point of transition in Gregory’s account from the study of diverse theological views (and their attendant pitfalls) to the focused study of scripture is of no little significance: we learn that Origen charged his students “to pay no attention” (mēden prosechein) to those who make outlandish claims regarding divine matters but rather “to pay attention (prosechein) to God alone and to his prophets” (15.173). That Origen should have turned his students toward the study of the Bible at the expense of all manner of impious blathering is scarcely surprising; of real interest, however, is his dual emphasis here on the art of “taking heed” (in the language of the King James version) or “paying attention.” While Gregory’s repeated use of the verb might appear casual and not particularly laden with significance, the expression, in fact, is scarcely incidental: the injunction to pay attention was a trademark of his teacher’s interpretative platform. Origen invoked the necessity of careful “attention” to the details and sense of scripture throughout his writings—in tandem with the exegetical virtues of precision, exactitude, and so forth—and there is every reason to assume that Gregory himself takes care at this juncture to capture the voice of Origen.

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In his systematic discussion of the principles of biblical interpretation in the fourth book of his Alexandrian work On First Principles, Origen discusses the appropriate attitude in approaching scripture: “And he who approaches the prophetic words with care and attention (epimeleias kai prosochēs) will feel from his very reading a trace of their divine inspiration and will be convinced by his own feelings that the words which are believed by us to be from God are not the compositions of men.”42 In the midst of the investigation of the vexed problem of the historicity of various biblical accounts, Origen returns to this dual injunction—care and attention—coupling these with a series of further exegetical necessities: Nevertheless the exact (akribēs) reader will hesitate in regard to some passages, finding himself unable to decide without considerable investigation whether a particular incident, believed to be history, actually happened or not, and whether the literal meaning of a particular law is to be observed or not. Accordingly he who reads in an exact manner (akribōs) must, in obedience to the Saviour’s precept which says, “Search the scriptures,” carefully investigate how far the literal meaning is true and how far it is impossible, and to the utmost of his power must trace out from the use of similar expressions the meaning scattered everywhere through the scriptures of that which when taken literally is impossible. . . . Consequently the man who reads the divine books reverently, believing them to be divine writings, must pay great attention (prosochēn).43

The attention displayed by the diligent, exact, and caring reader is precisely that which distinguishes him from those who display an irreverent attitude toward scripture. It is noteworthy that, in the course of his prolonged defense of Christianity, we find Origen not only defining the principle of careful, allegorical reading but disparaging those, like Celsus, who lacked the requirements for a subtle and sophisticated approach to the biblical texts and consequently drew false conclusions: If however, some are idle, and do not take the trouble to pay attention (ouk askountes prosechein) to the divine readings, and to search the scriptures, and do not obey Jesus’ command to seek for the meaning of the scriptures and

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to ask God about them and to knock for the [truths] locked up inside them, that is no reason for supposing that there is no wisdom in scripture.44

Indeed, throughout the Contra Celsum Origen takes his opponent to task repeatedly for his failure “to attend” properly to the texts upon which he has based his attack on Moses, Jesus, and their followers. There is, in fact, ample reason to detect here as well a strong measure of continuity between Origen’s principles and practice and those of his Alexandrian predecessors. Most revealing, once again, is the studied use of the term by Philo of Alexandria as a component in his project of a scripturally based theological education. In his treatise “Mating with the Preliminary Studies” (De congressu)—with its celebrated allegorical discussion of Abraham’s relations with Hagar as the initial “mating” of the seeker of wisdom with propaedeutic studies—we find a striking description of the challenge facing lecturers, ancient and modern. As to be expected, the presentation has a biblical point d’appui: Abraham, it says, “hearkened to (hupēkousen) the voice of Sarah” (Gen 16:2), for the learner must needs obey the commands of virtue. Yet not all do obey, only those in whom the strong longing (erōs) for knowledge has become ingrained. Hardly a day passes but the lecture-halls and theatres are filled with philosophers discoursing at length, stringing together without stopping to take breath their disquisitions on virtue. Yet what profit is there in their talk? For instead of paying attention (prosechein), the audience dismiss their minds elsewhere. . . . Thus, as far as what is being demonstrated is concerned, they are deaf, and while they are present in body are absent in mind, and might as well be images or statues. And any who do attend (prosechousi) sit all the time merely hearing, and when they depart they remember nothing that has been said, and in fact their object in coming was to please their sense of hearing rather than to gain any profit; thus their soul is unable to conceive or bring to the birth, but the moment the cause which stirred up pleasure is silent their attention (prosochē) is extinguished too. There is a third class, who carry away an echo of what is said, but prove to be sophists rather than philosophers. The words of these deserve praise, but their lives censure, for they are capable of saying the best, but incapable of doing it. Rarely then shall we find one who combines

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attention (prosektikon), memory and the valuing of deeds before words, which three things are vouched for in the case of [Abraham] the lover of learning (philomathei), in the phrase “He hearkened to the voice of Sarah,” for he is represented not as hearing but as hearkening (hupakouōn), a word which exactly expresses assent and obedience.45

As this passage makes clear, “attention” is necessary but not sufficient: in its absence no knowledge can be acquired, yet it cannot suffice for the lover of learning. Another text from Philo presents one of the necessary preconditions for attention to be efficacious. Once again, a biblical verse presents the opportunity: There are indeed some whom it befits to hear but not to speak, those to whom the words apply, “Be silent and hear” (siōpa kai akoue; LXX Deut. 27:9). An excellent injunction! For ignorance is exceeding bold and glib of tongue; and the first remedy for it is to hold its peace, the second to pay attention (prosochē) to those who advance something worth hearing. Yet let no one suppose that this exhausts the significance of the words “be silent and hear.” No, they enjoin something else of greater weight. They bid us not only be silent with the tongue and hear with the ears, but be silent and hear with the soul also. For many who come to hear a discourse have not come with their minds, but wander abroad rehearsing inwardly numberless thoughts on numberless subjects, thoughts on their families, on outsiders, on things private and things public, which properly should be forgotten for the moment. All these, we may say, form a series of successions in the mind, and the inward uproar makes it impossible for them to listen to the speaker, who discourses as in an audience not of human beings, but of lifeless statues who have ears, but no hearing is in those ears. If then the mind determines to have no dealing with any of the matters which visit it from abroad or are stored within it, but maintaining peace and tranquility addresses itself to hear the speaker, it will be “silent,” as Moses commands, and thus be able to listen with complete attention (meta tēs pasēs prosochēs). Otherwise it will have no such power.46

This emphasis upon silence as a prerequisite for hearing and attention seems also to have been a concept that Gregory inherited from the Alexandrian tradition and that will be encountered in the next chapter of this study.

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No less significant is the larger spiritual context of this emphasis on “attention”; for not only must certain conditions exist in order that the learner be capable of attending to higher matters, but this state of attention is itself merely a component of a broader constellation. A further passage from Philo was recognized by Pierre Hadot to preserve invaluable testimony to this range of intellectual and moral exercises: “research (zētēsis), thorough investigation (skepsis), reading (anagnōsis), listening (akroasis), attention (prosochē), self-mastery (enkrateia), and indifference to indifferent things.”47 As evident from the final element in the list, we are dealing with the distillation of a long philosophical tradition; in Hadot’s words, “a fairly complete panorama of Stoico-Platonic inspired philosophical therapeutics.” Indeed, the call to careful, even painstaking “attention” (prosochē) is a hallmark of the Greco-Roman tradition of cultivation of the self. This earmark of the philosophical life was eventually to be incorporated and enhanced in the Christian monastic-ascetic tradition from the fourth century onward.48 It is noteworthy, especially in the light of this background, that Origen’s charge (15.173) is not to an abstract or encompassing spiritual awareness but rather to the focused care and attention that the student must cultivate in order to proceed successfully in his reading of scripture. Perhaps the most famous expression of this concern is in Origen’s letter to a former student, presented at length in the previous chapter. After praising the student’s natural aptitude, as we have seen, the letter proceeds to the discussion of the importance of propaedeutic or encyclical studies for the study of Christianity, and then presents a series of biblical proof texts prescribing the proper (and proscribing the improper) employment of such general preparatory studies. The closing section of the letter contains an impassioned exhortation to the student: You, then, my lord and son, pay attention (proseche) to the reading of the divine Scriptures, but do pay attention (proseche). We need great attention (prosochēs) when we are reading divine things, so that we may not be precipitous in saying or understanding anything concerning them. Also, paying attention (prosechōn) to divine reading with the intention to believe and

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to please God, knock at what is closed in it, and it will be opened to you by the doorkeeper, concerning whom Jesus said, “To him the doorkeeper opens” ( Jn 10:3). As you pay attention (prosechōn) to divine reading, seek correctly and with unshakable faith in God the sense of the divine Scriptures hidden from the many. Do not be content with knocking and seeking, for prayer is most necessary for understanding divine matters. It was to exhort us to this very thing that the Savior did not only say, “Knock, and it shall be opened to you” and “Seek, and you shall find,” but also, “Ask, and it shall be given to you” (Mt 7:7; Lk 11:9).49

This extraordinary fivefold repetition of the injunction to pay attention marks a high point in the development of a broad Greco-Roman tradition and signals Origen’s own uncompromising commitment to the study of scripture as the acme of both intellectual and spiritual activity. The emphasis on the necessity of concentrated attention on the part of the student—the culmination of his epistemological and ethical training to this point—immediately returns to the portrayal of Origen as uniquely qualified to confront the character and difficulty of scripture: “He himself expounded and clarified whatever should be dark and enigmatic there, there being many such in the sacred sayings. . . . He clarified and brought [these] into the light, whether he encountered true enigmas, since he is an awesome and most understanding disciple of God, or whether there was nothing intrinsically obscure or incomprehensible to him” (15.174–175). Gregory’s observations on this intransigent (“dark and enigmatic”) character of scripture—whether by purposeful design or as a reflection of the diminished spiritual capacities of human understanding—are an obvious reflection of his lengthy exposure to the Alexandrian exegetical tradition.50 Indeed, it is difficult to imagine a student of Origen who hadn’t heard from his master that “it is unanimously agreed by all who even moderately understand the divine discourses that they are filled with riddles, parables, dark sayings, and various other forms of obscurity hard for human nature to comprehend.”51 Further, Origen regularly suggests that this obscurity of scripture is of deeply purposeful design:

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But if the usefulness of the law and the sequence and ease of the narrative were at first sight clearly discernible throughout, we should be unaware that there was anything beyond the obvious meaning for us to understand in the scriptures. Consequently the Word of God has arranged for certain stumbling-blocks, as it were, and hindrances and impossibilities to be inserted in the midst of the law and the history, in order that we may not be completely drawn away by the sheer attractiveness of the language, and so either reject the true doctrines absolutely, on the ground that we learn from the scriptures nothing worthy of God, or else by never moving away from the letter fail to learn anything of the more divine element.52

But Gregory neither enlarges upon nor deepens this characterization of the nature of scripture—his principal focus and concern remains Origen himself: He is the only living person whom I have either met myself or heard others tell about who could do this, who had trained himself to receive the purity and brightness of the sayings into his own soul, and to teach others, because the Leader of them all, who speaks with God’s friends the prophets, and prompts every prophecy and mystical, divine discourse, so honored him as a friend as to establish him as his spokesman. . . . I think that he says these things only by fellowship with the divine Spirit, for it requires the same power to listen to prophets as it does to prophesy, and no one hears a prophet except the one to whom the prophetic Spirit has bestowed insight into its own words. . . . He has received this greatest gift from God and heaven’s noblest destiny, to be the interpreter of God’s words to human beings, to have insight into the things of God as if God were speaking, and to explain them to human beings as human beings hear. (15.175–176, 179, 181)

We are presented with an unapologetically hierophantic portrait of the master, whose interpretative powers can only be described as inspired in the strict sense: whether it be an indwelling of the “prophetic spirit” or of the divine Word itself, Origen has trained and purified himself to attain a status unparalleled among the living. This friendship with the Spirit and the Word can only be understood as the consequence of Origen’s unique assimilation to the divine. Origen himself expressed the role of the teacher of scripture in precisely this manner:

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If the oracles of God are in Law and Prophets, in Gospels and Apostles, it will be necessary that the one who is instructed in the oracles of God assign God as teacher. For, “the one who teaches men knowledge” is God, as it is written also in Psalms (94:10), and the Savior testifies also that you do not need to be assigned a teacher on earth when he says: “And do not call anyone a teacher on the earth.” For there is one who is your teacher, “the Father who is in heaven.” (Mt 23:8–9) And “the Father who is in heaven” teaches either by himself or through Christ or in the Holy Spirit or through Paul, or, for that matter, through Peter or through one of the other saints, provided only that the Spirit of God and the Word of God dwell and teach.53

An interesting parallel to this understanding of divine fellowship may be found in the writings of Philo of Alexandria, who presents Moses as both the recipient of the Law from God and its uniquely qualified “interpreter.”54 This approach to the study of scripture, then, is not only the result of intellectual preparedness but equally a result of ethical progress and concomitant spiritual advancement. The portrayal of Origen’s godlike nature throughout the Address resonates clearly with contemporary Middle Platonic speculation on “likeness to God” (Plato, Theaetetus 176a8-b2) as the summit of human effort; yet it equally calls up images of the stages of purification preliminary to the approach to things divine.55 Indeed, the path to scripture in the Address is ultimately a discourse on GrecoRoman and early Christian conceptions of divinization. Only through philosophy, the acquisition of virtue and wisdom—exemplified by Origen himself as a “paradigm” of this state of being and knowledge— can scripture be approached. And here, when his account reaches this goal, Gregory falls silent. Despite the obvious importance of the study of scripture and the acquisition of interpretative expertise in the study circle around Origen, it is striking, inescapably so, that Gregory’s account adds virtually nothing to our understanding of the training of the young exegete, save a single sentence dedicated to the possible role or position of the student in the presence of his master of scriptural exegesis, the sentence

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removed from the extended quotation above: “So that whether one is hard of soul and distrustful or eager to learn, one might be constrained in some manner, by learning from this man, to understand, to choose to believe, and to follow God” (15.178). The reader receives neither curricular information as such nor indication of the order of study of the biblical books nor, most crucially, any description of the upward path by which the student would have gained familiarity and competence in the master’s method of reading and interpreting; rather, and fully in accord with Gregory’s account until this point, a further testimony to the pedagogy of attraction and necessity. So complete is this silence regarding the concrete technique of study that it remains unclear from the narrative whether Gregory’s experience in the classroom included the actual reading of texts, whether philosophical or scriptural. That is, to what extent has the instruction been based on the examination of written texts, on the memorization and discussion of sources transmitted orally, or some combination of the two?56 Modern readers of the Address, for the most part, seem not to have been overly concerned by this silence. For some, perhaps, this lack of information concerning the path of the exegete in training has been offset by the fact that the text provides valuable supporting evidence of descriptions found in other sources, of the nature of Origen’s interpretative project. For others, one suspects, it provides confirmation of their more general judgment that the work lacks the necessary specificity to be a source of true historical importance. Neither of these approaches seems to me satisfactory in any real sense, and I would suggest that we should be “bothered” by Gregory’s account. Both the relative brevity and imprecision of the description of the role of scripture in the training in Caesarea (15.173–181) stand in direct contrast to its significance and centrality in the formation of the student: the encounter with the word of God and his prophets would seem to be the very goal and aim of the educational program, the culmination of a prolonged period of intensive intellectual and spiritual preparation. Why wouldn’t Gregory have desired, indeed felt the very real need, to have expanded this portion of

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his account? Why should he have fallen silent, or at least so guarded, at this apex of his experience? There is, I believe, ample room to argue that this is almost certainly by express design, and that two distinct yet dependent reasons underlie Gregory’s hyperbolic but ultimately taciturn portrait of Origen as scriptural interpreter. First, there is a very real logic to his relative silence precisely at this juncture: as he reports, the privileged entry to the world of scriptural interpretation has been acquired through a rigorous process of spiritual training, a regimen of ethical and intellectual discipline and purification. How could Gregory have been expected to throw open the doors to so casual an audience as we readers represent? The second, and perhaps principal, rationale for this seemingly impoverished report on the details of exegetical studies with Origen relates to the larger issue, broached earlier in this chapter, of the very purpose and aim of the Address. The work is designed no more to provide a primer to scriptural interpretation than it is to serve as a handbook of philosophy. In almost precisely the same manner in which Gregory enlarged on the field of ethical theory and behavior, not in order to relate his own moral progress or to dwell on his own achievements, but rather to focus our attention on the pivotal role of Origen in this development, so here too the figure of the master takes center stage. This recognition allows an altered perspective on Gregory’s account of scripture and its unrelenting focus on Origen as its preeminent interpreter. In a very basic sense, as we have already seen, Origen is clearly the object of Gregory’s account—his person, his virtues, his divine qualities. Origen the biblical interpreter is clearly an integral facet of this portrayal, and its centrality should scarcely surprise us. There may be a more defined, technical sense, however, in which Gregory focuses his account on Origen as exegete of scripture. Though biographical criticism is shunned in many critical circles today, and interest in an author’s motivations or intentions can be regarded as fallacious in principle, scholars in Greco-Roman antiquity prized these pursuits: they were perceived as crucial to any seriously competent understanding of a

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text, whether literary or philosophical.57 Interpretation of an author’s work, according to Cicero, demands full knowledge of “his acts, words, character and life.”58 Does the Address, in effect, present the training of a student of Origen in a double sense: has Origen himself become the true object of study? Has Gregory’s training produced an exegete for whom the interpretation of the scriptural text must be approached through, and mediated by, a detailed commentary on the divine commentator, Origen himself? Very interesting, in this regard, is Origen’s characterization of the role of the teacher, drawing upon the portrayal of Jesus. “It is in a highly pedagogical manner, even if disconcerting,” according to Origen, that Jesus says to the disciples: “You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example (hypodeigma), that you also should do as I have done unto you” ( John 13:13–15). And he comments: But I think that the feet of the disciples need to be washed by the teacher, because they have not yet received everything that they need, but still lack what is implied in “Let it be enough for the disciple to become as his teacher is” (Mt. 10:25). And this is the purpose of the teacher—in his capacity as teacher—in relation to his disciple, to make the disciple like himself, so that he may no longer require his teacher in that capacity, even if he still needs him in some other capacity.59

paradise and study The deepest sense of Origen as exemplar comes to full expression in the brief passage immediately following Gregory’s description of his master’s unparalleled prowess as an interpreter of scripture. Touching on a number of earlier themes in the composition, with appropriate lexical echoes, Gregory recounts: Therefore, nothing was unspeakable, nothing was concealed and inaccessible. It was possible to learn every doctrine, both barbarian and Greek,

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both the most esoteric and the most public, both divine and human; encompassing them copiously60 and examining them thoroughly, taking our fill of everything and enjoying the good things of the soul. Whether a traditional teaching of truth or some other thing called by whatever name, we possessed in him an amazing authority and a provision filled with the most beautiful objects of contemplation. (5.182)

The passage highlights the most salient features of Gregory’s tutelage under Origen: exposure to the broadest possible curriculum, resistance to all intellectual constraints or parochial limitation; the leisure of unrestricted discourse and inquiry; the encounter with the dazzling abilities of the teacher himself. A delicate suggestion in the language of this passage of a motif of growth and fruition, with the emphasis on the fullness and satiety of the student, comes to vivid expression in the succeeding summary coda: In brief, he was truly a paradise for us, a copy of the great paradise of God, in which there was neither need to work the earth below nor to become gross by nurturing the body, but only to increase the extravagances of the soul, like beautiful plants either planting themselves or implanted in ourselves by the Cause of all things, rejoicing and living in luxury. (15.183)61

Pulling together his wide range of references to cultivation and fulfillment, Gregory has turned to the uniquely powerful and primal image of well-being and nourishment: the primordial garden. While the centrality of the story of the garden (Gen 3) in early Jewish and Christian thought would seem to promise the ubiquity of the image, there are, in fact, relatively few instances in which we see this manner of reference to Eden. Sometime in the late second century, the anonymous author of the Epistle to Diognetus promised his audience that “when you read these things and hear them eagerly, you will know what God provides for those who love properly, you who have become a ‘paradise of luxury,’ who have made a fertile and fruitful tree spring up in yourselves, you who are laden with various kinds of fruit.”62 In this usage the righteous community itself has been described as a reflection of primordial Eden. Far closer to Gregory’s use of the

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imagery is, once again, the Alexandrian exegetical and theological tradition. The allegorical meaning of the biblical passage (Gen 3), according to Philo of Alexandria, is clear to all “men with their eyes opened”: We must conceive therefore that the bountiful God plants in the soul as it were a garden of virtues and the modes of conduct corresponding to each of them, a garden that brings the soul to perfect happiness. Because of this He assigned to the garden a site most suitable, bearing the name of “Eden,” which means “luxuriance,” symbol of a soul whose eyesight is perfect, disporting itself in virtues, leaping and skipping by reason of abundance of great joy.63

Elsewhere, he refers to Eden, “literally rendered luxuriance,” as a “symbolic name for right and divine reason” that “finds its delight and luxury in the enjoyment of good things pure and undiluted.”64 Philo employs this very vocabulary in his description of the rare men of wisdom capable of finding “delight and luxury in the contemplation of the world and its contents and in following nature and in bringing words into harmony with deeds and deeds with words” and of the Therapeutae, who “luxuriate and delight” in their “banquets of truth.”65 Other usages of this imagery are also likely to have been familiar to Gregory from his studies in Caesarea. In his refutation of Celsus, Origen responds to the claim that Christians should heed the philosophical injunction to “shut the eyes to the world of sense and look up with the mind”; Celsus had incorporated this claim within his charge that only if you “turn away from the flesh and raise the eye of the soul, only so will you see God.” Origen chides the pagan critic with ignorance in his assumption that this was unknown to readers of the Bible: prior to their fall, Origen explains, Adam and Eve clearly had made use of “the eyes of the soul with which, for a time, they saw while they rejoiced (euphrainomenous) in God and His paradise.”66 In this response, Origen has employed the scriptural episode in order to subtly reinforce its underlying philosophical implications: the concept of enjoyment indicates a purposefully cognitive rather than corporeal sensation. As one of the participants in Plato’s Protagoras had observed, “And then, too, we, your

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audience, would enjoy but not be pleased, for to enjoy (euphrainesthai) is to learn something, to participate in some intellectual activity, and is a mental state; but to be pleased has to do with eating or experiencing some other pleasure in one’s body.”67 Following in this tradition, and calling upon the resources of Philo and Origen, Gregory too understood the primordial imagery as suggestive of the highest rational activity. In comparison, however, the use of the paradise theme in the Address is still more striking. Gregory presents neither an exercise in allegorical exegesis nor an idealizing portrayal of primordial contemplation, but an attempt to make vivid and real for his reader the experience of having been in the classroom of Origen. It is the crowning image of his presentation of the teacher and an attempt to capture the “joy and the luxuriance” that he felt in his presence. There may be another text of Origen, though, which allows an insight into the extent of Gregory’s intention in his selection of this motif. In the course of the famous (or notorious) speculation in his On First Principles regarding the consummation, the end of the present world, and the diverse fates of humankind, Origen asks whether after this world there will be a course of healing and improvement, very severe no doubt and full of pain to those who have refused to obey the word of God, yet a process of instruction and rational training through which those who in this present life have devoted themselves to these pursuits and, being made purer in mind, have attained here and now to a capacity for divine wisdom, may advance to a richer understanding of truth; and whether after this the end of all things follows immediately.68

As the passage makes clear, this future “process of instruction and rational training” has been anticipated and actually initiated already in this present existence. Indeed, Origen proceeds to elaborate this point: So when even in this life men devote themselves with great labour to sacred and religious studies, although they obtain only some small fragments out of the immeasurable treasures of divine knowledge yet [they gain this advantage,] that they occupy their mind and understanding with these questions and press onward in their eager desire. Moreover they derive

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much assistance from the fact that by turning their mind to the study and love of truth they render themselves more capable of receiving instruction in the future.69

As Origen explains, the effect of rigorous intellectual effort in this life is twofold: first, an advancement along the path to perfect knowledge, even if the progress is negligible in comparison to that remaining to be achieved; second, and surely no less important, the studious individual and lover of truth readies himself, preparing his very being for the future accomplishment of the desired perfection. Origen then proceeds to raise the possibility that this ultimate advancement, this elevation to heavenly knowledge, may require “no small interval of time” during which those judged worthy will find an interim location for further progress and the pursuit of their studies: I think that the saints as they depart from this life will remain in some place situated on the earth, which the divine scripture calls “Paradise.” This will be a place of instruction and, so to speak, a lecture room or school for souls (schola animarum), in which they may be taught about all that they had seen on earth and may also receive some indications of what is to follow in the future; just as when placed in this life they had obtained certain indications of the future, seen indeed “through a glass darkly”, and yet truly seen “in part”, which are revealed more clearly and brightly to the saints in their proper times and places. If anyone is “pure in heart” and of unpolluted mind and well-trained understanding he will make swifter progress and quickly ascend to the region of the air, until he reaches the kingdom of the heavens.70

This is, to the best of my knowledge, a singular text in the early Christian tradition, in which an eschatological “school for souls”—in Origen’s vision, the school that awaits those who have dedicated themselves, during the course of this earthly existence, to a “process of instruction and rational training” and “sacred studies”—is likened to the primordial paradise.71 Is it not logical, indeed likely, that Origen would have shared this teaching with his students, speculating perhaps on the role of their own study circle as a preparation for, perhaps

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intimation of, that “school for souls”? Could Gregory not have come to the conclusion, equally logical, that during these past years under the guidance of the master he had been privileged to reside in a form of paradise? A time, a place, in which there was no want or need for labor, a rare conjunction of true joy and luxury. Ultimately, however, the language and commitment of the Address are still more dramatic and telling. While the description of the school in Caesarea as a “paradise” is both highly evocative and corresponds significantly to Origen’s own conception of instruction as the medium for return to a primordial order of virtue and clarity, Gregory is speaking more concretely, more pointedly. His characterization here is not of the school itself, whether as setting or institution, but of the individual who stands at its head: “He [Origen] was truly a paradise for us, a copy of the great paradise of God.”72 The power of the imagery is focused on the person of the teacher, who himself stands as a form of sacred precinct, a preserve of plenitude and blessing for the attentive, imitative pupil. Gregory’s hymn of thanksgiving is not to the school but to Origen, who within his person had become a copy of paradise, a likeness of God.

f ou r

Paradise and the Cave E quella a me: Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore. And she said to me: There is no greater sorrow than to recall our time of joy in wretchedness—and this your teacher knows.1

The crescendo-like conclusion of the central section of Gregory’s Address—the declaration of Origen’s presence as “truly a paradise for us, a copy of the great paradise of God”—transforms suddenly into a peroration of exile and grief. The dizzying heights of intellectual achievement and spiritual well-being give way to bitter expressions of loss and despair, followed by a concluding attempt at comfort and integration. This chapter focuses on varied aspects of Gregory’s leavetaking: its artistry, its context within the composition, and its overarching personal and philosophical significance. The dramatic conclusion of the Address (16.184–19.207), approximately a tenth of the composition’s total length, has received some notable appreciation but curiously little close attention or analysis. The limited interest shown, thus far, has been restricted largely to scholars of ancient rhetoric, as the overall theme of this section corresponds to a clearly attested, but infrequently preserved, form of Greco-Roman composition: the oration of farewell or “leave-taking” (logos suntaktikos).2 129

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The most extensive documentation regarding the rhetorical form and its social function is to be found, not surprisingly, in the writings of Menander of Laodicea (late third century CE), who defines the literary situation as one in which “a person who is taking leave (suntattomenos) of another is clearly distressed at the separation, and if he is not really distressed, he will claim to have some amorous feelings toward the persons of whom he is taking leave.”3 After citing Homeric precedent for the form—notably, examples drawn from Odysseus’s departure from Phaeacia (Odyssey bk. 13)—Menander enumerates the basic components of the desired address: “gratitude toward the city from which he is returning . . . weaving in at all points the thought that he is distressed at being parted from all this”; mention of the intended destination, whether another land or his own; and finally, a prayer for those being left behind, “expressing admiration for their outstanding qualities,” as well as a prayer for the safety of one’s own journey.4 The remainder of Menander’s discussion is devoted to the special circumstances and requirements of the form depending on whether one is leaving one’s own native city or summoned to return from another city back to one’s own. The discussion does not always clearly distinguish between the two circumstances, but Menander takes care to emphasize the delicate balance that must be maintained between the two cities, regardless of the direction of one’s travel: “Give the speech a moderate, simple and kindly tone, everywhere giving an impression of reasonableness, but without abjectness or loss of dignity. . . . Praise first and admire first the city which you are addressing, though you must also look towards the cities which are your destination.”5 Interestingly, one of the most vivid extant descriptions of the Sitz im Leben of such a declamation is to be found in the funeral oration for Basil of Caesarea delivered by his youthful companion and sometime ecclesiastical ally Gregory of Nazianzus—the very composition introduced earlier (chapter 1) within the framework of the discussion of erotic friendship. Gregory describes the (planned) return of the two friends to Cappadocia from their studies and their sailing from Athens:

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The day of our departure was at hand, and with it all that is involved in departure: speeches of farewell and escort, salutations, laments, embraces, and tears. For there is nothing so painful to anyone as for those who have been fellow students at Athens to be separated from the city and from one another. Then indeed, occurred a pitiable spectacle and one worthy to be recalled. About us were gathered our companions and classmates, as well as some of our masters, all crying out, in the midst of their entreaties, threats of violence and attempts at persuasion that, come what may, they would not let us go. They said and did everything natural to men in grief.6

Only isolated fragments of the genre have survived from the late ancient period, and it has not escaped the notice of scholars that Gregory’s Address may be, in fact, the most fully developed and coherent example we possess.7 Indeed, toward the close of his composition Gregory betrays full awareness of the highly stylized nature of this leavetaking and attempts to defuse the potential misunderstanding that may have been created: Let my address draw to a close here—overly bold where it ought not to be, but reasonably expressing gratitude, I think, in accord with our ability, and while we have said nothing worthy, at least we have not fallen totally silent. And besides I have uttered a lament, as those who depart from dear ones are accustomed to do; it may be affected but it contains no manner of flattery and is neither overly archaic nor elaborate. Indeed, I know for certain that it is fitting for him and not fabricated, truthful in every way, of sound intention, and pure and whole in purpose. (18.203)

Despite the significance of the text in this regard, neither the technique nor themes of Gregory’s closing address seem to have received sustained interest or careful analysis. Yet precisely because Gregory’s Address has been identified and classified with a rhetorically stylized form of leave-taking, the concluding section of the work demands to be carefully reexamined: there are, as we shall soon see, substantive reasons to question an identification either too simple or limiting. Indeed, Gregory’s farewell may reflect a rather unique and significant moment. In certain obvious respects—in tone, manner, and

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subject—the final pages of the Address are markedly different from all that has come before. Though as pronouncedly rhetorical as the opening sections of the work, the tone is significantly heightened, becoming both more personal and emotionally charged. Similarly, the literary character shifts to a new mode of argumentation with a sudden proliferation of biblical motifs, allusions, and proof texts. Finally, Gregory’s proximate departure from Origen emerges from the background and imposes itself as the central and anguished subject of discussion. Indeed, it may be possible to argue that this closing section, while now intricately woven into the overall context of the composition, originally had a truly independent role: perhaps as the core of an actual address delivered by Gregory before his teacher on the eve of departure. Yet this concluding section, however differentiated and distinctive, is also deeply intertwined, lexically and thematically, with preceding sections of the composition, especially the account of Gregory’s early career and the events leading up to his encounter with Origen. The overall effect is one of a carefully designed inclusio, as these final passages echo (and regularly invert) both content and vocabulary introduced previously. The reflection upon earlier themes and emphases, often with a sharp twist, is more than simply artful: the final section of the Address both deepens and brings to culmination a series of discussions central to the complex relationship between the student and his master, as well as a number of thematic questions whose recurrence throughout the composition have been the focus of our attention.

scriptural modes of exile and captivity While the lengthy introductory sections (1.1–3.30) of Gregory’s Address comprise a polished and expansive rhetorical exercise along traditional lines—elaborating the well-worked themes of the value of silence versus speech and the dangers of displaying ingratitude—the closing passages reveal a tightly compressed and closely constructed series of exegetical reflections on scriptural themes of exile and loss. The former

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stands solidly within the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition; the content and style of the latter, however, demand a hermeneutical posture and dexterity that could have been cultivated only within a context of dedicated biblical study. The formal and stylistic distinctiveness of the concluding peroration is balanced, nevertheless, by its careful reflection of key terminology from earlier sections of the composition, as well as its purposeful attention to, if not resolution of, thematic and conceptual concerns of the work as a whole. Gregory sounds the opening note of lament in direct continuity with the theme and imagery of the preceding description of his intellectual and spiritual well-being. The period during which he was privileged to have lived and studied in the presence of Origen—“a paradise of luxury . . . true joy and luxury”8—has come to a precipitous close: “a period not brief at all, yet altogether too brief, if so far as this it extends for those who depart and withdraw from here” (16.184). Gregory claims ignorance of any wrongdoing as the possible cause of this harsh reversal of fortune: “I set forth, driven out, not certain what I have suffered or in turn done wrong; I do not know what need be said, but I even have begun to chatter that I am a second Adam [cast] out of paradise” (16.185). He has partaken, in some manner, of the “ancient deception” (16.186) and now must bear his portion of the ancestral punishment: But I depart, fleeing from this happy life no less than did that ancient man from the face of God, turning back to the earth from which he had been taken. Therefore, I will consume dirt all the days of my life in that place, and work the earth, even as it bears me thorns and thistles, my shameful griefs and cares, as I have left behind matters both beautiful and good. (16.187–188)

This striking inversion of the language employed immediately earlier to describe his paradisiacal luxury—“in which there was neither need to work the earth below nor to become gross by nurturing the body, but only to increase the extravagances of the soul, . . . rejoicing and living in luxury” (15.183)—accents Gregory’s upended circumstances. His lamented departure from the house of study in Caesarea is fashioned

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through a creative mosaic of images drawn from the punishment in the primeval garden: fleeing from the face of God (Gen 3:8), returning to the earth out of which he was fashioned (3:19), condemned to consume dust (3:14) and to work the earth (3:17), and subjected to thorns and thistles (3:18). Gregory weaves freely, combining disparate elements from the biblical narrative—for example, bundling the serpent’s diet of dust/ earth into the complex of punishments borne by Adam/Gregory9—in order to heighten the pain and the shame that he endures at his departure. The powerful character of this portrait serves to emphasize both the suddenness and the imprecision of the “sin” incurred by this “second Adam [cast] out of paradise” (16.185). The description of the first Adam, “turning back (epistrephōn) to the earth from which he was taken” (16.187), then leads associatively to a new sense of return: And I turn back (epistrephōn) once again to those things that I left behind: to the land from which I departed, to my earthly relations and to my father’s house. I know that I leave behind the good land, which was the good fatherland formerly unknown to me, and relatives whom once they were mine I later came to know as housemates of my soul, and the house that is truly that of our father, in which the father dwells, nobly honored and revered by his true sons who dwell with him. But I, ignoble and unworthy, I go out from these, as I have turned (strapheis) backward and retrace my steps. (16.189)

This is not only a personalization of the theme but a daring exegetical leap from the story of the expulsion from the garden (Gen 3) to the mandated transition of Abraham from Ur of the Chaldeans and Haran to the land of Canaan: “And the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you’ ” (Gen 12:1).10 The author’s initial identification with Adam has given way to the figure of Abraham and the divine promise, producing a complex, polyvalent reflection on his own imminent return to his own point of origin: his physical homeland and his natural family. For Gregory’s own return to the matrix of country, kin, and home

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presents a powerfully fraught inversion of the scriptural account. Unlike Abraham, who departs from his earthly patrimony under divine guidance and with an unequivocal divine promise (“I will make you a great nation, and I will bless you”), Gregory depicts his corresponding return to his ancestral portion—“to the land from which I departed, to my earthly relations, and to my father’s house”—as a punishment and the abandonment of the good and noble portion. This impending homecoming—in truth, an exile—marks Gregory’s banishment from the “good land” and “good fatherland” that he had found in Caesarea, surrounded by his spiritual kin in the house inhabited by the true father and true sons. This brings us far beyond the conventions of GrecoRoman “leave-taking,” which demanded a balanced measure of praise between the points of departure and destination. (In a way unimaginable, perhaps, to Menander, Gregory has reversed the very perception of home city and foreign city.) Under the guidance (and, perhaps, the guise) of the scriptural model brought into play, the accent has shifted dramatically from the sorrow of departure to the tragedy of future circumstances. And here, once again, Gregory deftly links scriptural texts as he proceeds. By chastising himself as one who has left behind the good things, in contrast to the true sons who remained in their father’s house, he has prepared us for the next proof text: the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32). He offers a compressed version of the gospel account of the errant young man who, “having received the portion set aside for him by his father alongside that of his brother, departed from his father to a distant land,” subsequently squandered his appointed portion, and then “paid the full penalty of his dissolution, having exchanged his genuinely royal, paternal table for something he didn’t foresee: a swinish life in servitude” (16.190). The retelling focuses on the portrait of the wanton son and his importunate departure, drawing an expressly personal conclusion: “In departing, we seem to have suffered much the same, yet not even with our appointed portion intact; for not possessing what is necessary, we nevertheless depart, leaving behind the things both beautiful and

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dear with you and around you, receiving worse in exchange” (16.191). Two features of this treatment of the parable deserve our close attention. First, unlike the son who leaves his father’s home with his share of the property, which he then proceeds to squander, Gregory emphasizes the degree to which his untimely departure has deprived him of his “due inheritance” (Luke 15:12). Still more striking is the harsh difference in resolution: while the gospel account builds to the charged reunion of the prodigal son with his distraught father, Gregory presents himself at this stage bereft of all hope of return. The loss is unmitigated and personal: “leaving behind the things both beautiful and dear with you and around you.” This scriptural catena of exile and banishment leads to a lengthy and artfully constructed lament, opening with a catalogue of tragic reversal: “confusion and disturbance instead of peace, instead of a calm and wellordered life one of disorder, instead of this freedom a harsh slavery— markets, lawsuits, crowds, and extravagance” (16.192). No longer at leisure (scholē) to engage in more elevated matters, he will cease to speak the words of God and be reduced to reciting “the deeds of men” (Ps 17[16]:4)—a reference, perhaps, to his rhetorical and legal training and the career path that likely awaits him.11 Gregory then gives full voice to the depths of his impending condition: Truly night instead of day, darkness instead of brilliant light, grief instead of festivity, and in place of our fatherland a hostile land will receive us, where it will no longer be possible for me to sing a sacred song—for how could I, in a land foreign to my soul, so long as one remains there unable to draw close to God? But rather only to wail and to grieve, remembering the things from here, if even this were to be granted me. (16.194)

Continuing the litany of tragic reversal, Gregory subtly has introduced his next exegetical twist through the mention of “song” and “foreign land,” moving from the level (and imagery) of personal grief to that of national tragedy, the lament of captivity in the “land of the enemy”: Enemies, at that time, referred to those going toward the great and holy city in which the Divinity was worshipped, carrying off captive the inhab-

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itants and the choral singers and the theologians to their own territory, which was Babylon; but those who were carried off to that place desired neither to sing to the Divinity, though requested to do so by their conquerors, nor to pluck their harps in an impure land. Rather, having left their musical instruments out on the willows to hang, they themselves cried in lament along the rivers of Babylon. (16.195)

The scene, of course, is of the captives in Babylon, with a mixture of citation from and allusion to the classic expression of their anguish, physical and spiritual (Ps 137:1–4): “By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?”12 No less striking than Gregory’s adoption of the archetypal theme of captivity is the intense measure of self-identification: I imagine myself to be one of them, carried away from the holy city and from my fatherland, where through day and night the sacred laws and the hymns and psalms and mystical words were recited, and where light shines like the sun enduringly, while by day we hold discourse with the divine mysteries and by night, overwhelmed by visions of what the soul practices and beheld during the day—and, in a word, an encompassing and altogether divine inspiration. From this I was carried off, brought as a captive to a foreign land, and unable to play my flute, it too hanging from the willows. I too will find myself along the river banks, laboring in the mud and with no desire to recite the hymns, though remembering them; perhaps, I even will forget them under this other harsh labor, stripped of my memories. (16.196–197)

Origen’s house of study—previously identified as the “paradise of delights,” his true homeland and his father’s house—is now the city of Jerusalem, the site of sacred law and doctrine, divine worship and contemplation. Carried off from this eternally brilliant source of all inspiration, Gregory has become a worker in the mud and clay, like the children of Israel in Egypt (Exod 1:14). His concern for the very memory of the holy city and its devotions brings the listener back to the

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continuation of the foundational text: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither! Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy” (Ps 137:5–6). Here, once again, the question of motivation intervenes, as Gregory breaks the spell of the biblical imagery, speculating about his own circumstances and thereby undercutting, temporarily at least, the force of his scriptural models: “Yet if I depart not simply against my will (akōn), as though a captive, but willingly (hekōn) I depart, overcome in battle not by another but by my very self, since it were possible to remain” (16.198). Hesitation regarding the aptness of scriptural models is short-lived, however, as Gregory continues to reflect on his eventual fate and draws his lament to a close: Perhaps leaving here I will proceed insecurely, as one going out from a safe and peaceful city; most likely as I travel I will encounter thieves and be apprehended, and stripped naked I will be wounded by numerous blows and lie there cast away as half-dead. (16.199)

Here, in conclusion, he once again relies upon biblical imagery. In a seemingly realistic turn he has imagined the violence that awaits him, but this too becomes yet a further reflection based upon a scene drawn from the gospels, as his envisioned injury is described in terms virtually identical to those of the traveler in the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10:29–37): “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him and went away, leaving him half-dead.” The effect of the scriptural echoing is, once again, to reaffirm the symbolic function of the imagery and to remind his reader—perhaps, listener—of the essentially hermeneutical relationship created by Gregory in representing his departure from Origen and the house of study. This proliferation of scriptural imagery and argumentation in the closing unit of the Address (16.184–199) is, in fact, quite remarkable. Biblical citations, or even allusions, outside of the concluding sections of the

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Address are remarkably few: in his edition of the Greek text, Henri Crouzel noted some twenty instances of direct or periphrastic citation; recent translators of the work into English, Italian, and German have enumerated, more liberally, roughly thirty such diverse scriptural references. These tallies, however, drawn from the great bulk of the composition (approximately nine-tenths of the entire text), pale in comparison to the approximately fifty biblical citations and allusions woven tightly into the concluding argumentation of the relatively condensed peroration.13 A document whose Christian identity can go “unnoticed” for great portions of the text suddenly takes on a distinctly scriptural tone and flavor. Still more significantly, the creative use made of these citations and allusions provides the author with a singular opportunity to gratefully acknowledge his teacher and guide—not through direct praise in the encomiastic manner of the central portion of the work, nor simply through an outpouring of his emotional distress at the prospect of imminent departure, but by a means at once more subtle yet more deeply effective: a manner of speech and argument intended specially for his master and crafted to be appreciated uniquely by him. Gregory’s parting “gift” to Origen is precisely the demonstration of his facility with scripture: his ability to fashion an appropriate farewell address that at once delights the ear of the connoisseur and equally exhibits his indebtedness to the teacher and his long training with him. Yet it is not his acquaintance and facility with the Bible alone that lend the full depth to these passages of exegetical virtuosity. This closing gesture of gratitude is amplified still further by its setting within the school tradition. Gregory weaves the intertwining threads of these exemplary episodes (exile, captivity, and loss) with the assistance of tools, techniques, and tropes that he must have acquired in the most graduated and painstaking manner during his tutelage in the school of Origen. Gregory’s debt can be measured through an examination of the exegetical themes illustrating the intimate relationship between his closing address and Origen’s own writing and preaching. Let us examine, even if briefly, the depth of his debt and, by direct extension, of his gratitude.

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The idea of the expulsion from paradise as a prime metaphor for the traumatic entry into this world of “griefs and cares” (16.188) received clear expression in Origen’s own homiletic endeavors, typically bundled together with attendant imagery: “Adam was indeed in Paradise, but the serpent caused his captivity, and brought it about that he was exiled from Jerusalem or Paradise, and entered into this place of tears.”14 On other occasions, Origen speaks of a later biblical figure as corresponding to the “type of that Adam who was driven from Paradise into the exile of this world” and explains the scriptural designation of “a place of affliction” (LXX Ps 43:20) as “the earthly region into which Adam, which means man, came after being cast out of Paradise for his sin.”15 Not only would Gregory have encountered this trope within the context of Origen’s own exegesis, but he might well have come to appreciate it as an element of the rich Alexandrian heritage underlying his master’s scriptural interpretation. As we already saw at the conclusion of the previous chapter, the nature of the Edenic paradise figured centrally in Philo of Alexandria’s exegesis of the initial chapters of Genesis. And, quite naturally, we find there already the presentation of Adam’s fate as the degradation of man to the level of a creature at the mercy of his irrational senses: “For, having forsaken heavenly wisdom, is he not now aligned with things earthly and chaotic?” Having been “driven out of the place of wisdom, he was to practice the opposite, works of ignorance. But a life without wisdom is harsh and terrible.”16 Gregory’s intensification of his plight through the introduction of the captivity in Babylon also employs a range of scriptural imagery with which he would have been deeply familiar. In his Homilies on Jeremiah, Origen observes that “according to the meaning of the Scriptures, souls are spiritually differentiated with a diversity of places by the nature of their life.” And he continues directly: It [the soul] is in Babylon when it is confounded, when it is disturbed, when devoid of peace it endures the war of the passions, when an uproar of malice rages around it; then, as we say, it is in Babylon, and the prophetic word refers us to that soul when it says, “Flee from the midst of Babylon and let

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every man save his soul” (LXX Jer 28:6; MT 51:6). For as long as anyone is in Babylon he cannot be saved. Even if he has “remembered” Jerusalem there, he mourns and says, “How will we sing the song of the Lord in a strange land?” (Ps 137:4).17

The concluding citation from Psalms is, of course, precisely that which underlies Gregory’s extended lament (16.194–197) of his state of exilic captivity. This is a pericope (Ps 137:1–4) to which Origen often returns, and it is not difficult to imagine that his pupil had heard him expound the significance of “the rivers of Babylon next to which they sit and reminisce for their heavenly fatherland”18—an image that resonated perfectly with Gregory’s sense of having been uprooted from the academy in Caesarea, his true homeland. Gregory’s scriptural examples conclude, as we have seen, with vivid imagery drawn from the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10: 25–37). Once again, striking precedent for his typological understanding of the scriptural text is to be found in the preaching of his master: The man who was going down is Adam. Jerusalem is paradise, and Jericho is the world. The robbers are hostile powers. The priest is the Law, the Levite is the prophets, and the Samaritan is Christ. The wounds are disobedience, the beast is the Lord’s body, the [inn], which accepts all who wish to enter, is the Church. . . . The manager of the [inn] is the head of the Church, to whom its care has been entrusted. And the fact that the Samaritan promises he will return represents the Savior’s second coming.19

Origen’s exegesis of the parable not only serves as background for Gregory’s allusive imagery but actually suggests the overarching structure of his complaint: the traveler besieged and wounded on the descent from Jerusalem to Jericho is none other than Adam exiled from paradise. In another instance, Origen was to link these figures and their significance still more sharply: “We frequently find Jericho to be placed in Scripture as a figure of this world. For also in the Gospel it is said that ‘a man had descended from Jerusalem to Jericho and had run into thieves.’ This is undoubtedly a type of that Adam who was driven from

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paradise into the exile of this world.”20 Once again, it is not difficult to appreciate the cavernous stock from which Gregory’s own scriptural virtuosity has been quarried. The coda of Gregory’s biblical litany of woes builds on the closing image of the wounded traveler from the parable, passing from a message of grief to one of hope: But why do I grieve over these things? There is the Savior of all: the protector and healer of all the half-dead and those beset upon by thieves, the Word, the unsleeping guardian of all men. And we have seeds, both those that you showed us to possess and those that we have taken from you, the good counsels and instructions. We have departed with these, crying as we go along but carrying these seeds together with us. (17.200–201)

This note of consolation too, as Ronald Heine has demonstrated, is elaborately drawn from Origen’s exegesis, in this instance from the Commentary on the Gospel of John, where the Samaritan is identified with Jesus, “the guard of human souls, and . . . it was said of him ‘Behold, he who guards Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep’ (Ps 121:4).”21 Finally, Gregory’s personalization of biblical models and situations cannot but remind us of Origen’s own employment of scriptural selfpresentation. It is not implausible to read the entire chronological sequence, from Adam’s expulsion through the Babylonian captivity and on to the plight of the traveler to Jericho, as a deep gesture to his master’s keen sense of the individual’s renewed experience and performance of sacred history. Addressing the rupture in his private (and ecclesiastical) life, which had punctuated the preparation of his Commentary on the Gospel of John, Origen had summoned the force of scripture to describe both the danger posed and the beneficence he enjoyed: Although the storm at Alexandria seemed to oppose us, we dictated the words which were given us as far as the fi fth book, since Jesus rebuked the winds and the waves of the sea. But after we proceeded a while in the sixth book we were rescued from the land of Egypt, when the God who led his people from Egypt delivered us.22

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Describing thus his forced departure from Alexandria to the safe haven afforded by Caesarea, Origen likens his own situation to that of the distressed disciples on the sea of Galilee (Matt 8:23–27) or the children of Israel under the rule of Pharaoh. How fitting (and respectful) that Gregory would have followed this exegetical model to describe his own plight. Having appreciated the exegetical ingenuity of this closing section of the Address, we are left with the deep and unresolved incongruity between the representative Greco-Roman rhetorical style of the extended opening of the composition (1.1–4.47) and the passages just examined. While the former exploits themes and tropes (silence, ingratitude, unworthiness, and inability) well documented from that rhetorical tradition, the concluding exposition (16.184–17.202), no less artful or carefully designed, as we have seen, clearly draws upon other materials and depends upon an alternative tradition of argumentation. Indeed, it is the brief recurrence of the opening rhetorical style in a single passage (18.203), cited above, that serves to accent the distinctive character of the extended, intervening passage of the exposition based upon scriptural paradigms. There is, indeed, reason to ask whether Gregory’s Address actually conforms to the basic conventions of the Greco-Roman oration of farewell or “leave-taking” (logos suntaktikos). First, the length of Gregory’s Address, while not in itself a decisive factor, deserves to be taken into consideration. Estimated by Laurent Pernot at well over a thousand lines (stichoi), the composition is far in excess of the normal rhetorical exercise of its type—in fact, five times the length recommended by Menander—and probably far from practicable in terms of its actual recitation.23 More substantial, however, are the tone and character of the work. As discussed above, Menander of Laodicea, our invaluable source for the canons of late ancient rhetoric, described the obligation of the bearer of an epideictic speech of leave-taking in these terms: “Give the speech a moderate, simple and kindly tone, everywhere giving an impression of reasonableness, but without abjectness or loss of dignity.”24 It is obvious that the scriptural core (16.184–199) of Gregory’s peroration hardly matches this description (or prescription), if at all.

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Indeed, both the marked shift in style and content, through the reliance on dense and far-reaching scriptural argumentation, and the highly charged atmosphere of catastrophe and trauma, provide ample reason to doubt a facile or overconfident identification of this climactic, concluding section of Gregory’s composition with the Greco-Roman logos suntaktikos. This concentration and subtlety of scriptural argumentation, in fact, could have been fostered and appreciated only within a specific environment: an academy or “house of study” devoted to the biblical text and its interpretation—precisely the type of activity with which Origen is most famously identified and to which Gregory himself alludes in the preceding sections of the Address (15.174–181). As Heine already observed with regard to a select portion of Gregory’s exegesis, these scriptural references “are sophisticated subtle allusions intended for an ‘in group’ which has heard Origen address the particular subjects and, perhaps, even participated in discussing them.”25 In this light, we might look to an alternative rhetorical model to help us understand these final pages of the Address. In the literature of contemporary Palestinian rabbinic circles—some of whose most notable representatives might well have been intimate neighbors of Origen and his students in Caesarea26 —we find evidence for a formalized process known as “asking permission” (Hebrew: netilat reshut), where a student ritually requests the right to leave the master with whom he has studied over the preceding months or years. Most interesting within this process is the documentation, sadly fragmentary, for the aftara (Aramaic: “dismissal”)—a public discourse (d’rashah), exegetical in character and delivered by a student in the presence of his teacher.27 The purpose of this rhetorical form would have been to pay honor and show deference to one’s teacher at the moment of departure precisely through a demonstration of one’s acquired interpretative virtuosity. Could Gregory’s scriptural tour de force have been, in fact, a version of this type of ritualized performance? I would somewhat cautiously suggest, then, that this final section of the Address (16.184–17.202) may have had an inde-

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pendent existence: perhaps, in fact, it was the core of an actual address delivered by Gregory before Origen on the eve of his departure. That original address, however, has been thoroughly reworked to stand as an integral portion of the Address.

leave-taking and the return “home” Taking leave of one’s teacher entails far more than a rhetorical opportunity or, even, obligation: it is, as Gregory so powerfully testifies, the process of reentering the world and the acceptance of largely undesired and manifestly onerous responsibilities. As we have seen, the departure from the “paradise” of Origen’s care and instruction is equated with a (primal) falling away, an alienation described in scriptural terms as both personal and collective. The full comprehension of this reality, and its importance for Gregory’s discourse, depends on a still wider and more integrated understanding of his anguished portrayal of leave-taking. While I have advanced the argument that this final section of the Address (16.184–17.202) once may have had an independent existence— perhaps as the core of an actual address delivered by Gregory before Origen on the eve of his departure—it is crucial that we also appreciate how intricately these passages have been woven into the overall context of the composition. Beyond their striking exegetical virtuosity, the conclusion of the work provides fitting, albeit complex, closure of the span of Gregory’s experience and its literary representation in the Address. In short, having made the case, however tentative, for a “living voice” underlying the concluding portion of the Address, it is no less important that we appreciate the overarching literary context into which these passages have been so artfully incorporated. Indeed, the conclusion of Gregory’s work can be envisioned as a series of thematic interrelationships that serve to enclose the work and emphasize its integrity. The outer, formalistic ring of enclosure is provided by a single section that corresponds directly to the lengthy

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introduction (1.1–3.30), reprising in short order the opening theme (and paradox) of the obligation to silence weighed against the potential accusation of ingratitude. Gregory concludes his discourse with the admission that it is “overly bold where it ought not to be, but reasonably expressing gratitude, I think, in accord with our ability, and while we have said nothing worthy, at least we have not fallen totally silent” (18.203). Yet even within the concluding scriptural lament, this theme was acknowledged and given eloquent expression. No sooner does Gregory liken himself to Adam than he confronts an immediate consequence of his “expulsion”: How well I lived, listening to [my] teacher speak and remaining silent; would that even now I learned to keep still in silence, rather than—this novel spectacle—to turn the teacher into a listener. What need did I have of these words? Why give voice to such things, when it was right to remain here and not to set out? (16.185–186)

With telling self-consciousness, Gregory points to the essentially paradoxical nature of his movement from silence to speech. Equally pervasive and interwoven is the theme of geographical and spiritual disorientation, most pointedly in the crisis of departure from one’s home and homeland. At the outset of his autobiographical account, Gregory speaks of “misguided ancestral customs” and the death of his father (5.48–49), which would seem to represent the basic points of origin for his ensuing journey. Received by Origen and erotically drawn into his philosophical orbit, he recalls being “persuaded to neglect all the matters or studies that seemed suitable for us, even my beautiful laws, as well as my native land and relatives, both those close at hand and those from whom we were removed” (6.84). This theme, as we have seen, is radically transformed in the concluding section, as Gregory inverts the motif of homecoming through the language and imagery of Genesis 12: And I turn back once again to those things that I left behind: to the land from which I departed, to my earthly relations, and to my father’s house. I know that I leave behind the good land, which was the good fatherland

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formerly unknown to me, and relatives whom once they were mine I later came to know as housemates of my soul, and the house that is truly that of our father, in which the father dwells, nobly honored and revered by his true sons who dwell with him. But I, ignoble and unworthy, I go out from these, as I have turned backward and retrace my steps. (16.189)

This dramatic reversal of Genesis 12 concludes (and subverts) Gregory’s long trajectory of spiritual transition: the return to his native land and kin, abandoned in his conversion to the life of philosophy, demands the departure from his “good” fatherland, his true father’s house, and his family there. The return to his geographical fatherland demands his exile from Origen, to whom Gregory has become a true son.28 This movement is also, in many respects, an inversion of deeply rooted philosophical (largely Platonic) conceptions of spiritual homecoming. The idea that the soul, exiled in the material world and imprisoned in a corporeal existence, longs to return to its celestial abode was a central and highly variegated theme throughout Greco-Roman literature.29 Two witnesses may suffice, each highly apposite and deserving of our attention. In his treatise On the Migration of Abraham, Philo of Alexandria, an author well known to Origen and his students, offers a thoroughgoing allegorical reflection on the same biblical text that had served Gregory: “And the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you’ ” (Gen 12:1). Philo’s reading of the verse is uncompromising: God begins the carrying out of his will to cleanse man’s soul by giving it a starting-point for full salvation in its removal out of three localities, namely body, sense-perception, and speech. “Land” or country is a symbol of body, “kindred” of sense-perception, “father’s house” of speech. . . . Depart, therefore, out of the earthly matter that encompasses thee: escape, man, from the foul prison-house, thy body, with all thy might and main, and from the pleasures and lusts that act as its jailers; every terror that can vex and hurt them, leave none of them unused; menace the enemy with them all united and combined. . . . But if thou desire to recover the self that thou hast lent and to have thine own possessions about thee, letting no portion of them be alienated and fall into other hands, thou shalt claim instead a happy life,

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enjoying in perpetuity the benefit and pleasure derived from good things not foreign to thee but thine own.30

Some two centuries later, and not long after Gregory had departed Caesarea, another noted Platonist reflected on a very different proof text. In his treatise On Beauty, Plotinus reproved those who sought the sublime in bodily perfection: This would be truer advice: “Let us fly to our dear country.” [Iliad 2.140] What then is our way of escape and how are we to find it? We shall put out to sea, as Odysseus did, from the witch Circe or Calypso—as the poet says (I think with a hidden meaning)—and was not content to stay though he had delights of the eyes and lived among much beauty of sense. Our country from which we came is there, our Father is there. How shall we travel to it, where is our way of escape? We cannot get there on foot; for our feet only carry us everywhere in this world, from one country to another. You must not get ready a carriage either, or a boat. Let all these things go, and do not look. Shut your eyes, and change to and wake another way of seeing, which everyone has but few use.31

Significantly, in their respective exhortations to abandon the realm of matter and sense perception, these two Platonists, Jewish and pagan, drew on central texts and motifs related to departure and destination. Philo urges the reader of Genesis to understand Abraham’s departure from his homeland, kin, and father’s house as a removal from the world of sensory and sensual illusion. Plotinus directs the reader of Homer to a spiritual understanding of the journeys of Odysseus as metaphor of the return to the true home and country whose beauty cannot be perceived by the senses. All the more striking, then, is Gregory’s brash employment of a proof text (Gen 12), whose established allegorical reading called for a departure from the concerns of the material world, in order to lament his own resignation from the path of philosophical inquiry under Origen’s tutelage and the return to his physical homeland of family and commerce. Here, in fact, is the ultimate boldness and significance of Gregory’s Address. Though deeply dependent on (and reflective of) all that he had

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learned from Origen during the years under his intellectual and spiritual direction, the strength of Gregory’s dramatic peroration lies precisely in its reversal of an aspect of thematic imagery central to Origen’s own sermons and writings: the ideal of the progress of the soul portrayed as an ongoing journey and ascent. In a wide range of exegetical compositions, and especially his great homiletic works from Caesarea— which can be dated reliably to the period 238–245, most likely overlapping with the period of Gregory’s tutelage32—Origen explores a varied stock of scriptural episodes and passages as representations of the spiritual progress of the individual. While these intertwined patterns of exegesis and personal salvation had been appreciated by generations of scholars, a concise and incisive monograph of Karen Torjesen exposed the interpretative dynamic and clarified the theme’s centrality for our understanding of Origen.33 In harsh contrast, the major themes of the closing passages, as we have seen, are those of expulsion, exile, and captivity. Gregory likens his situation to that of Adam and Eve dislodged from Eden, the wandering of the prodigal son, and the harsh captivity of the children of Israel during the Babylonian exile. Closely related to these themes of disjuncture and displacement are predictions of moral and spiritual turmoil. The tranquility and equilibrium that he enjoyed in the company of Origen is to be replaced by the strident realities and demands of the material world. Surprisingly, this reversal or inversion has not greatly troubled readers of the Address. The common assumption seems to have been that Gregory’s emotional conclusion is little more than a hyperbolic and highly rhetorical response to the simple, probably quite mundane, need to leave school and return home. Summoned by either obligations toward family or economic exigencies, or both, Gregory protests loudly and dramatically his bitter (though, in fact, quite mundane) fate. The sadness is genuine, the distress deeply felt, but the rhetorical tour de force—whether classical or scriptural—has been orchestrated to give expression to the simple pain of the individual rather than a deeper or more significant dilemma. I suspect that there is more at work here, and

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I would like to suggest that Gregory’s Address invites a less obvious reading.

the call to the cave Gregory’s climactic description of his period in Origen’s presence through the image of paradise is significant, as we have seen, on a number of levels: as an evocation of the spiritual and intellectual luxuriance surrounding study and practice in the school as well as an intimation of the salvific role of study, both as a return to primal purity and plenitude and as the pedagogical ascent of the individual toward assimilation with the divine. It is precisely the loss of paradise, however, that lends the image its full force and logic in Gregory’s account. The emphasis on the luxurious pleasure of the school setting draws on the biblical narrative (Gen 3:23–24) of the forced removal from paradise, the direct consequence of Adam’s and Eve’s failing. And no sooner has Gregory celebrated the zenith of spiritual joy and intellectual delight than he pulls the rug out from underneath, suddenly demarcating his stay as “a period not brief at all, yet altogether too brief, if it extends only to this point for those who depart and withdraw from here” (16.184). And his self-portrayal as a “second Adam [cast] out of paradise” (16.185) continues to gather strength as Gregory turns back to the fate of the first human creatures to express the depth of his loss and sorrow. No longer able to sit in silence and listen raptly to his master, Gregory pours out the bitterness of his fate. Through an intensive amalgam of Edenic motifs, Gregory both amplifies his grief over the need to leave Origen’s tutelage and deepens the portrayal of that lost existence in the luxury of learning and the joy of spiritual growth. The subsequent homiletic excursion deploying a variety of scriptural examples and images serves to reinforce this sense of intellectual and emotional trauma. It is difficult, in short, to imagine a more apt or effective point of reference for Gregory to impart both the delight of his time with Origen and his grief over its loss.

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Yet for all of its strength and poignancy, the trope of paradise falls short in many respects, offering a perspective both limited and flawed for our appreciation of the overall structure and flow of the Thanksgiving Address. While enormously powerful as an expression of the height of Gregory’s intellectual delight as well as the bitterness of his subsequent disappointment, the image leaves large portions of the account unexplained and also fails to provide a meaningful framework for a number of its central themes. Roughly a fifth of the composition (5.48– 6.92)—some of the most telling autobiographical passages as well as the work’s most profoundly passionate episode—relates the unlikely path that brought Gregory from childhood in his distant native land to his initial engagement with Origen in Caesarea. Can this concatenation of events, including the intervention of an angelic consort as well as the deeply erotic influence his new master exercised on the prospective pupil, be incorporated within a paradisiacal narrative? Is there a prehistory of Eden that could be made to accommodate this providential journey that the author lavishly offers as a prelude to his central pedagogical experience? Equally perplexing, in this regard, is the extended description (7.93–108) of the introductory period of studies whose goal is to thoroughly (and forcefully) break down the new student’s old habits of thought and speech. How does this accord with either the sojourn in paradise or its prelude? Finally, how does a paradise account accommodate the progress of an individual in the moral and intellectual virtues? As we have observed, these events and experiences are virtually all determined (and narratively structured) by a variety of Platonic motifs of the initation and ascent in philosophical inquiry. The deeper problem confronting the scriptural paradise as a controlling image, however, is not the sequence of events preceding and accompanying Gregory’s enrollment as a pupil, but rather those that come in the wake of his extended period of study. While the dramatic potential of the expulsion from the garden, and the associated themes of exile and abandonment, are masterfully exploited and lend expressive depth to Gregory’s sense of loss, their more precise correspondence is

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far from clear; in fact, deeply confusing, and not only to the reader, but it would seem to Gregory himself. Adam and Eve are cast out of Eden, after all, as the direct consequence of a voluntary action on their part; their subsequent, clumsy attempt to shift the blame and evade responsibility is never predicated on either the ignorance or denial of what they had done. The full significance of their “misstep” and its consequences depends, ultimately, on their measured acceptance of this responsibility. Gregory, on the other hand, appears to be at a genuine loss: “I set forth, driven out, not certain what I have suffered or in turn done wrong” (16.185). This disavowal, however, is inconsistent—in the following sentence his departure seems to be part of the primordial curse (16.186), while immediately afterward Gregory seems to speak of the departure as his own decision (16.187)—and finally the cause remains confused: “Yet if I depart not simply against my will, as though a captive, but willingly, I depart, overcome in battle not by another but by my very self, since it were possible to remain” (16.198). Gregory does nothing to clarify the issue; ultimately, we are faced with the intractable difficulty of ascertaining motive and agency in his account. A simple question remains: Why leave school? If you are in the presence of Origen, in the “paradise of God,” what could be sufficiently compelling to cause a student to fall away from the paragon/paradigm of perfection, to distance himself from the divine? What has been left to our imagination, perhaps, is the unspoken instruction delivered in the pregnant interim between 15.183 and 16.184—the sending forth of the pupil by the master himself. What might Origen have said to those leaving his study circle? Which words could have prepared or reconciled his disciples to their reemergence in the world of sound and fury? How would he have brought them to accept the necessity, or perhaps their obligation, to return to a life from which he had so forcefully and persuasively removed them? As in so many earlier junctures in the work, the answer lies, I believe, in the underlying influence of a Platonic model.

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The guardians, according to the famous “parable” of the seventh book of the Republic, once they have made the long, arduous (and not completely voluntary34) ascent to the apprehension of the Good, find themselves facing a serious obligation: the nearly incomprehensible return to the cave-like prison where their educational journey began. As Plato first describes this to Glaucon, their reluctance is not difficult to comprehend: The visible realm should be likened to the prison dwelling, and the light of the fire inside it to the power of the sun. And if you interpret the upward journey and the study of things above as the upward journey of the soul to the intelligible realm, you’ll grasp what I hope to convey. . . . It isn’t surprising that the ones who get to this point are unwilling to occupy themselves with human affairs and that their souls are always pressing upwards, eager to spend their time above, for, after all, this is surely what we’d expect, if indeed things fit the image I described before.35

Despite their unwillingness, Plato continues, the good of Kallipolis depends upon this ordered descent: It is our task as founders, then, to compel (anankasai) the best natures to reach the study we said before is the most important, namely, to make the ascent and see the good. But when they’ve made it and looked sufficiently, we mustn’t allow them to do what they’re allowed to do today. What’s that? To stay there and refuse to go down again to the prisoners in the cave and share their labors and honors, whether they are of less worth or greater. Then are we to do them an injustice by making them live a worse life when they could live a better one? You are forgetting again that it isn’t the law’s concern to make any one class in the city outstandingly happy but to contrive to spread happiness throughout the city by bringing the citizens into harmony with each other through persuasion and compulsion (peithoi te kai anankē) and by making them share with each other the benefits that each class can confer on the community. The law produces such people in the city, not in order to allow them to turn in whatever direction they want, but to make use of them to bind the city together.36

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Few problems in the Republic have generated as much discussion as the apparent compulsion of the guardians to return to the Cave.37 Could it have been the object of attention, as well, of Origen and his students? As we have already had opportunity to note, there is convincing evidence that Origen knew the Republic and made ready reference to its arguments.38 There is, I believe, substantial and varied testimony to his awareness of and very real interest in this specific problem and its implications. In his discussion in the third book of On First Principles of the principle of the “descent” (katabolē) of all rational creatures in the beginning, Origen makes special mention of one class of spiritual beings: If this is so, there has been a descent from higher to lower conditions not only on the part of those souls who have by the variety of their own movements deserved it, but also on the part of those who have been brought down, even against their will (non volentes), from those higher invisible conditions to these lower visible ones, in order to be of service to the whole world.39

This basic cosmological principle of the few called to “service” would appear to have become, in Origen’s eyes, an apt mechanism for the understanding of the phenomenon of fall or descent within the scriptural record as well. He turns to it on several occasions in his attempt to explain how a widespread catastrophe such as exile or captivity could sweep up in its net a wide variety of individuals: Not everyone who is a captive endures captivity on account of his sins. For though a multitude was forsaken by God because of their sin, and was seized by Nebuchadnezzar to endure captivity, and was cast out of the holy land and “was led to Babylon” [Jer 24:1], yet there were a few among the people who were just. They endured the captivity not because it was their own fault. But so that the sinners who were oppressed by the yoke of captivity would not be entirely deprived of support. For let us imagine that the just had remained in the old territories when the sinners were led away to Babylon. The result would have been that the sinners would never have attained a remedy.40

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A similar principle guides his approach to Paul’s greeting, at the close of Romans (16:7), to Andronicus and Junias as “my relatives and fellow-captives”: For which captivity of Paul was there in which he testifies that Andronicus and Junias are likewise fellow-captives? Unless if, perhaps by a deeper mystery we should look back to that captivity that Christ came to release, concerning which it is written that he came and granted this remission to the captive and sight to the blind. [Isa 61:1; Lk 4:18] It seems that they are in this captivity by one and the same reckoning by which Paul was as well. For if, for instance, we should say: When the people of Israel were captive among the Assyrians or the Babylonians, everyone, to be sure, seemed to be captives, but there was one reason for the captivity of the others, another reason for Daniel, Hananiah, Azariah and Mishael. For the former were captives on account of their sins, whereas the latter were likewise themselves captives for the sake of the consolation of the captives. . . . For with them there is reason for the captivity, which is far different from the reason for the rest of the people.41

The principle applied by Origen in these passages—the necessary service of the few on behalf of the many, a form of “descent” based on merit rather than on any sort of wrongdoing—represents an aspect of oikonomia that must be taken into account in any scriptural representation of exile, captivity, or imprisonment. Can it be related to Gregory’s self-representation as an exile or captive? What sort of relationship could it bear to a Platonic notion of compulsory service of the select on behalf of the larger community? A possible answer lies in the highly suggestive discussion at the conclusion of Origen’s late polemical work Contra Celsum, touching on the sensitive question of the commitment and contribution of Christians to the welfare of the empire. In response to Celsus’s demand that Christians too should serve in the imperial army like all others, Origen replies that “the more pious a man is, the more effective he is in helping the emperors—more so than the soldiers who go out into the lines and

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kill all the enemy troops that they can.”42 Origen likens the Christian right to abstain from the shedding of blood to that afforded priests of varied Greco-Roman cults and then proceeds to offer one of the most widely known (and cited) declarations regarding the unique role of the Christian in the pre-Constantinian church: Moreover, we who by our prayers destroy all daemons which stir up wars, violate oaths, and disturb the peace, are of more help to the emperors than those who seem to be doing the fighting. We who offer prayers with righteousness, together with ascetic practices and exercises which teach us to despise pleasures and not to be led by them, are cooperating in the tasks of the community. Even more do we fight on behalf of the emperor. And though we do not become fellow-soldiers with him, even if he presses for this, yet we are fighting for him and composing a special army of piety through our intercessions to God.43

But military service is only part of the equation, and Origen then attends to the general issue of civic responsibility, insisting that “Christians do more good to their countries than the rest of mankind, since they educate the citizens and teach them to be devoted to God, the guardian of their city; and they take those who have lived good lives in the most insignificant cities up to a divine and heavenly city.”44 He then confronts Celsus’s additional claim that Christians are obligated to “accept public office in our country if it is necessary to do this for the sake of the preservation of the laws and of piety.” Origen’s reply, in this instance, seems to have received only passing attention; yet its proper understanding is crucial, I believe, to an appreciation of Gregory’s presentation of his own predicament: But we know of the existence in each city of another sort of country, created by the Logos of God. And we call upon those who are competent to take office, who are sound in doctrine and life, to rule over the churches. We do not accept those who love power. But we put pressure (biazomenoi) on those who on account of their great humility are reluctant hastily to take upon themselves the common responsibility of the church of God. And those who rule us well are those who have had to be forced (biasthentes)

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to take office, being constrained (anankazontos) by the great King who, we are convinced, is the Son of God, the divine Logos.

Christians then are not at all shirking their obligations; on the contrary, the most excellent among them, those whose ingrained virtue makes them ill suited for the trappings of power, are ultimately forced and constrained, quite against their will, to be rulers (bishops?) of ecclesiastical communities. Therefore, Origen continues, if Christians do avoid these [general civic] responsibilities, it is not with the motive of shirking the public services of life. But they keep themselves for a more divine and necessary service (theiotera kai anankaiotera leitourgia) in the church of God for the sake of the salvation of men. Here it is both necessary (anankaiōs) and right for them to be leaders and to be concerned about all men, both those who are within the church, that they may live better every day, and those who appear to be outside it.45

Those who truly serve within the church, Origen tells us, do so despite their lack of desire to take on such responsibility: they are forced, constrained to do so, as the result of a greater necessity and for the benefit of all men. There is an uncanny resemblance, both in theme and in language, between the argument advanced here and the obligation placed on the guardians in the Republic and the manner in which they are pressed to serve the polis. This extended passage, as well as Origen’s frequent exegetical observations on those who have been chosen (often harshly so) to serve others, certainly demands close examination in light of the Platonic theme. It appears equally cogent in light of our attempt to decipher Gregory’s closing lament on taking leave of Origen. He too complains of the onerous “necessity” that he has incurred, the harsh recognition that “all gloomy matters will come upon us: confusion and disturbance instead of peace, instead of a calm and well-ordered life one of disorder, instead of this freedom a harsh slavery—markets, lawsuits, crowds, and extravagance” (16.192). Finally, the necessity of leaving the school, the exile from paradise, brings a refined understanding of the true nature of

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constraint—it is here, for the first time, that Gregory comes to appreciate the “freedom” that he had enjoyed under Origen: “for when we have departed and are no longer in the freedom we [had] with you” (19.205). Gregory’s perplexity regarding his sense of responsibility for this course—a measure of choice and constraint—may also reflect a greater uncertainty regarding the nature of his future service in the world. There may even be some small intimation of the ethical challenge inherent in this return to civic or ecclesiastical life. Gregory imagines the possibility of his return to Origen at some future date, bearing the fruits of his efforts while separated from his teacher—“not perfect (how could they be?) but such as were possible for us [to bear] from our affairs in society, corrupted by some power either unfruitful or bearing evil fruit, but not completely destructive for us, if God permits” (17. 202). Though the passage is hardly explicit and any interpretation far from certain, one may sense here a measure of reflection on an issue at the very heart of later Platonic speculation: the gradation of virtues and the status of the “civic” virtues.46 The departure from Origen signals a retreat from the ideal of study and contemplation and a return to the world of civic concerns and activity. Read in this light, Gregory’s peroration truly marks the final stage in his philosophical training. Yet the closing note of the Address is one of loss, of absence. The possibility that this exile, so inexplicable and so painful for Gregory, is nevertheless extremely logical, necessary, even compelling from Origen’s vantage, raises a series of questions. Could Gregory’s pain and seeming lack of understanding—the point at which his own rhetorical performance (of the tragedy of exile) would appear to be blind to his own teacher’s perception of the fitting conclusion of the educational process—provide our own point of entry as readers of the text? Can Gregory be unaware of the Platonic model that we perceive running though his account: the painstaking ascent of the student of philosophy, the coercive process by which the eyes of his soul are slowly opened toward the vision of being—only to be compelled to return once again to the shadowy world of appearances in order to serve those still

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enchained? If so, the grief-stricken closing of the Address could be our strongest assurance that the author’s rhetorical expertise and practice are, in fact, revelatory rather than deceptive. Their expression, however heightened and elaborate, may be an accurate reflection of Gregory’s anguish. Indeed, so true is the reflection that it allows us to see through and beyond to Origen’s underlying interests and intent.

five

Paideia, Loss, and Prospect

This final chapter allows a reprise of the major themes of this study as well as a glimpse of a number of future trajectories in an attempt to take the measure of Gregory’s work as a whole. Gregory’s experience under the tutelage of Origen, and his attempt to give literary expression to that experience, have been examined in the light of a long tradition of intellectual and spiritual guidance. Both alive in the classroom in Caesarea and in the pages of the Address, this rich and complex tradition—together with its attendant tensions and promises—has maintained its vitality to our own times. Writing from Ruzyně prison in the spring of 1977, Vaclav Havel— playwright, dissident, and future president of Czechoslovakia—recalled his “Last Conversation”1 two months earlier with Jan Patočka, one of the most prominent Czech philosophers of the twentieth century. Patočka had served as a spokesman on behalf of the several hundred signers of Charter 77, the civil rights declaration that came to symbolize and coordinate the activities of the opposition to the Communist government in Prague. Of the three designated spokesmen of the Charter, two were well-known public figures—Jiri Hajek, a politician and a member of the pre-1968 reform government, and Havel himself—but Patočka, the senior figure among them, was known only in relatively restricted academic 160

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circles: a student of both Husserl and Heidegger in the early 1930s, he had seen his own teaching career severely curtailed, at times suspended, by both the Nazi and subsequent Communist regimes in Czechoslovakia. Patočka had been asked by Havel and Hajek to join them in order to bring an added measure of moral gravitas to the movement. During the two months following the publication of the Charter (January 1977), the spokesmen were interrogated repeatedly, and in his letter from prison, Havel recalls their final chance meeting outside of the interrogation rooms: “At any moment, they could have come for any one of us, but that did not bother the professor: in his impromptu seminar on the history of the idea of human immortality and on human responsibility, he weighed his words as carefully as if we had unlimited time before us.” But time was limited, and in March, following a particularly long and grueling session of questioning, the seventy-year-old Patočka’s poor health further deteriorated, and he died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Havel describes this final conversation in a letter written slightly more than a month later from his prison cell; he further recalls an occasion many years earlier on which Patočka had given informal lessons on philosophical questions to Havel’s theater troupe: Listening to him was bliss; he spoke slowly, sometimes with long pauses as he sought the precise word, but he talked with pleasure, with an inner flame, and so arrestingly that even the actors listened to him with fascination. The strength of his exposition was not only in the breadth of his knowledge and the unswerving manner in which he was able to penetrate beneath the surface of phenomena and relationships, but his entire personality, its genuineness, its modesty, its humour. These unofficial seminars pulled us into the world of philosophising in the true, original sense of the word: no classroom boredom, but rather the inspired, vital search for the significance of things and the illumination of oneself, one’s own situation in the world.

There is something deeply reminiscent of Socrates in the course of these events—the animated discussion of the immortality of the soul and the meaning of death in this final “seminar,” just days before the

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philosopher’s own death as the result of the oppression of the State— and these echoes are clearly accented and embellished in Havel’s terse portrait. Above all else, two themes emerge from his attempt to capture Patočka. First, the acute sense of loss, the realization of something deeply unfulfilled: that final encounter had “evoked, more than all the previous ones, the desire to see more of him, an encounter that made me realise fully and for the first time all I still had to say to him and all I still wanted to learn from him.” Alongside this sensation, however, is a corresponding conviction that all has not been lost, that Patočka’s presence endures despite the seeming victory of Death: But has she really won over them? I am not so sure: what has happened, what has once been done cannot be undone, cannot “un-happen,” so that somehow, it all is—here—there—somewhere—and no cerebral hemorrhage can change anything about it. It seems that people like Professor Jan Patočka, together with everything they have been, everything they thought about and everything they achieved, are still here—there—somewhere.

Havel’s prison account of the “Last Conversation” is a recognition of the cruelty, the finality, of death as well as the need to affirm the possibility of an individual’s survival through remembrance. More than 1,700 years earlier, and under very different circumstances, Gregory had explored these dual themes of irreconcilable loss and the search for permanence. From its origins in a traumatic breach, the Thanksgiving Address transforms a highly formalized expression of gratitude into a vivid representation of a lost state. What were those themes and emphases, those moments and impressions, that were most crucial to him and that he strove so hard to animate and preserve? How did Gregory, looking back in a mixture of pain and longing, choose to present the intensity of his experience and fashion those aspects that were central to his intellectual and moral formation? The Address encompasses, first and foremost, the remarkable expression of the unequivocally personal and intimate quality of higher education in the late ancient world. Initially tugged, even buffeted, by forces and circumstances far beyond his ken, the entire course of his prior edu-

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cation ultimately is revealed to Gregory as an elaborate plan designed to deliver him into the hands of Origen. There was nothing fortuitous here, as he makes clear to the reader—however unseen or unwitting each event and decision may have been at the moment, the aim and destination were unwavering. During the years of study, the focus is solely on the relationship between the teacher and his student, with no superfluous context: we learn nothing of the mundane circumstances of their existence—neither physical structures nor the city itself merit mention—and Gregory and Origen seem perfectly isolated from other human contact. But the intensely individual nature of the tutelage obviously extends far beyond this sense of detachment from the surrounding world. From the outset Origen’s effect on his new student is personal in the simplest and most direct sense: Gregory finds himself overwhelmed by this teacher, stunned, enchanted, and, finally, drawn to him and bound in his very soul. His attraction is described in straightforward, erotic terms—dependent on the writings of Plato himself but reflecting, as well, trends in contemporary Platonic thought—and this relationship between teacher and student can be assumed to provide the tone for the entire duration of Gregory’s training with Origen. But it is not only the erotic attraction and attachment that define the personal aspect of the educational process: Gregory’s entire formation, as we have seen, is founded on a program of intellectual and ethical progression that corresponds to his own weaknesses, needs, and abilities. Progress is slow and suited directly to the individual student’s constitution and application. The educational program itself, based on this deep personal bond between the teacher and student, could best be defined as one of breaking down and building up. Its two principal components, the fields of dialectics and ethics—learning how, on the one hand, to reason and argue clearly and, on the other, to control one’s inner equilibrium and outer behavior—are dependent on the clearing away of false impressions and the uprooting of mistaken practice before true progress can be made. Gregory describes how, in the course of both the training of

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the mind and the taming of the passions, the teacher is required to act forcefully and the student is essentially compelled to leave behind those habits, of thought, speech, and deed, that defined him previously. Only once this has been accomplished can the formation of the intellect and morality take hold. In both these instances, Gregory presents the recurrent image of Origen as exemplar, the figure whose own control of thought and speech and desire stands as the model for his student’s growth. In the background of this intellectual and ethical progress lies the traditional Platonic goal, central to both Jewish and Christian thinkers of Alexandria, of “assimilation to the divine.” Significantly, Gregory himself appears to despair of realizing the aim of God-likeness and describes in its stead the possibility of attaining the likeness of Origen himself. The acme of this laboriously achieved intellectual and ethical advance, a product of the refinement of the individual described as a form of purification, is the ability to attain to the study of the highest subject, theology, the knowledge of the causes of things, human and divine. As we have seen, Gregory’s account is frustratingly vague at this point, imparting very little of what may have been Origen’s instruction on the subject, with the exception of his fundamental conviction that every worthy philosophical teaching can contribute something to the understanding of this subject. Despite this seeming lack of precision, however, the very core and ultimate goal of Origen’s educational program clearly emerge: the study of scripture. Yet here too Gregory proves elusively short on further detail, leaving us instead with the sense of his own renewed conviction that while the student may not be able to penetrate the secrets of scripture (and the Holy Spirit), there remains the possibility of dwelling in the presence of one who can: Origen. With Gregory’s employment of the remarkable image of his teacher imitating “the great paradise of God,” we are brought to the pinnacle of the educational process, an intimation of the eschatological path toward salvation.

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exile and absence And it is from this pinnacle that Gregory falls, expelled as it were from paradise, and in this condition of exile from his teacher he composes his Address. The rupture of this prolonged sojourn in the presence of a unique spiritual guide forces Gregory to give expression to a portion of that intimacy and thus allow the reader some insight into the dire significance of his loss. The work is at once a celebration of the years spent under the guidance of an extraordinary teacher and an attempt to preserve their memory. Unlike Havel and Patočka, the catalyst is not the separation from his revered teacher at the hands of persecution and a cruel death, but an internal dynamic resulting in a geographical divide that opens between them. From a certain perspective, the entire composition is a reflection on movement. In charting the structure and development of the Address, I have attempted to give some sense of the rhythm of the work, of its motion. Moving from his birthplace along a traditional but somewhat circumstantial educational path, Gregory only slowly comes to the recognition that this chain of events and the concomitant series of physical relocations actually have been the stages of an overarching process destined to bring him to Caesarea in Roman Palestine and, more precisely, to Origen, the great Christian teacher of that city. Once he is there, both secure and secured in his new master’s circle, the narrative’s concern with external movement gives way to the focus on internal transitions. These years of Gregory’s life, his years of study and apprenticeship as reflected in the central portion of his composition, are ones of stability accompanied by a new framing of interior space and the growing control over undue forms of emotional movement: eventually, his geographical stability is mirrored by a studied and gradually acquired inner balance. This double equipoise is impermanent, though, and the composition concludes with Gregory’s (highly emotional) account of his displacement from the “paradise” he enjoyed under Origen’s tutelage.

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Gregory’s narrative (and journey) might be imagined as an elliptical path with a dominant mass exerting its powerful influence. The hefty axial point is the figure of Origen exerting its extreme gravitational pull during the years spent in his presence; Gregory himself is a traveler on the path, drawn powerfully into the field of the master, altering the course of his progress, bending his trajectory inward, and then released on the parabolic path back toward his point of origin. Uncertainties and questions abound, but none so glaring as the circumstances of Gregory’s sudden “escape” from Origen’s gravitational attraction and consequent return to his birthplace. How could the student have been released from the intensity of his intimate relationship with his teacher? Was it escape or expulsion or some measure of both? These questions remain in the realm of speculation. We simply cannot determine whether external circumstances (family pressures, economic and professional interests, etc.) dictated the closing course of events or whether this final stage and rupture was, in some manner, initiated by the principal figures themselves: an ineluctable consequence of the teacher’s educational vision or, perhaps, even precipitated by the needs of the student himself. Whatever the circumstances, though, Gregory’s reaction to this harsh reality must serve as the starting point for our ultimate understanding and assessment of his narrative. The Address is, in the most basic sense, a work conceived and composed while in exile. But what precisely does this mean for Gregory, and how does it bring us closer to an understanding of his work and its aim? Indeed, presented as a reenactment of the primal exile and describing himself as a “second Adam,” Gregory laments his banishment from “a paradise of delight.” He has, as he eloquently and colorfully records, been exiled from his true, spiritual “fatherland” and been forced to retrace his steps to the land of his birth. Too easily overlooked in the midst of the rhetorical display, however, is that the work’s paradise (lost) has been neither the school setting in Caesarea nor even the educational experience as such—it has been Origen himself: “truly a paradise for us, an imitator of the great paradise of God” (15.183). Exile for Gregory is, on

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the most basic level, to have been removed from the presence of Origen. The leave-taking is the loss of a person, yet a loss that transcends the strictly personal. Gregory has lost both the paradigm of wisdom and the exemplar of behavior, models rooted in the ideal, both scriptural and philosophical, of the assimilation to the divine. Gregory has been exiled from the presence of the divine. The Address must be regarded as a composition born of absence that attempts to correct that state of loss. Gregory’s answer, in this case perhaps closer to Havel’s experience, has been to erect a memorial to his teacher, a ballast during his grief and the pain of separation, a marker of permanence. While Gregory’s perspective is directed relentlessly toward the past, in his attempt to recreate and recover what has been lost, the Address itself presents as well a different vantage point: an opportunity to look ahead and gauge some of the far-reaching changes that will reshape the world of early Christianity in the post-Constantinian era. A number of these fourth-century transformations have been mentioned in passing, but their cumulative account gives a further sense of the significance of Gregory’s account not only as a personal document but as a document of cultural and religious demarcation.

“academic” and ecclesiastical authority Underlying any discussion of the metamorphosis of fourth-century Christianity are broader questions relating to the nature of “open” and “closed” systems of knowledge and authority—systems of belief and practice based on the singular influence of paradigmatic figures rather than the codification of textual and doctrinal authority. Perhaps the most challenging argument to have been advanced in recent scholarship on the question is that made by Rowan Williams. Within the context of his compelling study of Arius—to his followers a brilliant scriptural theologian, to his enemies a dangerous heretic, but first and foremost a teacher in the Alexandrian church at the turn of the fourth century— Williams suggests that the vilification at Nicaea was, beyond all else, a

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testimony to the changing attitudes (and boundaries) of the emerging church. An intellectual stance and concomitant form of behavior that had incurred disciplinary measures only two generations earlier, but nevertheless could be tolerated within a suitable episcopal framework, had become intolerable both doctrinally and ecclesiastically. Williams described this transformation as “the great shift in Christian self-understanding which we associate with the age of Constantine. We are witnessing a new development in Christian reflection on the boundaries and the definition of the Church.” Further, he proceeds to offer a potent taxonomy of the forces at work: Episcopal authority itself had its roots precisely in the experience of tradition, the continuity of teaching; yet it was one step removed from the authority of the theodidaktos in that it operated fairly strictly within the sacramental context. That is to say, it represented a focus of unity in a common practice of worship, centering upon the presence of the symbolic token of continuity and self-identity, the apostolically-validated bishop, rather than a focus in the personality of the teacher or the distinctive ideas of a school. If we call these two approaches the “Catholic” and the “Academic” (in the classical ·sense) respectively, it seems that Arius, like his great Alexandrian predecessors, is essentially an “Academic”; and, like those predecessors, he might have survived tolerably well in a different ecclesiastical and political climate.2

This suggestive polarity—which Williams himself subsequently deployed in a discussion of the tension between orthodoxy and heresy in Origen’s own exegesis—also received cogent development in David Brakke’s discussion of the role of Athanasius in the establishment of fourth-century Alexandrian spiritual and ecclesiastical attitudes.3 It would be difficult to identify another second- or third-century document that so effectively highlights the role of an “open” educational model as the Address. Within the given framework of theistic belief, Origen would seem to have placed very few curricular restraints on his pupil, prescribing an exhaustively broad course of lecture and discussion. Still more significant than the wide-ranging curriculum

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and course of study, however, was the posture that rejected any form of predisposed intellectual commitment and rejected arbitrary limitations on the autonomous inquiry. If a primary goal of Origen’s pedagogy, as outlined above, was the liberation of the student’s mind from encrusted mental habits born of either imprecision in thought and speech or narrowness of vision, this hard-won freedom only made sense within an educational process that placed supreme value on these qualities and reinforced them through its own expansive boundaries. In analogous terms yet from the perspective of a very different religious and cultural context—the development of (ultra-)orthodox Judaism in response to the challenge of modernity during the closing decades of the nineteenth century—Hayim Soloveitchik discerns the tension within the “dual tradition of the intellectual and the mimetic, law as taught and law as practiced”: A traditional society has been transformed into an orthodox one, and religious conduct is less the product of social custom than of conscious, reflective behavior. . . . The flood of works on halakhic [i.e., legal] prerequisites and correct religious performance accurately reflects the ritualization of what had previously been routine acts and everyday objects. It mirrors the ritualization of what had been once simply components of the given world and parts of the repertoire of daily living. A way of life has become a regula, and behavior, once governed by habit, is now governed by rule. . . . Performance is no longer, as in a traditional society, replication of what one has seen, but implementation of what one knows.4

This description of the development of modern Jewish “orthopraxy” rests equally on the shift from the traditional authority of teaching and practice, local or even familial, to an authority governed by universal assent and binding decision. Granted all the necessary distinctions between the striving toward orthodoxy in the world of early Christianity and the dynamic for orthopraxy in modern Jewish fundamentalist circles, the parallel forces in their development remain striking. Here too, the Address allows an observation of the authority of Origen as a form of “living text” through his interpretative role as a mediator of

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texts and traditions—a manner and level of personal authority that would have to find a different context in the coming centuries.

academy and askesis, teacher and holy man Gregory’s text is no less illuminating with regard to another expression of the shifting boundaries in Christianity of the third and fourth centuries. The displacement of an “academic” model by the institutions of ecclesiastical authority was intimately linked with other central characteristics of the fourth-century church as the newly ascendant episcopal hierarchy found itself challenged by an alternative source of authority, far removed from the traditionally urban Christian communities. Less than three generations after Gregory’s formative training in Caesarea, nascent imperial Christianity witnessed the growth of a series of connected and deeply influential phenomena: the extreme valuation of attitudes and practices centered on the bodily regimen of the individual, and emergent monastic life and spirituality. The role of askesis, the self-imposed discipline and control of the physical condition and spiritual constitution of the person, becomes a central feature of fourthcentury Christian expression, principally though not exclusively linked to a wide variety of monastic contexts and locations. It might be argued that academic authority had not only been eroded by traditional ecclesiastic (i.e., episcopal) sources of power and control but was also powerfully challenged and displaced by the new bearers of ascetic authority. Closely related to this new form of spiritual authority is the development of one of the fourth century’s innovative (and ultimately emblematic) forms of literary expression: sacred biography. The birth and growth of the hagiographic imperative in imperial Christian literature has been amply studied, and no little interest has been lavished on both the predecessors of the bios of the holy figure and the stages in the transition to that new form. Particularly relevant for the present investigation in that regard is the study by Patricia Cox (Miller) of two distinctive

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forerunners, perhaps prototypes, of the emergent hagiographical tendency: the life of Plotinus by his disciple Porphyry and the notice regarding Origen that occupies fully half of the sixth book of Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History.5 The publication of Cox’s study coincided precisely with the appearance of Peter Brown’s “The Saint as Exemplar,” a retractio-like meditation on his initial presentation of “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man.”6 In their respective studies, Brown and Cox describe aspects of the bios of the extraordinary individual, both lived and narrated, as a form of spiritual authority and rhetorical force. Gregory’s account has not received the attention it merits in this regard. Though technically rooted in earlier rhetorical tradition and its established genres—whether a form of panegyric or encomium—there is a strong sense in which the Address displays distinctly proto-hagiographical characteristics. The figure of Origen, while far from fully delineated, is presented and described in a manner that suggests the holy figures of the succeeding century. His intimate understanding of his pupils and his unwavering commitment to their spiritual advancement, his unnatural self-control and mastery of the “divine” virtues, his essentially god-like disposition—all of these qualities cannot help but remind us of the emergent figure of the “holy man.” It is highly instructive, therefore, to consider what we do not find in Gregory’s Address. Despite the unflagging focus on the exceptional figure of Origen and his unrivaled stature, more than once described as bordering on the divine, the work shows remarkably little concern with the mundane details of his existence. His virtual deification does not seem in any way to be attributed to or based upon any form of distinctive physical presence or practice. While one finds a very small number of indeterminate references to the lack of importance of the body or its cultivation—fairly standard Platonic fare—there is not a single description or prescription of any form of bodily regimen. Perhaps most strikingly, the technical terminology of askesis (or its cognates) is absent from the entire composition. In the development of the various forms of “spiritual exercise,” it would appear that Gregory’s presentation of Origen’s

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practice (as well as his own training as pupil) remain within the established Greco-Roman ideal of the devaluation and displacement of the body rather than an active or aggressive subjection of the body and commitment to a form of corporal discipline.7 In a curious way, the textual sensibility closest to the Address might be sought among the literature of pilgrimage. A variegated GrecoRoman genre, which from the fourth century onward becomes an important expression of Christian piety and practice, the accounts left by pilgrims ranged from the driest of travel itineraries to enthusiastic reports of places, people, and experiences conjured with true literary verve and style. Uniting all of these was the traveler’s deep sense of leaving the familiar path of the everyday, the mundane ritual, in his movement toward “the center out there” (in Victor Turner’s contested phrase).8 The literary outcome of his journey is the attempt to communicate to those “back home” both the sensual and the spiritual realities encountered while sojourning among varied repositories of the holy. Though principally devoted to accounts of journeys to sacred sites and shrines, including reports of the traveler’s participation in activity (liturgical and other) at these locations, the fourth- and fifth-century Christian literature of pilgrimage also encouraged vivid descriptions of travel to individuals revered as personal bearers of holiness. These accounts of journeys to “living saints” could then be appreciated as a melding of the pilgrim’s report with the hagiographic imperative: the conscious movement toward the individual who serves as an embodied locality of holiness.9 At first glance, at least, this would appear to bring us proximate to the world of the Thanksgiving Address. Gregory too, in similar fashion to subsequent Christian pilgrims, had left his familiar world and encountered a sacred individual who would come to constitute the new “center” of his spiritual and intellectual world. Compelled finally to depart from the sacred nexus, he composes an account of his journey, with an emphasis on the time spent (in his case, years) in the presence of the embodiment of the divine.

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As soon as we have detailed the correspondences and similarities, however, we are once again struck by a number of essential distinctions. As we have seen, Gregory’s departure from Caesarea, his removal from the daily intercourse of the school, is rendered in the most tragic terms of personal exile. It is impossible, I think, to find an account drawn from the rich worlds of hagiography and pilgrimage in late antiquity where the author so bitterly laments his own fate. Whether an attempt to create a living portrait of an absent figure—teacher, spiritual master, holy man—or an effort to impart the vivid reality of participation in the aura and activity surrounding a sacred locale, these accounts delimit the emphasis on the personal experience of the author of the work. The Address, by contrast, is built upon the depth of Gregory’s loss and the severity of the absence he suffers. No less importantly, Origen and the circle of study surrounding him are not isolated and objectified in the same fashion as either a sacred site of pilgrimage or a holy man of the hagiographer’s imagination. The power of the Address, in large measure, rests precisely in the complexity and fluidity of the relationship between the teacher and his student. Just as Gregory’s emotional distress characterizes the work, so too does his own involvement in the presentation of the figure of Origen. The strength of the portrait of the master depends, in a very real sense, on the corresponding emotional state and behavior of the student. Finally, there is the question of audience. In distinction to readers of saints’ lives and accounts of pilgrimage, the reader of the Address remains uncertain, on some level, that the text was intended for his/her eyes. Though mindful of future readers, Gregory not only describes the intensity of his feelings toward his master but also intends his description for the master himself. Though he resorts to second-person address only at the conclusion of the work (19.204–207), it could be argued that the composition is much less a panegyric in the formal, public sense than it is a very personal expression of Gregory’s gratitude toward the teacher who transformed his self-understanding and the course of his life.

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pedagogy, traditional and modern There is yet a final area in which the Address should be appreciated, not only within its close historical context but also spanning centuries, even millennia. Gregory presents a model of encyclical education in the service of divine studies that was to become almost canonical in Western medieval and Byzantine Christian cultures. The classical medieval Latin formulation of philosophical study as the “handmaiden” of theology (philosophia ancilla theologiae)—whose origins lie in the allegorical depiction of Sarah and Hagar in the work of Philo of Alexandria10 —may have received its earliest programmatic treatment in the account of Gregory. Alongside a series of early Christian formulations of the cultural motif of the “spoil of the Egyptians”—most notably in the writings of Origen himself as well as those of the Cappadocians and of Augustine11—the Address can be appreciated as a potent harbinger of an educational program and ideology that reigned (virtually unchallenged) for more than a millennium.12 Beyond formal structures and theological aims, there is another respect in which Gregory’s work preserves a remarkable expression of an attitude with a long and influential Nachleben. The role of the teacher as exemplar and the understanding of the complex master-pupil relationship as transcending the simple transmission of knowledge were to be among the deepest and most enduring legacies of the ancient world: connected, on the one hand, to the different forms and expressions of spiritual friendship that became especially characteristic of Byzantine and Western monastic practice; linked, in other ways, to emergent models of spiritual direction in which an accomplished elder took a younger adept under his guidance.13 There is a very real sense in which the roles “played” by Origen and Gregory, as well as the educational ideal that they embodied, were to become exemplary features of a central aspect of Christian pedagogy. Yet there is also a manner in which the teacher-student relationship preserved by the Address presages contemporary educational sensitivities. The degree to which the individual student is expected to slowly but

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steadily advance within the educational program and the extent to which this individual progression is neither dependent upon nor measured by any standard other than that highest goal cannot help but remind one of contemporary challenges to standardized educational contexts and procedures. Among the most striking of these is the “learning for mastery” paradigm advanced by John Carroll, Benjamin Bloom, and others.14 By displacing the role of artificial time constraints on the learning process and challenging the efficacy of group learning achievements, these educators provided a vision of pedagogy centered on the individual and his mastering of skills and goals without the encumbrance of fixed temporal frameworks and (inherent) competition between students. Closely related, even complementary, is the ideal of the “spiral curriculum,” which allows the student the renewed encounter with texts and topics at increasing levels of competence and mastery.15 There is a fascinating possibility that the Origenian perception of the inevitability of individual salvation, however long the time required and the path demanded, might provide a radical forerunner of these modern educational visions. We are forced to explore the possibility that Origen’s theory of education might be linked in a causal, almost genetic fashion with his controversial doctrine of apokatastasis, the ultimate return of all things to their primal state of goodness.16 While the educational model of the Address clearly partakes of the hierarchical Greco-Roman paradigm based on the highly determinative role of the natural abilities and inclinations of the prospective student, there is an equally salient aspect of Gregory’s account rooted in the unlimited progress of the pupil and open-ended nature of the pedagogical process itself. Founded on Origen’s own (relentlessly optimistic) vision of human potentiality and the innate desire of the rational creature to return to the source of its divine origin, Gregory’s description is of an ongoing pedagogical venture that continually strives forward and upward. Does the commitment to a philosophical position of progress and eventual redemption—however long delayed—also predispose or even commit Origen to certain principles of pedagogy? Does the commitment to the reality, the necessity, of personal

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salvation also demand a concomitant individuation of education? There would then be a philosophical and theological underpinning to the treatment of the student’s achievement as essential and the designation of the time required as necessarily variable. Finally, reflections on the educational impact of the Address bring us back to the deeply ambivalent nature of the experience that Gregory undergoes and describes: the complex relationship between the imposition of an external (and often harsh) necessity and the development of an individual’s internal freedom. We are repeatedly confronted by the tension between this ongoing curtailment of Gregory’s “liberty” and his subsequent realization and conviction that this extended period of tutelage was in fact one of supreme freedom. As observed throughout this study, there is something deeply challenging, inherently paradoxical, in Gregory’s perception of his years with Origen as the pinnacle of freedom from which he now has fallen—despite the recurrent, often impassioned, descriptions of the multiple ways in which he felt himself bound, trapped, constrained, compelled, drawn, and powerfully guided by a variety of (divine) figures and, most notably of course, by his master and teacher. These varying forms of training, taming, and molding the student, however forceful and seemingly limiting, are ultimately portrayed by Gregory as aspects of his gradual liberation from limitations and constraints far greater and far more insidious: the inability to think and speak carefully and critically, the uncontrolled surrender to passions and desires that confuse the senses and cloud the mind, the unthinking attraction to questionable beliefs and unchecked allegiance to indefensible positions. These are the constraints from which Gregory celebrated his painstakingly acquired freedom and whose grasp threatens once again now that he has been “cast out” from the presence of Origen. Does Gregory’s profound anxiety surrounding his departure from the school in Caesarea, in fact, tell us something deeper about the autonomy of the student and the permanence of the educational achievement? We are reminded that alongside the descriptions of growth and progress, the narrative also repeatedly explores the theme of the diffi-

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culties encountered in this upward path and the incomplete state of the student’s moral and intellectual development. Time and again, Gregory conjures up the portrait of the teacher in whose image and under whose guidance this growth is made possible. Origen confronts us throughout the narrative, much as he did his new pupil: exhorting, enchanting, persuading, encouraging, and protecting. Yet Gregory never allows us to forget that this master was also a supremely forceful educator: trapping, binding, and employing every form of powerful and compelling direction—in short, incessantly goading as well as guiding.17 Most apposite, perhaps, are arguments advanced over the past generation by a series of philosophers, notably Harry Frankfurt, regarding the relationship between volitional constraints and traditional concepts of freedom. A decade after his path-breaking article “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” Frankfurt offered an elegant summary account of his central insight: The suggestion that a person may be in some sense liberated through acceding to a power which is not subject to his immediate voluntary control is among the most ancient and persistent themes of our moral and religious tradition. It must surely reflect some quite fundamental structural feature of our lives. The feature remains, however, relatively unexplored. As a consequence, we are unable to give satisfactorily thorough and perspicuous accounts of certain facts which are central to our culture and to our view of ourselves: in particular, that the two human capacities which we prize most highly are those for rationality and for love, and that these capacities are prized not only for their usefulness in enabling us to adapt to our natural and social environments but also because they are supposed to make available to us especially valuable experiences or states of fulfillment and of freedom. The idea that being rational and loving are ways of achieving freedom ought to puzzle us more than it does, given that both require a person to submit to something which is beyond his voluntary control and which may be indifferent to his desires.18

Precisely these dual constraints of love and logic figure prominently in Gregory’s account: under the forceful effect of his intense attraction to this new and uncannily compelling master, the student finds himself no

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less powerfully restrained, both in his manner of expression and thought, by the demands of his new training in philosophical dialectic. No less remarkable in this comparison is the element of freedom that Gregory perceives himself to have attained through this demanding regimen. In a later reprise of his ideas, Frankfurt spoke of “the superficially paradoxical but nonetheless authentic circumstance that the necessities with which love binds the will are themselves liberating.”19 Ultimately, the argument of the present study has been that Gregory’s Thanksgiving Address is not only a work of high rhetorical skill—for it is surely that, at times even to its own detriment—but also a vibrant portrait of the relationship between a teacher and pupil. It provides eloquent witness to the utter seriousness with which the Christian scholar and guide prepared his students for those challenges that had confronted masters and their disciples since the earliest days of training in speculative thought and ethical practice. The teacher not only provides the pedagogical means to reach a sublime educational goal: Origen himself is, in Gregory’s representation, both the means and the goal. The student is enabled by his teacher, whether by persuasion or by coercion, and his progression is largely dependent on his ability to behave in the exemplary mold of his teacher. But the teacher is exemplary not only in providing the tools and demonstrating the path toward the desired level of moral and intellectual development—he has become the paradigm of the highest level of advancement that the student could desire and hope to achieve. Under the general philosophical and religious rubric of assimilation to the divine, Gregory strives to approach the figure of his master. The goal of likeness to God, so central to both the Platonic and the Alexandrian traditions, has been made accessible as, perhaps even transmuted into, the aim of taking on the image of Origen.

notes

introduction 1. Crouzel 1969 serves as the basis for this study. See Crouzel’s presentation there (pp. 34–38) of the history of the edition and translation of the work preceding his own efforts; Crouzel’s own edition of the text is based on that of Koetschau (1894). 2. Most notably, Marotta 1983; Merino-Rodríguez 1994; Guyot and Klein 1996; Slusser 1998; Rizzi 2002. 3. Many of these will appear in the following notes, but special mention should be made of an important series of Italian studies that have appeared in edited volumes: Pizzolato and Rizzi 2001; Monaci Castagno 2004; Clausi and Milazzo 2007. 4. Trigg 2001. This study, characterized by the author’s deep knowledge of Origen and his unusually balanced approach to the problems presented by the Address, touches on a number of issues that I have attempted to develop more fully here. 5. Notable in this regard are two recent volumes: Heine 2010, which provides a lively and enlightening overview of the entire span of Origen’s life and work; Martens 2012, which presents a detailed investigation of Origen’s overarching approach to scripture, with a focus on the formation of the exegete. 6. Crouzel 1969, 37. 7. On the figure of Gregory Thaumaturgus, in history and legend, see Van Dam 1982; Lane Fox 1987, ch. 10; Mitchell 1999. For a comprehensive, balanced presentation of Gregory in modern research, see Slusser 2009. 179

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8. Nautin 1977, 83–85, 183–197; Crouzel 1979. 9. For the Italian scholarship on the question, see the volumes listed above, note 3; Rizzi (2002), for example, adds a parenthetical question mark (?) to the attribution on the title page. Dorival (2004) has presented perhaps the strongest statement of the case for suspicion of the attribution to the Thaumaturgus. Slusser (2009, 573–580) defends the traditional attribution but offers a judicious overview of the current debate; Trigg (2001, 28n7) concludes: “The question of attribution, like that of dating, remains open.” 10. Slusser’s translation (1998, 1–37) and overview (2009) provide surveys of his life and literary corpus. 11. On this, see the discussion below, in chapter 1 and note 5 there. 12. See the varied approaches to this problem in McGuckin 1992; Satran 1996; Perrone 2013. 13. Further discussion will be offered throughout, but mention can be made already of the fundamental studies by Heath (2004) on Menander, and Cribiore (2007, 2013) on Libanius. 14. Trigg (2001, 29–30) offers a telling characterization of Gregory’s style and resulting difficulties. The present study does not, among its other limitations, present an analysis of the rhetorical character of the Address. 15. Ginzburg 1989, 161. 16. Spiegel 1990; see too Spiegel 2006, an interesting review of Clark 2004. 17. The classic studies remain the magnum opus of Marrou (1956) and the elegant overview by Jaeger (1961), expanding on his classic three-volume work, Paideia (1944–1945). Among more recent works, special mention should be made of Morgan 1998, Cribiore 2001, and Watts 2006; many other important contributions will be acknowledged throughout this study. Brown (1992, 35–47) sets the tone for any number of these. For a recent survey of work in the field, see Szabat 2015. 18. Too 2001. 19. A striking example is afforded by the excellent article by Robert Lamberton (2001), which surveys the evidence of later Platonism, without mention of the Thanksgiving Address. Lamberton concludes that Porphyry’s work, “for all its frustrating silences, gives us by far the richest and most credible description in ancient literature of a philosophical school in action” (447). For a similar sentiment, see Fowden 1986, 189–191. The present study, I hope, will provide ample cause to reexamine and strongly qualify that conclusion. Not only does our text offer a wealth of detail, personal and institutional, but it

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also goes quite far to address Lamberton’s concern that we lack the most basic information on the “pedagogy and mechanics” of such philosophical training. 20. The literature is vast, but a number of recent studies can be mentioned: Wilken 1984; Grant 1986; Van den Broek 1995; Scholten 1995; Van den Hoek 1997. 21. Bousset (1915) suggested this far-reaching (and contested) thesis. Mendelson (1982) and Sterling (1999) discuss the evidence for a Philonic school. 22. Knauber 1968; Crouzel 1970; Jacobsen 2012. In fact, most of the studies listed above, in note 20, employ the evidence from Caesarea on the assumption of its continuity with the Alexandrian school. 23. See now Carriker 2003; Grafton and Williams 2006. Runia (1996) offers a fascinating investigation of the role of the Caesarean library in the transmission of the Philonic corpus. 24. For varied aspects of the extent and character of Origen’s relationship with Jews and Jewish learning, see de Lange 1976; Heine 2010, passim. On particularly Caesarean aspects of the question, see Levine 1975; Lapin 1996; Hirshman 1996. 25. Trigg (1996) offers an exemplary overview of twentieth-century scholarship. Koch 1932 remains fundamental on this question. 26. Edwards 2002; see the reviews by Wiles (2004) and Lyman (2005). 27. See Annas 1999 and subsequent discussion for the importance of these dialogues in second- and third-century Platonism. 28. Brown 1983, 2. 29. On spiritual guidance and exercise, see I. Hadot 1969, 1986; P. Hadot 1995; Foucault 1988; and the overview by Davidson in P. Hadot 1995, 1–45. 30. Trigg (1981a) offers a clear survey of the evidence and a balanced review of earlier research. 31. Crouzel 1969; Slusser 1998. My debt to the latter is obvious, and I have retained his own felicitous renderings of a number of difficult passages. In several places I have also incorporated suggestions advanced by Joseph Trigg (2001) in the course of his discussion.

chapter 1. providence, eros, and constraint 1. Dante, Paradiso 31.85–87; Mandelbaum translation. 2. For the wide range of theological attributes and titles in this section (3.35–39), characteristic of the burgeoning second- and third-century Trinitarian discourse, see the notes in Slusser 1998, 96–97 ad loc.

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/ Notes to Pages 31–39

3. Brown (1978, 68–72) offers a sensitive analysis of the emergence of the late ancient “theme of the invisible companion” and parallels Gregory’s “idiom of the guardian angel” with that of the contemporary figure of Mani. For a recent exploration of this theme, see Muehlberger 2013 and the discussion there (pp. 95–99) of the text of Gregory as precursor to monastic discourse. This section of the Address betrays some measure of “confusion” between this angelic consort and Origen himself, as well as about the identity of Origen’s own guardian “Angel of the Great Council”; see Chadwick 1965, 56n1; Trigg 1991. 4. Readers of the text continue to debate whether the reception of logos is to be understood as a sign of intellectual maturity, the biological attainment of the process of reason, or as a deeper indication of an internal conversion or an actual entry into the Christian faith through baptism. 5. For the importance of Berytus in the study of Roman law, see MélèzeModrzejewski (1971), McNamee (1998), Millar (1999), and Hall (2004), all of whom rely upon the evidence of the Address. 6. The precise nature and circumstances of Origen’s departure from Alexandria have been much (and hotly) debated; for a lucid presentation of the evidence and scholarship regarding the transition from Alexandria to Caesarea, see Holliday 2011. 7. Origen, Homilies on Jeremiah 16.1 (Nautin 1976–1977, 2.130–135; Smith 1998, 166–168). In his exegesis of the fisherman and hunters of Jeremiah 16:16, Origen links that text to the commissioning of the first apostles as “fishers of men” (Matt 4:19) and expands on the image of fishing and hunting as progressive stages in the refinement of the souls of men. 8. Plato, Meno 79e-80b (Cooper 1997, 879 revised); on this passage, see Scott 2005, 59–64. 9. See Dickie (2001, 43–44) on Plato’s conception of magic, as well as discussion of the Meno passage (pp. 55–56). 10. The classic source is the Encomium of Helen by Gorgias; see now Fournier 2013. On varied aspects of the problem and its expression, see Laín Entralgo 1970; de Romilly 1975; Gellrich 1994; Graf 1997, especially his discussion of “magic and coercion” (pp. 222–229). 11. There are obvious and telling Platonic parallels to this terminology. The stinging goad (kentron) of friendship (6.81) recalls Plato, Phaedo 91c (Cooper 1997, 79)—“Take care that in my eagerness I do not deceive myself and you and, like a bee, leave my sting (kentron) in you when I go”—as well as the complex and extended use of this image in Phaedrus 251d-e and 253e; see Leb-

Notes to Pages 40–46 / 183

eck 1972, 277; Yunis 2011, 160. The latter passage will figure prominently in Gregory’s account. 12. Origen, Commentary on the Song of Songs, prologue (GCS 8.67; Lawson 1957, 29–30, and notes ad loc.). For a very concise, though sensitive, treatment of the relationship between Gregory’s account and the exegesis of Origen, see King 2005, 18–21. 13. Origen, Homilies on the Song of Songs 2.8 (GCS 8.54; Lawson 1957, 297). 14. The text of 1 Samuel 18:1 cited by Gregory—καὶ συνεδέθη ἡ ψυχὴ Ἰωνάθαν Δαυίδ—is a straightforward rendering of the underlying Hebrew (‫)ונפש יהונתן נקשרה בנפש דוד‬. It does not appear in the Old Greek text of Samuel (Reigns 1–2) and would appear to be a later (Lucianic) revision of an earlier Greek version. On the textual history of the larger unit (1 Sam 16–18), see Tov 1999. 15. The basic study remains Dover 1989; see pp. 15–17 there on terminology. 16. For authoritative treatments of Alcinous and his importance, see the edition and discussion by Louis and Whittaker (1990) and the translation with introduction and detailed notes by Dillon (1993). 17. Alcinous, Handbook 33.4 (Louis and Whittaker 1990, 68–69; Dillon 1993, 45); see the discussion of this passage at Dillon, pp. 198–204; Louis and Whittaker, pp. 150–151. 18. Dillon 1993, 202–204. 19. Tractate Avot 5:16: ‫ו]אהבה[ שאינה תלויה בדבר? אהבת דוד ויהונתן‬. 20. The most challenging, even provocative, reading of the text in this direction certainly was that advanced by Valantasis (1991, 13–33). Reactions to this reading have been, for the most part, cautious, largely unreceptive, and even hostile: see, for example, Slusser 1998, 104n33; Trigg 2001, 34; King 2005, 20n69. 21. On varied aspects of this famous friendship, see Van Dam 2003, 129–184; on the funeral oration, see pp. 178–184. 22. Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 43.14 (Bernardi 1992, 146–149; McCauley 1953, 38–39). 23. Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 43.17–18 (Bernardi 1992, 156–163; McCauley 1953, 41–43). 24. Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 43.19–20 (Bernardi 1992, 162–167; McCauley 1953, 43–44). 25. I follow here the suggestive article by Børtnes (2000) on the transformation in the rhetoric of eros (and philia) from Gregory’s Address to the oration of Gregory of Nazianzus, though I believe that the reaction and revision might have been even more telling than Børtnes indicates.

184

/ Notes to Pages 47–53

26. On the wide currency and deeper significance of such spiritual friendships, see McGuire 1988; Rapp 1997; Jaeger 1999; Krueger 2011. See the discussion below, chapter 5, p. 174. 27. Winkler 1991; Gager 1992; Graf 1997, esp. ch. 5. 28. I have attempted to translate these cognate forms (“bind”/“bond”) consistently in order to give full voice to the emphases of the Greek text of the Address. 29. Once again, in order to reveal the emphasis on this verbal complex, I have tried to preserve the cognate forms (“constrain”/“constraint”) throughout the translation; at certain points, however, the word “necessity” was more apt or simply required. On the idea of necessity (anankē) in archaic and classical Greek thought, see Williams 1993, esp. 152–158. 30. For a number of significant examples, see Crouzel 1989, 28 on 6.78: “This idea of ‘compelling’ recurs constantly in the Address, usually with some mitigating expression indicating that Gregory means by it Origen’s power of persuasion. It was ‘spell-binding’ ”; cf. Slusser 1998, 121n87 on 15.17: “Here, as above in sections 138 and 140, Gregory finds it necessary to qualify the verb anankazein when it is a case of acts which must be free; he carefully avoids portraying Origen as someone who reduces his students’ moral freedom.” 31. For this essential polarity in early and classical Greek thought, see Buxton 1982; see too the important discussions in Bobonich 1991 and Williams 1993, 152–158. The closing phrase is a nod to an important article by Falk (1953). 32. Trigg 1981a, 18 and Lyman 1993, 46, respectively. See too Harl 1958, 360. 33. Origen, On First Principles 3.1.15 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 516; Butterworth 1973, 187). On varied aspects of Origen’s discussion, see the studies in Perrone 1992. 34. Origen, On First Principles 3.5.8 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 638–640; Butterworth 1973, 243–244). 35. There have been, of late, a number of highly variegated discussions of the question of universalism and the doctrine of apokatastasis in Origen’s thought: Greggs 2009; Holliday 2009; Heine 2010, 242–256; Scott 2012; Ramelli 2013. 36. Origen, On First Principles 3.5.8 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 638–640; Butterworth 1973, 243–244). 37. On the larger problem of free will in Origen, see the studies in Perrone 1992 and Frede 2011. 38. Frankfurt 2004, 66. Frankfurt first explores this theme in his essay “The Importance of What We Care About” (1982, 266–267). See below, chapter 5, pp. 177-178.

Notes to Pages 56–62 / 185

chapter 2. dialectic and the training of the mind 1. Still indispensable for the broad outlines of the theological program in Alexandria are Grant 1971, 1986. For more focused and detailed hypotheses regarding the nature of an Alexandrian “school,” see the studies mentioned above, in the introduction, notes 20–22. Lilla 1971 remains central for an understanding of the overall structure of this outlook and its broader intellectual context. 2. While my clear intention is to emphasize those aspects of the work that set it apart from other pedagogical treatises of the period, I do not intend to use the term “personal” in the modern reflexive sense. 3. Plato, Euthyphro 2d (Cooper 1997, 2). 4. Pseudo-Plutarch, De liberis educandis 4; ed. and trans. Babbitt 1927; cf. Quintilian, Instituto oratoria 2.4.8–12; 2.19.1–3. On Pseudo-Plutarch and his use of the earlier Greek tradition, see Berry 1958. 5. For Libanius’s ample usage of the topos, see Cribiore 2007, 141–143 and appended texts; see too Themistius, Oration 27.338d–339. 6. Morgan (1998, 255–259) surveys classical and Hellenistic deployment of the imagery. See too the suggestive discussion in Harrison 2008, 59–82. 7. Philo, Agriculture 6–7 (LCL 3:110–113; Geljon-Runia 2013, 46). On this passage, see especially the discussion in Dillon 1997. 8. Origen, Homilies on Exodus 1.1 (GCS 6.141; Heine 1982, 227); perhaps here directly reliant on Philonic usage. See too Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus 1.11. 9. Origen, On First Principles 3.1.14 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 508–512; Butterworth 1973, 183–184). 10. For the widespread use of the imagery, see Morgan 1998, 242ff. and Cribiore 2007, 120–122, 129–134. 11. Plato, Republic 487a (Cooper 1997, 1110). 12. Plato, Republic 491e-492a (Cooper 1997, 1114). 13. Plato, Republic 535a-b (Cooper 1997, 1150). 14. Alcinous, Handbook 1.2, 4 (Louis and Whittaker 1990, 1–2; Dillon 1993, 3); see Whittaker’s notes ad loc. and Dillon’s discussion at pp. 52–53. 15. Albinos, Eisagoge, Prologos 5 (Hermann 1853, 149). 16. On this question, see Mansfeld 1994, esp. 148–176. While still relatively uninvestigated, there are multiple indications of points of contact between the writings of Galen and Origen, some of which raise the possibility of the latter’s direct knowledge of the famed medical author: see Grant 1983.

186 / Notes to Pages 63–67

17. Galen, On the Passions and Errors of the Soul, ch. 7 (Harkins 1963, 54–56). 18. Origen, Philocalia 13 (Crouzel 1969, 185–195; Trigg 1998, 210–213). See the discussions of the letter at Crouzel 1989, 79–92; Harl and de Lange 1983, 399– 404. On the background and possible rationale behind the composition of the Philocalia itself, see McLynn 2004. 19. This is perhaps even more significant given the extreme doubts expressed about the relationship between the works (and their association with an identical figure named Gregory) by Dorival (2004). 20. Origen, Philocalia 13.1 (Crouzel 1989, 186–189; Trigg 1998, 210–211)—I have substituted “natural quality” for Trigg’s varied renderings of the repeated term euphyia. 21. Origen’s description of the student’s “(good) natural qualities” (euphyiai) is a standard Aristotelian and Stoic term, though fully adopted in Middle Platonic usage, e.g., by Alcinous. This convergence of Origen’s account with contemporary philosophical discussions of natural capabilities has been noted by Whittaker and discussed by Mansfeld (1994, 170). 22. Origen, Philocalia 13.1 (Crouzel 1989, 188–189; Trigg 1998, 211, with correction of an unintentional doublet there). 23. The essential study of this Greco-Roman complex remains I. Hadot 1984. 24. Plato, Republic 532c (Cooper 1997, 1148); for the presentation of the disciplines, see 521c-531d (Cooper 1997, 1138–1147). See the discussion in Annas 1981, 272–276. 25. De Rijk 1965; I. Hadot 1984, esp. 282–287. 26. Fundamental here is Alexandre (1967) and the extensive commentary in her edition (1967) of the Philonic treatise; see too the monograph by Mendelson (1982) and the suggestive article by de Vries (2009). 27. Philo, Mating with Preliminary Studies 79 (LCL 4:497). 28. Henrichs 1968; de Vries 2009; Alexandre 2012. For the medieval elaborations of the relationship, see below, chapter 5, p. 174 and n. 12 there. 29. Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 1.(5)28.1–1.32.4 (Ferguson 1991, 41–46). For a thorough presentation and comparison, see Van den Hoek 1988, 23–47. 30. Origen, Commentary on the Song of Songs, prologue (GCS 8.72; Lawson 1957, 36); see Rist 1964, 209. 31. Alcinous, Handbook 28.4 (Louis and Whittaker, p. 57; Dillon, p. 38). Cf. Dillon, pp. 174–176 ad loc.; Louis and Whittaker, pp. 140–141; the connection of this passage with Gregory’s account is noted already by Slusser (1998, 109–110n40).

Notes to Pages 67–71 / 187

32. While the enumeration of geometry and astronomy is in perfect accord with established tradition, the inclusion of physics is somewhat confusing: the above-cited passage (8.110–114) presents the study of physics as if it too were a preparatory subject, rather than one of the three fixed parts of the philosophical curriculum. 33. Stoic sources: Long and Sedley 1987, 1:158–162, 2:163–166; Middle Platonic accommodation: Dillon 1993, 57–58 ad Alcinous, Handbook 3.1. 34. Origen, Homilies on Genesis 14.3 (GCS 8.124–125; Heine 1982, 200). 35. Origen, Commentary on the Song of Songs, prologue (GCS 8.75–76; Lawson 1957, 39–41; Greer 1979, 231–232). See the notes ad loc. in Lawson, pp. 318–319. In this collocation of the works of Solomon and philosophical wisdom, Origen makes reference to the widespread theme of the “theft of the Greeks”; on this topos, see Chadwick 1966, 43–45, 141n52. 36. Origen, Commentary on the Song of Songs, prologue (GCS 8.75; Lawson 1957, 40). 37. This appears to be the earliest extant adverbial usage in Greek of the name of Socrates; Cicero may have the Greek adverb in mind when he speaks of something being done more Socratico (Epistulae ad Atticum 2.3.3). On the ambivalent memory of Socrates in later Greco-Roman culture and thought, see Frede 2006, Droge 2007, and Edwards 2007. 38. For the Platonic image of the horses and winged chariot (and its nachleben), see Lebeck 1972, Belfiore 2006, and the commentary in Yunis 2011, 126–130, 138–140. A striking use of the image, and perhaps significant for Gregory, is that in Philo, Confusion of Tongues 165–166 (LCL 4:101): “For it is a terrible thing that the soul, so wild as it is by nature, should be suffered to go unbridled, when even under the rein and with the whip in full play it can hardly be controlled and made docile.” 39. Plato, Meno 80b (Cooper 1997, 879): “For both my mind and my tongue are numb, and I have no answer to give you. Yet I have made many speeches about virtue before large audiences on a thousand occasions, very good speeches as I thought, but now I cannot even say what it is.” This is taken from the famous “sting ray” passage (Meno 79e-80d), noted earlier (in chapter 1 of this book) for its accusation of Socratic “enchantment.” For the discussion there of elenchus vs. eristic, see Scott 2005, 59–64. 40. Plato, Phaedrus 276b-277a (Cooper 1997, 553). For a detailed discussion of this passage, see Yunis 2011, 234–235. 41. Plato, Republic 533c-d, 534e (Cooper 1997, 1149, 1150). For Plato’s discussion here, see Annas 1981, 276–293; Nightingale 2004, 108–110.

188

/ Notes to Pages 71–77

42. Stenzel 1940 and Robinson 1953 remain the classic treatments. For a clear, concise presentation of basic terms and problems, see Nehamas 1990. 43. Dillon 1993, xv-xvi and his detailed commentary (pp. 61–86) on chs. 4–6 of Alcinous there. 44. Diogenes Laertius 7.46–48 (Long and Sedley 1987, 1:184; modified by Castagnoli 2010, 167). See the discussion in Long and Sedley, 1:188–190 and the Greek text at 2:187. 45. Papyrus Herculaneum 1020, as cited in Castagnoli 2010, 167–168 and discussion there. 46. Diogenes Laertius 7.83. For broader discussions of the close identification between the wise man and the dialectician, see Long 1971, 1978; Castagnoli 2010. 47. For the place of dialectic in Philo’s thought, see Mendelson 1982, 10–11 and Winter 1997, passim; for Philo’s uneasy relationship with rhetoric, see Conley 1984. 48. Philo, Agriculture 14–16 (LCL 3:114–117; trans. from Geljon-Runia 2013, 47–48; see the discussion ad loc., pp. 101–109). The fullest treatment of this Philonic theme is Dillon 1997. 49. Philo, Mating with Preliminary Studies 18 (LCL 4:467). 50. An important series of articles have taken up the question of Origen’s knowledge and use of Stoic logic: Chadwick 1947; Roberts 1970; Rist 1981, 1983; Heine 1993. For the importance of dialectic for Origen’s predecessor, Clement of Alexandria, see Robertson 2008, 29–30. 51. Origen, Contra Celsum 3.42 (GCS 1.237; Chadwick 1965, 156). 52. Origen, Contra Celsum 3.48 (GCS 1.244–245; Chadwick 1965, 161–162). 53. Origen, Contra Celsum 4.1 (GCS 1.273–274; Chadwick 1965, 184). Cf. Homily on Joshua 13.3–4 (GCS 7.373–374; Bruce and White 2002, 127–129). 54. Origen, Contra Celsum 6.7 (GCS 2.77; Chadwick 1965, 321). Note the citations by Origen there from the seventh letter of Plato. 55. Origen, Homilies on Jeremiah 1.10.1 (Nautin 1976–1977, 1.216; Smith 1998, 13); Commentary on John 20.14.115 (GCS 4.345; Heine 1993, 230). 56. Lim 1995, 20–22 on Dionysius of Alexandria. 57. Pierre Hadot (1995, 89–93) provides a classic formulation of the encompassing role of dialectic in ancient philosophical training. See too the more detailed discussions in McCabe 2006 and Yunis 2009. 58. On variations of this standard Stoic definition of philosophy (or wisdom), see Long and Sedley 1987, 1:158–162, 2:163–166 and the discussion in Dil-

Notes to Pages 77–87 / 189

lon 1993, 60 (ad Alcinous, Handbook 3.4) of the “theoretical” part of philosophy including “theology.” 59. See Chadwick 1965, xxv-xxvi for Origen’s polemical use of the charge of atheism (often linked to Epicureanism). 60. The works of Henri Crouzel remain the surest guide to Origen’s theology; for an overview, see Crouzel 1989, 153–266. 61. See Plato, Republic 429d-e (Cooper 1997, 1061) for the imagery of dyed wool. 62. On this growing sense of philosophical adhesion or “allegiance,” see Glucker 1978 and Sedley 1989. 63. Galen, On the Order of His Books 1; text and translation from Walzer 1949, 19–20. See the discussion in Mansfeld 1994, 161–173, esp. 165–166, where Mansfeld already draws the connection between the stance of Galen and the Address, as does Chadwick; see below, note 66. 64. Galen, Differences of Pulses 3.3; text and translation from Walzer 1949, 38–39. On this seminal text, see Walzer’s discussion (pp. 37–45) and the remarks by Armstrong (1984, 431n48). Cahana (2014) incorporates this text within his illuminating discussion of Gnostic “antitraditionalism.” 65. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho the Jew 2.1–2 (Van Winden 1971, 8; Spade 1995). 66. Origen, Contra Celsum 1.10 (GCS 1.62–63; Chadwick 1965, 13) and Chadwick’s note ad loc. 67. Our understanding of this lexical/semantic transition has been advanced enormously by the studies of Glucker (1978), Simon (1979), von Staden (1982), Mansfeld (1994), and Runia (1999), and, of course, the encompassing work of Le Boulluec (1985). 68. Origen, Contra Celsum 3.12 (GCS 1.211–212; Chadwick 1965, 135–136). 69. For an applied exegesis of the verse diametrically opposed to that of Origen, see Tertullian, On the Prescriptions against the Heretics 5; Greenslade 1956, 34. Simon (1979) offers an interesting discussion based on these contrasting positions. 70. Origen, Contra Celsum 3.13 (GCS 1.212–213; Chadwick 1965, 136). 71. Williams 1987, 86. The concluding chapter of the present study will expand this discussion. 72. Though the imagery is deeply suggestive, I have been unable to discover an identical concatenation of metaphors in Greco-Roman literature. 73. P. Hadot 1995, 89–93.

190 / Notes to Pages 90–97

chapter 3. moral formation and the path to scripture 1. P. Hadot 1995, 82–89. On this phrase, see Davidson’s apt introductory observations in P. Hadot, pp. 19–31. 2. See the suggestive observations in P. Hadot 1995, 71–77. 3. Wilken 1984; for his further reflections on the Address, see Wilken 2003, 267–271. 4. The crowning role of ethics was a standard feature of Stoic taxonomies: see the evidence in Long and Sedley 1987, 1:158–162; see Ierodiakonou 1993 and Annas 2007. Yet this order can also be seen in Middle Platonic discussions, e.g., the Handbook of Alcinous, which delays the presentation of ethics until the final chapters of the work, creating the strong sense of that field of philosophy as concluding and conclusive. See the discussion in Dillon 1993, xiii-xv, xxii-xxvi, 165. 5. Address 13.150–15.182. Origen’s clearest presentation of the order of progression is in the prologue to his Commentary on the Song of Songs. On this, see the discussion in the previous chapter and the pertinent remarks in Grant 1996, 119. 6. Cribiore 2001, 129. 7. See Long 1978; Annas 2007 for presentations of Stoic teaching in this regard. 8. See Dillon 1977; Annas 1999 for the broad outlines of Stoicizing Platonism of the early centuries of the Common Era. For an interesting reflection of this amalgam in Origen himself, see his discussion of the soul in On First Principles 3.1.14 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 512–514; Butterworth 1973, 185). 9. The translation offered here of the four cardinal virtues draws on a number of recent discussions that attempt to find alternatives to older and often misunderstood terms, such as “prudence” or “temperance.” The wisdom denoted by phronēsis is, of course, practical wisdom. 10. Dillon 1993; Annas 1999. 11. See 12.146 on the impossibility of attaining virtue “unless God breathes in the capacity” (ὅτῳ μὴ θεός γε ἐμπνέοι δύναμιν). How revealing is this actually? Cf. Republic 499b (Cooper 1997, 1121): “Until a god inspires the present rulers and kings or their offspring with a true erotic love for true philosophy.” So, too, the mention of “piety” at 12.149 may, in fact, be less revealing than is often assumed, as this concept resists simple affiliation. More problematic still is the reading of the word “patience” (hypomonē) there as the intentional introduction of an explicitly Christian virtue.

Notes to Pages 97–102

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12. There is no little repetition throughout this section of the work, as well as a few instances of seeming contradiction in matters of detail and even doctrine, which thus far have eluded explanation. For a recent attempt, see Rizzi 2002, which takes up the vexed question of possible redaction here; see Rizzi’s appendix (p. 95), which provides a convenient table with the results of his argument. Though his suggestion is interesting, I am not convinced that his division of the text into redactional units offers a solution to the problem of contradictions. 13. For example, see Dillon 1983 on the grades of virtue. Can elements of the doctrine be detected behind Gregory’s seemingly imprecise designation of divine and human virtues (12.145)? 14. Plato, Republic 443c-444b (Cooper 1997, 1075). See the discussion in Lilla 1971, 79–81 and the seminal reference by Philo, Allegorical Interpretation 1.72 (LCL 1:194–195). 15. Origen, Contra Celsum 5.47 (GCS 2.51; Chadwick 1965, 301 and note ad loc.); Clement, Stromateis 6.15.125. The term idiopragia does appear once in Plato, Laws 875b, the earliest certain appearance in Greek literature. 16. Throughout this long section on moral theory, Gregory does not appear to explicitly acknowledge the Platonic doctrine of the tripartite soul, clearly preferring the basic dichotomy rational-irrational. In this he may be reflecting Origen’s teaching on the matter: while Origen clearly knows and makes explicit reference to the Platonic outlook (e.g., the text cited in the previous note), he also indicates the lack of scriptural support for this teaching: On First Principles 3.4.1 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 602–604; Butterworth 1973, 230–231). 17. So central is this concern that Foucault’s famed essay “Technologies of the Self” (1988) could be regarded, in certain respects, as little more than a gloss on the Alcibiades I. On the composition, its reception among readers, ancient and modern, and the persistent question of authenticity much has been written of late; see Denyer 2001, 14–26 and Jirsa 2009. 18. Slusser 1998, 110n51; Crouzel 1969, 154–155n1. For the wide distribution and significance of mirror imagery in Greco-Roman and early Christian texts, see Harrop 1962; Mortley 1976; Hamilton 1980; Kolbet 2006. 19. Dillon 1977, 122–123, 145–146, 299–300. 20. The new wave of interest in the theme of “godlikeness” was inaugurated with the parallel treatments by Annas (1999) and Sedley (1999); in their wake, no less than a dozen studies have taken up the theme, e.g., Armstrong 2004, Baltzly 2004, Mahoney 2004, and Russell 2004. The classic examination of the theme as a commixture of Platonic and Christian ideals remains Merki

192 / Notes to Pages 102–109

1952; see now Lavecchia 2006. Fowden (1986) discusses the centrality of the idea within Hermetic and later Platonic contexts. 21. Plato, Theaetetus 176a-b (Cooper 1997, 195). On the digression and its role in the dialogue, see Sedley 2010. 22. Plato, Phaedo 82b-c (Cooper 1997, 72); cf. Phaedo 114c. 23. Plato, Timaeus 90b-c (Cooper 1997, 1189). 24. Plato, Republic 500c-d (Cooper 1997, 1122); Republic 613a-b, ἐπιτηδεύων ἀρετὴν εἰς ὅσον δυνατὸν ἀνθρώπῳ ὁμοιοῦσθαι θεῷ (Cooper 1997, 1217). 25. Alcinous, Handbook 28 (Dillon 1993, 37–38 and detailed discussion at pp. 171–176). 26. Alcinous, Handbook 28.4 (Dillon 1993, 38). 27. Philo, On Flight and Finding 63 (LCL 5:44–45; Jowett’s translation of the Platonic passage). For a brief but encompassing discussion of the theme in Philo, see Runia 2001, 341–344 and bibliography there; my presentation is indebted to Runia’s treatment. 28. Philo, On the Special Laws 4.188 (LCL 8:124–125). 29. Philo, On Virtues 168 (LCL 8:266–267). Compare the translation in Wilson 2011, 76 and note ad loc., p. 351. 30. Philo, On the Creation of the World 144 (LCL 1:114–115; Runia 2001, 85; see his commentary ad loc., pp. 341–344). 31. Clement, Stromateis 2.(19)100.3; Ferguson 1991, 223. Similar formulations at Stromateis 2.(9)45.7 and 2.(22).131.5 and 136.6. On the entire question, see the thorough discussion in Lilla 1971, 106–112. 32. Clement, Stromateis 7.(3).13.3; Oulton and Chadwick 1954, 100–101. Cf. Stromateis 7.(14).84.2; 7.(14).86.5. On the relationship between “assimilation to God” and assimilation to Christ, as well as the connection between “assimilation to God” and freedom from passion (apatheia), see the discussion in Kovacs 2012, esp. 206–208. 33. Origen, On First Principles 4.4.10 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 818; Butterworth 1973, 327). On the theme of the divine image in Origen, see the classic study by Crouzel (1956). 34. Origen, Contra Celsum 8.17 (GCS 2.234–235; Chadwick 1965, 464). 35. Origen, Commentary on John 32.27.338–339 (GCS 4.472; Heine 1993, 406). Cf. the translation at Trigg 1998, 237. 36. Representative discussions of the ideal and motif: Festugière 1972, 288– 290; Rutherford 1989, 41–42; Miller 1983, 87–88; Malherbe 1989, 57–58. 37. The locus classicus for this discussion is, of course, the work of Pierre Hadot, itself drawing on insights by Paul Rabbow, Ilsetraut Hadot, and others.

Notes to Pages 109–118 / 193

For an elegant overview of Hadot’s contribution, see the introduction by Davidson in P. Hadot 1995, 1–45. 38. Most notably exemplified in the works of Clement of Alexandria; see Glad 2004. On varied aspects of “persuasive” or exhortatory discourse in Greco-Roman philosophical and early Christian contexts, see Malherbe 1986; Jordan 1986; Perdue and Gammie 1990; and Starr and Engberg-Pedersen 2004. 39. As to be found, for example, in the Handbook of Alcinous or in Origen’s own Peri archōn. 40. Origen, Contra Celsum 1.9 (GCS 1.61–62; Chadwick 1965, 12). Perhaps the most famous expression of the pagan critique of such interpretive liberty with the text of scripture is Porphyry’s censure of Origen preserved at Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History 6.19.4; on this polemic, see Sellew 1989 and now Schott 2005 and Johnson 2012. 41. Origen, Contra Celsum 3.58 (GCS 1.253; Chadwick 1965, 168). 42. Origen, On First Principles 4.1.6 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 688; Butterworth 1973, 265). 43. Origen, On First Principles 4.3.5 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 744–746; Butterworth 1973, 296–297 modified). 44. Origen, Contra Celsum 6.7 (GCS 2.67; Chadwick 1965, 321); see the discussion of the first part of this passage above, p. 75. 45. Philo, Mating with Preliminary Studies 63–68 (LCL 4:490–493). 46. Philo, Who Is the Heir of Divine Things? 10–13 (LCL 4:288–289). 47. Philo, Who Is the Heir of Divine Things? 253 (LCL 4:412–413); a complementary list of such exercises is preserved in Philo, Allegorical Interpretation 3.18 (LCL 1:312–313). For a discussion of these passages, see P. Hadot 1995, 84–86. I have adopted Hadot’s translation of the list there. 48. Pierre Hadot (1995, 130–135) surveys the tradition from the Stoa through Philo of Alexandria and Basil of Caesaea and finally to Dorotheos of Gaza; on the more properly exegetical aspects of the theme, see Martens 2003; 2012, 171– 174. For an interesting comparative perspective from the neighboring rabbinic culture of study, see Schofer 2005, 148–151 and notes. 49. Origen, Philocalia 13.4 (Crouzel 1969, 192–195; Trigg 1998, 212). I have used Trigg’s translation here but with the substitution of “attention” for “application” (e.g., “pay attention” for “apply yourself”) throughout. 50. Stroumsa 1995; Dawson 1992. One is reminded especially of Origen’s emphasis on the “challenging” nature of scriptural exegesis. On this theme, see Martens 2012, 194–200.

194 / Notes to Pages 118–124

51. Origen, preface to the Commentary on Psalms, as preserved in the Philocalia, ch. 2 (Harl and de Lange 1983, 240–244; Trigg 1998, 70). 52. Origen, On First Principles 4.2.9 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 726; Butterworth 1973, 285). 53. Origen, Homilies on Jeremiah 10.1.1 (Nautin 1976–1977, 396–399; Smith 1998, 94). 54. On the Philonic understanding and portrayal of Moses, see Winston 1995. 55. The language and theme of purity or purification recurs throughout the Address and demands further attention. For Origen’s concept of purification as essential in both exegetical and eschatological contexts, see Martens 2012, 94–101, 227–242. On purification as a component of a wider religious and philosophical complex, see Fowden 1986. 56. This question too, and its possible implications, require further investigation. On the role of reading and the text in educational contexts, see Snyder 2000; see now Stroumsa 2016 on the broader effect of textuality in the late ancient religious world. Mansfeld (1994, 193–195) offers acute observations on the lexical distinctions of reading, studying, and listening in ancient texts. 57. Mansfeld 1994 is the fundamental study of this question. While principally concerned with the Greco-Roman philosophical and medical traditions, Mansfeld’s work frequently draws on evidence from Origen and has rich implications for our understanding of his exegetical project. Mansfeld acknowledges his own debt to the pioneering research of Neuschäfer (1987) in this regard. 58. Cicero, De inventione 2.116: Deinde, qua in sententia scriptor fuerit ex ceteris eius scriptis et ex factis, dictis, animo atque vita eius sumi oportebit; cited and discussed at Mansfeld 1994, 177–179. 59. Origen, Commentary on John 32.10.114–118 (GCS 4.442; Heine 1993, 364– 365; Trigg 1998, 229). 60. An attempt to render the alliterative wordplay in the text: σὺν πάσῃ περιουσίᾳ ἐκπεριϊοῦσι; Laistner (1951, 61) translates “in perfect confidence” based upon the reading παρρησίᾳ instead of περιουσίᾳ. 61. The Greek “paradise of luxury” (παράδεισος . . . τρυφῆς) reflects the Septuagint rendering of the Hebrew ‫עדן‬-‫“( גן‬garden of Eden”) at Gen 3:23–24. On this, see the note in Harl et al. 1986 ad Gen 2:8, where the Greek simply transliterates the Hebrew “Eden.” It is important here and in the following section (16.184) not to mute Gregory’s employment of the lexeme, and I have

Notes to Pages 124–129

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tried to preserve the translation “luxury” behind the multiple appearances of the noun and verb. 62. Epistle to Diognetus 12.1. The entire twelfth chapter of the text is a fascinating applied exegesis of the Eden story; on the vexed problem of the identity of the author, see now the interesting arguments of Hill (2006). 63. Philo, Noah’s Work as Planter 37–38 (LCL 3:230–231). 64. Philo, Posterity of Cain 32 (LCL 2:346–347). 65. Philo, Special Laws 2.52 (LCL 7:340–341); Contemplative Life 35 (LCL 9:132–133). 66. Origen, Contra Celsum 7.39 (GCS 2.189–190; Chadwick 1965, 426–427). Chadwick makes multiple references to Plato as the authority behind the principle upheld by Celsus as well as to Philo as the likely source of Origen’s exegesis. See also Origen, Exhortation to Martyrdom 49 (Oulton and Chadwick 1954, 429). 67. Plato, Protagoras 337c (Cooper 1997, 769 modified). 68. Origen, On First Principles 2.3.1 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 300; Butterworth 1973, 83). On the Origenian theme of the corrective “punishment” of the individual in the afterlife, see the discussion of the apokatastasis above, pp. 51–53 and note 35 there. 69. Origen, On First Principles 2.11.4 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 446; Butterworth 1973, 150). The text in brackets is based on the reconstruction of the Latin by Koetschau. 70. Origen, On First Principles 2.11.6 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 452; Butterworth 1973, 152). 71. On the schola animarum and its context within Origen’s eschatological thought, see Daley 1991, 57–58 and especially Martens 2012, 237–242. So striking is the phrase that, despite its singularity, Daley employs it as the title for his entire discussion (pp. 44–64) of Alexandrian eschatological doctrine. 72. It is revealing that, in describing techniques employed to either mask or justify rhetorical overstatement, Pernot (1993, 2:595) uses as an example Gregory’s claim that “L’école d’Origène était pour nous réellement un paradis”— but this is not the plain meaning of the text and falls far short of Gregory’s intention.

chapter 4. paradise and the cave 1. Dante, Inferno 5.121–123; Hollander and Hollander translation. The sentiment is ancient, and Hollander notes ad loc. the echo of Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy 2.4.

196 / Notes to Pages 129–136

2. Russell and Wilson 1981, 194–201, 342–346; Pernot 1993, 1:429–475, 2:773– 791. In addition to his detailed discussion of the Address, Pernot cites illustrative material from the text of Gregory on roughly fifty occasions throughout his exhaustive treatment of the rhetorical genre. In his subsequent general volume on rhetoric in antiquity, Pernot (2005, 204–208) singles out Gregory’s work in his brief discussion of the “conversion of rhetoric.” 3. Menander, On Epideictic Speeches 2.15 (430.10–12) (Russell and Wilson 1981, 194–195). On Menander’s historical and intellectual context, see Heath 2004. 4. Menander, On Epideictic Speeches 2.15 (430.30–431.30) (Russell and Wilson 1981, 194–197). 5. Menander, On Epideictic Speeches 2.15 (433.16–23) (Russell and Wilson 1981, 200–201). On the difficulties in Menander’s presentation, the editors observe (343) that the “confusions in this chapter—which combines two situations, leaving home and going home—are presumably due to careless composition.” 6. Gregory of Nazianzus, Oration 43.24 (Bernardi 1992, 176–179; McCauley 1953, 48). The probable relationship between Gregory’s Address and this oration has been discussed above, chapter 1. 7. Russell and Wilson (1981, 343) make this identification, as does Pernot (1993, passim; 2005, 206). It is worthy of mention that Robert Grant (1988, 12) claimed the status of a logos syntaktikos already for Tatian’s “Apology or Discourse to the Greeks,” as his metaphorical “leave-taking” from Greco-Roman culture; this reading is contested by McGehee (1993, 152–153). 8. On the repeated language of “luxury” within the theme of paradise, see above, chapter 3, note 61. 9. An exegetical maneuver enabled, in part, by the Septuagintal obscuring of the lexical distinction of the terms “earth”/“land”/“dust” in the Hebrew Bible—all rendered univocally by the Greek word lexeme gē. 10. The connection is inescapable on the basis of the comparison of Gregory’s text here (καὶ ἃ καταλέλοιπα, πρὸς ταῦτα πάλιν ἐπιστρέφων, τὴν γῆν, ὅθεν ἐξῆλθον, καὶ τὴν συγγένειαν τὴν ἐμὴν τὴν κάτω, καὶ εἰς τὸν οἶκον τοῦ πατρός μου) with the divine imperative to Abraham at Gen 12:1 in the LXX rendering (Ἔξελθε ἐκ τῆς γῆς σου καὶ ἐκ τῆς συγγενείας σου καὶ ἐκ τοῦ οἴκου τοῦ πατρός σου εἰς τὴν γῆν, ἣν ἄν σοι δείξω). 11. This account of his disastrous exchange of fortune has been argued to offer a precise indication of Gregory’s future plans; see Löhr 2010, 163. While this seems to me far from certain, there can be little doubt that the author wants to deepen our impression of his loss and its consequences.

Notes to Pages 137–142

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12. Playing on the name “Babylon,” Gregory speaks of the unwillingness of the captives to sing the Psalms in a defiled or unclean land (ἐν γῇ βεβήλῳ), noted deftly by Slusser (1998, 124n106). This might be compared with Origen’s own etymological exegesis of the name, discussed below, note 17. 13. See, for example, the index of biblical texts at Crouzel 1969, 197–198. Trigg (2001, 29–33) provides a very able summary discussion of questions regarding style and vocabulary in the Address. 14. Origen, Homilies on Ezekiel 1.3.7 (GCS 8.326; Scheck 2010, 31; trans. Trigg 1990, 52). See the interesting discussion of this passage in Halperin 1981, 262– 263 and parallels to rabbinic literature there. 15. Origen, Homilies on Joshua 6.4 (GCS 7.325–326; Bruce and White 2002, 72); cf. Homilies on Luke 34.3; Commentary on Matthew 16.9; Contra Celsum 7.50. See also the references to Adam’s “fall” and expulsion from paradise at Contra Celsum 4.40 and 7.28. Bammel 1989 remains invaluable for an understanding of the centrality of the figure of Adam in Origen’s thought. 16. Philo, Allegorical Interpretation 3.251–253 (LCL 1:470–473); Questions on Genesis 1.56 (Supp., LCL 1:34–35). See also Philo’s extended discussion of the significance of Adam’s having been “cast forth” (Gen 3:24) from Eden at Cherubim 1–39. 17. Origen, Homilies on Jeremiah 28.1.1–2 (Nautin 1976–1977, 336–339; Smith 1998, 260). For a parallel treatment of this theme, see Homilies on Ezekiel 1.3.6 (GCS 8.325; Scheck 2010, 31): “But if you sin, God’s visitation will abandon you, and you will be handed over as a captive to Nebuchadnezzar, and having been handed over, you will be led to Babylon. For since your soul has been thrown into confusion by vice and disturbances, you will be led off to Babylon. For Babylon means confusion.” Interestingly, the etymological identification of Babylon with “confusion” appears a number of times in Origen’s preaching (Homilies on Jeremiah 27.2.3; Homilies on Joshua 15.3), but does not seem to have influenced Gregory. 18. Origen, Homilies on Ezekiel 1.5.2 (GCS 8.330; Scheck 2010, 35); cf. 11.4.2 (Scheck 2010, 144). 19. Origen, Homilies on Luke 34.3 (Lienhard 1996, 138). 20. Origen, Homilies on Joshua 6.4 (GCS 7.325–326; Bruce and White 2002, 72). For a survey of the early interpretation of the parable of the good Samaritan, see Roukema 2004, particularly the discussion of Origen’s exegesis (pp. 62–67) and the mention of the Address there. On the question, see too Heine 1993, discussed in the following note.

198 / Notes to Pages 142–149

21. Origen, Commentary on John 32.35.320 (GCS 4.374; Heine 1993, 272); cf. Homilies on Luke 34.5 (Lienhard 1996, 139). Heine (1993) argues forcefully for the dependence of this passage (as well as the preceding presentation of the parable of the Good Samaritan) on Origen’s John commentary and explores the implications for the respective dating of both compositions. The repeated mention of the “seeds” (spermata) that Gregory takes with him into exile may be an exegetical reflection of the tradition, preserved in the apocryphal literature on Adam and Eve, which emphasizes the receipt of seeds at the time of their expulsion from the garden; see Anderson 1992. 22. Origen, Commentary on John 6.8 preface (GCS 4.107; Heine 1989, 170). 23. Pernot 1993, 1:454–460. 24. Menander, On Epideictic Speeches 2.15 (433.16–23) (Russell and Wilson 1981, 200–201). 25. Heine 1993, 261. 26. See the studies cited above, in the introduction, note 24. 27. Ehrlich 2001. 28. For the further implications of the father-son relationship in initiatory contexts, both religious and philosophical, see Fowden 1986. 29. Dodds 1965, 100–101. 30. Philo, Migration of Abraham 2, 9, 11 (LCL 4:132–139). On this theme, central in Philo’s thought and exegesis, cf. Cherubim 120–121; Confusion of Tongues 77–78; and the discussion in Runia 2009. 31. Plotinus, Ennead 1.6.8 (Armstrong 1966, 1:256–259). On this passage, see Dodds 1965, 101n1; Pépin 1982; Edwards 1988, 510: “Contemporaries who were acquainted both with the lectures of Plotinus and with the occasions of their delivery would therefore have had little problem in detecting the voice of Plato behind his philosophical rendering of Homer in Enneads 1.6. The journeys of Odysseus become one journey, and this in turn is conflated with the ascent of the philosopher from the Cave.” 32. Nautin 1977 and 1976–1977 remain authoritative for the dating of Origen’s works of the Caesarean period, particularly the great homiletic cycles; for an overview of Origen’s activity there, see Heine 2010, 145–218. 33. Torjesen 1986 is fundamental here; Heine (2010, 184–187) provides a useful summary of the theme and its centrality in Origen’s preaching. Niculescu (2007) attempts an interesting expansion of Torjesen’s discussion, with suggestive observations on the themes of psalmic motifs of singing/ ascent.

Notes to Pages 153–169 / 199

34. The scholarship on this vexed question seems to grow exponentially; most recently, see the discussions in Shields 2007; Silverman 2007; Barney 2008; Smith 2010 and bibliography there. 35. Plato, Republic 517b-c (Cooper 1997, 1135). 36. Plato, Republic 519c-e (Cooper 1997, 1136–1137). 37. For a recent suggestion, with an ample survey of earlier opinion, see Smith 2010; particularly influential in recent discussion has been Brown 2000. 38. Of particular interest are Dillon 1988 and Meredith 1993. 39. Origen, On First Principles 3.5.4 (Görgemanns-Karpp 1976, 630; Butterworth 1973, 240–241). 40. Origen, Homilies on Ezekiel 1.1 (GCS 8.319; Scheck 2010, 25; trans. Trigg 1990, 47). 41. Origen, Commentary on Romans 10.21 (Scheck 2001/2002, 293–294). For similar perspectives on the otherwise inexplicable fate of the righteous as a form of “service” to the larger community, see Homilies on Genesis 15.5 (Heine 1982, 210–212); Homilies on Jeremiah 28.12.1–3 (Smith 1998, 270–272). 42. Origen, Contra Celsum 8.73 (GCS 2.290; Chadwick 1965, 509). 43. Origen, Contra Celsum 8.73 (GCS 2.291; Chadwick 1965, 509). 44. Origen, Contra Celsum 8.74 (GCS 2.291; Chadwick 1965, 509–510). 45. Origen, Contra Celsum 8.75 (GCS 2.292; Chadwick 1965, 510). 46. The debate regarding Plotinus and the question of commitment to practical or civic virtue remains a fraught one: see P. Hadot 1993, 64–73; for the alternative view, stressing Plotinus’s almost exclusive concern with contemplative virtue, see Rist 1964, 169–191 and Dillon 1996; for a recent review of the question, see Bene 2013. On the gradation of virtue, the foundational text is Porphyry, Sentences 32; see Dillon 1983; O’Meara 2003; Brisson 2006.

chapter 5. paideia, loss, and prospect 1. Havel 1971. This is the title of Havel’s brief account of his final meeting with Jan Patočka; all subsequent quotations are drawn from this source. 2. Williams 1987, 82–91; quotation at 86–87. 3. Williams 1999; Brakke 1995. For another suggestive treatment of the Address as a point along the historical development of the early church, see Löhr 2010. 4. Soloveitchik 1994, 71.

200 / Notes to Pages 171–178

5. Miller 1983. For a measure of this study’s importance and influence, see the introduction in Hägg and Rousseau 2000 and the varied contributions there, as well as Cameron 1997. 6. Brown 1971, 1983, 1998. 7. For a nuanced discussion of the spectrum of ascetic attitudes, see Meredith 1976. 8. Turner 1973. For a survey of reactions to Turner’s thesis and influence, see Coleman 2002; Coleman and Eade 2004, 1–25. 9. See especially Frank 2000. 10. See the discussion above, chapter 3. 11. Clark 2001; Allen 2008. 12. McGinn 2008; de Mowbray 2004. 13. On the wide currency and deeper significance of such spiritual friendships, see McGuire 1988; Rapp 1997; Jaeger 1999; Krueger 2011. 14. Bloom 1968; Carroll 1963, 1989. 15. Bruner 1960, 52–54. There are features of this theory and practice that resonate deeply with Cribiore’s description of the encyclical ascent; see above, chapter 3, pp. 92–93. 16. See the discussion above, pp. 51–53 and the studies cited in note 35 there. 17. Falk 1953. 18. Frankfurt 1988, 89 (= 1982, 266–267). 19. Frankfurt 2004, 64.

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commentary and homilies on the song of songs GCS 8 = Baehrens, W. A. 1925. Origenes Werke Bd. 8: Homilien zu Samuel I, zum Hohelied und zu den Propheten. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte 33. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche. Lawson, R. P. 1957. Origen, The Song of Songs: Commentary and Homilies. Ancient Christian Writers 26. Westminster, MD: Newman Press. commentary on john GCS 4 = Preuschen, E. 1903. Origenes Werke Bd. 4 : Der Johanneskommentar. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderte 10. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche. Heine, Ronald E. 1989. Origen: Commentary on the Gospel according to John, Books 1–10. Fathers of the Church 80. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. . 1993. Origen: Commentary on the Gospel according to John, Books 13–32. Fathers of the Church 89. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. commentary on romans Scheck, Thomas P. 2001/2002. Origen, Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans. Fathers of the Church 103–104. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press.

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index

Aristotelian elements, 43, 71, 80, 186n21 arithmetic, 65–67 Arius of Alexandria, 167–168 asceticism (askesis), 23, 27, 117, 156, 171–173 astronomy, 65–67, 187n32 Athanasius of Alexandria, 168 atheism, 77, 112, 189n59 attention (prosochē), 113–117, 193n49. See also silence Augustine of Hippo, 174 authentic action (idiopragia), 99–100, 191n15 authority, academic and ecclesiastical, 27, 167–170

Abraham, 115–116, 134–135, 147–148, 196n10 absence, 165–167. See also exile; loss Adam (and Eve), 25, 125, 133–134, 140–142, 146, 149–152, 166, 197n15, 198n21 agriculture, imagery of. See farming/ gardening Albinus, 62, 91 Alcinous, Didaskalikos (Handbook of Platonism), 42–43, 47, 61–62, 66–67, 91, 97, 103–104, 186n21, 190n4 Alexandrian Christianity: ecclesiastical politics of, 32, 142–143; school of, 13–15; theological tradition of, 55–56, 97–98, 105–106, 125. See also Arius; Athanasius; Clement; Origen Alexandrian Judaism, 13–15, 27, 65–66, 104–105, 112, 164, 181n21. See also Philo of Alexandria anankē. See constraint, necessity angelic guidance, 30–34, 182n3 Angel of the Great Council, 182n3 Annas, Julia, 181n27, 191n20 apokatastasis. See universal restoration/ salvation

Babylon: captivity and exile, 25, 136–138, 140–142, 149, 154–155; etymology of, 197nn12,17 banishment. See exile Basil of Caesarea, 44–47, 63, 130 Berytus (Beirut), 32–35, 48, 182n5 Bloom, Benjamin, 175 bond/binding, 32–35, 41–42, 46–49, 177–178, 184n28. See also coercion/ compulsion Børtnes, Jostein, 183n25

225

226

Brakke, David, 168 Brown, Peter, 21–22, 171, 180n17, 182n3 Caesarea (Roman Palestine), 1–2, 6–7, 15–16, 19, 30–34, 181nn22–24, 182n6, 198n32; Jewish presence in, 16, 144–145, 181n24; school of, 15–16, 23, 82–87, 92, 128, 181n22 Cain, 59 care (epimeleia), 33, 114; “care of self,” 98–101 Carroll, John, 175 Cave, myth of the (Plato’s Republic), 17, 24–26, 65, 150–154, 157–159, 198n31, 199n34 Celsus, 74–75, 81–83, 112–114, 125, 155–156, 195n66 Chadwick, Henry, 182n3, 187n35, 189n59, 195n66 choice. See freedom Christianity: Origen’s defense of, 74–75, 81–83, 112–114, 125–126, 155–157; philosophical training and, 64–65; responsibilities of Christians, 156–157; transformations in early, 27, 167–173 Cicero, 123, 187n37, 194n58 Clement of Alexandria, 55–56, 59, 66, 99–100, 105, 186n29, 188n50, 192nn31– 32, 193n38 coercion/compulsion, 19–20, 26, 38–39, 48–54, 86–88, 108–111, 153–154, 163–164, 176–178, 182n10, 184n30. See also persuasion constraint (anankē), 19–20, 34, 36, 47–54, 70, 86, 99, 110, 157–158, 175–178, 184nn29–31. See also necessity; persuasion Cox (Miller), Patricia, 170–171 Cribiore, Rafaella, 92–93, 200n15 Crouzel, Henri, 3–5, 28, 139, 189n60 Dante Alighieri, Commedia, 29, 129 David and Jonathan, 40–44, 46–49, 54

/ Index

deification: “assimilation to the divine,” 101–108, 164, 191n20; as goal, 101–108; self-care and, 98–101 dialectic, 24–26, 55–57, 163; argumentation, 56; divisions of philosophy, 67–69; encyclical studies, 64–67; freedom and, 86–88; habit and, 86–88; nature and nurture, 57–64; theology and, 76–86; training of the mind, 69–76 Eden, garden of, 124–125, 140, 150–152, 195n62 education. See pedagogy; teacherstudent relationship Edwards, M. J., 16 elenchus. See refutations encyclical studies (enkyklios paideia), 20, 55–56, 64–69, 92–93, 112, 174–178, 200n15 Epicureanism, 189n59 Epistle to Diognetus, 195n62 eros, 39–48, 183n25; erotic attraction, 17, 19–20, 57, 163, 166; erotic pedagogy, 39–42, 40–48; inequality of relationship, 42 ethics: ethical theory, 95–101; goal of deification, 101–108; in practice, 108–111; as preparatory subject, 18; role of, 14, 190n4; theology and, 91–92. See also moral formation Eusebius of Caesarea, 171 exegesis, 111–123. See also scripture exile, 25, 136, 150–152, 173; and absence, 165–167; and captivity, 132–145 farming/gardening, imagery of, 57–63, 69–70, 73, 97–98, 124–125, 185nn6–7, 188n48 fishing/hunting, imagery of, 35, 48, 182n7 Foucault, Michel, 191n17 Frankfurt, Harry, 177 freedom, 20, 34, 48–54, 157–158; and habit, 86–88, 176–178

Index

free will, 20, 34, 51–54, 54, 60; “willing and unwilling” (hekōn kai akōn), 34, 48 friendship, 38–48, 130; with the Divine, 107, 119–120; goad (kentron) of, 38, 182n11; spiritual, 174, 200n13. See male bonding Galen of Pergamum, 62–63, 80–81, 185n16, 189n63–64 geometry, 65, 66, 67, 71, 73, 187n32 godlikeness (theoeideis), 191n20. See deification “Good Samaritan” parable, 138, 141, 197n20 Grant, Robert, 196n7 gratitude/ingratitude, 8–9, 12, 24, 34, 130–132, 139, 143, 146, 162, 173 Gregory of Nazianzus, 44–47, 63, 130, 183n25 Gregory of Nyssa, 5 Gregory [Thaumaturgus]: Gregory Thaumaturgus, Saint, 4–6, 180n9; initial encounters with Origen, 29–54; presentation of Origen, 35–38, 57–58, 162–167, 178; rhetorical training, 7–11, 31–32; Roman legal study, 31–32. See “Thanksgiving Address” guardian angel. See angelic guidance guidance. See angelic guidance; spiritual exercise and guidance habit, freedom and, 86–88, 176–178; bad habits, uprooting, 21 Hadot, Ilsetraut, 22 Hadot, Pierre, 21, 22, 87, 90, 117, 192n37 Hagar. See Sarah/Hagar allegory Havel, Vaclav, 160–162, 165 Heine, Ronald, 142, 144, 198n21 heresy (hairesis), 80–88, 167–168 home/homeland, 29, 134–137, 141, 145–150, 172 Homer, 130, 198n31 homoeroticism, 44–48

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Irenaeus of Lyon, 82 Jerusalem, 137–138, 140–141, 141 Jesus, 60, 75, 114–115, 118, 123, 142 Jewish Hellenism. See Alexandrian Judaism John the Evangelist, 75–76 Jonathan. See David and Jonathan Justin Martyr, 81 Kallipolis, 153 Lamberton, Robert, 180n19 law, study of, 6, 8–9, 31–32, 48, 63–64, 136, 182n5 leave-taking, 24, 129–132, 145–150; address (logos suntaktikos), 24, 129–130, 135–136, 143, 196n7; rabbinic ritual of, 144–145 Libanius of Antioch, 8, 22, 58 liberal arts, 65; quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy), 65; trivium (grammar, dialectic, rhetoric), 65. See also encyclical studies logic, study of, 55, 68–74, 76, 86. See also dialectic logos (reason), 36–39, 196n7; debate over, 182n4; Gregory’s awakening to, 31 loss, 25, 26–27, 160–164, 160–178, 196n11 magic/-ian, 37–38, 48, 79, 182nn8–10 male bonding, 44–48. See friendship Mansfeld, Jaap, 189n63, 194nn56–57 Marrou, H. I., 8, 21, 180n17 Menander of Laodicea, 8, 130, 135, 143, 196n5 Middle Platonism. See Alcinous; Platonism mirror, imagery of, 77, 95, 100–101, 191n18 monasticism, 170–173, 174 moral exhortation, 36, 109 moral formation, 21–23, 87–128. See also ethics; virtues

228

Moses, 83, 106–107, 115–116, 120 music, 65, 66, 67 nature and nurture, 57–64 Nautin, Pierre, 4–5 necessity (anankē), 49, 53–54, 152, 157, 176, 184n29. See also constraint Nicaea, Council of, 167–168 Noah, 58, 73 Odysseus, 130, 198n31 oikonomia (management), 31, 33, 155. See providence openness and closure, 84–86, 167–170 Origen: on Adam, 197n15; Address scholarly research and, 3–4; in Caesarea, 15, 32, 143; Clement of Alexandria and, 55; departure from Alexandria, 32, 142–143, 182n6; on dialectic, 74–76; divisions of philosophy, 67–69; doctrine of universal salvation (apokatastasis), 51–53, 184n35; on education, 51, 65; on encyclical studies, 64–67; episcopal authority and, 32; eschatological thought of, 195n71; on free will, 51–53; Galen and, 185n16; guardian angel of, 182n3; on natural qualities (euphyiai ), 186n21; Philocalia and, 23, 63, 193n49; Platonism of, 16–17; Porphyry’s censure of, 193n40; power of persuasion, 35–37, 48–49, 50, 53–54, 87, 184n30; preaching of, 198n33; presence of, 34–39; on purification (purgation), 194n55; on salvation, 51–52; on sectarianism, 83–84; scriptural exegesis of, 23, 111–123, 132–145, 182n7, 193n50, 194n57, 195n66; as spiritual guide, 22–23, 108–111, 127–128, 178; status of, 38–39; on theft of the Greeks, 187n35; on tripartite soul, 191n16; works: Commentary on John, 106–107, 142–143, 198n21; Commentary on Romans, 155; Commentary on the

/ Index

Song of Songs, 40, 68–69, 183n12, 187n35, 190n5; Contra Celsum, 74–75, 81–84, 106, 112–115, 155–157, 195n66; Homilies on Exodus, 59, 197n14; Homilies on Ezekiel, 140–141, 154, 197n17; Homilies on Joshua, 140–142, 197n20; Homilies on Jeremiah, 35, 140–141, 182n7, 197n17; Homilies on Luke, 141; Homilies on the Song of Songs, 40; On First Principles, 51–53, 60, 78, 105–106, 114, 126–127, 154, 184n33; Philocalia 13 ( = “Letter to Gregory”), 63–65, 117–118, 186nn18– 22, 193n49 orthodoxy, 81, 84, 168–169 paideia, 8, 13–17, 26–27, 58, 63, 160–164. See also encyclical studies (enkyklios paideia); pedagogy Pantaenus, 15 Paradise, 24–26, 123–128, 129, 133–134, 137, 140–142, 150–152, 164–166, 194n61, 195n72, 197n15. See also Eden passions: logos and, 39–40; virtues and, 95–98 Patočka, Jan, 160–162, 165 Paul the Apostle, 51–52, 155 pedagogy: erotic attraction force and, 19–20; salvation and, 52; teacher/ student intimacy, 39–44; traditional and modern, 174–178 Pernot, Laurent, 143, 195n72, 196n2 persuasion, 35–38; coercion and, 50, 53–54, 70, 87, 110, 153, 178, 184nn30–31 Philo of Alexandria: on Abraham (Gen 12), 147–148; Alexandrian school and, 15; on assimilation to the divine, 104–105; on attention, 115–117; on dialectic, 73; on divine fellowship, 120; on garden of Eden, 125–126, 140, 194n61; on Moses, 120; on Noah, 58–59; Origen’s exegesis and, 195n66; on philosophical training, 73–74; on preliminary studies, 65–66; Sarah/Hagar

Index

allegory, 65–66, 115–116, 174; on spiritual exercises, 117, 193nn47–48 physics, 55, 67, 68, 72, 73, 187n32 piety (eusebeia), 36, 97, 172, 190n11 pilgrimage, 171–173 Plato, 37, 195n66; assimilation to God, 102–104; ethics of, 102; Gorgias and, 37–38; idiopragia, 191n15; on philosophical training, 61; Plotinus and, 198n31; on preparatory studies, 65; works: Alcibiades I, 62, 100–101, 191n17; Euthyphro (Socrates), 58; Laws, 191n15; Meno, 37, 187n39; Phaedo, 182n11; Phaedrus, 17, 70–71, 182n11, 187n40; Protagoras, 125–126; Republic, 17, 26, 61, 65, 71, 99–100, 103, 153–154, 157, 187n41, 190n11, 191n14; Symposium, 17, 43; Theaetetus, 102, 104–105, 120, 192n22; Timaeus, 103 Platonism, 13–17, 22, 42–43, 61–62, 66–67, 72, 80–82, 91, 96–97, 100–106, 120, 147–148, 151–152, 157–158, 163–164, 180n19, 181n27, 182n11, 186n21, 190nn4,8, 191n20. See also Alcinous; Clement of Alexandria; Origen; Philo of Alexandria Plotinus, 14, 148, 171, 198n31, 199n46 Porphyry, 14, 171, 180n19, 193n40 preparatory subjects study program (enkyklios paideia), 20, 55, 56, 65, 65–66, 66, 71, 93, 112 “prodigal son” parable, 135–136 providence (pronoia), 19–20, 30–34 Pseudo-Plutarch, 58 purification/purgation, 22–23, 90, 106–107, 120–122, 194n55 Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory, 58 rabbinic tradition: leave-taking ritual of “asking permission,” 144–145; “The Ethics of the Fathers” (Avot), 44 refutations (elenchoi), 58, 69–70, 70, 72, 74–75, 76, 82, 125

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rhetoric, 2, 7–9, 29, 65, 133, 143–144, 196n2 Roman Palestine, 1, 19, 29, 32, 35, 165 salvation, 51–52, 105, 147, 149, 157, 164, 175–76. See also universal restoration Sarah/Hagar allegory, 65–66, 115–116, 174 scripture: exegesis/exegete of, 111–123, 179n5, 193nn48,50, 194n57, 198n21; modes of exile and captivity, 132–145; Origen on, 59–60, 65, 111–123, 132–145; path to, 21–23, 89–128; writings: Genesis, 58–59, 68, 124–125, 134, 146–148, 150–152; 1 Samuel, 44, 183n14; Psalms, 141, 197n12; Proverbs, 68; Ecclesiastes, 68; Song of Songs, 40, 68, 190n5; Jeremiah, Book of, 75, 182n7; Matthew, 60; Luke, 135–136, 138, 141; John, 123, 198n21; 1 Corinthians, 52, 84; Titus, 74–75 sectarianism. See heresy seed, imagery of, 59–60, 198n21 Septuagint, 59, 183n14, 194n61, 196nn9–10, silence, 23–24, 30, 50, 70, 120–122, 131, 143, 146, 150; and attention, 115–117 Slusser, Michael, 28, 179n7, 180n9–10, 181n31, 183n20, 184n30, 186n31,197n12 Socrates, 17, 37, 41–42, 54, 70–71, 102, 160, 187n37; Socratic model, 38, 39, 54, 70, 161–162 Solomon, 68 Soloveitchik, Hayim, 169 soul, awakening of, 65; rationalirrational dichotomy, 191n16; tripartite soul, 191n16 Spiegel, Gabrielle, 11 spiritual exercise and guidance, 22–23, 27, 108–111, 117, 127–128, 160, 171, 193n48. See also Hadot, Pierre Stoicism, 43, 67, 71–72, 74, 96, 102, 115, 186n21, 190n4

230

Tatian, 196n7 teacher-student relationship: assessment of student, 60–64; attraction/intimacy, 19, 39–44, 56, 163, 166, 177–178; autonomy of student, 20, 34; traditional and modern, 174–178 Tertullian of Carthage, 82 Thanksgiving Address: angelic guidance narrative, 30–31, 33–34, 48; authorship, 4–6; Christian features in, 56; closing section, 8, 9, 19, 24, 25, 145–150; divergence/harmonization tension, 25; historical information within, 4–8; imagery, 25, 41, 47–48, 57–60, 69–70, 84–85, 101, 124–128, 133–149, 185n6, 189n72; inclusio, 25, 132; opening section, 8, 19; redaction of, 191n12; rhetoric of, 4, 7–13; scholarly research on, 3–7; structure and themes, 17–19; symmetry, 8; temporal markers, lack of, 18–19;

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text and translation, 3, 28, 179n1, 181n31; textuality of, 10–11. See also farming/gardening, fishing/ hunting; mirror imagery Themistius, 58 theology: dialectic and, 76–86; ethical training and, 89; philosophy and, 66, 174 Torjesen, Karen, 149 Trigg, Joseph, 4, 179n4, 180n9,14, 181nn25,31, 186n20, 193n49, 197n13 Turner, Victor, 172 universal restoration/salvation (apokatastasis), 51–54, 175–176, 184n35 Valantasis, Richard, 183n20 virtues, 37, 46, 51, 80, 95–100, 190n9,11 Williams, Rowan, 84, 167 word and deed, 108–111