Paul and the Greco-Roman Philosophical Tradition 9780567657916, 9780567678362, 9780567657930

Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of Abbreviations
Notes on Contributors
Preface
Foreword
Introduction
1. Paul and the Militia Spiritualis Topos in 1 Thessalonians
2. Elements of Apocalyptic Eschatology in Seneca’s Writings and Paul’s Letters
3. Paul and Aristotle on Friendship
4. Bruce Winter and the Language of Benefaction in Romans 13.3
5. Powers, Baptism and the Ethics of the Stronger: Paul among the Ancient Political Philosophers
6. Divine Causation and Prepositional Metaphysics in Philo of Alexandria and the Apostle Paul
7. Paul and Pan(en)theism
8. The Wilderness Tradition in 1 Corinthians, Wisdom of Solomon and Hebrews
9. Natural Hair: A ‘New Rhetorical’ Assessment of 1 Cor. 11.14 –15
10. Gendered Exegesis of Creation in Philo (De Opificio Mundi) and Paul (1 Corinthians)
11. Early Conceptions of Original Sin: Reading Galatians through Philo’s De Opificio Mundi
12. Death as an Ethical Metaphor in Seneca’s Writings and in Paul’s Letter to the Romans
13. The Nature of True Worship: Reading Acts 17 with Seneca, Epistle 95
Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources
Index of Modern Authors
Index of Ancient Figures

Citation preview

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Paul and the Greco-Roman Philosophical Tradition

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Library of New Testament Studies 527 formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series Editor Chris Keith Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M. G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

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Paul and the Greco-Roman Philosophical Tradition Edited by Joseph R. Dodson and Andrew W. Pitts

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2017 Paperback edition first published in 2019 Copyright © Joseph R. Dodson and Andrew W. Pitts, 2017 Joseph R. Dodson and Andrew W. Pitts have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-5791-6 PB: 978-0-5676-8807-1 ePDF: 978-0-5676-5793-0 ePub: 978-0-5676-5792-3 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 527 Typeset by Jones Ltd, London To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

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For our firstborn sons, Kinnon Scott Dodson and Andrew Williams Pitts V (Quinn), in whom we hope to instill the heart of a Viking and the simple faith of a child.

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Contents List of Abbreviations

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Notes on Contributors

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Preface

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Foreword Troels Engberg-Pedersen Introduction Andrew W. Pitts

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1 Paul and the Militia Spiritualis Topos in 1 Thessalonians Nijay K. Gupta

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2 Elements of Apocalyptic Eschatology in Seneca’s Writings and Paul’s Letters Joseph R. Dodson

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3 Paul and Aristotle on Friendship David E. Briones

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4 Bruce Winter and the Language of Benefaction in Romans 13.3 Andrew W. Pitts and Bahij Ajluni

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5 Powers, Baptism and the Ethics of the Stronger: Paul among the Ancient Political Philosophers Niko Huttunen

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6 Divine Causation and Prepositional Metaphysics in Philo of Alexandria and the Apostle Paul Orrey McFarland

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7 Paul and Pan(en)theism Runar M. Thorsteinsson

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8 The Wilderness Tradition in 1 Corinthians, Wisdom of Solomon and Hebrews Madison N. Pierce

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9 Natural Hair: A ‘New Rhetorical’ Assessment of 1 Cor. 11.14–15 Timothy A. Brookins

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10 Gendered Exegesis of Creation in Philo (De Opificio Mundi) and Paul (1 Corinthians) Jonathan Worthington

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Contents

11 Early Conceptions of Original Sin: Reading Galatians through Philo’s De Opificio Mundi Gitte Buch-Hansen

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12 Death as an Ethical Metaphor in Seneca’s Writings and in Paul’s Letter to the Romans Mathias Nygaard

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13 The Nature of True Worship: Reading Acts 17 with Seneca, Epistle 95 Brian J. Tabb

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Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources Index of Modern Authors Index of Ancient Figures

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Abbreviations AB

Anchor Bible

AGJU

Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums und des Urchristentums

AJP

American Journal of Philology

ANRW

Aufstief und Niedergang der römischen Welt

ANTC

Abingdon New Testament Commentaries

APhR

Ancient Philosophy & Religion

BA

The Biblical Archeologist

BBR

Bulletin of Biblical Research

BDAG

Bauer, Danker, Arndt, and Gingrich. Greek English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature

BETL

Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium

BLG

Biblical Languages: Greek

BZHT

Beiträge zur historischen Theologie

BZNW

Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft

CBQ

Catholic Bible Quarterly

CJ

The Classical Journal

CQ

Classical Quarterly

ConBOT

Coniectanea biblica: Old Testament Series

CSR

Christian Scholar’s Review

EC

Early Christianity

EKKNT

Kritisch-exegetischer Kommentar über das Neue Testament

FS

Festschrift

HT

History of Religions

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Abbreviations

HTR

Harvard Theological Review

ICC

International Critical Commentary

JBL

Journal of Biblical Literature

JEH

The Journal of Ecclesiastical History

JETS

Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society

JSNT

Journal for the Study of the New Testament

JSNTSup

Journal for the Study of the New Testament: Supplement Series

JSOTSup

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Series

JSP

Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha

JTS

Journal of Theological Studies

LCL

Loeb Classical Library

LNTS

Library of New Testament Studies

NAB

New American Bible

NCB

New Clarendon Bible

NCCS

New Covenant Commentary Series

Neot

Neotestamentica

NET

New English Translation

NIB

The New Interpreter’s Bible

NICNT

New International Commentary on the New Testament

NIGTC

New International Greek Testament Commentary

NovT

Novum Testamentum

NovTSup

Novum Testamentum Supplements

NTC

New Testament Commentary

NTD

Das Neue Testament Deutsch

NTS

New Testament Studies

NTTS

New Testament Tools & Studies

PA

Philosophia Antiqua

PACS

Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series

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Abbreviations

PAST

Pauline Studies

PNTC

The Pillar New Testament Commentary

RB

Revue biblique

SBS

Sources for Biblical Study

SJSJ

Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism

SJT

Scottish Journal of Theology

SNT

Studien zum Neuen Testament

SNTSMS

Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series

SNTW

Studies of the New Testament and Its World

SPhilo

Studia philonica

ST

Studia theologica

StudCHNT

Studia ad corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti

SVF

Stoicorum veterum fragmenta. 4 vols.

THKNT

Theologischer Handkommentar zum Neuen Testament

THNTC

The Two Horizons New Testament Commentary

TLG

Thesaurus linguae graecae: Canon of Greek Authors and

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Works. Edited by L. Berkowitz and K. A. Squitier. 3rd ed. Oxford, 1990 TynBul

Tyndale Bulletin

VC

Vigiliae christianae

WBC

Word Biblical Commentary

WUNT

Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament

ZECNT

Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament

ZNW

Zeitschrift für neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde

ZPE

Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

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Notes on Contributors David E. Briones (PhD, Durham University). Professor of New Testament at Reformation Bible College in Sanford, Florida, USA. Timothy A. Brookins (PhD, Baylor University). Assistant professor of Classics at Houston Baptist University in Houston, Texas, USA. Gitte Buch-Hansen (PhD, University of Copenhagen). Associate professor at the University of Copenhagen, Copenhagen. Joseph R. Dodson (PhD, University of Aberdeen). Associate professor of Biblical Studies at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, USA. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (DPhil et Theol, University of Copenhagen). Emeritus Professor of New Testament Exegesis at the University of Copenhagen, Copenhagen. Nijay K. Gupta (PhD, Durham University). Associate professor of New Testament at Portland Seminary, Oregon, USA. Niko Huttunen (PhD, University of Helsinki). Faculty of Theology at the University of Helsinki in Helsinki, Finland. Orrey McFarland (PhD, Durham University). Visiting professor of New Testament and Historical Theology at Knox Theological Seminary in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, USA. Mathias Nygaard (PhD, University of Aberdeen). Associate professor of Religious Studies at Volda University College in Volda, Norway. Madison N. Pierce (PhD, Durham University). Assistant Professor of Biblical Studies and Theology at Tyndale University College & Seminary, Toronto, Canada.

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Notes on Contributors

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Andrew W. Pitts (PhD, McMaster Divinity College). Chair, Biblical Studies Department, and assistant professor of Biblical Studies at Arizona Christian University, Phoenix, Arizona. Brian J. Tabb (PhD, London School of Theology). Associate professor of Biblical Studies and Academic Dean at Bethlehem College and Seminary in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA. Runar M. Thorsteinsson (PhD, Lund University). Professor of New Testament at the University of Iceland, Reykjavik, Iceland. Jonathan Worthington (PhD, Durham University). Director of Curriculum Development at Training Leaders International in Minnesota, USA.

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Preface According to N. T. Wright, ‘ Tracking, plotting and assessing the many lines and levels of his [Paul’s] engagement with his complex non-Jewish world is a task awaiting further attention.’1 While a number of scholars would agree with this conclusion, there is serious disagreement regarding how exactly the apostle engaged with his Greco-Roman philosophical background. These divergent viewpoints are exemplified in the debate between George van Kooten, Oda Wischmeyer and N. T. Wright held at the annual meeting of the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas in 2014.2 Although that specific discussion centred on eschatology, their respective conclusions can be extrapolated to Paul’s overall theology. For instance, some scholars would agree with van Kooten’s deduction that the apostle’s thoughts can be traced back to philosophical discourses and represent genuine agreement with them. Others, in contrast, would concur with Wischmeyer that such resonances in Paul’s letters represent eclectic ideas the apostle absorbed from his cultural milieu, not a deliberate intention to borrow from any particular source. On this continuum, another group of scholars would agree with N. T. Wright’s view that Paul takes expressions from Hellenistic philosophy as part of his rhetorical strategy to make these thoughts ‘obedient to Christ’ – so that, even when the apostle does this, the power behind his own beliefs remains the narrative of Israel’s God, her Messiah and the covenant community. Despite where scholars fall in this spectrum, they should remember David Aune’s argument that Paul’s theology is ‘a creative combination of Jewish and Hellenistic traditions transformed into a tertium quid’ – which, although related to these two traditions, transcends each of them.3 That is to say, Paul

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N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God (2 vols; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 2013), 2:1407. Italics mine. See George van Kooten, Oda Wischmeyer and N.T. Wright, “How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology” NTS 61 (2015): 239–253. David E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment (LEC 8; Philadelphia:  Westminster John Knox, 1987), 12.

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is neither a ‘Jewish’ nor a ‘Hellenistic’ thinker.4 Rather, his thoughts are simultaneously both and more-than. While Andrew and I are not opposed to the attempt of tracking whether evidence in this tertium quid points to particular parallels as reflecting general agreement, common terms or rhetorical pragmatism, we suspect it is a complex mixture of the above.5 Moreover, we realize that – to borrow words from Robert Browning’s Tertium Quid – trying to trace these crimson lines can soon make a man despair.6 Therefore, we believe more work needs to be done to push beyond the ‘Jewish/Hellenism divide’7 by placing Paul in dialogue with other Hellenistic Jews and ancient philosophers: not to ascertain sources possibly influencing Paul as much as to discover similarities and differences in these sources that spark new interpretative questions and kindle fresh insights.8 To keep us from losing heart as we further investigate Paul’s tertium quid, we have enlisted an international group of expert guides. While these scholars represent various points on the aforementioned continuum (as you will doubtless notice), their essays go beyond that debate to help us to understand Paul better in light of his Greco-Roman philosophical tradition. We hope you will gain as much from their contributions as we have. There are several people we would like to thank for making this project come together. First, the kind folks at T&T Clark were most accommodating; our editor, Dominic Matthos, in particular provided timely encouragement and support. Second, we are grateful to the contributors for their essays and for their quick responses to queries and corrections. Third, we would like to acknowledge the assistance of David Edwards in providing administrative support for the preparation of this volume. Finally, Andrew and I would like to dedicate this volume to our first-born sons, Quinn and Kinnon. Whereas Plato says that books are immortal sons who despise 4

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N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God (2  vols.; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 2013), 2:1387. We are also pressed to ask whether the answer is always the same for every resonance in Paul. For instance, could van Kooten be right about 1 Thessalonians, but Wischmeyer about Romans, and Wright about 1 Corinthians? Moreover, does Paul’s maturity, experience and travel influence his use (or avoidance) of philosophical terms in his letters? Robert Browning, The Ring and the Book (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 1897) 4.41. Troels Engberg-Pedersen (ed.), Paul Beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (Louisville, KY:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2001). See also Martin Hengel, Judentum und Hellenismus (WUNT 10; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1969). Mikhail Baktin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (ed. C. Emerson and M. Holquist; trans. Vern W. McGee; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 162.

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their sires, we pray you’ ll be noble ones who can find it in your hearts to honor yours. Joseph R. Dodson Louisiana Guadete Sunday December 2016

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Foreword Troels Engberg-Pedersen

The practice of comparison is endemic to New Testament scholarship, no matter whether it is ideas or social practices that are being compared and no matter whether the poles for comparison with the New Testament text or phenomenon are features of specifically Jewish or more broadly Greco-Roman culture. Alternatively, and in certain ways preferably, one may speak of ‘situating’ the New Testament texts and phenomena in their various contemporary ‘contexts’ of ideas and social practices. One cannot say, however, that scholarship has so far managed to clarify theoretically its own practice of comparing and situating. That only makes the present volume all the more welcome. There is no uniformity of approach here, but this fact in itself invites us to think harder about how to understand the theoretical issue. Two rules seem required for a truly historical and, not least, analytically critical comparison of Paul with the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition that constituted one of his contexts. An additional consideration may also be adduced. The first rule, which we may call the lex Malherbe, insists that each pole of the comparison must be given its full due in the sense that it must be studied on its own premises and from within its own perspective. Only then will the comparison in terms of a diagnosis of similarities and differences have any real power. The second rule, which we may call the lex Meeks, nevertheless insists that the aim of the comparison should not just be a balanced view – more or less in the abstract – of either pole with their similarities and differences. Rather, the focus for the comparison should be the New Testament text or phenomenon itself: the comparative material – which should of course be analysed in accordance with the lex Malherbe – should be put to use in order to elucidate that, by highlighting where it is similar and differs. To these two rules one may add a further consideration, which belongs at a different level of thought and which should come in later. Once one has done one’s analytical comparison in accordance with the two rules and has thereby

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hopefully provided some genuine elucidation of the New Testament text or phenomenon under scrutiny, one may also – if one so wishes – step back from either pole for comparison and ask a new question as coolly as possible: which of the two poles has the higher degree of forcefulness (in a number of respects to be specified) as an adequate description of the world? This ‘hermeneutical’ task, which should be kept sharply distinct from the earlier approach, is by far the most difficult one, since it calls for the highest degree of historical self-consciousness in the scholar. But it is the one that most directly meets the interest that most often drives the scholarly enterprise itself, here as elsewhere. So, reader, read on.

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Introduction Andrew W. Pitts

The Apostle Paul’s relationship to emerging first-century philosophical traditions can be traced to the earliest phases of the reception history of Paul and his literature. In Acts 17, for example, Luke has Paul deftly wrangling with the Epicureans and Stoics over the true meaning of their own sources and even convincing some of those philosophers that he is right, while the subsequent chapter (Acts 18) places him before Gallio, Seneca’s eldest brother and the dedicatee of his De Ira. The Epistle of Diognetus’s configuration of Stoic and Platonic ideas in relation to Pauline literature continues to evince interest in Paul’s philosophical background into the second century.1 And one of our earlier pseudopigraphic traditions associated with Paul, The Correspondence of Paul and Seneca, reveals fascination with this connection well into the fourth century CE. From the enlightenment era into the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,2 we discover a still-growing captivation with the Greco-Roman world as a social matrix for Christian origins more broadly. As representative samples, one quickly thinks of the history-of-religions school as embodied in Wilhelm Bousset (and company) or the Hellenistic-Gnostic dualist anthropology – ripe with philosophical influences – that Rudolf Bultmann saw so clearly in 2 Corinthians 5.3 Several factors converged, however, to shift attention away from Greco-Roman 1

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See Michael F. Bird, ‘The Reception of Paul in the Epistle of Diognetus’, in Paul and the Second Century (ed. Michael F. Bird and Joseph R. Dodson; LNTS 412; London: T&T Clark, 2011), 70–90. For a history of scholarly conjectures regarding the relationship of Paul and Seneca, see Harry M. Hine, ‘Paul and Seneca: The First Two Thousand Years’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (ed. Joseph R. Dodson and Dave E. Briones; APhR 2; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 22–48. Other representative examples include Johannes Weiss, ‘Beitrage zur paulinischen Rhetorik’, in Theologische Studien:  Herrn Wirkl. Oberkonsistorialrath Professor D.  Bernhard Weiss zu seinem 70. Geburtstage dargebracht (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1897), 165–274; Rudolf Bultmann, Der Stil der paulinischen Predigt und die kynisch-stoische Diatribe (Göttingen:  Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910); Adolf Friedrich Bonhöffer, Epiktet und das Neue Testament (Gießen: Töpelmann, 1911 [1964]).

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influences in the formation of Pauline thought to possible Jewish antecedents, not least due to the impact of post-Holocaust guilt and the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Though scholars sometimes overstate this pendulum swing,4 we do seem to notice, beginning especially in the 1940s and 1950s and up to our current time, a clear movement toward constructing a Jewish rather than a GrecoRoman context for the formation of Pauline theology. Nevertheless, Greco-Roman (specifically philosophical) accounts of Paul’s theology persist. Over the past several decades, in particular, scholarship has undergone renewed interest in Paul as philosopher. This portrait appears to go back (at least partially) to two schools, located in the United States, and then to several scholars working independently on the continent. The Chicago Divinity School already had a history of social analysis of early Christianity through the founding of the so-called Chicago School based on the work of Shirley Jackson Case.5 Hans Dieter Betz solidified this association when he argued that 2 Corinthians 10–13 exhibited philosophical influence (specifically from the Socratic tradition) as Paul positioned himself with the philosophers against the sophists: Windisch erkennt richtig die antisophistische Tendenz der paulinischen Argumentation. Im folgenden werden wir zu zeigen versuchen, daß Paulus hiermit in einer bis auf Socrates zurückgehenden Tradition steht.6

Betz’s edited volume on the moral philosophy of Plutarch provides another landmark study in the relationship of early Christian literature, including the writings of Paul, to Hellenistic philosophy.7 Also at the University of Chicago, Margaret Mitchell sustained interest in the Greco-Roman world and Paul through her work on rhetoric in 1 Corinthians. So did Hans-Josef Klauck, especially through his research on early Christianity and Greco-Roman religions, including the ideas of the Hellenistic philosophers.8 4 5

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Albert Schweitzer had called for a return to Jewish apocalyptic much earlier, and was followed by some. Shirley Jackson Case, The Social Origins of Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1923); see also W. J. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case and the Chicago School: The Socio-Historical Method (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981). “Windisch rightly recognizes the anti-Sophist tendency of the Pauline argument. In the following, we will attempt to show that Paul here follows a tradition that goes back to Socrates.” Hans Dieter Betz, Der Apostel Paulus und die socratische Tradition: Eine exegetische Untersuchung zu seiner “Apologie” 2 Korinther 10–13 (BZHT 45; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1972), 14. Hans Dieter Betz, ed., Plutarch’s Ethical Writings and Early Christian Literature (StudHNT 4; Leiden: Brill, 1978). Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (Louisville, KY:  Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993); Hans-Josef Klauck,

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On the East Coast, at Yale Divinity School, Abraham Malherbe and Wayne Meeks continued to propel philosophical intrigue in the discussion of Paul. Malherbe produced a significant source book designed to assist biblical scholars in accessing primary sources.9 While Malherbe spent considerable time reconstructing the social context out of which Christianity emerged,10 he also devoted much of his time to exploring the relationship between the Hellenistic moral philosophers and the earliest Christians, including especially Paul.11 Wayne Meeks’s analysis of the early Pauline congregations deployed a convincing social framework out of which the basic concepts and terminology applied to these churches seemed to have developed.12 He shared his Yale colleague’s conviction that Hellenistic moral philosophy offered a significant antecedent for the moral environment of the earliest Christians.13 Greg Sterling, now the dean at Yale Divinity School, preserves this legacy. Though his doctoral work focussed upon Luke and historiography, Sterling quickly established himself as a leading voice in the discussion of Paul (and early Christianity more broadly) and the philosophers through a series of edited volumes and essays.14 On the continent, the work of Jan Nicolaas Sevenster (at the University of Amsterdam) Paul and Seneca15 stood in contrast to the increasingly Jewish portraits of Paul emerging during his time.16 Bruce Winter later sought to set Paul

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The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to Graeco-Roman Religions (Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 2000), esp. 331–428. Abraham J. Malherbe, The Cynic Epistles:  A  Study Edition (Missoula, MT:  Scholars, 1977); Abraham J. Malherbe, Moral Exhortation: A Greco-Roman Sourcebook (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986); Abraham J. Malherbe, Ancient Epistolary Theorists (SBS 19; Atlanta, GA:  Scholars Press, 1988). Abraham J. Malherbe, The World of the New Testament (Austin:  R. B.  Sweet, 1967); Abraham J. Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983). Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians:  The Philosophic Tradition of Pastoral Care (Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1987); Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1989). Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven, CT: Yale, 1983). Wayne A. Meeks, The Moral World of the First Christians (Philadelphia:  Westminster Press, 1986); Wayne A. Meeks, The Origins of Christian Morality: The First Two Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale, 1993). E.g. Gregory E. Sterling, “Hellenistic Philosophy and the New Testament,” in Handbook to the Exegesis of the New Testament (ed. Stanley E. Porter; NTTS 25; Leiden:  Brill, 1997), 313–58; Gregory E. Sterling, ed., The Ancestral Philosophy: Hellenistic Philosophy in Greek-Speaking Judaism (Atlanta, GA:  Society of Biblical Literature, 2001); Gregory E. Sterling et al., eds., Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity; Collected Essays, 1959–2012 (NovTSup 150; Leiden: Brill, 2013). Jan N. Sevenster, Paul and Seneca (NovTSup 4; Leiden: Brill, 1961). E.g. W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism:  Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (London: SPCK, 1955).

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and Philo in relation to the Sophists.17 Troels Engberg-Pedersen fuelled interest in this connection further with his work Paul and the Stoics.18 He followed this up with Cosmology and the Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit19 and an edited volume that included several significant essays on Paul’s relationship to Stoicism.20 Together, Winter and Engberg-Pedersen solidified, if not revived, philosophical interest in Paul on the continent. Edward Adams’s work on the philosophical background of Paul’s cosmological language21 and George van Kooten’s important study of Pauline anthropology in light of ancient philosophical traditions provide significant representative samples of this trend.22 Around the same time, Joseph Dodson examined the writings of the author of the Wisdom of Solomon, who was schooled in Hellenistic philosophy, to discover how the sage used personification to treat theodicy in order to set up a heuristic comparison with Paul’s rhetorical strategy in Romans. And Jonathan Linebaugh used the Wisdom of Solomon to demonstrate how a diaspora Jew would react to Paul’s gospel.23 Similarly, Niko Huttunen’s research on Paul and Epictetus,24 Runar Thorsteinsson’s assessment of Stoic influences upon early Roman Christians25 and John Barclay’s recent work on Paul and the gift all draw heavily upon Greco-Roman philosophical traditions.26 Philosophical readings of Paul do not appear to be waning either. Brill’s Ancient Philosophical Commentary on the Pauline Writings, edited by van Kooten, promises to deliver extensive analysis of the potential connections between the Pauline corpus and Greco-Roman philosophy. 17 18 19

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Philo and Paul Among the Sophists (SNTMS 96; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Paul and the Stoics (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000). Cosmology and the Self in the Apostle Paul:  The Material Spirit (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2010). With Tuomas Rasimus, ed., Stoicism in Early Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2010). E.g. The Stars Will Fall from Heaven: Cosmic Catastrophe in the New Testament and Its World (LNTS 347; London: T&T Clark, 2007). George Hendrik van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context:  The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (WUNT 232; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification: Rhetorical Purpose in the Book of Wisdom and the Letter to the Romans (BZNW 161; Berlin:  Walter de Gruyter, 2008); and Jonathan A. Linebaugh, God, Grace, and Righteousness in Wisdom of Solomon and Paul’s Letter to the Romans (SNT 152; Leiden: Brill, 2013). Paul and Epictetus on Law: A Comparison (LNTS 405; London: T&T Clark, 2009). Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism:  A  Comparative Study of Ancient Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015); cf. David A. deSilva, Honor, Patronage, Kinship & Purity: Unlocking New Testament Culture (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2000), esp. 95–156.

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Back in the United States, Joseph Dodson and Dave Briones recently published a volume that seeks to go beyond Sevenster’s comparison by placing Paul and Seneca in a dialogue, which takes into account what scholars have learned about the two ancient authors since the 1960s.27 Though his assessment of the relationship between early Christianity and Stoicism is ultimately a negative one, C. Kavin Rowe’s recent work portraying Stoicism as one of Christianity’s earliest rival traditions reveals current and abiding interest in these debates.28 The present book hopes to continue this ongoing discussion and includes chapters from an international team of scholars, several of whom I have already mentioned. A number of others weigh in or develop ongoing discussions in Paul’s possible relationship to Greco-Roman philosophy. In the opening essay, by Nijay Gupta, particular interest is paid to 1 Thessalonians as a case study. Abraham Malherbe argued extensively that Paul’s letter of pastoral care resembles very closely how some contemporary philosophers exhorted others towards a life of virtue. Malherbe particularly connected Paul’s discourse in 1 Thess. 2.1–12 to Dio Chrysostom’s Ad Alexandrinos. He argues that the parallels Malherbe detects are not satisfying enough to draw a line of dependence. Gupta, however, takes another approach to the subject of Paul and the philosophers. Rather than arguing for direct dependence on particular texts, in a more fruitful endeavor, Gupta examines how Paul may have employed the widely popular philosophical topoi, such as that of the good soldier (militia spiritualis). While several scholars have compared motifs such as the transcendence of death, heavenly ascent and cosmic rectification that appear in Stoic writings with those in Paul’s letters in general, few have concentrated on comparing these elements with those in the writings of Paul’s contemporary, Lucius Annaeus Seneca. In Chapter 2, Joseph R. Dodson provides a more nuanced treatment by narrowing the exploration to examine resonances and differences in Paul’s letters with three of Seneca’s most relevant essays. Thereby, it leads both to the discovery of new insights and the refinement of older ones. (Although Dodson does limit his discussion to 1 Thessalonians, we have placed his essay beside Gupta’s because of its particular relevance to the letter.)

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Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (APhR 2; Leiden: Brill, 2017). One True Life:  The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2016).

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Dave E. Briones (Chapter 3) then seeks to configure Paul’s theory of friendship in light of Aristotle’s. The philosophical notion of friendship was a frequent topic of discussion among ancient philosophers in and around Paul’s day. It is not surprising, therefore, that so many New Testament scholars have situated Paul within this rich, philosophical tradition. Of particular interest in this essay, however, is Aristotle’s treatment of friendship in his Nicomachean Ethics, a work that exceeds the opinions of his predecessors, has become a reference point for contemporary philosophical works on the topic, and most certainly illumines Paul’s letter to the Philippians. While many scholars have compared Aristotle and Paul, no one has drawn attention to one major difference between Aristotle’s philosophy of friendship and Paul’s theology of friendship: God’s active presence in and through human relationships. The relational implications of this divine inclusion, especially when compared to Aristotle’s virtue-friendships, are quite staggering. So without ignoring the striking similarities between Aristotle and Paul, this essay also highlights the differences a divine party makes on Christian friendship. In the end, the two, like good friends, may be of ‘one mind’ on many points, but ultimately, agreeing to disagree, they part ways. Andrew W. Pitts and Bahij Ajluni (Chapter 4) also assess issues connected to Greco-Roman friendship but deal more specifically with potential benefaction language in Romans 13 as interpreted by Bruce Winter. Their chapter evaluates his argument in light of ancient philosophical views of beneficiation and broader Pauline theology. Although Winter focuses upon inscriptional evidence (which they also address), they find that Winter’s results seem questionable when his arguments are brought into conversation with (especially) philosophical discussions of benefaction and the wider context of Romans 12–13. In Chapter 5, Niko Huttunen continues the discussion of Romans 13 but with reference to the political philosophers. He argues that the Septuagint is not the only context for Paul’s words on authorities, probably not even the primary one. In addition to the biblical resonances, Paul’s words may have also sparked connections in the minds of his Greco-Roman audience. Despite its potential Jewish background, the expression πᾶσα ψυχή also occurs in non-biblical Greek on a number of occasions. In particular, it occurs with the third-person imperative in an interesting passage from Epictetus. According to Epictetus, God’s law, which is most powerful (κράτιστος) and most just,

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prescribes, ‘Let the stronger always prevail over the weaker’ (τὸ κρεῖσσον ἀεὶ περιγινέσθω τοῦ χείρονος; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.13). According to Huttunen, this third-person imperative describes the universality of the rule, as it does in Rom. 13.1. Orrey McFarland’s essay (Chapter 6) deals with ‘prepositional metaphysics’ in Philo and in Paul. In ancient philosophical traditions – primarily the Peripatetics, Platonists and Stoics – prepositions were used to define causation. Different prepositions designated different agents, and prepositions also specified what kind of agent, instrument, material or motive was in view. This practice of applying technical uses of prepositions to causation is called ‘prepositional metaphysics’. While scholars have noticed that various New Testament formulations look similar to those found in the writings of the philosophers, there is little agreement as to whether the New Testament writers can be placed within the traditions of prepositional metaphysics – and furthermore, if they can be, what that means. This essay first sets forth Philo of Alexandria as a clear example of the use of prepositional metaphysics. Next, McFarland examines Paul’s use of prepositions to define causation in Rom. 11.36 and 1 Cor. 8.6. The argument is that while Philo and Paul both use prepositions differently, and have dissimilar views of causation, Philo’s use of prepositional metaphysics provides a way forward for placing Paul within the tradition of using prepositions with technical meanings for defining causation. Chapter 7 delivers an interesting argument from Runar M. Thorsteinsson that seeks to position Paul in relation to ancient forms of pan(en)theism. There is little doubt that Paul’s conception of God was (mono)theistic. He describes God in personal terms, as a being that is both transcendent and immanent in the world and as a divine power outside of his creation that intervenes in worldly affairs. In that respect, Paul’s understanding of God was traditionally Jewish. However, according to Thorsteinsson, there are some passages in his letters that may include pan(en)theistic understandings of the deity – that God is identical with the universe (pantheism) and/or that God is in everything and everything in God, God being greater than everything (panentheism). The passages are: Rom. 11.36, 1 Cor. 15.28 and Rom. 8.9–11. Do these passages really contain pan(en)theism? How does that

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relate to Paul’s Jewish heritage? Thorsteinsson’s essay explores these questions, first, by analysing and presenting the theology of Paul. He then analyses the theology of two pan(en)theists, Seneca and Epictetus before finally seeking to position Paul in relation to contemporary pan(en)theistic theology. Having discussed Paul’s overall theology, the essay gives an overview of Seneca’s and Epictetus’s theology, both of which are true to traditional Stoic pan(en)theism, but they also reveal a significant theistic understanding of the deity. Their theology is fluid in this respect. The analysis of the three passages in Paul suggests that his theology was also somewhat fluid. But not to the same extent as that of the Stoics: the Pauline passages show that although Paul was a devout Jew and a (mono)theist, he had both pantheistic (1 Cor. 15.28) and panentheistic (Rom. 8.9–11) leanings. This conclusion indicates that Paul’s theology was closer to Stoic theology than scholars have thought. Madison N.  Pierce (Chapter  8) also addresses Stoic philosophy as mediated through the Wisdom of Solomon. The events that occurred from the time the Israelites left Egypt until the time that they entered into the promised land took place in the wilderness. The people of God journeyed through an uninhabited land relying on God for their basic needs. But the years in the desert were by no means wholly positive. The people consistently rebelled, and an entire generation fell before they took possession of that land of milk and honey. Later, this tradition was appropriated by countless Jewish and Christian authors; however, each retelling portrays different episodes and offers a unique tone. Paul also offers one of these retellings in 1 Corinthians, enhancing the tradition with christological dimensions. In order to identify the distinct elements of Paul’s account, this essay brings his text into conversation with the two contrasting accounts in Hebrews 3–4 and the Wisdom of Solomon. This dialectic also offers the ability to identity the underlying philosophical traditions that each author brings to the text. Chapter  9, authored by Timothy Brookins, offers a fascinating study of Paul’s use of φύσις in 1 Corinthians 11. In the past, Paul’s use of this term in his argument concerning hair length in 1 Cor. 11.2–16 has been employed as support for the claim that he sometimes understood the concept in terms of ‘convention’. However, such a claim flies in the face of the evidence we have for the term’s development in its ancient context. Against ‘convention’, which was usually referred to as νόμος (lex) or συνήθεια (consuetudo), φύσις constituted

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the objective, unchanging benchmark by which the endless inflections of conventional systems of value were to be measured. The fact of the matter, then, is this: not that they understood nature in terms of convention, but that what they considered nature sometimes amounts to convention to us. Brookins also argues, however, that there is a deeper hermeneutical complexity to Paul’s argument in 1 Cor. 11.14–15, appreciated in its underlying rhetorical dimension, where he capitalizes upon subtle ambiguities of meaning to create basic ‘agreement’ between parties. Jonathan Worthington (Chapter 10) also deals with gender-related issues in 1 Corinthians. In the Roman Imperial context, space and its associated tasks and tools were highly gendered, not least in the ritual realm. ‘Femininity’ was typically seen as weak, soft, emotional and passive in contrast to masculinity as strong, intellectual, virtuous and active. A general ‘fear of gender boundary transgressions’ saturated texts of the time. Within this context, Philo of Alexandria and Paul of Tarsus each used Genesis 1–2 to help them to define reality, including gendered status and activity. This chapter contends that both interpreters’ exegesis of creation-texts is asymmetrically gendered – which is not surprising – though in unexpected manners. This essay sets side by side Philo’s and Paul’s interpretations of Scripture regarding creation and gender. This draws attention to similarities and differences in a shared interpretive endeavor. Focussing only on Philo’s commentary, De opificio mundi, and Paul’s epistle, 1 Corinthians enables sufficient focus and depth while also making the conclusions limited and thus provisional. Worthington first examines Philo’s overall pattern of interpreting the creation narrative before highlighting aspects of his exegesis of specific gender passages in Genesis 1–2. He then repeats this process for Paul. In Chapter 11, Gitte Buch-Hansen continues to address themes related to Philo, Genesis and Paul. When Paul’s Sarah-Hagar allegory in Galatians is interpreted in light of salvation history, with the Hagar column representing the synagogue and the Sarah column the church, the admonition to throw out Hagar’s slave child becomes a statement that captures Paul for the church and turned him against his former religion. However, no interpreter of Galatians should isolate Paul’s allegory from its immediate context, especially not Paul’s own ethical interpretation of his allegorical construction in the subsequent, exhortative section of the letter. When the allegory is read in light of Pauline

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anthropology, it becomes an admonition to overcome the desires that characterize a generation κατὰ σάρκα and an invitation to overcome the flaws of the first generation and change columns, confirming the link between generation and desire that Philo described. In Paul’s view, the transition from the Hagar column to the Sarah column represents a fulfilment and perfection of the covenant in the manner of the spiritual renewal of the heart and covenant that we encounter in the prophetic tradition (cf. Ezek. 11.19–20; Jer. 31.31–33). The final two essays pick back up on Paul and Seneca, one focusing upon Romans and the other upon Luke’s presentation of Paul in Acts 17. First, Mathias Nygaard (Chapter  12) argues that Stoicism is a better interlocutor than Platonism for ethical elements in Paul’s letter to the Romans. Nygaard examines Seneca and Paul’s uses of death (in the sense of the ‘cessation of bodily functions’) as a figure of speech to provide ‘value judgments on certain actions’ and to propound patterns of ethical behaviour. As with the Stoic, the apostle considers people living for the flesh as dead already and portrays the praxis of dying ‘as obtaining a reality which would otherwise not be available’ as enabling a life of virtue. Nygaard argues that by inverting the meaning of death through their metaphorical use of life as dying, Seneca and Paul overcome the problem of death:  ‘In this way the problem of death is subsumed into life itself.’ Nevertheless, death played a more foundational role in Seneca’s worldview, since for Paul death is the result of sin – humanity’s fundamental problem. So also, life as participation in the death of another (that is, Christ) would be inconceivable for Seneca. In response, the Stoic would probably argue that Paul evades ‘the problem of death by postulating its mythical conquering by an outside agent’ and point how the belief that God would soon destroy death once for all collides with his view of the cosmos’s eternal cycle of life and death. Nygaard concludes that despite the similarities of the two authors’ use of death as an ethical metaphor, the outcomes of their images are very different when placed within their overall systems of thought. Finally, Brian Tabb (Chapter 13) offers a focussed comparison of the speech from Luke’s Paul in Acts 17 and Lucilius Seneca’s Epistle 95, which discusses how philosophical doctrines direct human beings’ beliefs, thoughts and actions towards the gods, other people and things. Acts 17 presents Paul as a Socrates-like figure examined by Athens’s governing council as a ‘herald of foreign divinities’. The speech critiques the Athenians for their idolatry and

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ignorance and calls for true knowledge of God and genuine repentance. Acts 17 and Epistle 95 have at least four noteworthy parallels. First, superstitious religious practices do not reflect genuine knowledge of deity. Second, contrary to popular opinion, God does not dwell in temples. Third, God is the supreme Lord who rules over his universe. Fourth, God does not seek servants but by nature serves human beings from his abundance. The essay shows that these points of correspondence concerning the nature of true worship also function as sign posts to each author’s framework of thought. Thus, while Acts 17 affirms elements of Seneca’s teaching in Epistle 95 regarding how the gods should be worshipped, the speech also challenges and subverts the Stoic worldview by calling for true knowledge of the Creator and true repentance, since the true God has raised Jesus from the dead and installed him as the supreme judge of all. As the reader may have gathered by this point, Paul and the Greco-Roman Philosophical Tradition embodies a fairly eclectic project. Several of the essays in this volume seek to establish new potential resonances with Paul and the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition (e.g. Dodson; Worthington), but others question such connections (e.g. Gupta; Pitts/Ajluni). Some essays propose radically new relationships between Paul and Greek philosophy (e.g. Thorsteinsson), while still others seek to only slightly tweak or modulate current discussions (e.g. McFarland; Tabb). Some are more technical and exegetical (e.g. Brookins), while others remain more synthetic and theological (e.g. McFarland). We believe this to be a strength of the volume, providing a platform for multiple voices from various corridors. We are also delighted that the volume houses an international team of scholars from a range of diverse traditions and backgrounds. This diversity, however, is accentuated by a common goal, shared by each author – to further our understanding of Paul’s relation to and appropriation of Greco-Roman philosophical traditions in his literary and missionary efforts. It is our sincere hope that we – the authors and the editors – have accomplished this modest, yet significant, goal. But we will let the readers be the judge.

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Paul and the Militia Spiritualis Topos in 1 Thessalonians Nijay K. Gupta

1.1 Introduction Biblical scholarship tends to move generation by generation from one end of a pendulum swing to the other. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it was commonly argued or taken for granted that Greek religions played the most important role in the development of Paul’s theology.1 In the mid-twentieth century, Paulinists took a turn away from Hellenism-only origins towards a new appreciation for the nature and diversity of early Judaism itself – impacted significantly by post-war and post-Holocaust religious studies as well as the discovery and study of the Dead Sea scrolls and other early Jewish texts.2 Out of that surge of interest came the famous ‘New Perspective on Paul’, a movement that underscored the ‘Jewishness’ of Paul and his social context (especially as articulated by James D. G. Dunn and N. T. Wright).3 About two decades ago, an important book of essays was published, entitled Paul beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide4 – a multi-contributor work that attempted to complicate the kind of tug-of-war that prevailed in scholarship 1

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See John Ashton, The Religion of Paul the Apostle (New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 2000), 238–244; also Murray J. Smith, ‘Paul in the Twenty-First Century’, in All Things to All Cultures (ed. Mark Harding and Alanna Nobbs; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 3–4. W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism:  Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (London:  SPCK, 1955); also Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974). See E. P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism (Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1977); N. T. Wright, What Saint Paul Really Said (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1997); James D.  G. Dunn, The New Perspective on Paul (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008). Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ed., Paul beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (Louisville, KY: WJK, 2001).

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either pulling Paul towards a ‘Greek’ framework or towards a ‘Jewish’ one. In light of this (largely successful) attempt to study Paul in the fullness of his Greek, Roman and Jewish ‘worlds’, I  believe we have established a new standard for Pauline studies, whereby he is no longer understood as a mono-cultural figure.5 Part of this commitment to studying a ‘three-dimensional Paul’ has included examining not simply ‘Jewish’ and ‘Greek’ influences but also Paul in the Roman world; and not just the impact of religions, but also Greco-Roman politics, popular culture, education/rhetoric and philosophy.6 On that last item, philosophy, there has been much disagreement regarding how acquainted Paul was with Greco-Roman philosophical texts, how he viewed them and how it influenced his thought (consciously or otherwise). There is a long-held tradition in the church that has set the uniqueness of Christian revelation and wisdom far above worldly knowledge; this is famously stated by Tertullian in De praescriptione haereticorum: What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord is there between the Academy and the Church? What between heretics and Christians? Our instruction comes from ‘the porch of Solomon’, who had himself taught that ‘the Lord should be sought in simplicity of heart’. Away with all attempts to produce a mottled Christianity of Stoic, Platonic, and dialectic composition!7

In 1899, Arthur Carr wrote a brief article entitled ‘St. Paul’s Attitude towards Greek Philosophy’.8 He took particular interest in the fact that, despite the ways that pagans used σοφία, Paul did not shy away from its use in his letters to churches. Carr argues that Paul was committed to the term σοφία (1) because of its use in the Septuagint and relation to the Hebrew concept of wisdom, and (2)  due to the ‘wisdom’ language used in the ministry of Jesus himself (e.g. Mark 11.19; Luke 7.25; cf. Luke 2.40, 52).9 Despite the fact that Paul wanted to

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See the more recent volume, Stanley E. Porter, ed., Paul: Jews, Greeks, and Romans (PAST 5; Boston, MA: Brill, 2008). See J. Paul Sampley, ed., Paul in the Greco-Roman World (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press Intl., 2003). Praescr. 7. Translated by Peter Holmes, ANF 3.1887 (Rep., Peabody: Hendrickson, 1999). Of course, in a tractate against heresies one isn’t surprised to find such heated argumentation; Clement of Alexandria makes a less negative statement:  ‘Greek culture, with its philosophy, came down from God to men, not with a definite direction, but in the way that showers fall on the good land, and on the dunghill, and on the houses’ (Strom. c.1); English translation from Mike Aquilina, The Way of the Fathers (Huntington, IN: Our Sunday Visitor, 2000), 176. Arthus Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude towards Greek Philosophy’, The Expositor 9 (1899): 372–378. Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude’, 377–378.

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maintain a connection to these foundational traditions of wisdom, Carr urges that inevitably Christianity would be characterized as a philosophy (in part because of this terminology) and compared to other philosophies.10 Early in Carr’s essay he observes how attractive it would have been for Paul to appeal to the Corinthians by borrowing from or making good use of Greek philosophy and wisdom, yet Paul dared to reject human wisdom (at the risk of offending a good many Greeks). Greek philosophy had done so much for the elevation and purification of religion and life, its aims were so closely akin to the aims of Christianity, its scope and even its expressions seemed so capable of being merged in the Christian ideal, again philosophy had proved so attractive to the best and loftiest characters of the pre-Christian epoch that St. Paul might well have hesitated in his repudiation. But St. Paul does not hesitate. He makes no compromise and suggests no eirenicon with the wisdom of this world.11

Later Carr argues that, while Paul can refer to ‘the wisdom of God’ (using parlance familiar to philosophers), the kind of θεοῦ σοφία revealed in Jesus is no less than ‘a divine apocalypse by means of the indwelling pneuma’.12 So Paul ‘placed Christian philosophy in a position distinct from and more authoritative than the wisdom of the Greeks. The recognition of a divinely implanted perceptive faculty creates a new philosophic standpoint.’13 Carr’s view seems remarkably similar to that articulated by J. Louis Martyn, as the latter wrote about gospel and philosophy over a century after Carr.14 Martyn baldly states that Paul was no philosopher, and he peddled no philosophy. His message was gospel, ‘a joyous announcement focused not on human endeavors of any kind, but rather on an act of God that had just now occurred, that was still occurring, that would occur climactically in the near future. Specifically, with the euangelion he referred to and expanded upon what he identified in the first instance as God’s new, militant act in the invasive sending of his Son Jesus Christ.’15 Martyn defends his claim (that Paul was no philosopher) by pointing to the Pauline emphasis on the hegemony and subsequent 10 11 12 13 14

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Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude’, 378. Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude’, 374. Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude’, 375. Carr, ‘St. Paul’s Attitude’, 375. J. Louis Martyn, ‘The Gospel Invades Philosophy’, in Paul, Philosophy, and the Theopolitical Vision (ed. Douglas Harink; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2010), 13–36. Martyn, ‘Gospel Invades Philosophy’, 14.

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defeat of the two powers of Sin and Death, the apocalyptic emphasis on the victory of Christ and the Spirit and the hope of freedom through faith, hope and love in obedience to God.16 Contrast these forceful statements from Carr and Martyn with the work of Luke Timothy Johnson in Among the Gentiles: Greco-Roman Religion and Christianity.17 Johnson sets out to deconstruct the notion that Christianity in the early centuries was incomparable to pagan religion and philosophy. He posits, put simply, that ‘Christians were religious pretty much in the ways Gentiles were religious’.18 While the main focus of Johnson’s book is Greco-Roman religion, and the topic at hand in this essay is philosophy, it should be noted that Johnson underscores the overlapping of the two subjects in the ancient world; furthermore, one ‘way of being religious’ that Johnson identifies involves the pursuit of moral transformation, that is, living a life worthy of the divine. Johnson offers the Stoic philosopher Epictetus as his example of this type of pursuit of moral transformation, and he argues that Paul attained to a similar goal.19 Johnson’s goal was not necessarily to argue for a direction of influence,20 but simply that the kinds of totalizing contrasts (e.g. such as we see with Martyn) cannot stand under closer scrutiny when early Christianity seems to share so many values, goals and assumptions with its pagan neighbours. Looking at the comparative study of early Christianity and GrecoRoman philosophy, there has been a strong recent surge of interest in bringing the two into conversation and engagement; this is seen especially in the work of Abraham Malherbe,21 Troels Engberg-Pedersen,22 F. Gerald

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Martyn, ‘Gospel Invades Philosophy’, 27–29. Luke Timothy Johnson, Among the Gentiles: Greco-Roman Religion and Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009). Johnson, Among the Gentiles, ix. See Johnson, Among the Gentiles, 159–162. See Johnson, Among the Gentiles, 277. See esp. Abraham J. Malherbe, Light from the Gentiles:  Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity:  Collected Essays (1959–2012) by Abraham Malherbe (ed. Carl R. Holladay et  al.; Boston, MA: Brill, 2014); also Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘Greco-Roman Religion and Philosophy and the New Testament’, in The New Testament and Its Modern Interpreters (ed. Eldon J. Epp and George W. MacRae; Philadelphia:  Fortress, 1989), 3–26; Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress, 1989); Abraham J. Malherbe, ‘Hellenistic Moralists and the New Testament’, ANRW II 26.1 (1992):  267–333. As a testament to his legacy, see Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. David L. Balch, Everett Ferguson, and Wayne A. Meeks; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1990). Paul in His Hellenistic Context (ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1994); Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 2000); Troels EngbergPedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford:  Oxford University

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Downing,23 Stanley Stowers24 and George van Kooten.25 About a quartercentury ago Malherbe lamented the weak efforts paid by New Testament scholars to engage with ‘the Greco-Roman context’.26 He noticed that scholars tended only to mine philosophical texts for parallels, and this only to serve lexical study.27 Matters have changed quite significantly since then, especially in the last decade or so, due in no small part to new resources such as readily accessible new translations of Hellenistic philosophical texts (e.g. through the SBL Writings from the Greco-Roman World series). The case for the importance of the study of Greco-Roman philosophy has been cogently argued by several in recent years. Gregory Sterling posits that the early Christians must have had the current philosophers and philosophies on their radar because they simply could not avoid engagement with their ideas.28 Sterling also makes the case that those pagans steeped in the Greco-Roman philosophies would have had a natural attraction to early Christianity for several reasons, such as interest in the oneness of God, and religion oriented towards virtue and moral transformation.29

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Press, 2010); Stoicism in Early Christianity (ed. Tuomas Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2010). F. Gerald Downing, ‘Cynics and Christians’, NTS 30.4 (1984): 584–593; F. Gerald Downing, Cynics and Christian Origins (London:  T&T Clark, 1992); F. Gerald Downing, ‘Cynics and Christians, Oedipus and Thyestes’, JEH 44.1 (1993): 1–10; F. Gerald Downing, ‘Cynics and Early Christianity’, in Le Cynisme ancien et les prolongements: Actes du Colloque International du CNRS (ed. MarieOdile Goulet-Cazé and Richard Goulet; Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1993), 281–304; F. Gerald Downing, ‘A Cynic Preparation for Paul’s Gospel for Jew and Greek, Slave and Free, Male and Female’, NTS 42 (1996):  454–462; F. Gerald Downing, Cynics, Paul and the Pauline Churches (London:  Routledge, 1998); F. Gerald Downing, Christ and the Cynics:  Jesus and Other Radical Preachers in First-Century Traditions (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998). Most recently Stanley Stowers, ‘Paul and the Terrain of Philosophy’, EC 6.2 (2015):  141–156; also Stanley Stowers, A Rereading of Romans:  Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 1994); Stanley Stowers, ‘Paul on the Use and Abuse of Reason’, in Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe, 253–286; Stanley Stowers, ‘Paul’s Four Discourses about Sin’, in Celebrating Paul (ed. Peter Spitaler; Washington, DC: CBAA, 2011), 100– 127. Stowers commends in this area the work of his student Emma Wasserman, particularly The Death of the Soul in Romans 7: Sin, Death, and the Law in Light of Hellenistic Moral Psychology (WUNT II/256; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). See George van Kooten, Cosmic Christology in Paul and the Pauline School:  Colossians and Ephesians in the Context of Greco-Roman Cosmology, with a New Synopsis of the Greek Texts (WUNT II/171; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2003); idem, Paul’s Anthropology in Context:  The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy, and Early Christianity (WUNT II/232; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2008); George van Kooten, ‘Is Early Christianity a Religion or a Philosophy?: Reflections on the Importance of “Knowledge” and “Truth” in the Letters of Paul and Peter’, in Myths, Martyrs, and Modernity (ed. Jitse Dijkstra, Justin Kroesen, and Yme Kuiper; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 393–408. Malherbe, ‘Greco-Roman Religion and Philosophy and the New Testament’, 3; cf. 15. Malherbe, ‘Greco-Roman Religion and Philosophy and the New Testament’, 16. Sterling, ‘Hellenistic Philosophy and the New Testament’, in A Handbook to the Exegesis of the New Testament (ed. Stanley E. Porter; NTTS; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 313–358 at 313–314. Sterling, ‘Hellenistic Philosophy and the New Testament’, 314.

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In a recent article entitled ‘Paul and the Terrain of Philosophy’, Stanley Stowers argues that one need not assume the early Christians had to be directly referring to major philosophical figures or particular theories in order to take their philosophical engagement seriously. Rather, he urges, ‘one can justify distinguishing full-fledged philosophers who drove movements and a broader and more popular intellectual climate that they stimulated, a new intellectual environment of educated people, a hotbed of ideas for all sorts of thinkers in the late Republic and early Empire’.30 Stowers pays some credit to Malherbe’s notion that we can speak of ‘popular philosophy’ and do comparative work using that frame of mind.31 While Stowers notes his appreciation for the significant amount of research invested in Paul and the Stoics, he sees a need for more study of Platonism, especially in relation to moral psychology and theosis.32 As a helpful case study in the current debate over the question of how we understand influences on Paul’s theology, we can give brief attention to the dialogue entitled ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’ from the sixty-ninth meeting of the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas, where three scholars discussed and debated this question on a panel: George van Kooten, Oda Wischmeyer and N. T. Wright.33 Van Kooten argued in favour of identifying direct and significant engagement with Greek philosophies on the part of Paul, urging that ‘his notions and thoughts can be traced to specific discourses’.34 Van Kooten believes that Stoic and Platonic notions are identifiable in Paul, particularly his agreement with the former that ‘the cosmic process emerges from God and returns to him’; but Paul agrees with the latter that the process is not cyclical but ends with the absorption into the ‘eternal vision of God’.35 In terms of the plausibility of Paul engaging with pagan Greek ideas, Van Kooten reasons that there is evidence for Jews who clearly knew and interacted 30 31

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Stowers, ‘Paul and the Terrain of Philosophy’, 145. Where Stowers, ‘Paul and the Terrain of Philosophy’, 156, disagrees with Malherbe’s overall approach is that Malherbe tended to focus on comparative ‘ethics’ and did not extend the conversation to include metaphysics; so, ‘Placing Paul in the first century intellectual context means that we need to expand the idea of popular philosophy to include widespread ideas about the physical makeup of the cosmos. The focus only on ethics and practical philosophy is too narrow.’ On this score Stowers commends the work of Engberg-Pedersen; see a similar statement by Sterling, ‘Hellenistic Philosophy’, 341. Stowers, ‘Paul and the Terrain of Philosophy’, 149–151. George van Kooten, Oda Wischmeyer, and N.T. Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, NTS 61.2 (2015): 239–253. Van Kooten, Wischmeyer, and Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 243. Van Kooten, Wischmeyer, and Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 244–245.

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with Hellenistic philosophy, such as we find in the Sibylline Oracles or Josephus. He wonders, ‘My simple methodological question is why what was “permissible” for Jewish Sibylline authors, Philo and Josephus, should not also be permissible for Paul.’36 Oda Wischmeyer disagrees with Van Kooten, mostly for lack of concrete evidence from Paul of direct engagement. Paul, someone who does a fair bit of quoting in his letters, simply does not quote pagan texts: ‘There is no explicit evidence for a single philosophical or religious Greek non-Jewish source Paul refers to or argues against. The same applies to references to the mere theme of Greek philosophy and Greek philosophers. Paul’s internal conversation partners and authorities are not “Greek”.’37 In terms of other Jewish writers (such as Philo), Wischmeyer is not convinced they fit into the same category. She argues that Philo would have had advanced study in Greek literature and culture including philosophy, whereas we cannot make the same assumptions about Paul.38 While Wischmeyer is not convinced that Paul used or engaged with philosophical texts directly, she does admit that Paul would have been familiar with a kind of ‘philosophical koine’, again a sort of ‘pop philosophy’ that permeated the culture at large. This may have influenced his use of words like εἰκών, πολίτευμα, κόσμος and ψυχή.39 N. T.  Wright’s contribution to this discussion is more ‘big picture’:  Paul clearly derived his eschatology from Jewish thought, and one need not venture outside of that to explain the shape of his thoughts and ideas about hope and ultimate redemption.40 Nevertheless, Paul would not have ignored a platform of thought familiar to the Gentiles to whom he was apostle, thus he must have 36

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Van Kooten, Wischmeyer, and Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 240; he includes here too the use of ᾅδης in the Gospels to prove the point that Jews were not allergic to Greek terminology. Van Kooten, Wischmeyer, and Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 247. Van Kooten, Wischmeyer, and Wright, ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 248. The subject of Paul’s education and upbringing is critical to this discussion of his influences, but it is notoriously a thorny and complex matter; see Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, Paul: A Critical Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 32–51; Andrew W. Pitts, ‘Hellenistic Schools in Jerusalem and Paul’s Rhetorical Education’, in Paul’s World (ed. Stanley E. Porter; PAST 4; Leiden:  Brill, 2013), 19–50; Andrew W. Pitts, ‘Paul in Tarsus: Historical Factors in Assessing Paul’s Early Education’, in Paul and Ancient Rhetoric: Theory and Practice in the Hellenistic Context (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Bryan R. Dyer; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2016), 43–67; Ryan S. Schellenberg, Rethinking Paul’s Rhetorical Education (Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2013), 1–56. Wischmeyer concludes her statement with an important caveat about making statements about Paul’s thought-world: ‘Motivgeschichte is a doubtful undertaking with weak and changing contexts’ (‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 249). In Wright’s view, it is far more worthwhile and interesting to see how Paul engaged his gospel with Greco-Roman politics rather than philosophy; see ‘How Greek was Paul’s Eschatology?’, 252–253.

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attempted to make broader comparisons and contrasts. Still, Wright is highly critical of the work of many of those who compare Paul with the ancient philosophers, as if they hold the key to unlocking his theology.41 To summarize the state of scholarship on the subject of ‘Paul and GrecoRoman philosophy’ at present, we could confidently assert that Pauline scholarship has moved to a place where popular philosophy is widely understood to be something that Paul must have known about and engaged in his apostolic work. Also, there are a number of scholars who are convinced that Paul was influenced in significant ways by certain philosophical concepts, especially associated with the Stoics; however, many scholars are sceptical and do not find such arguments compelling.

1.2 Abraham Malherbe on Paul, Popular Philosophy, and 1 Thessalonians We now turn to the study of Paul’s engagement with philosophy as it specifically relates to 1 Thessalonians. By far Abraham Malherbe has made the largest contribution in this area, beginning with his now classic essay, ‘ “Gentle as a Nurse”: The Cynic Background to 1 Thessalonians 2’ (1970),42 collected in the book Paul and the Popular Philosophers (1989), and integrated into his Anchor Bible commentary on 1–2 Thessalonians (2000).43 Here we will give special attention to his 1987 work Paul and the Thessalonians:  The Philosophical Tradition of Pastoral Care.44 In this book Malherbe argues that 1 Thessalonians bears witness to an apostle who approached the Thessalonian church with a ministry of pastoral care – and his perspective on and approach to pastoral care bears remarkable similarity to those of the moral philosophers of his age.45 Malherbe does not make a case for this comparison directly, but rather presumes this connection and underscores the thematic and

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Wright is especially critical of the work of Troels Engberg-Pedersen in Wright’s tome Paul and the Faithfulness of God (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2013); see 1386–1387. Abraham J. Malherbe, ““Gentle as a Nurse”: The Cynic Background to 1 Thessalonians 2’, NovT 12 (1970): 203–217. Abraham J. Malherbe, The Letters to the Thessalonians (AYB; New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 2000). Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987; repr., Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2011). Malherbe, Paul, see esp. 1–4.

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sometimes terminological connectivity. For example, Paul shared with popular philosophers the desire to ‘convert people to a new way of life’.46 Malherbe is convinced that Paul drew from Greco-Roman topoi in his letters; for example, the father-son imagery Paul uses in 1 Thess. 2.11–12 resembles what we find in philosophical texts about teacher-student relationships.47 That does not mean that everything Paul said and did could be traced to philosophy; rather, his letters bear some clear marks of that influence and relationship, urges Malherbe.48 It is worth representing in a more complete form some key concluding statements that Malherbe makes about what 1 Thessalonians tells us about Paul and philosophy: The intention of this book has not been to make Paul a moral philosopher, but to illuminate his practice by comparing it to that of his contemporaries who were engaged in a similar, if not identical, enterprise. We have seen that in many respects Paul’s methods had their counterparts in those of the philosophers . . . Paul consciously used the conventions of his day in attempting to shape a community with its own identity, and he did so with considerable originality . . . A complete portrayal of Paul as pastor will do justice to the theological dimension of Paul’s understanding of his own task and of the nature of the little communities.49

Perhaps the most well-known and most influential argument that Malherbe has made about the influence of philosophy on Paul’s ministry relates to 1 Thess. 2.1–12, where Paul writes at length about the blameless nature of his work among them. A  previous generation of scholarship (and some today as well) understood Paul’s tone as defensive – that is, Paul was reacting to potential or real accusations that he was not trustworthy.50 Instead, Malherbe argued that Paul was taking up the mode of a Cynic philosopher who would regularly appeal to his own character in an exemplary fashion. In particular, Malherbe pointed to Dio Chrysostom (‘orator-turned-Cynic philosopher’) as one who identified himself as an ideal moral philosopher – bold, noble and even gentle.51 Malherbe also highlights how Dio describes the model Cynic 46 47 48 49 50

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Malherbe, Paul, 10, 21, 58. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians, 56. Malherbe, Paul, 69. Malherbe, Paul, 109. See Karl P. Donfried and Johannes Beulter, ed., The Thessalonians Debate: Methodological Discord or Methodological Synthesis? (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000). See Malherbe, ‘Gentle as a Nurse’, 208–211.

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in antithetical terms to distinguish counterfeit philosophers from himself.52 Thus, Malherbe believes Paul’s statements in 1 Thess. 2.1–12 are strikingly parallel and resonant. And this seems to solve an important puzzle regarding the interpretation of 1 Thess. 2.1–12 – in the same way Dio sought to distinguish himself from hack philosophers without reacting to direct accusations, so (Malherbe concludes) Paul was not necessarily reacting to direct accusations from the Thessalonians.53 While a number of scholars are attracted to Malherbe’s proposal,54 there are some important concerns with the parallels Malherbe has posited between Paul and Dio. Taking on the parallels themselves, I. Howard Marshall argues that Dio made specific appeal that his audience imitate him, but Paul did not do this in 2.1–12.55 Robin Griffith-Jones adds his own critique. First, Malherbe takes too little account of Dio’s own context, namely Dio’s address to the Alexandrians, and the fact that the published form of his speech would make it to Vespasian – who banned all Cynics from Rome, and held all philosophers in contempt except Musonius. Griffith-Jones wonders whether Alexandria itself was home to one of the emperor’s named detractors; thus, Dio had to consider his ‘delicate position in Alexandria’.56 Secondly, in another review (of Gordon Fee’s commentary), Griffith-Jones explains more regarding the local context in Alexandria: Dio had to endure ‘cat-calls’ (Or. 32.1–2) and needed to stop his speech midway (Or. 32.99–101); ‘Dio had expected his audience to be difficult, but not this difficult; the trouble he encountered in delivering his speech became in good measure the point of it. If Paul was thinking as Dio thought before the speech (let alone, during it), Paul was working hard.’57 Other scholars disagree with Malherbe regarding some of the inferences he makes about the Thessalonian context based on these ostensible similarities between Paul’s discourse in 2.1–12 and Dio’s speech. Robert Jewett criticizes Malherbe’s argument by noting that simply the existence of shared themes and even shared language and ideas between Paul and Dio fails to prove that Paul 52 53 54

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See Malherbe, ‘Gentle as a Nurse’, 214–215; Dio, Or. 32.11ff. See Malherbe, ‘Gentle as a Nurse’, 217. See Beverly Gaventa, First and Second Thessalonians (Louisville, KY:  Westminster John Knox, 2012), 5, 25; Abraham Smith, ‘The First Letter to the Thessalonians: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections’, NIB 9.671–737 [698]. I. Howard Marshall, 1 and 2 Thessalonians (NCB; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1983), 61. Robin Griffith-Jones, review of Karl P. Donfried and Johannes Beulter, ed., The Thessalonians Debate, JTS 52.2 (2001): 816–820, see 817–818. Robin Griffith-Jones, review of Gordon D. Fee, The First and Second Letters to the Thessalonians, JTS 62.1 (2011): 323–327 [324].

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was not addressing local problems in Thessalonica.58 Karl Donfried adds that the way Dio criticizes and repudiates huckster philosophers would indeed fit in well with an ‘apologetic’ strategy if Paul were on the defense.59 For my part, while the similarities between Paul and Dio are intriguing, I  do not find the parallels compelling enough to expect some kind of conscious Pauline ‘use’ of Dio’s methods, specific wording, or particular moral-philosophical perspective.60 Rather, in this essay I  wish to bring the philosophers and Paul together on a rather general theme – warfare imagery or combative metaphors – with a view towards 1 Thessalonians in particular. Before making this case, let us first look at the important work on this topic by Timothy C. Geoffrion regarding Philippians.

1.3 Paul and the Militia Spiritualis Topos In his monograph The Rhetorical Purpose and the Political and Military Character of Philippians:  A  Call to Stand, Timothy C.  Geoffrion examined Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi (especially 1.27–30) in light of what he referred to as the topos of militia spiritualis.61 As he explains, ‘From at least the time of Pythagoras (sixth century BCE), Greek and Roman philosophers employed the common understanding of the faithful soldier to depict the spiritual and/or ethical life of the individual.’62 Geoffrion offers numerous examples of this topos in Pythagoras and Socrates, and especially its popularity with the Stoics.63 He points out its ubiquitous appearance in Epictetus, who framed the moral life as one of unswerving allegiance to God, as a soldier is committed 58 59

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See Robert Jewett, Thessalonian Correspondence (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 192. Karl P. Donfried, Paul, Thessalonica, and Early Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2002), 44; cf. 164–165. It should be noted, though, that Donfried still resists the apologetic reading of 1 Thess. 2.1–12; see 194. See similar criticism of Malherbe by Andrew Pitts, who furthermore argues that Pauline exhortation better aligns with a paraenetic tradition that developed within Greek private letter practices; Andrew W. Pitts, ‘Philosophical and Epistolary Contexts for Pauline Paraenesis’, in Paul and the Ancient Letter Form (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Sean A. Adams; PAST 6; Leiden:  Brill, 2010), 270– 306, in particular 292–306. Timothy C. Geoffrion, The Rhetorical Purpose and the Political and Military Character of Philippians: A Call to Stand (Lewiston, NY: Mellon, 1993). Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 38; see also Hilarius Edmonds, ‘Geistlicher Kriegsdienst. Der Topos der militia spiritualis in der antiken Philosophie’, in Heilige Uberlieferung (Münster:  Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1938); also Adolf von Harnack, Militia Christi: The Christian Religion and the Military in the First Three Centuries (trans. David McInnes Gracie; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981). See Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 39–40.

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to Caesar (Diatr. 1.4.15).64 Epictetus quotes Socrates, arguing that one should wish to die a thousand times rather than forsake one’s ‘assigned place and post’ in life (Diatr. 3.24.99).65 Paul’s statement about living life worthy of the gospel of Christ (Phil. 1.27) Geoffrion compares to Seneca’s maxim:  ‘to live is to engage in military combat’ (vivere militare est).66 On the question of how Paul would have become acquainted with this topos, Geoffrion admits that we cannot answer such an inquiry confidently; perhaps he simply understood it as a ‘commonly known metaphor within his culture’.67 Still, it was a metaphor entirely at home both in the biblical tradition as well as Greco-Roman culture and philosophy. Below we will develop the militia spiritualis topos in 1 Thessalonians with its explicit appearance in 5.8. While Paul only uses one overt reference to living out faith as a soldier at war, we will use this instance as an opportunity to read 1 Thessalonians in light of a warfare motif. Paul was calling this church to steadiness, self-discipline, full submission to ‘the Lord’ and intrepid resistance to the enemy (in this case ‘darkness’). Before we look at these images and themes, let it be said that there is a new appreciation in biblical studies for the theological significance of metaphors. Contrary to some beliefs and arguments in the past by rhetoricians, metaphors are not merely clever tricks with words. Metaphors are essential to language and communication; they are a necessary platform of cognition. They transfer meaning from one conceptual field to another and so ‘allow us to understand one domain of experience in terms of another’.68 This creates, in the words of Paul Ricoeur, an ‘impertinent predication’.69 It is attractive for its comparison and also shocks us by dissonance. In that space between continuity and discontinuity, there is room for a new perspective to be formed. Eva Kittay famously argued that metaphors have the unique capacity to rearrange the furniture of our mind.70 64 65 66

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See Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 40. Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 40. Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 41; similarly, Epictetus: ‘Do you not know that the business of life is a campaign (στρατεία)?’ (Disc. 3.32). Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 42. George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago:  University of Chicago, 1980), 117. Paul Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor (Toronto:  University of Toronto Press, 1977; repr., London: Routledge, 2003), 2. Eva Feder Kittay, ‘Metaphors as Rearranging the Furniture of the Mind’, in From a Metaphorical Point of View (ed. Zdrako Radman; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995), 72–116; see also Raymond F. Collins, The Power of Images in Paul (Collegeville, MN:  Michael Glazier, 2008); Nijay K. Gupta, Worship that Makes Sense to Paul (BZNW 175; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010).

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1.4 Soldiers at the Ready (1 Thess. 5.8) When scholars examine warfare metaphors in the Pauline literature, the most attention tends to be given to 2 Cor. 10.3–6, Rom. 13.12 (and 6.13), and Eph. 6.10–20.71 First Thessalonians attracts less interest, but it should be accounted for that Paul introduces military imagery quite explicitly in the letter in 1 Thess. 5.8: ‘But since we belong to the day, let us be sober, and put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation.’72 The mention of this defensive armor falls within a passage discussing the soon, but unpredictable appearance of the Lord like a thief in the night (5.2). Some who live in darkness will be unprepared, but the children of light and day – including the Thessalonian believers – ought to be watchful and sober (5.6). There are obvious similarities here with the Jesus tradition regarding watchfulness, as we have in Matthew 24.36ff.73 There are also resonances with military speeches whereby a commander charges (often weary) soldiers to stay vigilant. One is reminded of Jonathan’s speech to his troops in Hamath in view of an imminent attack by night from Demetrius. According to 1 Maccabees, Jonathan commanded his force to ‘be alert and have their weapons at the ready so that they might be ready to do battle throughout the whole night’ (12.27). Part of the reason it was so easy to appeal to warfare in moral discourse is because soldiers were known for their self-discipline, thorough training, and ‘courage of soul’ (Josephus, J.W. 6.81). Roman soldiers were especially believed to be ‘manly’. In a Plautine play, a Roman wife sings: I want my man to be cried as a victor of war: that’s enough for me. Virtus is the greatest prize; virtue comes before everything, that’s certain . . . Virtus has everything in it: who has virtus has everything good (Amph. 648–53).74

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On 2 Cor. 10.1–6, see Christine Gerber, ‘Krieg und Hochziet in Korinth:  das metaphorische Werben des Paulus um die Gemeinde in 2 Kor 10,1-6 und 11,1-4’, ZNW 96.1 (2005): 99–125; on Romans, see Andrie du Toit, Focusing on Paul: Persuasion and Theological Design in Romans and Galatians (BZNW 151; Berlin:  de Gruyter, 2007), 319–350 in a chapter entitled ‘Dikaiosyne in Römer 6. Beobachtungen zur ethischen Dimension der paulinischen Gerichtigkeitsauffasung’; on Eph. 6.10–20, see Thomas R. Neufeld, Put on the Armour of God: The Divine Warrior from Isaiah to Ephesians (JSNTSup 140; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 94–153 (though note that Neufeld does indeed include a discussion of 1 Thessalonians in this book as well). All translations of New Testament texts are from the NRSV unless otherwise noted. See Ben Witherington, III, 1 and 2 Thessalonians (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006), 135–136. As cited in J. E. Lendon, ‘War and Society’, in The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare (ed. Philip Sabin, Hans van Wees, and Michael Whitby ; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007): 498–516 [509].

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Stoic writers were especially interested in linking courage to a life lived without fear, ready for anything. Seneca, in his Moral Letters to Lucilius, muses on the subject of ‘Despising Death’ (Ep. 24). Seneca endeavors to teach Lucilius that the great heroes of history dared to defy the specter of death itself. He offers the example of general Scipio (father-in-law of Genaeus Pompeius). Seeing his ship captured by enemies, Scipio plunges his sword into his own body. When his soldiers ask about the whereabouts of the commander, Scipio replies, ‘All is well with the commander’ (24.9). Seneca adds, ‘It was a great deed to conquer Carthage, but a greater deed to conquer death’ (24.10).75 There may be something profoundly similar to Paul’s overall concern in 1 Thessalonians; after all, some among the Thessalonians died recently, and I am persuaded that this was associated with persecution.76 In his letter, Paul was calling the Thessalonian believing community (those still alive) to press on in faith and hope, not in fear and confusion.77 One might draw in also the use of ἀγών in 1 Thess. 2.2, where Paul notes the bravery of Silas and himself as they faced recent conflict in Philippi. As many have recognized, the mere use of ἀγών does not imply military imagery. However, Raymond Collins has made the case that when Paul is writing about the struggles of the Christian life, ‘the military metaphor dominates Paul’s use of the agon motif ’.78 75

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On this text, see David Seeley, The Noble Death (Sheffield:  JSOT Press, 1990), 117–118; see also Malherbe ‘Antisthenes and Odysseus, Paul at War’, in Light from the Gentiles, 146–148. See J.S. Pobee, Persecution and Martyrdom (JSNTSup 6; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985), 113–114; Karl P. Donfried, Paul, Thessalonica, and Early Christianity, 132–133. It should be remembered, though, that Seneca operated with a Stoic sense of fate; in Ep. 107, for example, he tells Lucius simply to accept if God has deigned it the right time to die. One must not complain or lash out at Nature or the divine will just as ‘it is a bad soldier who grumbles when following his commander. For this reason we should welcome our orders with energy and vigour’ (107.9). His last words in this letter are these:  ‘Here is your great soul – the man who has given himself over to Fate; on the other hand, that man is a weakling and a degenerate who struggles and maligns the order of the universe and would rather reform the gods than reform himself ’ (107.12). Collins, Power of Images in Paul, 236. Note that some are sceptical of this association (such as Pfitzner), because an athletic image seems more apt, but I would argue that athletics and warfare tend to get entangled and mixed especially in metaphorical language about conflict and victory (so 2 Tim. 4.7); see Victor C. Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif: Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature (NovTSup 16; Leiden:  Brill, 1967). Note how E.  Vernon Arnold refers to the similar ways Roman moralists talked about the intense training and discipline required of wrestlers, boxers, gladiators, and soldiers: ‘The teachers of wrestling bid the pupil try again after each fall (Epict. Disc. 4.9, 15); the trained boxer is eager to challenge the most formidable opponent (Seneca Dial. 1.2, 3). The gladiator has learnt the lesson that pain is no evil, when he stands up wounded before a sympathetic crowd and makes a sign that it matters nothing (ib. 2.16, 2). But most of all the soldier’s oath serves as an example, when he pledges himself to serve Caesar faithfully all his life: let the young philosopher pledge himself to serve his God as faithfully, to submit to the changes and chances of human life, and to obey willingly the command to act or to suffer (ib. 7.15, 7; Epict. Disc. 1.14, 15 and 16)’ (Roman Stoicism [New York: Humanities Press, 1958], 363–364).

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There is an air of pride, I believe, in Paul’s appeal to his boldness even after facing gruesome conflict in Philippi, a sense of victory despite the odds stacked against him. So also he encourages the Philippians by teaching them that suffering for the sake of Christ is a privilege, a gift even (see Phil. 1.29). This is resonant, no doubt, with the attitude of Stoics. In Seneca’s On Providence, he reasons that a person can never really know the firmness of his own soul until it is tested: ‘I judge you unfortunate because you have never been unfortunate. You have passed through life without an antagonist; no one will know what you can do – not even yourself ’ (4.3). He goes on: ‘Great men, I say, rejoice oft-times in adversity, as do brave soldiers in warfare’ (4.4). Just as Paul was gospel driven, Seneca was virtue driven – ‘true worth is eager for danger and thinks rather of its goal than of what it may have to suffer, since even what it will have to suffer is a part of its glory’. I wonder if Paul would not offer nods of agreement to Seneca’s climactic statement, ‘Disaster is Virtue’s opportunity’ (4.6)? Perhaps Paul would say ‘affliction is opportunity for faith and love in Christ Jesus.’79 There tend to be a similar cluster of virtues and ideals expressed through warfare metaphors in moral discourses; we have addressed one already that emerges in 5.8, namely the call to vigilance. Next, we will consider a variety of themes that may be linked by Paul to the ideals of the good soldier in popular thought.

1.5 Loyalty and the Bonds of πίστις Most interpreters of Paul, and virtually all readers of the Bible today, would not think to associate Paul’s faith language with a martial motif, rather with assumed ‘religious’ use of belief terminology.80 Unfortunately translators tend to flatten out Paul’s use of πίστις and the word ‘faith’ tends to be portrayed as having the same meaning in all or most of its occurrences in his letters.81 Those who have studied this word closely, though, recognize that it is a polyvalent word that has a range of nuances – sometimes it can mean ‘belief ’ 79

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Notice how sanguine are Seneca’s words with the Jewish moral tradition:  ‘God hardens, reviews, and disciplines those whom he approves, whom he loves’ (4.7); cf. Romans 5–8. See Dennis R. Lindsay, Josephus and Faith (New York: Brill, 1993); cf. Teresa Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2015), 124–126:  ‘Belief, it seems, does not constitute a category in Greeks’ and Romans’ thinking about their own [religious] traditions’ (126). See the important discussion in Richard B. Hays, ‘Lost in Translation’, in The Unrelenting God (ed. David J. Downs and Matthew L. Skinner; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), 83–101; also Douglas A. Campbell, The Quest for Paul’s Gospel (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 178–207.

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(essentially something you do with your mind, as in 2 Cor. 5.7). But especially in 1 Thessalonians, where Paul’s clear emphasis is on perseverance and steadfastness despite obstacles and afflictions, its use moves more into the territory of loyalty or faithfulness.82 This puts Paul’s use of πίστις in 1 Thessalonians in line with how it was commonly used socially in Greco-Roman literature, particularly in political and military texts.83 In her excellent new work, Roman Faith and Christian Faith, classicist Teresa Morgan underscores the social significance of the term πίστις /fides in the Greco-Roman world:  ‘Few relationships in Graeco-Roman societies are so often or so positively described with the language of pistis/fides as those between armies and the state and army commanders and their troops.’84 Morgan observes that such appeals to πίστις should be interpreted as statements about loyalty, a relationship of allegiance and obedience on the part of a good soldier. She hastens to add that while modern readers familiar with the popular Christian interpretation of ‘faith’ tend to dwell on the cognitive and interior meaning of the word (which cannot be ruled out completely), our Greco-Roman sources show little interest in this.85 In the case of Philippians, Geoffrion urges that πίστις should indeed be interpreted in Paul’s letter as a commitment of loyalty, given the type of politic discourse he shapes.86 Much the same could be said about 1 Thessalonians. Paul begins the letter by recognizing their πίστις which inspires their work alongside their love and perseverance (1.3). Such is their incredible example of steadfastness in the midst of persecution that their πίστις rings throughout Macedonia and Achaia. Unfortunately, though, recent events (including the death of community members) had begun to place stumbling blocks in their 82

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See N.T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 356, 553; Michael J. Gorman, Becoming the Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2015), 63–105; Andy Johnson, 1–2 Thessalonians (THNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2016); for my own approach, see Nijay K. Gupta, 1–2 Thessalonians (NCCS; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2016). Oaths: Aristophanes, Ach. 308; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 2.75.3; 11.49.4; Bibliotheca Historica 4.46.4; 18.5.3; 20.89.5; political ‘friendship’:  Plut., Ages. 11.1; Arrian, Anab. 4.21.7– 8; Xenophon, Anab. 1.6.3; Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 6.78.4; Aristotle, Rhet. Alex. 1.12.2.5; Plutarch, Mar. 43.5; Alex. 1.13; Frat. amor. 11; see Aristotle, Eth. eud. 1237b 10–14: ‘and there is no friendship without πίστις [confidence], and πίστις [confidence] only comes with time; for it is necessary to make trial, as Theognis says: “You cannot know the mind of man nor woman, before you have tried them as you try cattle” ’; pledges of loyalty: Xenophon, Anab. 1.2.26; see esp. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 405. See Xenophon, Cyr. 7.1.44 – ‘all other stipulations they accepted, and gave and received pledges of good faith’. Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith, 77. Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith, 80–81. See Geoffrion, Rhetorical Purpose, 63.

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way. Paul dispatched Timothy to support and encourage their πίστις (3.2), lest the tempter bring them to a complete halt (3.5). But ultimately Paul was overjoyed to receive the good report of their πίστις and ἀγάπη (3.6), particularly that desire to continue in fellowship with Paul (3.6). As they don the breastplate of πίστις and ἀγάπη, Paul calls them not merely to belief in Jesus but to loyalty and embodied allegiance (5.8).87 This is reminiscent of the counsel Epictetus offers on living as if ‘life is a kind of campaign, and a long and complicated one at that’ (Disc. 3.31, 35). The way he describes the importance of focus and intentionality in life is strongly reminiscent of how the early Christians used faith language in regards to the Lord Jesus. You have to maintain the character of a solider, and do each separate act at the bidding of the General, if possible divining what he wishes. For there is no comparison between this General, and an ordinary one, either in his power, or in the pre-eminence of his character. You have been given a post in an imperial city, and not in some mean place. (Disc. 3.36)

While Epictetus does not use πίστις in this passage, two points merit attention. First, Epictetus’ notion of ‘if possible divining what he wishes’ does carry the searching and seeking nature of faith in the divine-human relation. More importantly, and underscoring again the point about πίστις in common Greco-Roman discourse, the emphasis tends to fall on relationships of loyalty and allegiance, and this is precisely the link in the comparison between the general-soldier and the divine-human relation. Again, Morgan articulates this point poignantly: The gods sanction fides in war, the making of treaties, the taking of oaths, and he making of contracts. Trust, loyalty, trustworthiness, and good faith operate, all being well, between the Roman people and their magistrates, armies and commanders, patrons and clients, husbands and wives, between friends, in politics, law, commerce, and social life, and in all these contexts they are sanctioned by the gods and guaranteed by them. Respect for the gods and respect for other people are intimately interwoven:  when one breaks down, the other follows, to the detriment of the state as a whole.88 87

88

Neufeld is right not to read πίστις and ἀγάπη in 5.8 as two separate concepts in this phrase ‘faith and love’ but a hendiadys, something like ‘faithful love’; see Killing Enmity (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2011), 140. Morgan, Roman Faith and Christian Faith, 127–128.

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This indeed should color how we read Paul’s reference to the breastplate of πίστις and ἀγάπη; not ‘faith’ and love, but faithful love, again these virtues and the ‘hope of salvation’ helmet pointing back to the beginning of the letter where Paul introduces his famous triad (1.3).

1.6 Orderliness Briefly, the last item I wish to consider in the orbit of a militia spiritualis topos is 1 Thess. 5.14, where Paul encourages the church to ‘admonish the ἀτάκτους, encourage the ὀλιγοψύχους, and help the ἀσθενῶν’. Scholars have long scratched their heads at the context and the nature of these referents, especially the use of ἄτακτος. Were they loafers? Were they disobedient? Why? Without getting too deep into the nettle of the controversy, suffice it to say that most scholars today do not presume that the matter was simply that they were lazy, loafing around. In such a case one might expect the word ὀκνηρός (LXX Prov. 6.9; Rom. 12.11; Phil. 3.1), ἀεργός (Pseudo-Phocylides), ῥᾴθυμος (Josephus, Ant. 2.201) or ἀργία (Ant. 19.248). The word ἄτακτος doesn’t really mean ‘lazy’, but rather ‘disorderly’. It can carry the connotation of haphazard-ness, but it can also mean ‘unruly’, resisting authority and orderliness. Josephus draws a parallel between being disorderly (ἀτάκτως) and being lawless (ἀνόμως; see B.J. 3.1113).89 Historian Waldemar Heckel notes that the term ἄτακτος is used in reference to a ‘disciplinary unit’ formed by Alexander the Great.90 Given that Paul very explicitly introduced a military metaphor in 5.8, it is not too far-fetched to think it is still in mind in 5.14 in these instructions. Indeed, the three groups of people discussed sound very much like those whom 89

90

See K.K. Yeo, ‘The Rhetoric of Election and Calling Language in 1 Thessalonians’, in Rhetorical Criticism and the Bible (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Dennis L. Stamps; JSNTSup 195; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 526–547 [535]; see the important work on this word by C. Spicq, ‘Les Thessaloniciens ‘inquiets’ etaient-ils des paresseux?’ ST 10 (1956):  1–13; Jeffrey A.D. Weima, ‘“How You Must Walk to Please God”: Holiness and Discipleship in 1 Thessalonians’, in Patterns of Discipleship in the New Testament (ed. Richard N. Longenecker; Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 1996), 98–119 [113]; Robert Jewett, ‘1 and 2 Thessalonians’, in Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible (ed. James D.G. Dunn and John W. Rogerson; Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2003), 1413–1427 [1425]; Abraham Smith, ‘The First and Second Letters to the Thessalonians’, in A Postcolonial Commentary on the New Testeament Writings (ed. Fernando F. Segovia and R.S Surgirtharajah; London:  T&T Clark, 2009), 316–317: ‘the erstwhile enigmatic ataktoi in 1 and 2 Thessalonians should be viewed in light of military-discipline polemics’ (316). See Waldemar Heckel, The Conquests of Alexander the Great (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2008), 91–92; notes the formation of a ‘disciplinary unit’ by Alexander; see also Waldemar Heckel, The Marshals of Alexander’s Empire (London: Routledge, 1992), 75 n. 78.

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you would address in a military speech to soldiers between battles – those who are scared, downcast, discouraged - encourage them. As for the wounded, we will need to devote ourselves to them. What about the disorderly – those who make their own commands, go their own way? Let them know that is no way to win a war. Warn them to fall in line. Lest anyone think Paul is being too heavy-handed here, we should recall that he follows up these commands with a statement that the ultimate concern is the pursuit of the good for each other and for all (5.15).

1.7 Conclusion The main concern of this essay has been the possible engagement of Paul with the philosophers in his letters, especially 1 Thessalonians. While some have urged that Paul was highly knowledgeable and interactive when it comes to Greco-Roman philosophies and philosophical texts, I tend to be sceptical of this, finding too little explicit evidence (so similarly see Wischmeyer above). Nevertheless, Paul would not have been blindly unaware of how popular philosophy would have permeated the atmosphere amongst the people that he ministered to, mostly Gentiles. Some scholars (such as Malherbe) argue that Paul drew from specific philosophers or philosophies in writing 1 Thessalonians to portray his guileless pastoral work (in 1 Thess. 2.1–12). However, I am far more comfortable demonstrating Paul’s engagement with popular philosophical themes such as that of the good soldier at war. Thus, we briefly noted the militia spiritualis topos in Greco-Roman literature, and resonances with Paul’s armor imagery in 1 Thess. 5.8. With that in mind, we also explored further connections to the military world in the employment of ἀγών in 2.2, Paul’s use of πίστις (throughout the letter, but with obvious interest in 5.8), and the use of the ambiguous term ἄτακτος in 5.14 (read in light of the unruliness of rebellious soldiers). I think N. T. Wright is probably correct that, on the one hand one cannot trace the origin of any major theological ideas to ‘non-Jewish politics, religion or philosophy’; but, on the other hand, neither would he have been oblivious to how people thought who surrounded him, and he would have especially taken interest in ideas that were salutary to his own. I think we can say with good confidence that, if we take a text like 1 Thessalonians, Paul was

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very comfortable using a military metaphor to portray the Christian life and, though certainly the Jewish Scriptures would have served as the foundation for his armor imagery in 5.8,91 in all likelihood he would have been broadly familiar with popular philosophical discourse using martial language to talk about the life of virtue.

91

See Traugott Holtz, Der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher (Neukirchen:  Vluyn:  Neukirchener, 1986), 225.

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Elements of Apocalyptic Eschatology in Seneca’s Writings and Paul’s Letters Joseph R. Dodson

2.1 Introduction There is a yawning chasm between Roman Stoicism and Christian theology. A Stoic would be mystified at the idea of heavenly revelations uncovered by a crucified Jew, dumbfounded at the thought of a new age inaugurated through a rabbi’s resurrection. The philosopher would also balk at the belief of Israel’s God breaking into history to disarm demons and topple empires. Such a notion would be labelled incredible foolishness, if not criminal superstition. But how would a Roman Stoic respond to other characteristics associated with Jewish-Christian apocalyptic thought – such as the transcendence of death, the revelation of secrets regarding a universal transformation, or a separation between two ages that includes human judgement and cosmic rectification?1

1

I would like to thank Osvaldo Padilla, John Goodrich, and Ben Reynolds for their helpful comments on a previous version of this essay. Although I would prefer to avoid the word ‘apocalyptic’ altogether because of the confusion it raises, I do use it in this essay due to the lack of a better term and the common use of the term in Pauline studies. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that, as John Barclay puts it, ‘the label “apocalyptic” is a scholarly construct . . . It is a term we use to describe a cluster of texts, or a constellation of ideas, as defined by our own selections and configurations of the material. For this reason, what counts as “apocalyptic” is constantly negotiable and inherently malleable, influence by ideological preferences and theological trends’; John M. G. Barclay, ‘Apocalyptic Allegiance and Divestment in the World: A Reading of 1 Corinthians 7:25–35’, in Paul and the Apocalyptic Imagination (ed. Benjamin Blackwell, John Goodrich and Jason Maston; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2016), 257–274 [257]. See also John J. Collins, ‘Apocalyptic Eschatology as the Transcendence of Death’, CBQ 36 (1974):  21–43; John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1998), 1–14; David E. Aune, ‘Apocalypticism’, in Dictionary of Paul and His Letters (ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne, Ralph P. Martin and Daniel G. Reid; Downers Grove, IL:  IVP, 1993), 25–35; Edward Adams, Constructing the World (SNTW; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 2000), 106. On the different sorts of apocalyptic works that respond to different kinds of situations in different ways, see Anathea Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 1–400.

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In light of the predominance of Stoicism in and around the first century,2 a number of Pauline scholars have sought to answer these questions. Most have done so, however, either by discussing the Stoics in a sweeping survey of philosophical traditions or by lumping the Stoic authors together from the three phases of Stoicism – Early, Middle and Roman.3 Consequently, little room is given to differences in thought between (or particular innovations of) the likes of Zeno, Cleanthes, Chrysippus, Epictetus and Aurelius. As a result, these scholars’ generalizations lead to approximate results.4 Fewer scholars, however, have concentrated on comparing the elements in Paul’s writings that are common in ‘apocalyptic eschatologies’ with those in the writings of the most prolific figure of Roman Stoicism: Lucius Annaeus Seneca.5 This is surprising since Seneca was not only Paul’s contemporary but also ‘the most important Stoic author whose works survive’.6 The last chapter of Jan N.  Sevenster’s book, Paul and Seneca, would be the notable exception.7 There, he compares Paul and Seneca’s eschatologies, especially with respect to their conception of the transience of human life.8 Sevenster pinpoints how the similarities in their writings, upon closer investigation, reveal their differences more clearly.9 For instance, in contrast to Seneca, who discusses these matters in the framework of mortality in general, Paul highlights afflictions and death as that which he voluntarily took upon 2

3

4 5

6 7 8 9

For how widespread Stoicism was in the first century, see A. A. Long, Hellenistic Philosophy (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1974), 107, 232; David E. Hahm, The Origins of Stoic Cosmology (Columbus:  Ohio State University Press, 1977), xiii; J. Albert Harrill, ‘Stoic Physics, The Universal Eschatological Destruction of the “Ignorant and Unstable” in 2 Peter’, in Stoicism and Early Christianity (ed. Tuomas Rasimus, Troels Engberg-Pedersen and Ismo Dunderberg; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker, 2010), 115–140; David A. deSilva, ‘Paul and the Stoa:  A  Comparison’, JETS 38, no. 4 (1995):  549–564; and N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 2013), 1:218, 2:1384. E.g., Harold W. Attridge, ‘Greek and Latin Apocalypses’, Semeia 14 (1979):  159–186; F. Gerald Downing, ‘Cosmic Eschatology in the First Century’, L’Antiquité Classique 64 (1995):  99–109; F. Gerald Downing, ‘Common Strands in Pagan, Jewish and Christian Eschatologies in the First Century’, TZ 51, no. 3 (1995): 196–211; James D. Tabor, Things Unutterable (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1986); Stanley, E. Porter, ‘Resurrection, the Greeks and the New Testament’, in Resurrection (ed. Stanley E. Porter, Michael A. Hayes and David Tombs; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 52–81; Alan F. Segal, ‘Heavenly Ascent in Hellenistic Judaism, Early Christianity and their Environment’, ANRW II 23.2 (ed. Wolfgang Haase; Berlin:  de Gruyter, 1980), 1334–1388; and Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2010). Hahm, Origins, xvi. On Seneca as a Stoic, see Brad Inwood, Reading Seneca (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2008), 23–30. John Sellars, Stoicism (Berkeley : University of California, 2006), 12. J. N. Sevenster, Paul and Seneca (NovTSup 4; Leiden: Brill, 1961), 219–240. Sevenster, Paul and Seneca, 229. Sevenster, Paul and Seneca, 219.

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himself as a servant of Christ. Moreover, while Seneca concerns himself with deaths of individuals in light of the overall brevity of life, Paul revolves everything around ‘the history of salvation’.10 Sevenster concludes by reminding the reader of the glaring differences and fundamental peculiarities of Paul’s worldview that result from the Christ narrative.

2.2 Methodological Considerations Similar to Sevenster, I  would like to highlight in this essay some similarities that further elucidate differences between Seneca and Paul. This will be a more nuanced comparison, however, in that rather than the wide net Sevenster cast over Seneca’s entire corpus, I will focus on examining these resonances and differences in the context of three of the Stoic’s most relevant works: Ad Marciam de Consolatione, Ad Polybivm de Consolatione, and Naturales Quaestiones III.11 This project will be richer, then, since it will concentrate more on comparative texts than overall parallels. While I acknowledge – in light of Abraham J. Malherbe’s critique of Sevenster’s work12 – that this investigation would be of greater value if it included other Stoics and contemporary philosophers who treated the same subject, space does not allow for that here. (I have, however, compared Paul with the Roman Stoics on this issue elsewhere).13 It must suffice for this essay, then, to agree with Malherbe that differences between Paul’s view and Seneca’s view would likely be ameliorated if I were to bring in other firstcentury philosophers. What we would discover is ‘a diversity of viewpoints in which Seneca and Paul shared’.14 Moreover, due to the abuse of such enterprises in the past, it needs to be stated that the aim of this comparison is not to make apologetic assertions regarding the ‘uniqueness’ of Paul’s theology or to argue for the dependence of one author upon the other.15 Rather, by narrowing the exploration, I hope 10 11 12

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14 15

Sevenster, Paul and Seneca, 232. When I do draw from Seneca’s other works, it will be for the sake of support and clarification. Abraham J. Malherbe, Light from the Gentiles: Hellenistic Philosophy and Early Christianity: Collected Essays, 1959–2012 by Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. Carl R. Holladay, et. al; NovTSup 150; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 687–688. Joseph R. Dodson, ‘The Transcendence of Death and Heavenly Ascent in the Apocalyptic Paul and the Stoics’, in Paul and the Apocalyptic Imagination (ed. Benjamin Blackwell, John Goodrich and Jason Maston; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2016), 157–176. Malherbe, Light from the Gentiles, 687. Jonathan Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 47, 118.

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to go beyond merely recording parallels and instead to discover new insights and to refine older ones with respect to the eschatologies of Seneca and Paul. Thereafter, I will compare the thoughts of the Stoic and the apostle regarding four themes that, as the reader will see, recur in Seneca’s essays: (1) grief and consolation, (2) hope and sanctification, (3) personifications and powers, as well as (4) cosmic destruction and renewal. In other words, I will allow the relevant topics important to Seneca in these essays to drive the comparison. In addition to the juxtapositions revealed, I will point out in the conclusion how the details in Seneca’s eschatology highlight the paucity in Paul’s, which will be the greatest contribution of the essay (albeit an admittedly modest one).16 Moreover, in line with the scope of this volume, I will demonstrate how this particular philosophical context raises important interpretive questions for future projects regarding the apostle’s overall theology. Three more qualifications should be underscored from the outset. First of all, this essay does not intend to imply that Seneca’s works fit a formal definition of apocalyptic eschatology.17 Rather, the aim is to demonstrate that some characteristics often associated with apocalyptic eschatology appear in Seneca’s writings – such as the transcendence of death, heavenly messengers who initiate noble souls in divine mysteries, and graphic depictions of cosmic destruction whose Endzeit corresponds to the Urzeit.18 Further, as will be demonstrated below, although Seneca himself is not a divine intermediary – as Bardo Gauly concludes – Seneca sets himself up as one with ‘a privileged knowledge (gleichsam privilegierten) who interprets the signs of nature (die Zeichen der Natur) and announces the near-end (des nahen Endes) of the world’.19 This leads to the second qualification. As Jonathan Z.  Smith has argued, a comparison always involves a third term that is often unstated.20 The third party of this comparison that, again due to the limits of space, will remain 16 17

18

19 20

Cf. Smith, Drudgery, 53. Of course, even when Pauline scholars use the term ‘apocalyptic eschatology’ with regard to apostle’s letters, in comparison with proper Jewish apocalyptic literature, scholars are using it in an extended sense. See Collins, Imagination, 11–12. See also, Christopher Rowland, ‘Paul as an Apocalyptist’, in The Jewish Apocalyptic Tradition and the Shaping of New Testament Thought (ed. Benjamin E. Reynolds and Loren T. Stuckenbruck; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2017), 131–154. Cf. Hermann Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit (Göttingen:  Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1895). Bardo Maria Gauly, Senecas Naturales Quaestiones (München: C.H. Beck, 2004), 265. See Smith, Drudgery Divine, 51, 99; see David Frankfurther and other essays in Comparer en histoire des religions antiques:  Controverses et propositions (ed. C.  Calame and Bruce Lincoln; Liège: Presses Universitaires de Liège, 2012).

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predominately in the background is the wider Jewish Apocalyptic thought. Nevertheless, a  number of scholars have discussed this background with respect to Paul’s letters, and it has become commonplace to highlight the wider (variegated) Jewish Apocalyptic thought when interpreting the apostle’s theology.21 Finally, while many consider apocalyptic eschatology close to (if not at) the center of Paul’s thought,22 such concepts for Seneca lie very much at the periphery.23 More than on the end of the world, Seneca’s works concentrate on living according to nature. It is important to remember, then, that the following is not a comparison of two centers, but the bringing together of a motif that remains closer to Paul’s heart with one that rests more towards Seneca’s rim.24

2.3 Seneca Seneca combines theology, physics and cosmology into one philosophical branch and exalts this branch over all the others. As Gauly points out, Seneca insists that the ultimate goal (eigentliches Ziel) for studying God and nature is ridding oneself of worldly filth (die Abkehr vom Schmutz der Welt).25 According to Seneca, a person achieves proper moral behaviour only by possessing a correct knowledge of God.26 Genuine worship, then, comes by a faith that produces a pure mind and results in a virtuous life.27 With respect to Seneca’s ‘eschatology’, however – because the Stoic concerns himself more with rhetorical aims than with an orderly presentation of principles – scholars are forced to piece together passages dispersed throughout his works as well as to draw from other Stoic writings to reconstruct his worldview more fully.28 What Senecan scholars have discovered is that many 21

22

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24

25 26

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R. Barry Matlock, Unveiling the Apocalyptic Paul (JSNTSup 127; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 11. For a summary of this debate as well as the most recent arguments from scholars on this matter, see Paul and the Apocalyptic Imagination (ed. Benjamin Blackwell, John Goodrich and Jason Maston; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2016). Seneca does, however, voice his regret for waiting to the end of his life to investigate cosmic mysteries. See Wright, Faithfulness, 1386; and Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 1. Gauly, Senecas Naturales Quaestiones, 32. Aldo Setaioli, ‘Physics III:  Theology’, Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 379–395. M. Andrew Holowchak, The Stoics (London: Continuum, 2008), 20–21. Bardo Maria Gauly, ‘Physics II: Cosmology and Natural Philosophy’, in Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 366.

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of his thoughts on the subject can at times seem vague, inconsistent and ‘firmly non-committal’.29 Although this is especially the case when one compares passages from different dialogues and letters, the apparent contradictions can even occur within the same work.30 Consequently, the composite is anything but clear.31 In the following summaries, I  will try to make the style reflect Seneca’s ‘lyrical effusions’32 as I underscore his thoughts on (1) grief and consolation, (2) hope and sanctification, (3) personifications and powers, as well as (4) cosmic destruction and renewal.

2.3.1 Ad Marciam de Consolatione Seneca writes Ad Marciam de Consolatione to dissuade Marcia from mourning with pointless grief over the loss of her son Metilius.33 Seneca reasons that if weeping can vanquish fate,34 one should marshal all one’s tears and pass every day in grief (6.2). But if wailing cannot recall the dead, people should stop their futile grieving (dolor qui perit). What has happened to Marcia’s son is common to all.35 ‘Death comes for everyone. It presses upon our rear’ (instatur a tergo).36 The battle cry will soon be raised (sublato clamore): the enemy is near. Indeed, nothing escapes death’s pillage (rapina rerum omnium est); no one survives his rout. To make matters worse, the fates ply their work (agunt opus suum fata) to keep people from realizing that they are dying daily, so that death can steal upon his prey (facilius obrepat, 10.4). In addition to having been a debtor to death (15.4), Metilius was born into the realm of lady fortune (regnum fortunae). With a weak and crumbling 29

30 31 32

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R. Scott Smith, ‘Physics I: Body and Soul’, in Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden:  Brill, 2014), 358–360. Cf. Anna Lydia Motto, ‘The Idea of Progress in Senecan Thought’, CJ 79.3 (1984): 225–240. Smith, ‘Physics’, 360. Cf. Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 265. Sevenster, Paul, 226. Cf. Michael von Albrecht, ‘Seneca’s Language and Style’, Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 699–744. This essay was written between 37–41 CE. See Jochen Sauer, ‘Consolatio Ad Marciam’, Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 135–139; and James Romm, Dying Every Day (New York: Knopf, 2014), 13–16. On the relationship between fate and providence, see Sellars, Stoicism, 100–104. Cf. Inwood, Seneca, 239. Unless otherwise noted, translations in the section are from the Loeb Classical Library edition. The  Epistles (trans. by Richard M. Gummere et al.; 10 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917–2004) and the Moral Essays (trans. by John W. Basore et al.; 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928–1935).

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body, he stood naked and exposed to all her affronts. Implacably she assails people with violence, insult and cruelty (impotenter, contumeliose, crudeliter). Her power is harsh, her will invincible (10.6), her storms absolute (26.2).37 Whether one deserves it or not (digna atque indigna), one must suffer all that she wills: just as she wills it (10.6). After considering these full and varied misfortunes, one cannot help but ask: why weep over the tragedy of death when every aspect of life calls for tears? These afflictions grant no person ‘longextended peace, scarcely even a truce’ (nulli longa pax, vix indutiae sunt, 16.5). Seneca goes on to lament: To this end were you born – to lose, to perish, to hope (ut perderes, ut perires, ut sperares) . . . both to fear death and to long for it (mortem et timeres et optares), and, worst of all, never to know the real terms of your existence (cuius esses status, 17.1).

Therefore, considering the suffering that brands this life – the Stoic reasons – it is actually the dead who should weep for the living. In case this seems unjust, Seneca gives voice to nature so she can defend herself (17.7). Nature insists that the conditions for life were made clear from the start – life will be good, except when it is not (18.2–8). It will have its boons, but it will also include banes of the body and burdens of the mind. It will be marked with wars, robberies, poisons, and shipwrecks (bella et latrocinia et venena et naufragia) – not to mention ‘untimely grief for those most dear’ (carissimorum acerba desideria). Nature tells those who complain that life is unfair to blame their parents instead of her. They were the ones who accepted these terms on their children’s behalf (18.8).38 Further, those who grieve should convince themselves that the dead are not gone: they are merely absent. ‘We have sent them on their way and soon shall follow’ (19.1). In this sense, death is a release from suffering, a boundary through which the ills of life cannot pass. It restores peoples’ souls to the peaceful state they had before they were born (19.5). To all death is an end (omnibus finis), to many it is a relief (multis remedium), to some it is even an answer to prayer (quibusdam votum; 20.1).39 37 38 39

Cf. Inwood, Seneca, 234. Cf. Inwood, Seneca, 243–248. Italics mine.

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Death is not merely an obligation for all mortals:  ‘it is the cure for all ills’ (malorum omnium remedium).40 Therefore Marcia should not subscribe to the foolishness espoused by the poets. There is ‘no darkness in store for the dead, no prison, no blazing streams of fire’ (nullas imminere mortuis tenebras nec carcerem nec flumina igne flagrantia). Their tales of infernal judgements are mere fancies meant to harrow their audiences with groundless terrors (19.4).41 Rather than ushering people to a postmortem trial, death sets the elderly free from suffering and spares the young from sins that taint their souls (22.2). Since tender souls have yet to become hardened or deeply contaminated by the things of the world, they find their journey to the gods less encumbered. Finding no joy in lingering around the body, they waste no time as they fly back (revolant) to the source of their existence. Cleansed from stain, they burst their bounds and roam throughout the universe (vagi per omne), and from on high, they look down in scorn upon human affairs (adsueti human despicere, 23.1–2). Therefore, Marcia need not loiter at Metilius’s tomb. He has already finished his course and reached his goal (11.1–2). Metilius ‘has fled away and wholly departed the earth’ (in terris relinquens sui fugit et totus excessit; 25.1). Without his body, he is now complete; he did not leave anything of his true self behind. All that lies in his grave are bones and ashes, which were no more part of him than were his clothes. Metilius tarried just long enough to rid himself of blemish and then soared away to join the blessed souls (felices currit animas; 25.1).42 When he arrived, he was met with an unfettered freedom: a great and everlasting peace (magna et aeterna pax). He entered an abiding place from which nothing can drive or affright him. Now he stands beyond the stings of lust (libidinis), the reach of envy (invidia) and the earshot of scorn (conviciis; 19.6). There, where ‘all noble souls are akin to one another’, Metilius was welcomed by the assembly of saints (coetus sacer). At the heavenly citadel (arce caelesti), Marcia’s father, Cremutius Cordus, took it upon himself to initiate his grandson into the mysteries of the universe (25.1). Cordus instructs Metilius in the movement of the neighbouring stars and inducts him into nature’s secrets

40 41

42

Nat. 6.32.12. On Seneca and the Stoic response to Hades, see René Hoven, Stoïcisme Et Stoïciens Face Au Problème De L’au-Delà (Paris: Belles lettres, 1971). With respect to this idea of the purification of the soul, ‘Nous n’en avons pas d ’autre tmoignage’, within the Stoics – at least not clear ones, Hoven, Stoϊcism, 110–115.

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(arcana naturae):  ‘not by guesswork (coniectura), but by experience, having true knowledge of them all’ (25.2). With his grandfather at his side, Metilius searches into the causes of celestial things and rejoices in the newfound light (nova luce). Together the two souls traverse the boundless spaces of eternity, pervious to and mingled with celestial matter (26.1). For a moment, Seneca has Cordus address Marcia regarding the revelation of heavenly mysteries: There is no secrecy here (nihil in obscuro). Rather, minds are uncovered and hearts are revealed (mentes et aperta praecordia). Lives are open and manifest to all. Every age and all the things to come are ranged before our sight. (26.4)

Cordus informs Marcia that his cosmic vantage point allows him to look upon ‘the succession and train of countless ages (aetatium contextum), the whole array of years’ (26.5). He beholds the rise and fall of future empires and foresees fortune’s monumental plans. Lady fortune will level the mountains (totos supprimet montes) and swallow the seas (maria sorbebit). She will sink kingdoms into chasms and shatter cities with convulsions. She will flood the world and scorch the earth (torrebit incendetque). All the stars will clash together (sidera sideribus incurrent) and matter blaze in conflagration (26.6).43 Then the blessed souls who have partaken of eternity (felices animae et aeterna sortitae) will be added to the fire, transformed again into their former elements (antiqua elementa, 26.7).44 Since these plans have been disclosed to the noble souls in the heavens, Marcia should realize how blessed her son is. He already knows these mysteries!

2.3.2 Ad Polybivm de Consolatione Whereas Seneca consoles Marcia with respect to the death of her son, in Ad Polybivm de Consolatione, Seneca does so with Polybius regarding the death of Polybius’ brother.45 Seneca begins by reminding Polybius of the world’s end 43

44 45

Cf. Ben. 6.22; Thyes. 835–884; and Oct. 391–394. See Edward Adams, The Stars Will Fall from Heaven (LNTS 347; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 122–123; and Romm, Dying, 16. On the conflagration as renewal, see Holowchak, The Stoics, 20–21; and Sevenster, Paul, 32–34. This essay was written between 41–44 CE. For more information, see Jochen Sauer, ‘Consolatio Ad Polybium’, Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden: Brill, 2014), 167–169.

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and the folly of weeping for an individual when nothing is everlasting (nihil perpetuum). Whatever has a start also has a conclusion – including the cosmos. One day the universe will be scattered and plunged back into ancient darkness (confusionem veterem tenebrasque). Nature will bring all things to destruction and recall them to the original state (eodem revocantis). Therefore, it is presumptuous for Polybius to wish for his loved one to be spared when fortune will eventually dare so great a crime (nefas) as to destroy the entire universe (1.1–3). If her insatiate cruelty (implacabilis saevitia) will desolate ‘the very seats of the gods’, surely Polybius does not expect her to treat him with justice and restraint (16.4). Instead, Polybius should take great comfort (maximum solacium) in the thought that what has happened to his brother happened to all who came before him and will happen to all who follow behind (1.4). For Seneca, death is the law of nature.46 In fact, one’s whole life is nothing but a journey towards death. Surely Polybius realizes that the fates pass no person by. They will snatch one life at one time and seize another at another (alium alio tempore; 11.3). Cry against fate all he wants: she will not be moved. Standing harsh and inexorable (dura et inexorabilia), she cannot be persuaded. No matter the amount of reproaches, no matter the volume of tears, fate does not show mercy (4.1). Likewise, fortune will not be changed by entreaty or complaint (preces . . . querimonias; 16.5). As fortune has always been, so she will forever be. She will leave nothing undared, nothing untried (nihil inausum sibi reliquit, nihil intactum relinquet). She will rage violently wherever she so desires (16.5–6), leaving heartache in her wake – a grief which will unite the living with the dead long before it brings the dead back to the living (4.1). Since tears will fail humanity sooner than the causes for weeping, Polybius needs to employ his rational mind to refrain from profitless tears (lacrimis nihil proficientibus; 4.1–3). Reason will not allow empty solace (inanibus solaciis) because it is irrational to weep for a person who is either enraptured or annihilated (beatus aut nullus est; 9.3).47 If the dead do retain consciousness, 46 47

See Nat. 6.32.12; Ep. 30.11; Ep. 77.12; Ep. 94.7; and Ep.123.16. Although in other places Seneca conveys a ‘skeptical uncertainty towards the life after death’ he gives prominence to the former here, Sevenster, Paul, 224. See Ep. 36.10; 54.4–5; 57.7–9; and 102.2. Cf. Hoven, Stoϊcism, 110–115; Inwood, Seneca, 238; and Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology, 101. ‘As doubtful as Seneca may have been regarding the soul’s post-mortem astral immortality, he was . . . fully convinced of the personal, bodily restoration of each individual human being through cosmic recurrence’, see James Ware ‘The Salvation of Creation: Seneca and Paul on the Future of Humanity

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Polybius’ brother will be displeased with Polybius’ useless (inutilibus) tears and his failure to bear the injustice of fortune (fortunae iniuriam; 5.3–4). Every man feels misfortune, but only men endure it (non ferre non est viri; 17.2). How can Polybius be so effeminate? His brother’s soul has been released from the imprisonment of his body and has darted to the place where blessed souls are received in happy embrace. Now he explores all the blessings of nature with supreme delight. Therefore, Polybius’ brother has not lost the light of day:  he has gained the light of eternity (9.8–9). At last his brother is free (liber), at last he is safe (tutus), at last he is ‘immortal’ (aeternus; 9.7).48 He is no longer racked by anger or smitten by disease. He is no longer worried by suspicion or bothered by envy. He is no longer disquieted by fear or alarmed by fortune (9.4). He has not left us (non reliquit). He has gone before us (antecessit). His path is the way for us all (commune est iter; 9.9). Polybius’ brother is now his own lord, who dwells in the boundless sky where he enjoys all the spectacles of nature (naturae spectaculo) and gazes on the divine. He examines the celestial with nearer vision (propius intuetur) than ever before and discovers explanations to secrets he had so long sought in vain (frustra quaesierat; 9.3–4). In light of these things, perhaps death did not have a grudge against Polybius’ brother after all. Maybe death was doing him a favour (9.9). Seneca also expresses confidence in Caesar’s sufficiency to heal Polybius’ soul.49 The mere thought of the king should provide Polybius with all the comfort he needs. How could one not be consoled when considering the breadth of Caesar’s compassion that spreads over the whole world (totum orbem pervagantem; 13.3)? He who governs the earth and presides over humanity is ‘the universal consolation of all humankind’ (omnium hominum solacium). Polybius needs only to lift himself up and fix his eyes upon the king, whose divine authority mitigates all pain (14.1–2). Whenever tears arise, the glorious sight of Caesar’s ‘exceeding greatness and the splendor of his divinity’ (maximi clarissimi conspectu numinis) will dry Polybius’s eyes (12.3–4). So great

48 49

and of the Cosmos’, Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones; APhR 2; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 285–306. On Seneca’s meaning of eternal, see Hoven, Stoϊcism, 120–123. Scholars debate as to whether or not Seneca is being disingenuous. Some consider this pericope to have a satirical character. Others see it as political rhetoric meant for exploitation. Sauer’s conclusion that Seneca describes ‘Claudius in the mirror of his own expectations’ seems to carry more weight – since this was written at the beginning of his reign. See Sauer, ‘Consolatio Ad Polybium’, 168. Seneca ends up mocking Claudius in Apocolocyntosis; see Romm, Dying, 62–65.

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is the emperor’s kindness, so gracious his favour, surely he has already dulled Polybius’ grief and covered Polybius’ wound (12.4–5; 14.1). Seneca goes on to pray for the king.50 O Fortune, let Caesar heal the human race (generi humano) from sickness and sin (aegro et affecto mederi). Out of the havoc wrought by the preceding prince, let him restore and return (restituere ac reponere) all things to their proper place. May this Sun ever shine (semper luceat) and give light to this world that has been dunked into the darkness (tenebras) and plunged into the abyss (profundum; 13.1).

2.3.3 Naturales Quaestiones III Seneca prefaces Naturales Quaestiones III with an admission that his late attempt to study the secrets of the universe stems from his desire to make up for the omissions of a misspent life (Pref. 3.1.2).51 In his argument on how nothing is too difficult for nature, he includes her self-destruction. The energy she currently expends is sparing and protracted, but on the day of her demise, she will exert all her violence (3.27.2). Just as it takes a moment to raze a city or incinerate a forest, so also the world’s ruin will be quick and sudden (subito, 3.27.3). Since even a slight deviation of nature from her normal course is enough to massacre multitudes, one can imagine how great the slaughter will be when the fates employ all the natural disasters at the same time (3.27.4).52 On that day, disaster will reap disaster (malum ex malo). And without delay (nec longa), all things will combine in catastrophe (3.27.10; 3.30.1, 4–5). The cosmos will decompose, loosen and liquefy (3.29.6). Squalls will shake the seas, and oceans will cover the mountains (3.27.11). The fates will use the tide to drive the waters ahead so that all will be the sea, and 50 51

52

See Setaioli, ‘Physics’, 370–395. This essay was written between 62 and 64 CE. See Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 19–28; and Gareth D. Williams, ‘Naturales Questiones’, Brill’s Companion to Seneca (ed. Gregor Damschen and Andreas Heil; Leiden:  Brill, 2014), 181–190. It is possible that ‘Book 3 was in fact the first in the original order’; see Williams, ‘Naturales Questiones’, 182. Cf. Inwood, Seneca, 232.

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the sea will have no shores (3.27.13, 3.28.4). The mountains will tremble when rivers leap from their base, and in a single day, water will bury the human race (3.29.6–9). As if this were not enough, winter is coming – when even the stars will be cooled (3.29.8). Nevertheless, this should come as no surprise, since nature has not left people without warning (denuntiato). Every wave and every tide portends the future (3.30.1–2).53 Moreover, all these things that the world will undergo was decreed from the start (a primo), incorporated (inclusum) into its design.54 They will occur at the renewal of the universe (res novae mundo), when it is time for old things to end and better things to begin (3.28.7).55 Therefore, although the universe will be abolished and pass away, it will do so in order to be generated again from the beginning.56 As Seneca writes elsewhere, at this time the gods will be confounded together (dis in unum confusis) and the heavenly palace will collapse (Ep. 9.16). Death will overwhelm all the divine powers and then execute himself.57 After life is extinct, nature will rest as God retires into himself and gives himself over to his own thoughts (cogitationibus; Ep. 9.16). God will be engaged in this contemplation until he deems it best to create the universe anew.58 ‘Then the ancient order (antiquus ordo) of things will be re-established’ (revocabitur; 3.30.8).59 Since the vice of the old world will not survive the flood,60 the new world will be innocent and pure (3.29.5).61 Every living creature will be created anew (generabitur), and the earth will be given men ignorant of sin (inscius scelerum), born under better auspices (melioribus auspiciis natus; 3.30.7).62 53 54

55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62

See Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 255–264. Just as semen predetermines whether a foetus will have hair that turns grey in old age, so also the origin of the universe included the code for the cataclysm (3.29.2–3). See Motto, ‘Progress’, 232. On Seneca’s ‘politisch-religiöse’ strategy here, see Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 266. Et mors fata novissima in se constituet sibi, Herc. Ot., 1102–1117. A. A. Long, ‘The Stoics on World-Conflagration and Everlasting Recurrence’, The Southern Journal of Philosophy (1985), 13–37. Unless otherwise noted, translations in the section are by Thomas H. Corcoran, LCL. Cf. Downing, ‘Strands’, 202–204. See Holowchak, Stoics, 21. See Sellars, Stoicism, 99. This sentiment reflects the Stoic idea of people being reborn in the next world to repeat their lives. Seneca discusses this more in Epistle 36. Death only suspends life: it does not snatch it away. The time will come when we will be restored to the light of day (36.10). For more on the Stoic belief of re-embodiment, see Jaap Mansfeld, ‘Resurrection Added: The Interpretation Christiana of A Stoic Doctrine’, VC 37 (1983): 218–233.

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Even so, in the new age, vice will quickly creep back in (cito nequitia subrepit) and spoil the men so that their innocence will not last (innocentia non durabit; 3.30.8).

2.3.4 Summary of Seneca’s Works In sum, according to Seneca, a person is born to die. Until that time, fate and fortune assail the body, and death pursues it. Although this life has its moments, it is mostly marked with suffering and sin. Nevertheless, people should not weep excessively, for at least three reasons. First, everything will be destroyed, and all will be made new. Second, the presence of Caesar is a sufficient source of comfort. Finally, the dead transcend death. That is to say, at least as construed in these three works, after the wise person has been released from the body, the soul tarries above it until it is sanctified.63 Then it darts to the heavens to dwell with noble souls who instruct the person in the divine mysteries of the universe. The chief epiphany regards the details of the world’s renewal through cataclysm and conflagration, when human life and wickedness will be blotted out.64 The noble souls will then wait for God to reboot the cosmos to repeat itself again. For a time, the earth will be pristine before vice steals back in to corrupt people once more. These writings by Seneca contain some characteristics often associated with apocalyptic works. For example, in addition to his graphic depictions of cosmic destruction, Seneca presents Cordus as a heavenly messenger who initiates Marcia’s son in divine mysteries and even speaks to Marcia about them. Next, although they are not construed as angels and demons per se, Seneca details the works of death, fortune, and the fates with respect to their relevance to human destiny.65 Moreover, Seneca exalts Claudius as a divine king who will rise as the Sun to expel darkness and restore the world. Further, as mentioned above, Seneca interprets the signs of the times and the end of the world as one who possesses a gleichsam privilegierten.66 Within this construal,

63 64

65 66

Seneca only mentions what happens to the wise souls, see Hoven, Stoϊcism, 113. Seneca does not bind himself to a ‘single imaginative picture of the future catastrophe’, Downing, ‘Eschatology’, 106. See also Downing, ‘Strands’, 202. Cf. Harrill, ‘Stoic Physics’, 127. Cf. Collins, Imagination, 8. Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 265.

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the destruction of the world restores its paradisiacal conditions so the Endzeit corresponds to the Urzeit.67

2.4 Comparison In this section, my aim is to show how the key elements of apocalyptic eschatology in the essays surveyed above relate to elements in Paul’s letters. No preformed definition of ‘Pauline apocalyptic’ is adopted here; rather, Seneca’s works have the primary role in determining what elements of apocalyptic eschatology I  will discuss. The hope is that by letting the Senecan texts drive the discussion, light can be shed on the content of apocalyptic and how Seneca’s notions relate to Paul’s theology, including where their respective worldviews overlap and contrast. As we shall see upon closer examination, the similarities reveal the differences between the two authors more clearly.68 As mentioned above, I  will focus on those similarities and differences surrounding four themes: (1) grief and consolation, (2) hope and sanctification, (3) personifications and powers, as well as (4) cosmic destruction and renewal. In comparison with Seneca, Paul writes to saints waiting for the return of Christ,69 the final conclusion of this age. According to the apostle, God has intervened in the world through the risen Messiah, triumphed over evil, and inaugurated the new age. The indwelling of God’s Spirit that resulted serves as evidence that the new creation has already begun.70 It has sanctified the believers in preparation for the parousia.71 Believers who die before that day will rise on that day to meet Jesus in the air.72 The time for this is near,73 and believers who are still alive at his coming will be transformed – their mortal bodies will be given immortal ones – as they too ascend to meet the Messiah.74 On that day, creation will be liberated,75 people will be judged76 and evil powers will

67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

Cf. Gunkel, Schöpfung, passim. See Sevenster, Paul, 219. 1 Thess. 1.9–10. Gal. 4.7; Rom. 5.5; 8.15–17. 1 Thess. 5.23; 1 Cor. 1.1–9; Rom. 8.1–11. 1 Thess. 4.13–14. 1 Cor. 7.17–31; Rom. 13.12. 1 Cor. 15.51–52; Rom. 8.11. Rom. 8.18–21. 1 Thess. 5.3; 1 Cor. 4.4–5, 6.2; Rom. 2.5, 16; Rom. 14.10–12.

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be destroyed.77 Jesus will then subjugate himself to God, who will become all in all.78

2.4.1 Grief and Consolation First, both Paul and Seneca point to the end of the world to comfort their audiences regarding the loss of their loved ones. While Paul does not want his congregation to grieve without having hope,79 Seneca does not want his audience to weep without employing reason.80 Further, both assure their listeners that they will see the deceased again: either with noble souls in the high heaven or with Christ in the sky.81 Moreover, despite the concern that the dead are missing out, both the Stoic and the apostle argue just the opposite: the deceased are better off. Seneca adjures his audience to understand how the departed have shed their pitiful bodies and dashed to the heavens to embrace the saints.82 Since life flies by and death draws near, they will be reunited with their loved ones sooner than later. Moreover, it is irrational to cry inordinately since all will die and be reborn.83 This is not even to mention the comfort available through the divine emperor, the consolation of all humankind.84 In comparison, Paul also does not want his audience to be ignorant:  the believers who have passed away will not be forgotten. However, whereas Seneca says the deceased souls darted up to heaven at their death, Paul says the dead saints will be the first to arrive in the air at the resurrection.85 Those asleep in the Messiah will rise with immortal, spiritual bodies.86 Then, the remaining believers will put on incorruptible bodies to meet their loved ones and to dwell with Christ. Therefore, while Seneca adjures his audience not to cry excessively because nothing lasts forever, Paul tells his audience not to weep desperately because they will be with Christ forevermore. That is to say, whereas 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Rom. 16.20. 1 Cor. 15.24–28. 1 Thess. 4.13. Polyb. 4.1-3. Marc. 19, 25–26; 1 Thess. 4.17. Marc. 25.1; Polyb. 9.3-8. Marc. 6–10; Polyb. 1.4; Nat. 3.29–30. Polyb. 12–14. 1 Thess. 4.16. 1 Cor. 15.51–54; on the apocalyptic eschatology on 1 and 2 Corinthians in general, see Matthew Goff, ‘The Mystery of God’s Wisdom, the Parousia of a Messiah, and Visions of Heavenly Paradise’, The Jewish Apocalyptic Tradition and the Shaping of New Testament Thought (ed. Benjamin E. Reynolds and Loren T. Stuckenbruck; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2017), 175–192.

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Seneca’s portrayal of the cosmic law proves foundational for his admonitions,87 for Paul, it is the expectation of Christ’s parousia that drives his.88 Moreover, although Caesar and Christ are not strictly comparable figures,89 according to Seneca’s essay, the divine presence of Caesar readily offers relief from present suffering.90 For Paul, on the other hand, the imminent return of Christ provides confidence in the future resurrection.91

2.4.2 Hope and Sanctification Both authors decry this present age so full of suffering, and they bemoan the mortal body so inclined to sin.92 While this frustration leads Seneca to fantasize about the interim,93 it causes Paul to anticipate Christ’s glorious return. For Seneca, the wise souls who have died have never been more alive. Having washed away their defilement, they traverse the cosmos, uncover its mysteries, and foresee the future.94 These saints will bask in the light of eternity – at least until the day the rest of humanity is wiped out and the universe is destroyed. Therefore, Seneca’s glorification of the intermediate state seems to make it – rather than the new age – that which the wise would look forward to. Whereas the Stoic’s notion of the interim might arouse one’s hopes, the conflagration calls for sober resignation. Rather than the intermediate state, Paul longs for Christ’s coming when creation is finally liberated from futility and God’s children receive their inheritance. Then death will be annihilated, and God will become all.95 Instead of constantly returning to a perishable body, Paul is confident that his body will be clothed with an immortal, spiritual one. Paul’s unshakable hope stands in contradistinction to the confidence of Seneca, who although finding pleasure in entertaining the conception of the soul’s immortality was not yet fully convinced.96 Moreover, while Seneca says the soul purifies itself postmortem, Paul 87

88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

This is especially considering its notions of impersonal detachment, see Inwood, Seneca, 239–241. See also Harrill, ‘Stoic Physics’, 124; and Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 31–38. 1 Thess. 5.1–11. See Downing, ‘Eschatology’, 109. This is the case at first blush at least. See n. 39. 1 Cor. 15.12–19. Cf. Sevenster, Paul, 219. Cf. Sevenster, Paul, 230–234. Marc.19, 25–26; Polyb. 9. Marc. 22–26; Polyb. 9. Rom. 8.21–23; 1 Cor. 15.24–28. Cf. Adams, Stars, 121. See n. 37. See also Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ‘Paul in Philippians and Seneca in Epistle 93, On Life after Death and its Present Implications’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialgoue (APhR 2; ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 267–284.

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claims that God’s Spirit has already sanctified the believers so that they will be ready to meet Jesus at his return.97

2.4.3 Personifications and Powers Paul and Seneca employ a number of personified powers in their eschatologies.98 For instance, both authors personify death. Seneca does so more with respect to this life than to the end of the world. For the Stoic, death is the enemy that hounds humanity ready to pounce upon them at any moment.99 In a different light, however – that of eternity – Seneca reckons that death does everyone a favour by discharging them from the suffering that defines their lives and from the sin that sullies their souls.100 Although Paul occasionally refers to death as a release, he only casts personified death as a nemesis – God’s last foe.101 Death has been dethroned by grace and will be overthrown by Christ.102 In addition to death, Seneca features fate and fortune as terrorists in this age. As the fates distract people so that death can assassinate them, fortune seeks to slaughter, sink, and scorch the earth.103 For the Stoics, suffering and death are not God’s purpose for the world. Nevertheless, suffering and death serve as an unavoidable by-product of it on the one hand and as an opportunity for the wise to attain virtue on the other.104 In comparison, Paul considers sin death’s fellow insurgent.105 But rather than being endemic to creation, their reign – like Seneca’s personified vice – results from human trespass.106 While Seneca believes vice and death will return in the next age, Paul proclaims sin and

97 98

99 100 101 102

103 104 105

106

1 Thess. 5.23; 1 Cor. 1.1–9; Rom. 8.1–11. For a comparison of personified powers in Paul and the Stoics, see Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology, 80–102. Cf. Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification (BZNW 161; Berlin:  De Gruyter, 2008), 20–40. Marc. 10.4. Marc. 19–25; Polyb. 9.1–9. 1 Cor. 15.26. Rom. 5.12–21. If he is the author of the play, Seneca says that death will execute himself at the conflagration (Herc. Ot., 1102–1117). Paul, on the other hand, proclaims that Christ will put death to death at the parousia. Marc. 10.4; Polyb. 1.1–3. See Sellars, Stoicism, 101–102; and Wright, Faithfulness, 222. Rom. 5.12–14. On the apocalyptic eschatology on Romans in general, see Karina Martin Hogan, ‘The Apocalyptic Eschatology of Romans’, The Jewish Apocalyptic Tradition and the Shaping of New Testament Thought (ed. Benjamin E. Reynolds and Loren T. Stuckenbruck; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2017), 155–174. See Sevenster, Paul, 237–240.

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death will be done once and for all. Moreover, Seneca says the departed are no longer slaves to fate and fortune but serve as their own masters.107 Conversely, Paul proclaims that the risen Christ is free from death so that those united with the Lord have been liberated from sin. Consequently, believers serve as slaves of God and not of sin.108 Whereas Seneca designates nature, fortune and fate as agents of cosmic destruction,109 in 1 Corinthians, Paul places the cosmos in a ‘negative quartet’ with sin, flesh and death.110 Further, while the Stoic presents nature as an agent of her own demise as well as of her own renewal,111 in Romans, Paul presents creation as subjected to futility against her will and dependent upon the redemption of God’s children for her release.112 Moreover, just as Paul’s references to Satan would fall outside of anything we find in Seneca,113 Paul never names fate and fortune in his lists of personified powers. This shows that while the Stoic underlines the importance of pursuing philosophy whether life’s suffering is dictated by fate, sovereignty or chance (see Ep. 16.7–8), the apostle draws upon an apocalyptic tradition that encourages the saints to persevere despite the work of evil angels.114

2.4.4 Cosmic Destruction and Renewal Seneca and Paul both conclude that God’s providence can be seen in creation.115 For Seneca, the dissolution of the earth is predestined to occur.116 Rather than punishing the world by destroying it, however, God works these things in accordance with his ‘rational and beneficent plan’.117 That is to say, God causes a destruction ‘from which a new world can emerge’ (aus dem eine erneuerte Welt hervorgehen kann).118 ‘To ensure the continuity of cosmic goodness’, the 107 108 109 110 111 112

113 114

115 116 117 118

Polyb. 9.3. Rom. 6.1–22. Nat. 3.27–30; Polyb. 1.1–3. See Adams, Constructing, 148. Nat. 3.27–30. Rom. 8.18–21. Most commentaries infer that Paul implies here that God is the one who subjected creation to futility. Cf. Jonathan Moo, ‘Romans 8.19–22 and Isaiah’s Cosmic Covenant’, NTS 54 (2008): 74–89. Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology, 100–102. See Paolo Sacchi, Jewish Apocalyptic and its History (trans. William J. Short; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 231–232; and Dodson, Personification, 203–210. See Adams, Constructing, 158. Nat. 3.29–30. Long, ‘Conflagration’, 25. See also Sellars, Stoicism, 101. Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 239.

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present world is everlastingly recreated.119 Therefore, more than the world’s destruction (as if it was something God wanted to be rid of), the conflagration will be ‘a kind of “apotheosis” ’, wherein God becomes πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν.120 Seneca also elaborates on the natural disasters at the end of the world,121 which in so far as this is concerned parallels apocalyptic elements in some JewishChristian works more so than Paul’s.122 Whereas for Seneca, God is the eternal craftsman who orchestrates life and death to recur in alternation so that the universe may be purified and made new,123 for the apostle, God is the one who subjected creation to futility with the plan for her future liberation.124 On that day – according to Paul – rulers, authorities and powers will be wiped out while God’s creation and his children will be set free.125 Nevertheless, the apostle does not give the details of this redemption either. He only says that creation will be liberated from decay and obtain the glorious freedom of God’s sons and daughters. Seneca expects nature to destroy all people at the conflagration whether wicked or wise,126 but Paul announces that only the impious will face God’s wrath at the parousia.127 Moreover, Seneca dismisses the idea of divine judgement as fantastic tales meant to frighten fools on the one hand but highlights the terrible destruction of the cosmos on the other.128 Conversely, although Paul does not mention Hades or the Lake of Fire, he does underscore human judgement in contrast to the salvation of the church.129

119 120 121 122

123 124 125

126 127 128 129

Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 239. Wright, Faithfulness, 216. Nat. 3.27–30. E.g., 2 Enoch, 4 Ezra, The Sibylline Oracles; Hebrews, and 2 Peter. Cf. Regarding the relation to the apocalyptic dimensions of Pauline theology with Jewish tradition, see The Jewish Apocalyptic Tradition and the Shaping of New Testament Thought (ed. Benjamin E. Reynolds and Loren T. Stuckenbruck; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 2017), 131–276; Jonathan A. Moo, Creation, Nature and Hope in 4 Ezra (Göttigen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 9–21, 161–164; Downing, ‘Eschatology’, 99–109; and Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 265–266. Nat. 3.29–30; Ep. 9.16; Ep. 36.10. See also Ep. 71.14. Rom. 8.20. Although in 1 Corinthians, Paul writes nothing of the world’s redemption, in Romans he only portrays creation’s redemption. Rather, like an actor leaving the stage, its form is passing away. See Jean Héring, La première Épître de saint Paul aux Corinthiens (Neuchatel: Delachaux & Niestle, 1949), 59. On the differences in portrayals in 1 Corinthians and Romans, see Adams, Constructing, 149, 239–247; and Dodson, Personification, 194–201. Nat. 3.30.7. See, however, Downing, ‘Strands’, 199–204. 1 Thess. 5.1–11; 1 Cor. 3.10–23; 6.9–11; Rom. 1.18–2.3. Marc. 19.4. Cf. Motto, ‘Progress’, 233. Cf. Collins, Imagination, 6–7.

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Furthermore, both authors depict the quick and sudden end of the world as that which was predestined from the beginning.130 According to Seneca, the departed are privy to the time and details of the event.131 It will not take them by surprise. As for those still on the earth though, nature provides sure signs that the end is coming.132 Similarly, Paul expects the believers to recognize the signs so as not to be caught off-guard.133 Nevertheless, Seneca focuses more on the brevity of life than the proximity of the conflagration. For Paul, however, the time has been shortened and the form of this world is already passing away.134 The end has already broken in, and its conclusion is closer now than when the believers first believed.135 Soon God will crush Satan under their feet.136 While Paul considers the Spirit as evidence for the inauguration of the new age,137 Seneca might list widespread hardships, famines, peril and the sword as evidence to the contrary.

2.5 Conclusion According to Mikhail Bahktin, texts come to life at the point of contact with another text. Only when placed in comparison does a light flash to illuminate both the posterior and the anterior of a certain passage.138 The aim of this essay, therefore, has been to compare elements that recur in apocalyptic eschatologies to those that appear in the writings of Seneca and Paul in order to ignite new sparks as it were – resonances, differences and interpretative questions. For instance, the similarities elucidated from our comparison raise a number of questions for further investigations: (1) How many of these resonances occur as part of Paul’s intent to evoke such parallels to make them ‘instrumental to the particular purpose of his own preachings’?139 (2) How many of them 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137

138

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Cf. Gauly, Naturales Quaestiones, 254. Marc. 25–26; Polyb. 9.3–4. Nat. 3.30.1–2. Cf. Downing, ‘Eschatology’, 101–105; and Harrill, ‘Stoic Physics’, 124. 1 Thess. 5.4. 1 Cor. 7.17–31. Cf. Downing, ‘Strands’, 209–211. Rom. 13.12; Rom. 16.20. For a comparison of Seneca and Paul’s views on the spirit, see Wright, Faithfulness, 1369–1371; and Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology, 16. Mikhail Baktin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (ed. C. Emerson and M. Holquist; trans. Vern W. McGee; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 162. Sevenster, Paul, 240. See also Timothy A. Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom, Stoic Philosophy, and the Ancient Economy (SNTS 159; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 228.

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ensue from genuine agreements with Stoic thought represented in Seneca?140 (3) How many occur due to the Stoic influence on Jewish thought in general?141 In addition to the similarities and differences mentioned above, this comparison brings to light one overall striking distinction, namely the lack of detail in Paul’s apocalyptic eschatology compared to the extravagant particulars in Seneca’s writings. This is especially remarkable if one considers apocalyptic eschatology as ‘mother of all’ Pauline theology while only marginal to Seneca’s.142 For instance, unlike Seneca, Paul refrains from detailing the natural disasters that accompany judgement day. This raises yet more interpretive questions for further studies. Does Paul assume such events will occur as depicted in some Jewish apocalyptic writings or does he modify such portrayals in light of his gospel? Perhaps he is silent because he is uncertain about these details, or maybe he is merely disinterested in them. This disparity of detail in Paul’s writings is further pronounced when they are placed alongside of Seneca’s discussion of the intermediate state. Although Paul speaks of it in vague but favourable sentiments (e.g. Phil. 1.21–23), the apostle refrains from giving particularities regarding the state of and location for those who have died in Christ. Again I am inclined to inquire why Paul chose not to do so. Finally, Seneca’s notion of the events repeating themselves after the world is reborn highlights yet another shortcoming in Paul’s writings. That is, although Paul discusses what happens on the Day of the Lord, he gives little to no information regarding the day after the Day of the Lord. Despite these differences, this essay has demonstrated that there would have been enough common conceptuality between the two authors to spur on a lively discussion between them had they ever met. Of course, despite the similarities, such a conversation would have probably ended with Seneca relegating Paul’s revelations to fanciful fabrications, and with Paul stating how the foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of the Stoics. 143

140 141

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Cf. deSilva, ‘Stoa’, 563–564. E.g., the use of Stoic ideas and terminology in the Wisdom of Solomon. See John J. Collins, Seers, Sibyls and Sages in Hellenistic-Roman Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 93, 329. See Ernst Käsemann, New Testament Questions of Today (trans. W. J. Montague; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1969), 102. On how Paul and Seneca represent two traditions in juxtaposition, see C. Kavin Rowe, One True Life:  The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2016), 1–258.

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Paul and Aristotle on Friendship David E. Briones

The moral philosophy of friendship (φιλία/amicitia) was a common point of interest among philosophers in the ancient world. Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca and many others1 engaged this topic and wrote for philosophers and non-philosophers alike. These writings are intended to challenge the way people not only conceptualize friendship but also practice it, with virtue as the anticipated goal.2 Of course, these writers employ different strategies to expound on the virtue of friendship. Plato’s Lysis, Symposium and Phaedrus, as well as Cicero’s De Amicitia , are dialogues on friendship. Seneca reveals his perspective through letters written to friends in his Epistulae Morales. And Aristotle devotes two entire books to friendship in his philosophical treatise, Nicomachean Ethics.3 Even though their strategies vary and their conclusions diverge on several points, they manifest a remarkable dependence on one another. ‘For’, as Michael Pakaluk explains, ‘Plato’s dialogue on friendship influenced Aristotle; Aristotle influenced Cicero; and all the others [e.g., Seneca] were acquainted with either Aristotle or Cicero.’4

1

2

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See the excellent work of David Konstan, Friendship in the Classical World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). Michael Pakaluk, ed., Other Selves:  Philosophers on Friendship (Indianapolis/Cambridge:  Hackett Publishing, 1991), vii. Aristotle’s Eudemian Ethics 7 also focuses on the topic of friendship, but there is much debate over its relationship to Ethics. For that reason, this essay mainly concerns itself with the latter and only occasionally references the former. On the relationship between the two, see Anthony Kenney, The Aristotelian Ethics: A Study of the Relationship between the Eudemian and Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978). Pakaluk, Other Selves, vii; cf. Lorraine S.  Pangle, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 5.

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The focus of this essay will be on Aristotle’s Ethics, for it is hailed as ‘the fullest and most probing classical study of friendship’.5 No ancient philosopher spent more time on the topic, dedicating one-fifth of his Ethics to friendship and significantly advancing the discussion. Indeed, Pakaluk claims that Ethics ‘constituted a great advance over anything produced by his predecessors and was to serve as a kind of reference point for future work on the subject’.6 Aristotle is indeed a fitting candidate to examine alongside another influential writer: the apostle Paul. In particular, his letter to the Philippians has been a breeding ground for comparative studies between Paul and ancient philosophers on friendship.7 And yet, while many have emphasized similarities between Paul and Aristotle, no one – to my knowledge – has closely examined the implications of the presence of God in human friendship.8 That said, without denying the striking similarities between the two, Paul and Aristotle’s distinct conceptions of friendship will be outlined before highlighting specific points of convergence and divergence pertaining to the difference a divine party makes in human friendships. In the end, the uniqueness of each interlocutor will be plainly in view.

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Pangle, Philosophy, 2. Pakaluk, Other Selves, 28. See e.g., the essays in John T. Fitzgerald, ed., Friendship, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech: Studies on Friendship in the New Testament World (NovTSup 82; Leiden:  Brill, 1996); L. Michael White, ‘Morality between Two Worlds:  A  Paradigm of Friendship in Philippians’, in Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. David Balch, Everett Ferguson, and Wayne Meeks; Minneapolis, MN:  Augsburg Fortress, 1990), 201–215; Rainer Metzner, ‘In Aller Freundschaft:  Ein Frühchristlicher Fall Freundschaftlicher Gemeinschaft (Phil 2.25–30)’, NTS 48 (2002):  111–131; James Jaquette, ‘A Not-So-Noble Death:  Figured Speech, Friendship and Suicide in Philippians 1:21–26’, Neot 28 (1994): 177–192; Peter Marshall, Enmity in Corinth: Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians (WUNT II/23; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1987), esp. 157–164. John Fitzgerald argues that God is a friend within Paul’s relationship with the Philippians (‘Paul and Friendship’, in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook [ed. J. Paul Sampley; Harrisburg, PA:  Trinity Press International,  2003], 319–343 [333]; ‘Christian Friendship:  John, Paul, and the Philippians’, Int 61 [2007]: 284–296 [295–296]). However, he does not exegetically support this claim from the entire letter, nor does he compare his findings about God with Aristotle, and even neglects a divine act that will be emphasized here: God’s role as the supreme giver. Martin Ebner also affirms the presence of a triangular relationship with God, a Koinonia mit Gott in 4:10–20 (Leidenslisten und Apostelbrief:  Untersuchungen zu Form, Motivik und Funktion der Peristasenkataloge bei Paulus [FB 66; Würzburg: Echter, 1991], 364; see esp. 345–364). But he neither focuses on God’s role in other parts of the letter nor compares his findings about the divine role with Aristotelian friendship. Walter Hansen (‘Transformation of Relationships: Partnership, Citizenship, and Friendship in Philippi’, in New Testament Greek and Exegesis: Essays in Honor of Gerald F. Hawthorne [ed. Amy M. Donaldson and Timothy B. Sailors; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003], 181–204) helpfully underscores God’s role in Paul’s friendship with Philippians, but his comparison with Ethics is cursory and even incorrect on a pivotal point (see n. 66).

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3.1 Aristotle’s Philosophy of Friendship in Ethics 8–9 3.1.1 Defining Friendship After identifying friendship as a ‘virtue’ (ἀρετή) or ‘involving virtue’ (μετʼ ἀρετῆς, Nic. eth. 8.1.1), Aristotle provides a definition of φιλία in 8.2.3–5.9 He insists that, to be friends, two relational dynamics must (δεῖ) be present. The first is a reciprocity10 of goodwill (εὐνοεῖν ἀλλήλοις). Generally speaking, εὔνοια includes the exchange of benefits,11 but it does not ever solely consist of material exchange.12 More narrowly defined,13 εὔνοια conveys the idea of friendly affection which, over time, grows into ‘love’ (φιλεῖν, φίλησίς) for the other’s own sake. This leads into the second relational dynamic:  a mutual concern to seek the good of the other person ‘for one’s sake’ (ἐκείνου ἕνεκα), with each other’s knowledge. Seeking the good14 of the other ἐκείνου ἕνεκα does not mean that a friend abandons his own interests. Friend A wants Friend B to prosper and be happy in the same way Friend A desires these things for himself. Likewise, Friend B wants Friend A to be happy and prosper in the same way Friend B also wishes these things for himself.15 It is neither self-negating nor a one-way relationship, with no regard for oneself. It is reciprocal.16 Friends are mutually concerned for one another and, most importantly, are aware of their goodwill and affection toward each other.17 These essential relational dynamics of friendship – (i) a reciprocity of goodwill (εὔνοια) and (ii) mutual concern for the other’s sake (ἐκείνου ἕνεκα), with 9 10 11

12

13

14 15

16

17

See also Rhet. 1.5.16; 2.4. Eth. eud. 7.2.16: φιλία . . . ἐστὶν ἀντιφιλία καὶ ἀντιπροαίρεσις. Benefitting another is ‘a necessary aspect of their friendship and yet somehow is not at all the core of it’ (Pangle, Philosophy, 44). Aristotle considers that type of reciprocity ‘defective’, because it creates an unequal relationship (Pangle, Philiosophy, 39–40). For Aristotle, ‘equality [ἰσότης] is felt to be an essential element of friendship [φιλία]’ (8.7.2; cf. 8.5.5). After all, φιλότης ἡ ἰσότης (8.5.5). According to Pakaluk, εὔνοια is also used broadly to speak of a person who recognizes that ‘something is good for some person and to wish that it be so’, but it does not involve commitment or cost (Aristotle’s Ethics:  An Introduction [Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press,  2005], 262). For a discussion on Aristotle’s consistency regarding goodwill and friendly affection, see Pakaluk, Nicomachean Ethics VIII and IX (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 177–180. Pangle, Philosophy, 38. John Cooper, ‘Aristotle on the Forms of Friendship’, Review of Metaphysics 30 (1977):  619–648 [622 n. 7]. This should exonerate Aristotle from the accusations of promoting a purely egoistic angle on friendship (see Friedrich Schroeder, ‘Friendship in Aristotle and Some Peripatetic Philosophers’, in Greco-Roman Perspectives on Friendship [ed. John T. Fitzgerald; Atlanta:  Scholars Press, 1997], 35–57 [39, 41]). Or else one could say they enjoy friendship with their favorite bottle of Scotch; or, as Aristotle puts it, a bottle of wine (8.2.3).

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a shared awareness of good intent – rest on the loveable qualities enumerated earlier in Ethics: the good, pleasant and useful (8.2.1). And these qualities correspond to the three forms of Aristotelian friendship.

3.1.2 The Three Forms of Friendship Aristotle distinguishes between friendships ‘based on virtue [διʼ ἀρετήν], another on utility [διὰ τὸ χρήσιμον], another on pleasure [διὰ τὸ ἡδύ]’ (Eth. eud. 7.2.13; cf. Nic. eth. 8.3).18 In contradistinction to relationships based on virtue, those based on utility and pleasure are considered friendships ‘in only a truncated sense’.19 Friends of utility do not love each other ‘in themselves’ (καθʼ αὑτούς), but only insofar as some benefit accrues to them ‘from each other’ (παρʼ ἀλλήλων, 8.3.1).20 Similarly, friendships based on pleasure, although ‘much closer to the best form of friendship’ (i.e., virtuous friendships),21 consist of two friends enjoying the pleasure one brings them rather than what they are ‘in themselves’ (αὐτοῖς, 8.3.1; cf. 8.4.2). In both utilitarian and pleasure friendships, one friend loves the other ‘for their own good or their own pleasure’ (διὰ τὸ αὐτοῖς ἀγαθὸν . . . διὰ τὸ αὐτοῖς ἡδύ). These friendships are ‘based on an accident’ (κατὰ συμβεβηκός). The friend is not loved for being what he ‘is’ (ἐστίν, 8.3.2) but for what he provides.22 Naturally, these friendships will dissolve once a friend can no longer provide pleasure or utility to the other, since ‘they are friends as a means to that end’ (ὡς οὔσης τῆς φιλίας πρὸς ἐκεῖνο; 8.3.3). The benefit (immaterial or material) is the end, the ‘friend’ is the means. Conversely, friendships based on virtue – the ‘complete [τελεία] form of friendship’ – are friendships in the best sense (μαλίστα). They desire the good of their friends ‘for their own sake’ (ἐκείνων ἕνεκα), and they love each other ‘for themselves’ (διʼ αὑτούς), ‘not accidentally’ (οὐ κατὰ συμβεβηκός; 8.3.6) but essentially.23 Their love is for the other human being. And what makes the 18

19 20

21 22

23

See Cooper, ‘The Forms of Friendship’, 631–634 for the different ways διά could be interpreted in Aristotle’s definition. Pangle, Philosophy, 39. That is why friends of this nature are opposites or unequals: rich and poor, ignorant and learned, a plain person and a handsome one (8.8.6). Pangle, Philosophy, 40, 55; cf. Nic. eth. 8.4.1; Eth. eud. 7.2.38. Friends in these forms of friendship extend ‘goodwill’ (εὔνοια) toward the other in the broad sense of the term (see n. 13), but they nevertheless lack the qualities of virtue-friendships (Nic. eth. 8.3.6). Cooper, ‘The Forms of Friendship’, 641: In pleasure and utilitarian friendships, ‘the friend himself is conceived in an external and incidental way (he is not loved and cared for as being what he himself

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other ‘good and therefore lovable in his own right’, explains Pakaluk, ‘is his having the virtues’.24 Virtue is a permanent quality, so virtuous friendships are ‘necessarily stable’ (δεῖ ὑπάρχειν, 8.3.7). Each friend loves the other διʼ αὑτούς, for who they are essentially, for the virtuous qualities they embody.25 Aristotle is at pains to disassociate utilitarian and pleasure friendships from those based on virtue. He even distinguishes his initial definition of friendship in 8.2.3–5 from friendships based on utility and pleasure. In fact, virtuefriendships emerge from his discussion as the very embodiment of his twofold definition. Yet that raises an important question:  are virtue-friendships in a distinct category of their own, completely removed from the base realm of utility and pleasure?26 More pointedly, do utility and pleasure attend virtuefriendships? Scholars have certainly identified pleasure as an essential element in virtue-friendships,27 but utility is much more debatable. In our modern society, any relationship that entails obligation and self-interest would immediately be written off as utilitarian. In ancient society, however, obligation and self-interest were part and parcel of being in relationship, even the virtuous kind. These elements just needed to be viewed correctly and placed in the right order. One detects the reassessment and reordering of obligation and self-interest in two opposing statements made by Aristotle. On the one hand, he affirms that virtuous friends will love each other ‘for what they are in themselves [διʼ αὐτούς]’, unlike those unvirtuous fellows who only take pleasure in the other when they ‘get some advantage’ (τις ὠφέλεια γίγνοιτο, 8.4.2); that is, within a utilitarian friendship. However, on the other hand, he envisions virtuous friends being ‘beneficial to one another’ (ἀλλήλοις ὠφέλιμοι, 8.3.6). So,

24 25 26

27

essentially is), so that it is not for the sake of himself as he essentially is that the well-wishing takes place. It is only in character-friendships [i.e., those based on virtue] that the well-wishing is for the sake of the person conceived as being what he himself essentially is’. Aristotle, 74. Pangle, Philosophy, 210 n. 15. This largely depends on how one understands the definition in 8.2.3–5. Is it a strict definition, indicating that all the aforementioned elements of friendship occur identically in all three forms (utility, pleasure and virtue)? Or is it a schematic definition, indicating that all the elements appear in all three friendships, but in distinct ways? Michael Pakaluk argues convincingly for the latter (Aristotle, 61–63; pace Cooper, ‘Forms of Friendships’, 640–643; cf. also W. W. Fortenbaugh, ‘Aristotle’s Analysis of Friendship:  Function and Analogy, Resemblance, and Focal Meaning’, Phronesis 20 [1975]:  51–62). The result is that deriving pleasure or a benefit from a friend is not antithetical to virtue-friendships; in fact, one should expect the presence of these elements, even if they play a secondary role. E.g., Pakaluk, Ethics, 265–268; cf. Nic. eth. 8.3.6; 8.4.1.

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is utility or advantage (ὠφέλιμος) a part of virtue-friendships? It is,28 but the fact that a tension exists in Aristotle reveals a desire to promote a specific kind of reciprocity of utility or benefit in virtue-friendships: not a ‘strict reciprocation’29 found in utilitarian friendships but a form of reciprocity nevertheless, a form that is neither entirely self-negating nor purely self-interested, but somewhere in between.

3.1.3 The Role of Self-Love in Reciprocal Virtue-Friendships: Between Altruism and Egoism Although Aristotle uses the term φιλία for any relationship that anticipates reciprocation,30 the kind of reciprocity expected in virtue-friendships is unique. What makes it unique is its basis, which Aristotle unpacks in 9.4 and 9.8. He begins his discussion in 9.4 by defining a friend as one who wishes and promotes the good of another ‘for that other’s sake’ (ἐκείνου ἕνεκα), which aligns perfectly with his earlier definition in 8.2.3–5. But then he adds that those friendly feelings for the other’s sake are ‘derived from the feelings of regard which we entertain for ourselves [πρὸς ἑαυτόν]’ (9.4.1). Again, he says that the marks of friendship are ‘found in a good man’s feelings toward himself [πρὸς ἑαυτόν]’ (9.4.2), and that ‘all the feelings that constitute friendship for others [πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους] are an extension of regard for self [ἀπʼ αὐτοῦ . . . διήκει]’ (9.8.2). The logic seems to be that since a virtuous man will desire good for himself, he will necessarily desire good for his friend: ‘Therefore the good man ought [δεῖ] to be a lover of self, since he will then both benefit [ὀνήσεται] himself [αὐτός] by acting nobly and aid [ὠφελήσει] his fellows [τοὺς ἄλλους]’ (9.8.7).31 The basis of reciprocity in friendship is a virtuous self-love. This is a self-love that is neither altruistic nor egoistic, neither solely self-concerned nor purely other-oriented. Both interests are promoted.32 This other-oriented selfinterest gives way to Aristotle’s famous dictum that a friend is ‘another self ’ 28

29 30 31

32

As Julia Annas claims, a virtuous friendship ‘involves all three of the characteristics in question, since good men are also useful and pleasant to one another (1156b33–1157a3, 1158b5–8)’ (‘Plato and Aristotle on Friendship’, Mind 86 [1977]: 532–554 [547]; cf. Fortenbaugh, ‘Analysis’, 56). Pakaluk, Aristotle, 76. See David Konstan, ‘Greek Friendship’, AJP 117 (1996): 71–94. ‘Friendship’, Pangle expounds, ‘is derivative from, because it is somehow a reflection of, each man’s concern with himself, and an extension of that concern to others’ (Philosophy, 152). Christopher Gill provides an excellent summary of this social ideal (‘Altruism or Reciprocity in Greek Ethical Philosophy?’, in Reciprocity in Ancient Greece [ed. Christopher Gill, Norman Postlethwaite, and Richard Seaford; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998], 303–28 [308–09 n. 6]).

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(ἀλλος αὐτός, 9.4.5) or ‘a second self ’ (ἕτερον αὐτὸν, 9.9.1), which results in friends sharing ‘one soul’ (μία ψυχή) and having all things in common (κοινὰ τὰ φίλων, 9.8.2; cf. 8.12.1).

3.1.4 The Role of Virtue in Virtue-Friendships One underlying assumption regarding self-love that extends toward ‘another self ’ in reciprocal relations is worth mentioning:  virtue is a prerequisite for friendship. This is clear from 8.3.6: the perfect form of friendship is between ‘those who resemble each other in virtue’ (κατʼ ἀρετὴν ὁμοίων). Virtue takes on two different forms: intellectual (διανοητικῆς) and moral (ἠθικῆς, 2.1.1–2). The former is produced and increased by instruction (διδασκαλίας); the latter by the product of habit (ἐξ ἔθους). While nature does give the capacity to receive the virtues, nature does not automatically implant intellectual and moral virtue within humans. So intellectual virtue must be learned and moral virtue must be ‘brought to maturity by habit’ (τελειουμένοις δὲ διὰ τοῦ ἔθους, 2.1.3). Just as Aristotle says, ‘we become just [δίκαιοι] by doing [πράττοντες] just things [δίκαια]’ (2.1.4). For Aristotle, practice (πράττω) makes perfect (τελειόω), and this springs from his assumption that doing precedes being. One who does righteous acts is righteous. Still, for an act to be virtuous, it must be done in a virtuous manner. One must ‘act with knowledge’, ‘deliberately choose [προαιρούμενος] the act, and choose [προαιρούμενος] it for its own sake’, and ‘the act must spring from a fixed and permanent disposition of character [βεβαίως καὶ ἀμετακινήτως ἔχων πράττῃ]’ (2.4.3). An act done with knowledge, deliberative choice and a firm disposition is truly virtuous. And a key component within this process is φρόνησις (practical moral reasoning):  ‘For if a man has the one virtue of Prudence [τῇ φρονήσει μιᾷ]’ – which is considered an intellectual virtue33 – ‘he will also have all the moral virtues together with it’ (6.13.6). Intellectual virtue undergirds moral virtue. This is no less the case when Aristotle speaks of friendships based on virtue. For instance, the reciprocity of love in the truest form of friendship involves ‘deliberate choice [προαιρέσεως], and this springs from a fixed disposition 33

‘Wisdom or intelligence and Prudence [φρόνησιν] are intellectual virtues [διανοητικός]’ (1.13.20).

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[προαιρέσεως ἀφʼ ἕξεως]’ (8.5.5). Aristotle even describes friendship as ἀντιπροαίρεσις, a reciprocity of deliberate choice (Eth. eud. 7.2.16). This assumes the generating work of φρόνησις, an intellectual virtue, in their moral development (Nic. eth. 2.4.3; 6.14.6),34 which, in turn, assumes that each friend is virtuous (or perhaps better, developing virtue35) prior to initiating a friendship. As such, two people can enjoy a virtue-friendship ‘only if each has already acquired virtue, to which the other can be attracted (cf. 1166b25–29)’.36 In other words, virtue becomes the prerequisite for the best form of friendship.37 As Pakaluk affirms, ‘Aristotle’s conclusion is that only friendship that involves reciprocated love based on the virtues of another is a friendship in the proper sense of the term’.38

3.1.5 The Role of God in Virtue-Friendship God plays no direct role in human friendship. Aristotle affirms a sharp creator-creature distinction. God is entirely self-sufficient in himself, but humans are not. They need friends, or, to put it differently, they require means. Pierre Aubenque explains: man ‘must have friends, for he can achieve self-knowledge and his own good only by means of “another self ’ ”.39 God has no need of such means. He is ‘a seamless, simple whole, so perfect and so self-contained’, which renders him ‘incapable of friendship with itself and with others’.40 Friendship is therefore impossible between God and humans for three primary reasons: (i) God is transcendent (8.7.3-5); (ii) God does not need the honour rendered by humans (8.14.4); and (iii) God cannot partake in virtue (7.1.2) or moral action (10.8.5-7). One specific moral act that God cannot participate in is generosity. Aristotle asks: ‘But what sort of actions can 34

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Φρόνησις does not appear in books 8–9, but it is likely that Aristotle intends his readers to assume its presence in his discussion. See Michael Pakaluk, ‘Friendship and the Comparison of Goods’, Phronesis 37 (1992): 111–130, esp. 130, who argues for the integrity of Ethics and the likelihood that Aristotle intends his readers to make connections with previous books. See Pakaluk, Aristotle, 83. Ethics, 280. That is why virtue friendships are rare and time-consuming. One ‘cannot admit him to friendship or really be friends, before each has shown the other that he is worthy of friendship [ἑκατέρῳ φανῇ φιλητὸς] and has won his confidence [πιστευθῇ]’ (8.3.8). Even the ideal self-sufficient person needs friends, and yet those friends must be ‘worthy of [their] society’ (τῶν συζῆν ἀξίων; Eth. eud. 7.12.3; cf. Rhet. 1.5.16). In the case of an extreme moral decline on the part of a friend who was ‘admitted’ (ἀποδέξηται) to friendship, readers are encouraged to remain bound to them as long as they are capable of reform (Nic. eth. 9.3.3). Ethics, 270. My italics. Pierre Aubenque, ‘On Friendship in Aristotle’, South Atlantic Quarterly 97 (1998): 23–28 [26]. Pangle, Philosophy, 154.

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we attribute to [the gods]? . . . Generous acts [τὰς ἐλευθερίους]? But to whom will they give [τίνι δὲ δώσουσιν]?’ (10.8.7). The implied answer is no one. God’s only activity is self-contemplation (10.8.7; cf. Mag. mor. 1212b391213a4).41 Consequently, Otfried Höffe insists that there is ‘no place for ideas of creation, a personal god, or the latter’s providential relationship with humans. Nor is Aristotle’s god the recipient of prayers or the object of meditation.’42 A selfcontemplating God needs no friends,43 so the ordinary experience of loving and being loved is entirely absent here. Relationship with ‘lower-ranking entities would only limit his perfection’.44 Neither is he concerned for ‘the material wellbeing of humans’ nor the expected results of prayers.45 The only role this transcendent, impersonal God plays in human friendship is one of model for unequal relationships. A child’s affection for his parent is ‘like that of men for the gods’ (Nic. eth. 8.12.5). A socially inferior party (i.e., child, pupil, subject, beneficiary) should render what they can, namely honour, to the superior party (i.e., parent, teacher, ruler, benefactor), just as men give honour to the gods (8.14.4; 9.1.7; Eth. eud. 7.3.2–3). God solely functions as a removed pattern of imitation.46 God and humans are not equals, so friendship cannot exist between them.47

3.2 Paul’s Theology of Friendship in Philippians48 In turning to Paul on the topic of friendship, it may initially seem as if a comparison with Aristotle is a futile endeavor. Philippians is certainly not an ἐπιστολὴ φιλική.49 Neither does it (or any other letter in the Pauline corpus) contain the words φίλος or φιλία. And Paul, an apostle-pastor-missionary, describes his 41 42

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Aubenque, ‘Friendship’, 26. Otfried Höffe, Aristotle (trans. Christine Salazar; Albany :  State University of New  York Press, 2003), 108. See Eth. eud. 7.12.2. Höffe, Aristotle, 108. Höffe, Aristotle, 109. Of course, as Höffe (Aristotle, 104–105) also affirms, God is the origin of all movement, as the unmoved mover (Metaph. II 7, 198b1 f.), and the cause that unites all natural phenomena (8.6 and 10). But beyond that, God has very little dealings with humanity. See Pakaluk, Aristotle, 96:  ‘Mortals have no tendency to become gods, nor can any exchange between gods and mortals (Aristotle is assuming) be reasonably interpreted as exhibiting a tendency for them to become equal; thus no friendship between them would be possible.’ For a more thorough examination of Philippians, see David E.  Briones, Paul’s Financial Policy: A Socio-Theological Approach (LNTS 494; London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 58–130, from which I draw to inform select portions of what follows. See the helpful analysis of Julien M. Ogereau, Paul’s Koinonia with the Philippians (WUNT II/377; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 234–243.

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friendship with the Philippians through a social and theological perspective, lacking the philosophical precision and worldview of Aristotle. But this should not cause us to balk at a comparison. Many NT scholars have noted the verbal, conceptual and thematic parallels between Philippians and the ancient discussion of friendship in the Hellenistic world generally and in Aristotle specifically.50 Especially noteworthy for our purposes is Paul’s use of the term κοινωνία and cognates (Phil. 1.5, 7; 3.10; 4.14, 15),51 as well as φρονέω (1.7; 2.2, 5; 3.15, 19; 4.2, 10 [even though Paul does not employ the noun form, φρόνησις]).52 These key terms, which are part and parcel of friendship language in the ancient world, help to bridge the gap between Paul and Aristotle and provide insight into Paul’s theology of friendship. In what follows, we will outline Paul’s ideal definition of friendship before considering the role that self-love and virtue play in his relationship with the Philippians. The difference a divine party makes in their friendship will be seen throughout.

3.2.1 The Ideal Definition of Friendship Unlike Aristotle, Paul does not present us with an explicit definition of friendship. Also lacking is an Aristotelian categorization and explanation of the diverse forms of friendship in society.53 Instead, Paul provides an ideal (though implicit) definition54 of his friendship with the Philippians by employing the key words κοινωνία55 and φρονέω.56 As will be seen, Paul and the Philippians 50

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See Hansen’s list of ten friendship themes in the letter (Philippians [PNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009], 8–11; cf. also the works cited in n. 7 and 8. Aristotle makes a connection between κοινωνία and φίλος/φιλία. After quoting the proverb ‘friends have things in common’ (κοινὰ τὰ φίλων), he insists that ‘association [κοινωνίᾳ] is the essence of friendship [ἡ φιλία]’ (9.1.1). He also later notes that ‘[a]ll friendship [πᾶσα φιλία] . . . involves association [κοινωνίᾳ]’ (8.12.1). For those who connect Paul’s use of κοινωνία and φρονέω to the topos of friendship, see Fitzgerald, ‘Paul and Friendship’, 331–334; White, ‘Morality between Two Worlds’, 214. One may, however, assume some familiarity on Paul’s part with these forms of friendship, though not necessarily with Aristotle’s Ethics. Unlike some (e.g. Joseph Marchal, ‘With Friends Like These. . .:  A  Feminist Rhetorical Reconsideration of Scholarship and the Letter to the Philippians’, JSNT 29 [2006]:  77–106), no attempt will be made to reach beyond Paul’s ideology and into the reality of their relationship. The literature on κοινωνία is vast. For a recent assessment, see Ogereau, Koinonia. Although I do not agree with his methodology or every exegetical conclusion related to his understanding of κοινωνία, he provides an excellent summary of and critical engagement with the secondary literature. David E. Briones, review of Julien Ogereau, Paul’s Koinonia with the Philippians, RBL (2016). See Michael J.  Thate’s recent essay and bibliography (‘Paul, Φρόνησις, and Participation:  The Shape of Space and the Reconfiguration of Place in Paul’s Letter to the Philippians’, in ‘In Christ’ in Paul [ed. Michael J. Thate, Kevin J. Vanhoozer, and Constantine R. Campbell; WUNT II/384; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014], 281–327).

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enjoy a κοινωνία of gift and suffering, with God as the divine source in this three-way relationship. This is precisely how Paul defines friendship ἐν Χριστῷ. In particular, two relational dynamics – which comport well with Aristotelian friendship57 – appear in Paul’s theology of friendship. The first relational dynamic is a reciprocity of gifts (immaterial and material) between Paul and the Philippians, which stems from a mutual φρόνησις58 – a way of thinking, feeling, and acting patterned after Jesus Christ (2.5–11).59 Two verses plainly convey the phronetic basis of their exchange. In Phil. 1.7, Paul says that it is right for him to think (φρονέω) with confidence about the Philippians, whereas, in 4.10, the Philippians express their concern (φρονέω) through their gift to Paul in prison. A shared φρόνησις binds them together as friends. But what exactly do they reciprocate? First, Paul and the Philippians reciprocate affectionate concern for one another. Every time Paul recalls his κοινωνία (1.5), he thanks God and prays for the Philippians ‘with joy’ (μετὰ χαρᾶς, 1.3–4). He ‘holds them in his heart [καρδία]’. He ‘yearns [ἐπιποθέω] for all of them with the affection [σπλάγχνον] of Christ Jesus’ (1.7–8). And he desires to be with them for their good (1.25–27; 2.24). While in prison, he sends Timothy to learn of their progress in the faith in order that Paul’s heart may be encouraged (εὐψυχέω, 2.19). The fact that Paul specifically sends Timothy to the community demonstrates his affectionate concern. Only a ‘like-minded person’ (ἰσόψυχος), who will ‘genuinely be concerned’ (γνησίως . . . μεριμνήσει) for the community (2.20), is fit to visit his beloved congregation. Throughout the letter, he dispels their anxiety (μέριμνα) with comforting exhortations to pray and to receive the peace of God (4.6– 7). Whether present or absent, whether imprisoned or free, they remain his beloved (ἀγαπητοί), whom he loves and longs for (ἀγαπητοὶ καὶ ἐπιπόθητοι, 4.1; cf. 2.12), his joy (χαρά), crown (στέφανος, 4.1) and boast (καύχημα, 2.16) on the day of Christ.

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Recall Aristotle’s definition: (i) a reciprocity of goodwill (εὔνοια) and (ii) mutual concern for the other’s sake (ἐκείνου ἕνεκα), with a shared awareness of good intent. Although φρόνησις does not appear in Philippians, it will be used for the sake of grammatical accuracy. See Luke Timothy Johnson, ‘Transformation of the Mind and Moral Discernment in Paul’, in Early Christianity and Classical Culture: Comparative Studies in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. John T. Fitzgerald, Thomas H. Olbricht, and L. Michael White; NovTSup 110; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 215–236, esp. 221–225; cf. also Stephen Fowl, Philippians (THNTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005), 28.

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In return, the Philippians express affectionate concern for Paul. They sent Epaphroditus to care for him spiritually and financially (2.25–30). As an envoy (ἀπόστολος) and minister (λειτουργός), Epaphroditus provided encouragement and delivered the Philippians’ gift to their imprisoned apostle in need (χρεία, 2.30; 4:18). Their material gift was the greatest sign of their affection for Paul. Notably, this sprang from a revived φρόνησις (4.10). Second, Paul and the Philippians reciprocate sacrificial service for one another’s joy. Paul likens his ministry as a sacrificial drink offering (θυσία) and service (λειτουργία) for their faith (πίστις, 2.17), which is directly connected to their joy (χαίρω, 2.17–18; cf. 1.25). In response, just as Paul’s sacrificial ministry is likened to a θυσία and λειτουργία on the Philippians’ behalf, so also their material gift for Paul – again, springing from their φρόνησις (4.10) – is considered a θυσία (4.18; 2.17) and λειτουργία (2.17, 30). The outcome of this sacrificial exchange is Paul and the Philippians’ mutual joy (χαίρω καὶ συγχαίρω, 2.17–18). Finally, Paul and the Philippians reciprocate prayer to God on behalf of one another for present and ultimate salvation. Paul prays that their love would abound to ‘approve what is excellent’ and to become ‘pure and blameless on the day of Christ’ (1.9–11). He also implores them to become imitators (συμμιμηταί) of his example and to guard their faith and pattern of living against the practices of his adversaries (3.2–19). Even though they have always obeyed, he still beckons them to ‘work out [their] salvation [σωτηρίαν] with fear and trembling’ (2.12), and so become ‘pure and blameless’ in the midst of a world gone awry (2.14–15). These sorts of exhortations, which are usually matched with an equal confidence in God for the progression of their faith (cf. 1.6; 2.13; 3.20–21), reveal a soteriological commitment to the Philippians’ spiritual growth. In the same way, just as Paul prays (δέησις/προσεύχομαι) for their final salvation (1.4, 9–11; cf. 1.28; 2.12), so the Philippians will also pray (δέησις) for his salvation (σωτηρία), physically from prison as well as eschatologically from death (1.19).60 By praying to God, Paul positions God as the divine source on which Paul and the Philippians depend for their present and ultimate salvation (cf. 1.6; 2.12–13). The second relational dynamic in Paul’s ideal definition of friendship is suffering on behalf of the other for their good. In Christ, Paul and the Philippians 60

For the bivalent use of σωτηρία, as deliverance from prison and eschatological salvation, see Moisés Silva, Philippians (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2005), 69–72.

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have access to a particular mindset best exemplified by Christ’s humiliation on behalf of others (2.5–11). Paul exemplifies this Christological mindset by suffering on behalf of the Philippians.61 In 1.12–18, he makes known (γινώσκω) the advancement (προκοπή) of the gospel through his suffering (τὰ κατʼ ἐμέ, 1.12), both inside and outside prison walls. No matter the obstruction, the gospel advances through Paul’s sufferings toward others. But it will also advance (προκοπή) through Paul’s sufferings toward the Philippian community. Although Paul considers death gain (κέρδος, 1.21), since it permits deeper fellowship with Christ (σὺν Χριστῷ εἶναι, 1.23; cf. 3.8), he nevertheless stifles this desire for two reasons. One is that remaining in the flesh will mean ‘fruitful labor’ (καρπὸς ἔργου, 1.22), primarily for the Philippians.62 The other is that it is ‘more necessary for [their] sake’ (ἀναγκαιότερον διʼ ὑμᾶς, 1.24). Both reasons reveal Paul’s close conformity to the pattern of Christ’s self-gift in 2.5– 11, as Paul willingly suffers loss by giving himself on account of the Philippian community (διʼ ὑμᾶς).63 In the background of all of this is God/Christ. He is the mysterious subject behind the προκοπή of the gospel in 1.12. The same subject is behind the προκοπή of the Philippians’ faith in 1.25, for God works through (διά) Paul on behalf of the community’s boast in Christ Jesus (1.26). Paul willingly suffers for the Philippians’ benefit, but it is God who actively works through Paul on behalf of the community. Similarly, the Philippians sacrificially send a material gift, likened to a θυσία (4.18; 2.17) and λειτουργία (2.17, 30), to benefit Paul. By doing so, they share in his suffering (συγκοινωνήσαντές μου τῇ θλίψει, 4.14). They are συγκοινωνοί of his chains (1.7). And they are engaged in the same conflict (ὁ αὐτὸς ἀγῶν) as their apostle (1.29–30). This ἀγῶν has two aspects: (i) theologically, they suffer by virtue of their location ἐν Χριστῷ, where they equally participate in τὰ παθήματα τοῦ Χριστοῦ (3.10), the deepest level of their being and the precise location of their κοινωνία in giving and receiving; (ii) socially, they suffer by bearing the shame of Paul’s imprisonment, being easily transmitted 61

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This pattern is also exhibited through the ministerial labors of Timothy (2.19–24) and Epaphroditus (2.25–30). The community is called to imitate these models, along with Paul (3.17; 4.9; cf. 1.30). All parties in this exchange will (in some sense and in different ways) enjoy the fruit that is reaped. God in Christ will be glorified, praised and magnified in the community’s bearing of fruit (1.11, 19, 26), Paul will obtain an eschatological boast by labouring among them (2.16; cf. 4.1), and the Philippians will be established in the gospel (1.25, 27). But Paul gives special prominence to the Philippians’ experience of this fruitful labour, especially since καρπός points back to the same term in 1.11 and 4.17. Notice the Christological overtones of δι’ ὑμᾶς in 2 Cor. 8.9 – the best summary of Phil. 2.5–11.

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through aiding and affiliating oneself with a felon. But the most interesting fact about the Philippians’ participation with Paul in gift and suffering is that God is behind it all. He alone revived the Philippians concern to send their gift to Paul (4.10) and so share in his suffering (4.14). Compared to Aristotle’s twofold definition of friendship, it seems – at least conceptually – that Paul also defines friendship as a reciprocity of goodwill (affectionate concern, sacrificial service and prayer) and a mutual concern to seek the good of the other person for his sake (suffering loss on behalf of others), with a shared awareness (through the letter itself). But one noticeable difference is beginning to emerge. There is a third party in Paul’s definition. God/Christ appears on the scene as the vertical party who naturally reconfigures the horizontal dimensions of friendship. This reconfiguration becomes evident when analyzing the role self-love and virtue play within relationships in Christ.

3.2.2 The Role of Self-Love in Reciprocal Friendship: Between Altruism and Egoism The key text is Phil. 2.4:  μὴ τὰ ἑαυτῶν ἕκαστος σκοποῦντες ἀλλὰ [καὶ] τὰ ἑτέρων ἕκαστοι (“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others’). Some attempt to interpret this verse without the bracketed καί: ‘not (μή) looking out for your own interests, but (ἀλλά) for the interests of others’,64 placing the two interests (one’s own and the other’s) in direct antithesis. But since καί appears in P46, Codex Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, and Vaticanus, it ‘constitutes a lectio difficilior and should therefore be retained’.65 The inclusion of καί is significant. It prevents one from swinging the pendulum to one extreme or another, either toward a self-negating, radical altruism (i.e. solely other-oriented interest) or self-satisfying, radical egoism (i.e. solely self-interest). Like Aristotle, Paul lands somewhere in between. Consider the preceding context of 2.4. Paul describes friendship (κοινωνία) as being in ‘one spirit’ (ἑνὶ πνεύματι, 1.27), striving in ‘one soul’ (μιᾷ ψυχῇ, 64

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David A.  Black, ‘The Discourse Structure of Philippians:  A  Study in Textlinguistics’, NovT 37 (1995):  16–49 [36]; cf. also the contextual arguments in Ben Witherington, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 131. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ‘Radical Altruism in Philippians 2:4’, in Early Christianity and Classical Culture:  FS Abraham J.  Malherbe (ed. John T. Fitzgerald, Thomas H. Olbricht, and L. Michael White; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 197–214 [200].

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1.27) and standing ‘united in spirit’ (σύμψυχοι, 2.2). These verbal and conceptual friendship parallels with Ethics lead one to assume that Paul, like Aristotle, would consider a friend to be another self. They are one yet many, inseparable yet distinguishable (cf. 1 Cor. 12.12; Rom. 12.4–5). In this sense, a friend is a second self, with whom compassion, affection and sympathy are shared (2.1–3). But the way one achieves this appears in 2.3: each member of the community is to consider others more significant than themselves (ἀλλήλους ἡγούμενοι ὑπερέχοντας ἑαυτῶν). If Paul did not pen the next line (2.4), we might think he was insisting that the entire community should not have any self-regard or self-interest. But that is not the case at all. Phil. 2.4 actually affirms the presence of a virtuous self-interest, one that includes the interests of others primarily and one’s own interests secondarily. Statements that focus on the interests of others in 2.3–4 are given to the entire community, not to eliminate self-interest but to ensure reciprocity among its members. Paul expected everyone in the community to reciprocate this other-oriented self-interest. If not, whose interest could be considered more significant than one’s own (2.3)? With Aristotle, Paul preserves and promotes the interests of both parties, considering the other’s as primary and one’s own as secondary. But the more illuminating question to ask here is whether Paul considered self-love (i.e. a virtuous self-interest) to be the basis of reciprocity, as does Aristotle? Strikingly, the basis of reciprocity, for Paul, is the presence of a divine party, who energizes one’s willingness and activity, who provides what is needed to give to the other, and who ensures that a return will be made. God/ Christ is the basis of human reciprocity.66 This can first be seen in Paul’s strategic incorporation of God in common, human interests. In Phil. 2.20–21, Paul not only speaks of one’s own interests (τὰ ἑαυτῶν) and the interests of others (τὰ περὶ ὑμῶν) but also the interests of Jesus Christ (τὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ). By including the interests of a divine actor onto the scene of human relationships, Paul redefines what is meant by self- and other-oriented interest. As John M. G. Barclay explains, ‘One serves the others’ interests not for their sake in isolation, but for their sake in their relation

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Contra Hansen who strangely considers ‘virtue . . . the basis of [Paul and the Philippians’] friendship’ (‘Relationships’, 200), thereby closely aligning Paul and Aristotle on virtue (cf. 201–202). But this flatly contradicts his previous claim:  ‘Allegiance to the Lord Jesus is the basis of unity among heavenly citizens’ (198). If that is true, then virtue must be a result of their common union with God in Christ, as will be argued.

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to God. Similarly, however one views one’s own interests will be determined by one’s standing in relation to Christ.’67 The interests of God/Christ, the Lord over both parties (1.2; cf. 2.11, 19; 3.8, 20), triangulates the self- and other-oriented interests of the community. Both one’s own interests and the interests of others must align with the interests of a common Lord. They are bound in obedience to Christ. Paul also presents God/Christ as the basis of reciprocity in the three-way relational pattern in Phil. 4.10–20.68 Verse 10 not only incorporates God into Paul and the Philippians’ relationship of giving and receiving (4.15) but also presents him as the ultimate giver to Paul through the Philippians. As noted earlier, God revived the Philippians’ concern and generosity toward Paul in prison (ἀνεθάλετε τὸ ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ φρονεῖν),69 so Paul rightly returns gratitude to God, the Giver70 – he ‘rejoiced in the Lord greatly’ (ἐχάρην . . . ἐν κυρίῳ μεγάλως, 4.10). That God is the one on whom Paul ultimately depends for material abundance is clear from 4.11–13. There, Paul expresses his independence from the Philippians’ material gift by redefining ‘self-sufficiency’ (αὐτάρκης) into ‘God-sufficiency’.71 He depends on the one who empowers him (4.13) to experience the state of material abundance (περισσεύω, 4.12). And yet, according to verse 18, God uses human agency to accomplish that end. The Lord brought Paul into a state of material abundance through the Philippians’ gift: ‘I have received all things, and I abound [περισσεύω]’ (4.18). But not only does the Lord give through the Philippians to Paul; the Lord also gives through Paul to the Philippians. They enjoy a κοινωνία in giving and receiving (4.15). So Paul mentions a day when they will receive what is needed from the Lord through a human mediator. ‘My God’, Paul exclaims, ‘will supply your every need [πᾶσαν χρείαν ὑμῶν] according to his riches [πλοῦτος] in glory in Christ Jesus’ (4.19). Understanding χρεία as material lack, since that is how it is used in 4.16, and interpreting πλοῦτος as both material and heavenly riches enable one to see the three-way relational pattern clearly: God’s supply

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John M. G. Barclay, ‘Benefitting Others and Benefit to Oneself ’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones; APhR2; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 122 [118–125]. The same pattern emerges from 1.3–6 (see Briones, Policy, 103–110). Wolfgang Schenk identifies φρονεῖν ὑπέρ as friendship language (Die Philipperbriefe des Paulus: Kommentar [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1984], 60, 63–65). For how this resolves Paul’s supposed ingratitude, see David E.  Briones, ‘Paul’s Intentional “Thankless Thanks” in Philippians 4.10–20’, JSNT 34 (2011): 47–69. Markus Bockmuehl, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians (London:  A & C Black, 1997), 261.

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will stream through Paul72 to alleviate the financial straits of the Philippians (whenever hardship may come). 4.10–18 therefore expresses Paul’s dependence on God through the Philippians, while 4.19–20 envisions a time when the Philippians will depend on God through Paul, exhibiting a characteristic relational pattern in the economy of χάρις (cf. 2 Cor. 8–9): gratitude

God

gift

gratitude

gift

gift Paul

Philippians

(in need)

(in need)

gift

The basis of reciprocity, their κοινωνία in giving and receiving (4.15), is a common Lord73 – God in Christ – whose divine supply is mediated in and through the community to meet needs within human friendship. God is the beginning and end of all human giving. ‘For from him and through him and to him are all things’ (Rom. 11.36). It makes perfect sense, then, for God, the one who gives all things, to receive all gratitude.

3.2.3 The Role of Virtue in Friendship Virtue (ἀρετή) plays an important role in Aristotelian friendship. It is a prerequisite for virtue-friendships. But is virtue a prerequisite for friendship in Paul’s thought? The question cannot be answered very easily. The word virtue only appears in 4.8, where Paul calls on the community to consider (λογίζομαι) if there is any virtue (ἀρετή, 4.8) and to practice (πράσσω) it (4.9). But the absence of a single term (ἀρετή) should not lead one to conclude that the concept of virtue or virtuous acts is lacking in Philippians.74 As Troels Engberg-Pedersen rightly argues,75 one must appeal to the broader context 72 73

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Or another church. From a more theological vantage point, one could say the basis of reciprocity is participation in a common Lord. This, however, introduces the complexity of Paul’s theology of friendship, a complexity I hope to clarify in a future work on Paul’s theology of relationships in Christ. Le Chih Hsieh highlights the notion of virtue in Philippians, which he insists is a neglected concept in Pauline studies (‘Virtue, Friendship, and Polis:  A  Reading of Paul’s Letter to the Philippians’ [Ph.D. diss., Asbury Theological Seminary, 2012]). ‘Paul, Virtues, and Vices’, in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook (ed. J. Paul Sampley; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003), 608–633 [627].

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of Philippians to understand Paul’s perspective on virtue. Although EngbergPedersen only mentions 3.1–4:1, 4.10–20 and 2.1–4 (since παρακαλῶ in 4.2 harks back to παράκλησις in 2.1), one relevant passage for our specific question is Phil. 1.27–30, the ‘linchpin’ of the letter.76 In this text, we see human friendship and virtuous actions springing from divine initiative in the gospel of Christ, which naturally leads to considering virtue a result rather than a prerequisite of Christian friendship. In 1.27–30, Paul begins by exhorting the Philippians to do one (μόνον) thing: ἀξίως τοῦ εὐαγγελίου τοῦ Χριστοῦ πολιτεύεσθε (1.27). He then describes what living ἀξίως (or virtuously77) entails with the ὅτι-clause of 1.27c:  with ‘one spirit’ (ἑνὶ πνεύματι) and ‘one mind’ (μιᾷ ψυχῇ), friends at Philippi must stand (στήκω) and strive (συναθλέω) for the ‘faith of the gospel’ (τῇ πίστει τοῦ εὐαγγελίου). Friendship consists of standing united in their suffering for ‘the cause of the faith – its spread and growth’,78 without becoming frightened (μὴ πτυρόμενοι) by their opponents (τῶν ἀντικειμένων), which (ἥτις) serves as a sign of destruction for them but of salvation for the community (1.28). While ἥτις grammatically anticipates ἔνδειξις, the whole of 1.27c-28 is most likely its antecedent.79 As such, their friendship in and for the gospel in the midst of opposition and suffering is what Paul means by living ἀξίως. To be sure, the word ἀρετή is lacking, but it would be hard to think of anything more virtuous for Paul than what has been described here. Their friendship centers on advancing and living virtuously under the gospel of God in the face of opposition (1.5, 7; 1.12–26). Nevertheless, behind the human worth and virtuous actions listed in 1.27–28c is a divine source.80 That is why Paul inserts the critical phrase:  τοῦτο ἀπὸ θεοῦ (1.28d). τοῦτο not only points back to σωτηρία but to the whole of their worthy conduct in 1.27c–28,81 demonstrating that it is God who enables their virtuous living as a gift (ἀπὸ θεοῦ), which will ultimately lead to final salvation (σωτηρία). Again, Paul incorporates God as an essential party, pointing to him as the source 76 77

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Fowl, Philippians, 59. Interestingly, ἀξίως, ἀξίος, and ἀξία are paired together with ἀρετή in Ethics as two sides of the same coin (cf. 4.4.3–4, 15, 17; 5.3.7; 8.8.4). Peter O’Brien, The Epistle to the Philippians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1991), 152. Gordon Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 168; Bockmuehl, Philippians, 101. A crucial point that is apparently overlooked by Bradley Arnold’s recent monograph, ‘Christ as the Telos of Life:  Moral Philosophy, Athletic Imagery, and the Aim of Philippians’ (PhD diss., University of Exeter, 2013), 184–195. Unfortunately, I could not access the published version with the same title (WUNT II/371; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014) before finishing this essay. Silva, Philippians, 83.

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of human worth and virtue. To support this theologically weighty claim, Paul further depicts God as the primary giver of faith, suffering and salvation in 1.29: (i)  πίστις in the gospel grants entrance into the πόλις (1.29); (ii) πάσχειν, coupled with the divinely granted perseverance of the community in 1.27–28c, characterizes Christian life within this economy (1.29); and (iii) σωτηρία is the ultimate end of their heavenly πολίτευμα (1.28). All of this, from start to finish, is energized by the power of God’s χάρις (1.29: ἐχαρίσθη). Truly, as 1.6 and 2.12–13 make plain, God begins (ἐνάρχομαι) and ends (ἐπιτελέω) all Christian doing. For Aristotle, doing precedes being. One who does virtuous acts is virtuous. But, for Paul, being precedes doing. Being (considered worthy by God in Christ) precedes doing virtuous acts. Then, and only then, does doing virtuous acts confirm one’s being (considered worthy by God in Christ). The source of the community’s ἀξία resides efficaciously in τὸ εὐαγγέλιον τοῦ Χριστοῦ (1.27), where worth is divinely created rather than naturally cultivated. Once recipients take hold of the Christ-gift (or, perhaps better, once the Christ-gift takes hold of them; cf. 3.12), they become what they are, as it calls ‘worth’ and ‘virtue’ into being that did not previously exist. This is the unnerving logic of χάρις,82 a radical rationale that challenges and even subverts cultural and philosophical notions of ἀξία and ἀρετή. Virtue is far from being a prerequisite for Christian friendship. Instead, a virtuous friendship is the organic result of being incorporated into Christ by faith in the gospel. Again, Paul underscores the initiative of God as the crucial party in human friendship.

3.2.4 The Role of God in Friendship: Where Paul and Aristotle Part Ways The primary difference between Aristotle and Paul concerns the number of parties involved in friendship. Aristotle promotes a linear conception of friendship, with two parties in reciprocal exchange. But Paul endorses a circular conception of friendship, envisioning God as the necessary party who works in and through friendships in Christ. In infinite circularity, all things flow from him, through him and to him (Rom. 11.36), and those in Christ are caught up in a divine momentum of gift and gratitude in friendship with

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For more on this in relation to Paul’s first-century context, see John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015).

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God and others.83 God plays a direct role in friendships as the one who gives, energizes and sustains every act of human generosity (1.3–6, 28–29; 2.12– 13; 4.10–20) – the very act Aristotle refused to apply to the divine (Nic. eth. 10.8.7). He also hears the prayers of his people (1.3, 9–11, 19) and responds to their needs (4.10–20). And even though he is Lord over the church, he is not solely a removed pattern of imitation. To be sure, Paul affirms a creator-creature distinction and divine transcendence (cf. Rom. 11.33–36), but friendship between God, Paul and the Philippians still exists. God is the basis of Paul and the Philippians’ reciprocal friendship (1.3–6; 2:1–4, 17–18; 2.25–30; 4.10–20). He provides the particular mindset (φρόνησις) in Christ that the community needs for virtuous friendships to thrive (2.2, 5; 3.15; 4.2, 10). And He is the source of all human virtue (1.27–30). Paul reties human friendship into a three-way knot, with God in Christ at the center of Christian friendship. Consequently, while many striking similarities exist between Paul and Aristotle’s conceptions of friendship, the inclusion of God and the active role he plays on the horizontal level creates a conspicuous rift between Paul’s theology of friendship and Aristotle’s philosophy of friendship,84 not to mention other philosophical traditions in Paul’s ancient context.85

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I completely agree with the conclusion drawn by Fitzgerald: ‘The claim that Paul regards God as his friend is controversial, as is the assertion that he views the church as a community of friends. Yet the evidence of the apostle’s letters can sustain both claims’ (‘Paul and Friendship’, 334). Contra Stanley Stowers, who argues that the inclusion of Christ as Lord and friend stretches but does not break the logic of Greek friendship (‘Friends and Enemies in the Politics of Heaven: Reading Theology in Philippians’, in Pauline Theology, Volume I:  Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, Philemon [ed. Jouette M. Bassler; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1991], 105–121 [117–119]). For his argument to work, he must assume Christ is merely a human Lord. A divine party in human friendship completely shatters the logic of Greek friendship. For example, Stoicism perceives God(s) as an inseparable component of one’s being in the midst of friendship (e.g. Epictetus, Diatr. 1.14.6; Seneca, Ep. 62.12; Marcus Aurelius, 5.27; Philo, Opif. 135). But, from Paul’s perspective, God/Christ is a separable party who can make demands against one’s own preferences. A Stoic could not affirm this; see David E. Briones, ‘Paul and Seneca on the Self-Gift’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones; APhR 2; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 127–149.

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Bruce Winter and the Language of Benefaction in Romans 13.3 Andrew W. Pitts and Bahij Ajluni

In his analysis of Rom. 13.1–7,1 Bruce Winter makes the argument that Rom. 13.3 has a specific political (πολιτεία) context that targets ‘Christians of substance’ to partake in civil benefactive acts to serve their city (πόλις) for the greater purpose of attracting praise (ἔπαινος) and acceptance from the authorities.2 As those familiar with Winter might imagine, this argument forms part of a larger case that Winter and others have attempted to make that situates upper-stratum members (in varying degrees) among the earliest Christian congregations, including the church in Rome. Winter, therefore, insists that his benefactive reading of Romans 13 provides ‘further evidence [that] supports the view that there were members of significant social status and wealth in a number of congregations in the early church’.3 The origin of this debate goes back to the agenda set by Adolf Deissmann – who argued that the earliest Christian groups were composed of mostly lowerstratum members of society – followed up by a number of other scholars.4 E. A. 1

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We would like to thank Joseph Dodson for several helpful responses to our article within the editorial process. We have implemented many of his suggestions. Bruce W. Winter, Seek the Welfare of the City: Christians as Benefactors and Citizens (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1994) and Bruce W. Winter, ‘The Public Honouring of Christian Benefactors’, JSNT 34 (1998): 87–103. Paul calls for these specific believers to act within a ‘specific area of politeia viz. public benefactions’. Winter, Seek the Welfare, 26. Winter, Seek the Welfare, 37. E.g. Adolf Deissmann, St. Paul: A Study in Social and Religious History (trans. Lionel R. M. Strachan; London:  Hodder and Stoughton, 1912); Adolf Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East:  The New Testament Illustrated by Recently Discovered Texts of the Graeco-Roman World (New York:  George H. Doran Co, 1927); J. B. Skemp, The Greeks and the Gospel (London: Carey Kingsgate Press, 1964); Justin J. Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival (SNTW; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998).

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Judge was among the first to question Deissmann’s position.5 He was quickly followed by Meeks, who contends that early Christian communities ‘reflected a fair cross-stratum of urban society’.6 However, for Meeks, ‘the extreme top and bottom of the Greco-Roman social scale are missing from the picture’.7 So Winter goes beyond Meeks when he claims that if Romans 13 does evoke a benefactive context, this entails a corollary assumption from Paul involving the upper-stratum status of at least some members of the Roman congregation. Winter reasons:  ‘The cost of a [public] benefaction was very considerable and would be beyond the ability of some, if not most, members of the church.’ Therefore, Paul uses the singular form of σύ in Rom. 13.4 to show that the command is ‘addressed to the individual rather than the whole church’ so that ‘there must have been Christians of very considerable means to warrant Paul’s imperative in v. 3’.8 Winter also insists that this reading alleviates the tension introduced by Rom. 13.3, where Paul seems to guarantee praise from the authorities in response to benefactive acts. Although many studies have followed Winter’s reading,9 to our knowledge, no one has yet attempted a sustained evaluation of the evidence that Winter 5

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See the several studies collected in E. A. Judge, Social Distinctives of the Christians in the First Century: Pivotal Essays (ed. David M. Scholer; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2008); cf. also E. A. Judge, ‘The Social Identity of the First Christians: A Question of Method in Religious History’, Journal of Religious History 11 (1980): 201–207. Wayne A. Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), esp. 51–73 [73]. Meeks, First Urban Christians, 73. Winter, ‘The Public Honouring’, 94. Scholars who accept Winter’s thesis include:  Anthony C.  Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians:  A  Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2000), 9; Mark Strom, Reframing Paul: Conversations in Grace & Community (Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2000), 82; Christopher Bryan, Render to Caesar: Jesus, the Early Church, and the Roman Superpower (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 80; Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 2006), 793; Ben Witherington III, Letters and Homilies for Hellenized Christians Volume 2: A Social-Rhetorical Commentary on 1–2 Peter (Downers Grove, IL:  IVP, 2007), 144; Ksenija Magda, Paul’s Territoriality and Mission Strategy:  Searching for the Geographical Awareness Paradigm Behind Romans (WUNT II/266; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 116; Ben Witherington, The Indelible Image: The Theological and Ethical Thought World of the New Testament (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2009), 578; Colin G. Kruse, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (PNTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2012), 496; Jennifer G. Bird, Abuse, Power and Fearful Obedience: Reconsidering 1 Peter’s Commands to Wives (London:  T&T Clark International, 2013), 82; Rafael Rodriguez, If You Call Yourself a Jew:  Reappraising Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Eugene, OR:  Cascade Books, 2014), 164, 249. Scholars who accept Winter’s argument as partially valid but still problematic include, G. H.  R. Horsley, ‘The Inscriptions of Ephesos and The New Testament’, NovT 34 (1992):  105–168; Meggitt, Paul, 127; Philip H. Towner, ‘Romans 13:1–7 and Paul’s Missiological Perspective:  A  Call to Political Quietism or Transformation’, in Romans and the People of God: Essays in Honor of Gordon D. Fee on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday (ed. Sven Soderlund and N. T. Wright; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1999), 165–166; Bruno Blumenfeld, The Political Paul:  Justice, Democracy and Kingship in a Hellenistic Framework (JSNTSup 210; London: T&T Clark, 2003),

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provides; most simply take for granted the reliability of his results. For example, Robert Jewett’s more recent commentary on Romans depends heavily – even if uncritically – upon Winter. Commenting upon Romans 13, he says: Bruce Winter provides examples of inscriptions praising benefactors with the word ἀγαθός (‘good’), which Paul employs here. The fact that Romans was drafted during a period of exemplary Roman administration led by Seneca and Burrus augments the likelihood that Paul’s formulation would have resonated positively in Rome . . . Paul’s wording clearly implies that within the Roman churches ‘there must have been Christians of very considerable means’ who could play the role of public benefactors and gain such recognition.10

Ben Witherington agrees. He affirms that ‘Bruce Winter has shown that this phrase [sic.] [“do the good” in Rom. 13.3] normally refers to benefactions, doing the civic good’.11 This essay assesses Winter’s argument in light of ancient understandings of beneficiation and the wider context of Rom. 13.3. Although Winter focuses upon inscriptional evidence (which we will also address), we shall argue that when his arguments are brought into conversation with (especially) philosophical discussions of benefaction and with Paul’s goodness language in the first portion of the paraenesis (Romans 12), Winter’s analysis is called into question.

4.1 Benefaction in the Greco-Roman World Within the Hellenistic world, reciprocity took many forms, one of which was benefaction. Many ancient texts comment upon this social structure,

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396; Grant R. Osborne, Romans (IVPNTC; Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2004), 345; Leander E. Keck, Romans (Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press, 2005), 315–6; Jostein Ådna, The Formation of the Early Church (WUNT 183; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 31; David Robert Wallace, The Gospel of God: Romans As Paul ’s Aeneid (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2008), 67; James R. Harrison, Paul and the Imperial Authorities at Thessalonica and Rome: A Study in the Conflict of Ideology (WUNT 273; Tübingen, Germany: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 274. Scholars who acknowledge the importance of Winter’s work on Romans and benefaction include, Ben Witherington III, Letters and Homilies for Hellenized Christians Volume 2: A Social-Rhetorical Commentary on 1–2 Peter (Downers Grove, IL:  IVP, 2007), 144; David G.  Horrell, Becoming Christian:  Essays on 1 Peter and the Making of Christian Identity (LNTS 295; Bloomsbury: T&T Clark, 2013), 178; Travis B. Williams, Good Works in 1 Peter: Negotiating Social Conflict and Christian Identity in the Greco-Roman World (WUNT 337; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 13, 48; Ben Witherington III, New Testament Theology and Ethics: Volume 2 (Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2016), 578. And Winter apparently still thinks his arguments have not been overturned. See Bruce W.  Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars: The First Christians’ Responses (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 19. Jewett, Romans, 793. Quoted text is from Winter. Witherington, Indelible Image, 578.

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ranging from Aristotle and Demosthenes to Seneca and Cicero, as well as several beneficiary inscriptions. However, we can trace the origins of this form of reciprocity back to Dionysius’s discussion of the Romulus myth. We note that two forms of benefaction arise when we consider the evidence, a distinction of which Winter's analysis fails to take cognizance. We shall also observe some examples that did not require wealth to make benefactions and argue that Romans 13 fails to resemble the benefaction form of the inscriptions in significant ways. We emphasize the discussions of benefaction among the elite in various literary sources because, according to Winter, Paul was apparently familiar with such conventions and demanded that they be meted out by elite Christians within the Roman congregation. We especially wish to note the theory of benefaction developed by Seneca (and thus treat him prior to Cicero, notwithstanding issues of chronology) – and the evolution leading up to it – given his involvement with Rome at the time. However, both Dionysius of Halicarnassus and Aristotle provide a window into early formulations of benefaction that seem to anticipate the more developed discussions in Seneca and Cicero. Our exposition of the authors in this section also attempts to deal as much as possible with the entire context of their descriptions of benefaction, as the basis for showcasing elements of these broader descriptions that seem to be in tension with Winter’s analysis.

4.1.1 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Dionysius of Halicarnassus (60 BCE), in Antiquitates romanae, outlines the Romulus myth involved in the founding of Rome. Along with the foundation of Rome came the establishment of Roman reciprocity in the form of patronage.12 In Ant. rom. 2.9.1–3, Dionysius tells us: Romulus not only recommended the relationship by a handsome designation, calling this protection (πατρωνείαν) of the poor and lowly a ‘patronage’ (προστασίαν), but he also assigned friendly offices to both parties, thus making the connection between them a bond of kindness befitting of fellow citizens.

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Cf. Stephan Joubert, Paul as Benefactor: Reciprocity, Strategy, and Theological Reflection in Paul’s Collection (WUNT II/124; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 60.

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What is often missed in the discussion of this text is the fact that patronage or protection of the poor did not continue in this way. Contrary to Romulus’ hope, patronage failed to maintain its purpose of creating good relations between the classes of Rome – the δημοτικός or the common people and the εὐπᾰτρίδης or the noble people/aristocracy. The common people were those who worked in agriculture, raising crops and animals, while the aristocracy were tasked with controlling the primary social structures (2.9.1). Romulus sought to ease the tension between the two classes by defining their relationship in a new way through the concept of patronage (2.9.3). However, this new relationship did not accomplish the task that Romulus had intended. Romans would soon find themselves acting like the Thessalians and Athenians whom Romulus had initially criticized (2.9.2).

4.1.2 Aristotle Beginning in Ethica eudemia,13 we find Aristotle (384–322 BCE) discussing friendships of goodness, pleasure and utility (7.1236A.20–39). Aristotle defines the friendship of goodness as founded upon mutual reciprocity (τῶν ἀγαθῶν ἐστιν ἀντιφιλία καὶ ἀντιπροαίρεσις) (7.1236B.1–19). Those who form a friendship of goodness are considered by Aristotle as ‘best men’ (βελτίστων) and their friendship is based upon the mutual reciprocity of affection and purpose (7.1236A.20–39). Correspondingly, friendships were constructed around the equality of each person in the relationship (ἰσότης [ἡ] φιλότης) (7.1240B.1, 7.1241B.1–19). For this reason, Aristotle suppresses the need for the material exchange of goods because it yields an asymmetrical relationship. Aristotle considers it better to desire to know a person rather than to be known. Therefore, the desire to be known is based upon the desire for selfbenefit, whereas knowing someone requires the knower to consistently bestow upon the known. This is why, according to Aristotle, people who maintain their affection for the dead are praised – because they know but are not known themselves (7.1239A.20–39). When dealing with the reciprocal repayment of a loan, Aristotle deems it honourable for the benefitted to pay back the loan to the best of their abilities, for ‘even God is content with getting sacrifices in 13

Translations are from Aristotle in 23 Volumes (trans. H.  Rackham; Vol. 20; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981).

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accordance with our ability’ (7.1243B.1–19). In sharp contrast to the actual practice of reciprocity in the first century, Aristotle’s Ethica eudemia paints a picture of mutual benefaction and friendship. In Rhetorica, Aristotle frames a reasonable share of his discussion on rhetoric in terms of what is good and noble in a beneficiary relationship (1E.8– 9; 1G.18.1–19; 1G.35.1-1I.4). For example, Aristotle speaks of the benefit of others rather than one’s self as more beneficial (1I.18–20). Aristotle’s discussion of rhetoric using examples of benefaction thus provides a window into ancient social structures governing the exchange of gifts and services. And as we shall see, Aristotle’s portrayal of benefaction in Ethica eudemia and Rhetorica aligns with several later first-century descriptions.

4.1.3 Demosthenes14 Demosthenes (384–322 BCE) lived in Athens and gave many orations, primarily regarding politics. Peri syntaxeōs describes the governmental structure in Athens, focusing specifically upon the distribution of funds. Additionally, Demosthenes discusses those things that seem especially beneficial to the state, diverging from the previous wisdom given to the Athenians that led to their confusion regarding government funding (13.12–13). When delivering De corona, Demosthenes defends a man named Ctesiphon who wanted to honour him for his work in the city of Athens. Ctesiphon desired that ‘the People crown Demosthenes, son of Demosthenes, of Paeania, with a golden crown for his merit and for the goodwill that he has constantly displayed both towards all the Greeks and towards the people of Athens, and also for his steadfastness, and because he has constantly by word and deed promoted the best interests of the people, and is forward to do whatever good he can’ (18.54). In spite of the illegality of crowning someone ‘liable to audit’ (18.55) and doing so on ‘the day of the new tragedies’ (18.55), Demosthenes had performed acts of notable merit – at least in the eyes of Ctesiphon,15 who desired that his work not go unnoticed. The context here seems to suggest that, among other things, Ctesiphon views Demosthenes’ orations focused upon moral philosophy as acts of benefaction. Thus benefaction was not necessarily limited to material 14

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Translations are from Demosthenes with an English Translation by C. A. Vince, M. A. and J. H. Vince, M.A (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926). Cf. Seneca, Ben. 18.55 on speculations surrounding Demosthenes’ good deeds.

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goods, but could include orations or other services that promoted the good of the people – even, potentially, benefactions from some poor members of society, if they had such a service they could provide (see below).

4.1.4 Seneca Seneca (4? BCE–65 CE),16 in his De Beneficiis, speaks of a type of gift that was bestowed on a father when a son outdid him (3.36–37): when Antigonus won the victory; for, having vanquished the enemy in a mighty battle, he transferred to his father the prize of the war, and handed over to him the sovereignty of Cyprus. This is true kingship, to refuse to be king when you might have been’ (3.37.1–4).

In this case, Antigonus’ benefaction involved the bestowing upon his father the gifts of battle. Even more intriguing is the story of Manlius, who was exiled by his father but later honoured when he returned to his father’s rescue upon hearing the news that his father had been threatened by a tribune. Though Manlius was once a common man, his good deeds earned him a name that promised to be glorious throughout all ages (3.37.1–4).17 Benefactors carried out other functions as well, some of which Seneca deems acceptable, and others that he does not. Seneca is rather general here in his description of acceptable / useful versus unacceptable. He deems money (but not in excess) and public office as acceptable forms of benefaction:  ‘All benefits beyond these come as superfluities and tend to pamper a man. In the case of these, our aim shall be to make them acceptable by reason of their timeliness, to keep them from being commonplace’ (1.11.4–6; cf. also 2.17.2). Additionally, all benefits, to become ‘more acceptable’, are to be uncommon, not to be made irritating and not what the client already has in abundance

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For Seneca, Cicero and Dio Chrysostom (included in the discussion in the footnotes), LCL translations were employed, with some revisions. Seneca has a broad section in De Beneficiis ranging from chapter 36 to chapter 38. This section highlights men who would go on to fight a battle as their act of benefaction usually to be benefitted afterwards. In this case, the men who fought in battle were both benefactors and the ones being honoured. The benefits these benefactors would receive would not be in monetary gains, but in gains of honour and prestige amongst the people. Honour and prestige were typically more desirable than a monetary gain for acts of benefaction. Jonathan Marshall, Jesus, Patrons, and Benefactors: Roman Palestine and the Gospel of Luke (WUNT II/259; Tübingen, Germany: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 4, points out that during Homeric times, a ‘benefactor might [even] go to battle on behalf of a city’ as his act of benefaction.

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(1.12.1–3; 2.7.2). Other examples of acceptable benefaction involve property and office (2.34.5). Benefaction in the ideal world (though, as several have shown, this was almost never the case in the actual world)18 was done without demanding anything in return – this was considered virtuous (1.1.8–10). But once a benefaction was conferred, a return may be expected, but not required. Benefactors were to give without demanding anything in return, but clients were encouraged to return a benefit to their patron (2.35.2). Seneca makes a similar point when he illustrates the benefactor / client relationship as a game of catch, where the ball is continuously returned to the person who threw it (2.17.3–5). Seneca deploys this analogy as part of his configuration of benefaction in terms of a personal relationship between a patron and client (i.e. two individuals).19 Throughout his discussion, Seneca characterizes two types of benefaction by the effect they have upon groups versus individuals. The first type we shall call personal benefaction, as outlined in Seneca’s catch analogy, and the second type euergetistic benefaction, specifying high-status, wealthy individuals who would redistribute their wealth in various ways to benefit their community.20 Personal benefaction involves a benefactor who benefits a particular (singular) person.21 Seneca considers this the most noble form of benefaction. Euergetistic benefaction, by contrast, benefited a group, community or city. Even though individuals in a larger group will still benefit from community-wide benefactions, this type of benefitting is functionally different from the first type of benefaction. For benefaction to be ‘personal’, it can affect a group of people, but it must have originated with the intent of having an impact upon a specific individual. Euergetistic benefaction, on the other hand, was considered the less noble type of benefaction – a form of benefaction Seneca politely condemns.22 18

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Most recently, see John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2015), 11–78, esp. 51–65. Seneca also instructs his reader that when the ball is returned, the ball needs to be a catchable ball, not because the receiver expects a good return but because the game of catch warrants the return of the ball in a way that your catcher can catch it. Benefaction, in its best form, was meant to be a personal gift. It was to be most suitable for the person he/she was giving it to. From εὐεργετέω, coined by André Boulanger, Chronologie de la vie du rhéteur Aelius Aristide (Paris:  C. Klincksieck, 1922), 25; cf. Arjan Zuiderhoek, The Politics of Munificence in the Roman Empire: Citizens, Elites, and Benefactors in Asia Minor (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2009), 6. For further discussion, see Richard P. Saller, Personal Patronage Under the Early Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 1. Though ‘politely condemn’ is our language, not Seneca’s, we find this to be an accurate portrayal of Seneca’s (as well as Cicero’s – see below) view of euergetistic benefaction. Seneca considers it

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Personal benefaction, according to Seneca, is the more acceptable type of benefaction because it is better suited to benefit those who are worthy (4.28.2–6), whereas the effects of euergetistic benefaction benefit all people collectively, even thieves, murderers, plunderers, assassins, private bravoes and sinners alike (4.28.2–6), which Seneca repudiates. He offers in support: ‘Certain blessings are offered to all. Cities are founded as much for the bad as for the good’ (4.28.2–6).23 Ungratefulness, or acting like one has not received a benefit when in fact you have, is considered, throughout all the world, to be disgraceful. Therefore, it is better to give to those who deserve and are more likely to be gracious (3.1.1). Also, it was assumed that to maintain his/ her status as a benefactor, they would repeat a benefit, making euergetism something that must be an ongoing exchange between the patron and client. As already noted, benefits should not become commonplace, but should be an uncommon occurrence and regarded as acceptable by their timeliness (1.11.4–6). In addition, since benefactors often used benefits for their own fame rather than primarily for the benefit of the beneficiaries, personal act of beneficiation (since it involved fewer people) reduced the likelihood of the benefit being bestowed for the primary purpose of one’s own exaltation in the community (1.1.8–10; 2.18.6; 2.21.3; 2.28.1). Seneca argues that the best expressions of benefaction will create the most moving effect within the benefitted or, in other words, represent that which is likely to bring out the most gratitude from them (1.4.5; 1.11.6). Seneca is more concerned with the effects of the gift upon the client than the qualitative aspects of the gift itsef. Seneca shows that status and honour are benefits that last and are, therefore, more intrinsically valuable than a perishable gift such as coined silver or clothing. Again, the gift was more likely to bring out a dramatic effect in the recipient of personal benefaction than in the recipients of euergetistic benefaction. Seneca’s taxonomy of benefaction, then, can be summarized in the following way (see Figure 4.1)

23

superfluous (Ben. 1.11.4–6; 2.17.2; cf. also Cicero, Off. 2.15.), ill interpreted (Ben. 1.1.8-10) and not based upon goodness (Ben. 4.28.2–6). Similarly, Cicero considers it easy / not novel (Off. 2.15.52– 54) and lavish (Off. 2.15.54). Though ‘less honourable’ may not seem ignoble, Seneca and Cicero (see below) not only viewed it as a lesser form of benefaction but politely (by calling it ‘less noble’ rather than something worse) condemned it. Cf. also Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, 51, who states, ‘For a service to qualify as a benefit it must have been undertaken because of a specific individual, and not just bestowed on him as one of the crowd.’ Though Seneca may also speak this way about god at times, Seneca does make this statement about God, but this is only for blessings that would be impossible to only influence an individual.

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Intended to Affect Individuals

Intended to Affect Groups

Personal Benefaction

Euergetisitic Benefaction

Most Noble

Least Noble

Figure 4.1 Seneca’s Theory of Benefaction

Moving from top to bottom, we have personal benefaction, which intended to affect individuals and was the most noble whereas euergetistic benefaction intended to affect groups but was the least noble.

4.1.5 Cicero In Cicero’s (106–43 BCE) De officiis, we can see the same two categories discovered in Seneca. First, we find several clear instances where Cicero celebrates personal benefaction. He states:  ‘[K]indness is shown to the needy either by personal service, or by gifts of money. The latter way is the easier, especially for a rich man; but the former is nobler and more dignified and more becoming to a strong and eminent man’ (2.15.52–54). Cicero, himself a rich and successful lawyer, enjoyed offering his legal services as a form of benefaction. For Cicero, ‘the bounty which is drawn from one’s material substance tends to exhaust the very fountain of liberality (freely giving)’ because ‘the more people one has helped with gifts of money, the fewer one can help’ (2.15.52). Despite Cicero’s criticism of monetary gifts, he does give examples of certain gifts along these lines that were acceptable (2.17.60). Notwithstanding all of the benefits that a person can endow, as with Seneca, Cicero highlights the need to limit giving in certain respects: ‘But what is worse folly than to do the thing you like in such a way that you can no longer do it at all? Then, too, lavish giving leads to robbery; for when through over-giving men begin to be impoverished’ (2.15.54). Cicero also exclaims, ‘One’s purse, then, should not be closed so tightly that a generous impulse cannot open it, nor yet so loosely held as to be open to everybody. A limit should be observed’ (2.15.55). Like Seneca, Cicero sees it as better to be generous than lavish (2.16.55).

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Again echoing Seneca, Cicero has a great deal to say regarding euergetistic benefaction, which he deems to be the lesser form of doing good. He defines lavish givers as those who ‘squander their money on public banquets, doles of meat among the people, gladiatorial shows, magnificent games, and wildbeast fights – vanities of which but a brief recollection will remain, or none at all’ (2.16.55). Cicero’s criticism of such acts of benefaction is clear. They are superfluous, lavish and characterized by excess. The generous giver is one who focuses upon alleviating a friend’s debts, ransoming captives from brigands, providing dowries for their daughters, or helping their daughters to acquire property or increase their possessions (12.16.56). Cicero sharply criticizes Theophrastus for thinking that it was praiseworthy to spend lavishly on popular games for indulgence. He views wealth as a means to exercise generosity: ‘Misplaced Good deeds, I think, are evil deeds’ (2.18.62). Along these lines, Cicero provides the reader with moral principles that should govern giving and receiving benefits. According to Cicero, a person must give to the morally worthy, even the poor. When one gives, it should not be done indiscriminately or superfluously, but with ‘discretion and moderation’ (2.15.54). Cicero argues that benefits should be given based on moral worth, and in a way that a person may keep giving, and so does Seneca (cf. Seneca, Ben. 4.28.2–6).

4.1.6 Beneficiary Inscriptions The literary sources considered above share the perspective of the GrecoRoman world’s upper stratum.24 Inscriptional evidence, by contrast, often 24

Dio Chrysostom (40–115 CE) also treats benefaction, but not as extensively. In De regno i (Or. 1), the good king ‘finds greater pleasure in conferring benefits than those benefited do in receiving them’ (1.23). The good king, in fact, benefits his subjects to the point that they ‘loath to leave him’ (1.24). In De regno ii (Or. 2), Dio Chrysostom says that the good king is to prefer to ‘live simply and without affectation, to give proof by his very conduct of a character that is humane, gentle, just, lofty, and brave as well, and, above all, one that takes delight in bestowing benefits’ (2.26). One of a king’s most noble virtues should be his delight in bestowing benefits upon his people. Dio’s remarks on beneficiation are often from a viewpoint of wealth and thus euergetistic in nature. His discussion of athletes and their prizes provides further evidence for this perspective, for example. Dio Chrysostom makes the argument that athletes will not compete unless they have a prize when the winner of the event is announced (Or. 31.22). Athletic competitions were a form of benefaction that relied upon benefactors for their existence (e.g. building gymnasiums, providing the oils to adorn the athletes, etc.). This form of benefaction is accompanied with high prestige. But it is a form of euergetistic benefaction (an athletic event is intended to benefit a large crowd and is usually done for the purpose of personal gain via a crown or wreath). We see through Dio Chrysostom that certain forms of euergetistic benefaction were certainly honourable, but since he does not expound upon personal benefaction, his view of the relationship between the two types of benefaction in terms of honour remains unclear.

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provides a more (sociologically) panoramic view, emerging from a variety of classes in the ancient world.25 Several benefaction inscriptions are worth considering as we seek to understand the context of benefaction as it relates to Winter’s reading of Romans 13. This section considers benefaction in several inscriptions, including inscriptions that Winter discusses. In particular, we seek to assess whether Winter has correctly read these inscriptions as a background for Romans 13 and to bring this material into conversation with the (mainly) philosophical texts discussed above. First, The Council of the People recognizing a physician in Kos: In the time of [Deina], on 13 Apatpurion, at the regular electoral assembly, when Kallisthenes son of Timosthenes presided. The People resolved – with Melanthos, son of Emprepon, making the motion in response to the proposal of Alkiades, son of Molpos – that Philistos, the son of Nikarchos of Kos, a doctor who has rendered many services to our citizens, be commended and crowned as resolved by the Council of the People, and that he be given the right of proxeny. WHEREAS Philistos, son of Nikarchos of Kos is a doctor who preserves in [meeting] every need in accordance with the physicians craft, and in the course of his [ungrudging attention] has cured [many] citizens who incurred serious [ailments] during their stay in Kos either as representatives of their people or on private business, and [has been helpful] to other citizens who are [continually coming] to Kos, omitting no act of [generosity] and promoting everything that is conductive [to health - - -] and is ready to aid [anyone], no matter what the request may be; therefore, so that all may know that we express appropriate appreciation to those who practice the policy of making us the beneficiaries of their philanthropies, be it RESOLVED to commend Philistos of Kos, son of Nikarchos, and to crown him [- - -].26

Several things are worth noting here. First, it is important to highlight the type of benefaction that took place. Philistos, a physician in Kos, rendered his services as a doctor as his form of benefaction. This example of benefaction aligns with Seneca and Cicero’s understanding of the more noble type of benefaction, because Philistos would have to conduct his benefaction with individuals. 25

26

The translations of the inscriptions in this section are taken from Frederick W.  Danker, Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeco-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field (St. Louis, MO: Clayton Pub. House, 1982). Published in Jost Benedum, ‘Griechische Arztinschriften aus Kos’, ZPE 25 (1977):  265–270, no. 1. Dated around 241 BCE. Hyphen ellipses depict original text that is illegible.

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In a society dominated by the agricultural industry, doctors had meager incomes unless their patient base was also rich.27 Thus, individuals who were not in the highest strata of society could also be benefactors. It is also interesting that Philistos benefitted multiple individuals (‘omitting no act of [generosity]’) before he received formal recognition from his government. Philistos thus likely healed many sick people without motive for public praise or honour. Additionally, we notice that Philistos received proxeny (citizenship in the town or city one serves in), a common way of honouring benefactors. Finally, the above inscription shows that the government at the time may not have always been as timely as one would hope in offering praise to its people, since Philistos likely had performed many acts of service before he was recognized. In another inscription, we discover a physician being honoured for his many acts of benefits as a doctor: In the time of Eutychides, on 1 Alseios. Decree of the People of Aigelia:  WHEREAS Anaxippos, the Alexander and physician appointed be the Assembly, has conducted him self in praiseworthy fashion for many years both in his profession and in his life and spared no effort as he brought numerous citizens safely through serious diseases, including (apparently) terminal cases; therefore in order that the People might continue to be known for expressing appreciation to those who choose to be their benefactors, and in order that physicians to come might show themselves all the more zealous in meeting the needs of the People, be it RESOLVED by the People of Aigelia, to commend Anaxippos for the warm concern he shows [in all the assistance he continually renders - - -].28

Unfortunately, the end of the inscription is illegible, but we may still make several observations. First, there are similarities with the previous inscription. Anaxippos, also a physician, had completed many acts of benefit before the Assembly commended him for his efforts. Similar to Philistos and the People,

27

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See Plautus, Aul. 448:  ‘I was hired for a didrachm.’ T. Maccius Plautus, The Comedies of Plautus (Trans. Henry Thomas Riley ; Medford, MA:  G. Bell and Sons, 1912). In his Naturalis historia, Pliny comments on doctors not administering service due to the inability to reach an agreement on payment:  ‘I will not accuse the medical art of the avarice even of its professors, the rapacious bargains made with their patients while their fate is trembling in the balance, the tariffs framed upon their agonies, the monies taken as earnest for the dispatching of patients, or the mysterious secrets of the craft’ (29.8). Translation revised from The Natural History (ed. John Bostock; Medford, MA: Taylor and Francis, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, 1855). Published in J. Benedum, ‘Arztinschriften aus Kos’, ZPE 25 (1977):  270–271, no. 2. Dated around 200 BCE.

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the Assembly in this case did not act in a timely matter when it came to commending Anaxippos for his multiple services. The type of praise Anaxippos received was also similar to Philistos in the way that he was to be crowned. Anaxippos, unlike Philistos, did not receive proxeny. When the inscription says, ‘he brought numerous citizens safely through serious diseases’, it seems to imply that Anaxippos was already a citizen helping other citizens, which may account for why we find no mention of him receiving proxeny – he was already a citizen. Additionally, Anaxippos was commended not only for his work as a physician but also for the praiseworthy actions in his life. Finally, we must address the ethical question that this inscription raises: What was the purpose of the Assembly praising the People? It seems to involve at the very least the hope that the acts will inspire future generosity so that people (in this case, perhaps doctors) become ‘all the more zealous’ and continue to do the good and benefit the people. Another inscription, the Decree by the League of Artists of Dionysos in Honour of the flutist Kraton, highlights the said flutist.29 Again, we see a person not included in the upper stratum being praised for his benefactions to the city as a musician. Kraton, not giving any money, rendered a service instead, as did the physicians mentioned earlier. Kraton served as a priest of Dionysos and president of the contest, which he had won. Because of these credentials, he surpassed all previous sponsors of the contest and was deemed by the Guild of Artists worthy of the honour of benefactor. For Kraton the flutist, the honour was much more than just a crown; it was three icons. One was placed in the theater, so his icon can be honoured yearly with a wreath. A second was placed in Delos so that his icon might be crowned by the Guild of Artists. And a third one was placed wherever Kraton pleased ‘so that for all [time there might be remembrance]’ of his services. Additionally, the decree was to be copied on stone stelai and to place one beside each of the icons of Kraton, and to send two envoys, who shall request the people Teos to provide a place [in the theater, in which] the icon of Kraton might be put, and other envoys are to be sent to the people of Delos [- - -] and they shall appear before the People and the Council and request [them and the prytaneis] to grant the Guild of Artists a place [for the icon].

29

Danker, Benefactor, 167–168.

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In addition to the content of these inscriptions, it is important – for assessing Winter’s work in particular, since it is the principle evidence upon which he depends – to notice that we can draw from these inscriptions a benefaction form: [Benefaction Condition:] If (or because) person A does/did thing(s) X (and Y) for our city, [Honour Fulfillment:] then it is therefore necessary (resolved) that we honor person A as follows.

We can clearly see this form in the following inscriptions: 1) So that we ourselves may be seen by Benefaction Condition: those who propose to bestow benefactions on us (τοις προαιρουμένοις εύεργετείν) Honour Fulfillment: to give appropriate rewards, to praise (έπαινέσαι) and to crown (στεφανώσαι) them.30 BMI 455 (150 BCE) 2) Resolved by the Council and the People Benefaction Condition: Dion, son of Diopeithes, moved, that whereas (επειδή) Agathocles, son of Hegemon, of Rhodes, having imported a quantity of wheat, and finding that the corn in the market was being sold at more than drachmae, persuaded by the superintendent of the market, and wishing to please the People, sold all his corn cheaper than that which was being sold in the market: Honour Fulfi llment: it be hereby resolved (δεδόχθαι) by the Council and the People to grant citizenship to Agathocles of Rhodes, upon equal and similar terms, to himself and to his descendants: further, that the Essenes allot him a place in a tribe and a thousand, and that the Templewardens inscribe these (grants) in his honour in the Temple of Artemis where they inscribe the rest of the grants of citizenship; to the end that all may know (όπως άπαντες είδωσιν) that the People understand how to repay with its favours those who are benefactors to it (ότι ό δήμος έπιστάται χάριτας άποδιδόναι τοις εύεργετουσιν αυτόν). Admitted into the Bembinean tribe and the Agotean thousand.31 30

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Cited in Winter, ‘The Public Honouring of Christian Benefactors’, 98. See J. Benedum, ‘Griechische Arzünschriften’, ZPE 25 (1977), 266, for the complete text. Ancient Greek Inscription in the British Museum-Ephesus, BMI 455 (150 BCE). Translation provided by Winter.

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In the first benefaction inscription ‘those who propose to bestow’ (A) ‘benefactions on us’ (X, Y) will be praised according to their acts of benefaction. In the second, longer inscription, Agathocles (A) imported a quantity of wheat (X) and sold his corn at less than market value (Y) to the community he belonged to. Because of this, Agathocles (A) will be honoured as followed:  citizenship will be granted to him and his decedents along with the promise that his citizenship grant would be inscribed at the temple of Artemis where all other grants of citizenship are inscribed.32

4.1.7 Summary Several important insights emerge from the survey of Greco-Roman benefaction in this chapter, which can be briefly brought into synthesis here. First, as early as the descriptions of the origins of patronage itself by Dionysius in connection with the Romulus myth, there was a well-intended version of patronage and one that was corrupted, which did not fulfill Romulus’ original intentions. This well-intended account of patronage later finds expression as the most noble form of benefaction, most explicitly in Seneca but also in Cicero. And Aristotle preempts later discussions in Seneca and Cicero when he says that the best beneficiations primarily benefit the client, not the benefactor. This seems to imply a noble and less noble (condemned) form of benefaction in connection with whom is primarily affected by the benefits. So, it seems, we have a gradual solidification of a tradition that distinguishes between these two forms of giving, counting personal benefaction as more noble and euergetistic benefaction as less so. Second, according to Seneca and Cicero, the most noble forms of benefaction are to be exercised for the benefit of moral individuals (which we have referred to as personal benefaction) without a hard expectation of something in return to the patron / benefactor from the client. Personal benefaction, in its most intimate expressions, may not even be recognized by a political body. By contrast, euergetistic benefaction often resulted in the praise of a patron by

32

Danker, Benefactor: Epigraphic Study, 234–236 includes a modern Greek inscription ‘Expressing of Gratitude by the people of Greece for the Benefactor of Harry S. Truman, President of the United States’. Interestingly, that the form of this inscription is like Ancient Greek inscriptions reveals the apparently resilient nature of the form. President Truman was granted citizenship (proxeny) in Hellenes.

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governing authorities for his or her gifts that benefitted the People, presumably in the hope that people would continue to do good (see Seneca, Ben. 1.1.8–10; 2.35.2). For this and other reasons, both Seneca and Cicero condemn euergetistic benefaction as the least noble of the two forms. Third, we can see especially in the inscriptions that some benefactors preferred over-the-top recognitions, praises (icons, plaques, crowns, wreaths, front row seating, contests and festivals) or things that would be considered superfluous, wasteful and even harmful to humanity by Seneca and Cicero, especially (see Seneca, Ben. 1.11.4–6; 1.12.1–3; 2.7.2; cf. also 2.17.2; Cicero, Off. 2.15.52–54; 2.15.55; 2.16.55; cf. also 2.17.60 for a list of acceptable gifts). Because benefaction became a way for a person in the Greco-Roman world to gain honour rather than to benefit the common good, appearing more like patronage, piety became subordinate to technique. The benefits that were formally and publically commended were often euergetistic in nature, given to immoral people and not true to the noblest type of benefaction outlined by Seneca and Cicero and alluded to by Aristotle. Finally, when benefactors were honoured through inscriptions, an inscriptional form was usually employed, as outlined above. In the literary sources, as well, but especially in these inscriptions, we see the potential for some nonelites to function as benefactors through providing services to a community. If so, this would soften (though, still, most benefactors were apparently among the elite) Winter’s connection of benefaction to socially elite members of the Roman church.

4.2 Romans 13.3 and Seneca’s Theory of Benefaction What bearing does all of this have upon Winter’s beneficiary reading of the language of Rom. 13.3? In this section, we will argue that our wider analysis of benefaction in the literary and inscriptional sources above reveals elements of the benefaction context that Winter’s analysis fails to calibrate. Seneca and Cicero (the two closet thinkers to Paul and not also Seneca’s connection to Rome around the same time) seem to think of benefaction in terms of personal and euergetistic benefaction, the former being more honourable and the latter politely condemned. And this understanding seems to be anticipated in earlier accounts. If Paul does deploy benefaction language in Rom.

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13.3, it would be a type of euergetistic benefaction, which raises an important question:  Why would Paul fail to promote personal benefaction in Rom. 13.3 (or elsewhere) had he been familiar with such structures and advocating them to Roman Christians (again, assuming with Winter, that Paul did know of such things)? If Paul was acquainted with benefaction conventions, as Winter suggests, why would he promote the less noble / condemned type as the ‘good’ in Rom. 13.3? While Winter cites numerous parallels between beneficiary inscriptions and Paul’s language in Rom. 13.3,33 he overlooks several dissimilarities between Paul in Romans 13 and the Greco-Roman benefaction inscription form. As noted above, benefaction inscriptions take on a very specific form, not easily detectable in Rom 13.3.34 Paul says in Romans 13: Rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then, and you will receive its approval’ (NRSV). οἱ γὰρ ἄρχοντες οὐκ εἰσὶν φόβος τῷ ἀγαθῷ ἔργῳ ἀλλὰ τῷ κακῷ. θέλεις δὲ μὴ φοβεῖσθαι τὴν ἐξουσίαν· τὸ ἀγαθὸν ποίει, καὶ ἕξεις ἔπαινον ἐξ αὐτῆς (NA28)

This does not match the benefaction inscription form in any clear way other than Winter’s notice of sets of common words between these inscriptions and Romans 13. Virtually all civic benefactors were recognized, however, in the way outlined above. Perhaps one could argue that Paul’s to ‘do the good, and you will have praise from him [the authorities]’ (τὸ ἀγαθὸν ποίει, καὶ ἕξεις ἔπαινον ἐξ αὐτῆς), could perhaps be loosely aligned with the benefaction form. For example, if the Christian (person A) in Romans 13 does what is good, then that Christian will receive praise from authorities. But this really does not correspond to the highly formalized ways benefactors were honoured through inscriptions, as Winter suggests.35 Rom. 13.3 seems far less specific and formalized than the beneficiary inscriptions, lacking any mention of specific persons, benefits or their honours. And there is no evidence outside of the inscriptions of this benefaction form. In other words, the form 33

34 35

For instance, Winter Seek the Welfare, 27–28, cites Benedum, ‘Griechische,’ ZPE 25 (1977): 271, 266; BMI 420, 455 (150 BCE), C. Michel, Recueil d ’ inscriptions grecques, 345 (3rd century BCE); and IEph 1412. Winter discusses the form of the benefaction inscription in Winter, Seek the Welfare, 26–27. Winter, Welfare, 27, calls it a ‘Greek epigraphic benefactor genre’.

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does not seem to embed in other literary forms (such as letters), as Winter argues is the case here. The form Winter highlights stood alone in its use uniquely and specifically for benefaction inscriptions. Turning to Winter’s lexical parallels, he argues that the word ἔπαινον and the clause ἀγαθὸν ποίει used in Rom. 13.3 are technical terms/clauses, employed by Paul to signal a benefaction context, given the command to obey authorities (endowing these words with political charge). Depending upon issues of authorship, ἔπαινος and its derivatives are used six to nine other times throughout the Pauline letters.36 In no clear instance do we find a benefaction or political context surrounding Paul’s use of ἔπαινος – unless Rom. 13.3 is an exception. These passages all involve praise to or from God. We grant that benefactions are possibly included within Paul’s frame of reference for the ‘good’ (ἀγαθὸν), but that in itself is not enough to conclude that Paul’s command to ἀγαθὸν ποίει in Rom. 13:3 refers to benefactive acts. And the reference to obey authorities on its own may signal a broadly political context, but this does not seem to warrant the further move toward rendering the command in terms of acts of civil benefaction. Further, to propose, as Winter does, that ἀγαθὸν ποίει specifically entails a command that the readers must become benefactors in order to serve their πόλις would have potentially introduced confusion amongst early Christians in Rome since many would be concerned with how they were going to be able to fulfill such a task. Winter recognizes this difficulty in his reading of Paul’s command:  ‘ The cost of a [public] benefaction was very considerable and would be beyond the ability of some, if not most, members of the church.’37 But, he says, ‘there must have been Christians of very considerable means to warrant Paul’s imperative in v. 3’, although several discussions above reveal a range of possible non-monetary benefactions that were possible even for (some) poor members of society.38 So Winter’s analysis of benefaction inscriptions really forms part of a larger case for upper-stratum Christians in Rome, and if this evidence is weakened, so is his case for his social profile of the Roman church.

36

37 38

Used in Romans twice, 1 Corinthians once, 2 Corinthians once, Ephesians three times, and Philippians twice. Winter, ‘The Public Honouring’, 94. Winter, ‘The Public Honouring’, 94.

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4.3 ἀγαθός and κακός in Romans 12 and 13 Between Romans 12 and 13, ἀγαθός occurs six times in five verses.39 κακός is used eight times in five verses.40 The abundance of this language in both passages connects Romans 12 and 13 through a local semantic chain that exposes a strong connection – at least apparently in Paul’s mind – between the two chapters. Although scholars once considered an interpolation due to the seemingly abrupt transition between chapters,41 textual criticism has ruled out the former and discourse analysis the latter. In fact, the unity of the two chapters (established, among other things, by Paul’s goodness language) suggests the potential fruitfulness of understanding goodness in Romans 12 as a frame for its continued use in Romans 13. In Rom. 12.2, Paul defines ‘the good’ (τὸ ἀγαθὸν) as the will of God. In 12.9, Paul urges the Romans to hate evil and to hold onto the good (τῷ ἀγαθῷ), that is, the will of God. Towards the end of the chapter but before the topic shift in 12.21, Paul states that man is to not be overcome by evil, but to overcome evil with good (μὴ νικῶ ὑπὸ τοῦ κακοῦ ἀλλὰ νίκα ἐν τῷ ἀγαθῷ τὸ κακόν). This key transitional passage connects ‘the good’ in Romans 12 to ‘the good’ (τῷ ἀγαθῷ) at the beginning of Rom. 13.3. And Rom. 12.9, 21 and 13.3 use same morphology and modification structure for ‘the good’ (articular, dative singular neuter), further strengthening the connection between Romans 12 and 13. So if we take Paul’s usage of goodness language up to this point as his driving semantic frame, τῷ ἀγαθῷ ἔργῳ (13.3) and τὸ ἀγαθόν (13.3) seem to denote that which is (broadly) morally good or, in other words, acts in line with God’s will for humanity.42 Put another 39 40 41

42

Rom 12.2, 9, 21; 13.3, 4. Rom 12.17, 21; 13.3, 4, 10. Scholars who argue for an interpolation theory include:  James Kallas, ‘Romans xiii. 1–7:  An Interpolation’, NTS 11 (1964–1965):  365–374; John C. O’Neil, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Harmondsworth:  Penguin, 1975), 207–208; Walter Schmithals, Der Römerbrief als historisches Problem (SNTU 9; Gütersloh Gerd Mohn, 1975), 185–197; Winsome Munro, Authority in Paul and Peter:  The Identification of a Pastoral Stratum in the Pauline Corpus and 1 Peter (SNTSMS 45; Cambridge University Press. 1983), 16–19. Studies that argue for its authenticity include: Otto Michel, Der Brief an Die Römer (4th ed.; H.  A. W.  Meyer KEK. Gottingen:  Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 312; J. Friedrich, W. Pöhlmann, and P. Stuhlmacher, ‘Zur historischen Situation und Intention von Röm 13,1-7’, ZThK 73 (1976):  131–166 [134–135]; F. F. Bruce, ‘Paul and “the Powers that Be”’, Bulletin of the John Reynolds University Library of Manchester 66 (1978):  78–96 [79–85]; Ernst Käsemann, Commentary on Romans (London:  SCM, 1980), 351; Robert H. Stein, Difficult Passages in the Epistles (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 1988), 326; Thomas R. Schreiner, Paul, Apostle of God’s Glory in Christ: A Pauline Theology (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2006), 447; Harrison, Paul, 271. C. E. B Cranfield, Romans 9–16: A Critical and Exegetical Commentary (ICC; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 665.

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way: ‘ “The good deed” is a personification,43 and speaks of good deeds in the collective sense.’44 It must be realized that words like ἀγαθός, κακός and ἔπαινος were extremely common in Hellenistic Greek, so merely noting their occurrence in a passage does little to establish a connection with a specific political context, since the words were used widely in many types of Greek discourse. This exposes a major weakness in Winter’s assessment – it is, for the most part, based in word-level analysis. Linguists now widely recognize that authors encode meaning within higher levels of linguistic structure, usually considering the word group or (most commonly) the clause as the fundamental unit of meaning. When considering potential borrowing or outside linguistic influences, this means that we should privilege units of language that share common syntactic (not merely lexical) environments.45 With frequent words especially (and words occurring in multiple genres and registers), a technical meaning connected a specific social context (e.g. benefaction) for a lexeme used by Paul and another text or set of texts in a specified social context seems highly improbable. Consider the frequencies for ἀγαθός and κακός, for example, in the New Testament and within broader Greek literature.

New Testament LXX Jewish Pseudepigrapha Apostolic Fathers Josephus Philo Perseus Greek Corpus

ἀγαθός

κακός

102 590 178 90 529 1,426 7,967

50 374 269 28 439 583 9,206

As we can see, these words are distributed across a wide range of texts, many of them dealing with Greco-Roman moral philosophy and with quite high densities. Clearly, merely noting that a lexeme occurs in both Paul and another text does little to establish a connection with the proposed social context for 43

44

45

This is more likely a trope than a personification, however. See Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification: Rhetorical Purpose in the Book of Wisdom and the Letter to the Romans (BZNW 161; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), esp. 29–30. David Abernathy, An Exegetical Summary of Romans 9–16 (Dallas, TX:  SIL International, 2009), 239. Stanley E. Porter, Sacred Tradition in the New Testament:  Tracing Old Testament Themes in the Gospels and Epistles (Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic, 2016), 33, suggests that at least three consecutive words must be employed to have citation but still – shared syntax – seems even more preferable.

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lexemes that occur so frequently and widely throughout Greek literature. Further, factors beyond – but connected to – the social context may be constraining Paul’s deployment of this language. For example, that Paul’s language for good / evil begins in chapter 12, with the shift into paraenetic discourse, may indicate a moral philosophical rather than a benefactive context for this language. Based on densities of ἀγαθός and κακός alone (occurring quite frequently in moral philosophical texts, especially relative to the major treatments of benefaction), this would suggest a context at least more likely than the one Winter proposes. So how do we determine Paul’s sociolinguistic context for his goodness language in Rom. 13.3? One promising way to move beyond this linguistic ambivalence and, with it, the word level might involve an analysis of instances where ἀγαθός and κακός occur as collocates in the same passage. For example, this would limit the data set in the Perseus Greek Corpus to 311 occurrences rather than the massive numbers generated when each lexeme is considered separately, but none of these collocates occur in the Greek expositions of benefaction. So while this may limit the data, it does not do so in a way that would help Winter’s case. What about ἀγαθός and ἔπαινος as collocates? A search of the Greek Perseus Corpus reveals 133 such collocations, but these seem to be widely distributed across a range of different environments as well, so that this collocational environment does not help connect ἀγαθός with a specific technical setting either. Assessment of a word’s common syntactic environment(s) will restrict analysis further, and perhaps provide a more promising way forward than the lexical contextual considerations alone. Again, probabilities of a sociolinguistic connection to a specific contextual usage increase with the size of the linguistic units used for analysis. For example, an exact phrase used in Paul and in an inscription is more likely to reveal a shared social environment than occurrence of a single (very common) word or set of words. Likewise, the repetition of an entire clause (the next largest unit up) in two texts provides a still greater probability of a shared social setting than the repetition of a phrase, and so on. But what is the relevant syntactic environment for ἀγαθός? At the word group or phrase level, ἀγαθός is articular and part of a primary (independent) clausal structure with ποιεῖ as the predictor. This is its most immediate syntactic environment. And although ἀγαθός and ποιέω collocate 404 times in the Greek Perseus Corpus, ἀγαθὸν ποιεῖ only occurs in Romans 13 (the

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Greek NT, but not the LXX, is included in the Greek Perseus Corpus – note the implications for the above chart as well). However, there is another place where ἀγαθὸν ποιεῖ occurs and it is not (at least in the exact form) in the beneficiary inscriptions: Prov. 11.17: τῇ ψυχῇ αὐτοῦ ἀγαθὸν ποιεῖ ἀνὴρ ἐλεήμων Rom. 13.3: τὸ ἀγαθὸν ποίει While there are some differences between these two clauses – note especially the different morphologies based on the distinctive contexts (the accents, obviously added later) – we have exact formal graphological representation and a shared syntactic environment with ποιέω as the predictor for ἀγαθὸν in a primary clause. This increases the probability of borrowing or for a shared social context. We are not convinced that Paul did borrow this proverbial phrase, but it seems more likely than Winter’s proposal due to the shared clause level syntactic environments. Winter does point to two inscriptions (and a few more in the footnotes) that employ both ποιέω and ἀγαθὸν, but none of these parallel the syntax as closely as does the proverbial expression noted above.46 The first example (SIG 174)  noted by Winter has the two terms spread over a clause complex so that ποιέω does not govern ἀγαθὸν as its direct complement, and in the second example (GDI 5464)  ἀγαθὸν is the non-articular object of the infinitive for ποιέω (thus an embedded not an independent clause), reversing the clause constituent ordering so that the verb (ποιέω) rather than the complement (ἀγαθὸν) is fronted and occurring in an embedded rather than a primary clause. Our point is simply that the use of common words does not always decisively point to a shared social context, especially when more syntactically parallel instances of this language exists outside of Paul. Paul’s quotation of Prov. 25.21, 22 in Rom. 12.20 may further corroborate a proverbial rather than a benefactive understanding of the social background of the passage. Here, Paul argues that one should seek their own vengeance but not in the way one might imagine. The Christians in Rome should do (ποιῶν) good by feeding those who hate them and, by extension, avenge their enemies through heaping coals upon their head(s) as a result. This passage, ‘like many others in Prov [is] concerned with the harmony and well-being of the local community, which ought to override the selfish interests and feuds

46

Winter, Seek the Welfare, 34–35.

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of individuals’,47 a situation Paul may have been attempting to navigate when writing Romans 12 and 13. This citation, along with the parallel proverbial language already noted in Rom. 13.3, raises the possibility that a proverbial frame may be driving Paul’s goodness language in Romans 12 and 13. This connection seems at least more probable than a context advocating civil-level euergetistic benefaction, widely considered to be the morally inferior form of benefaction. And broader Pauline theology seems to suggest that Paul may have had disdain for euergetistic benefaction, for reasons not dissimilar to Seneca and Cicero. He detests attempts to gain approval from humanity (1 Thes. 2.6; cf. John 12.43). In Rom. 2.29, Paul notes that circumcision of the heart is worthy of praise (ὁ ἔπαινος) not from other persons, but from God (cf. 1 Cor. 9:24–5). As Dunn observes, ‘Paul displayed the . . . typically Jewish distrust of human praise.’48 What about Winter’s point that his analysis eases the tension introduced by the promise of praise from the authorities for acts of (we believe, general moral rather than benefactive) goodness? We doubt this tension exists. Paul’s use of the future form of ἕξεις grammaticalizes expectation in Rom. 13.3,49 not future certainty. For example, the future form used earlier (σωρεύσεις) in Rom. 12.20 does not ‘guarantee’ that coals will be heaped upon the heads of the audience’s enemies; however, there is an expectation that their good acts will result in an effect that their enemies will likely not enjoy. Here too, Paul ensures that as Roman Christians pursue acts of goodness, praise from authorities is naturally an expected response. By contrast, evil acts will likely result in punishment, and so one should fear (ἐὰν δὲ τὸ κακὸν ποιῇς, φοβοῦ) (Rom. 13.4). Notice, too, that the command to do good in Rom. 13.3 is in response to Paul’s question about how Christians in Rome can avoid fear of authorities (θέλεις δὲ μὴ φοβεῖσθαι τὴν ἐξουσίαν). This makes the subjunctive of ποιέω in the third-class conditional clause complex regarding the reason to fear authorities in Rom. 13.4 all the more important because it introduces further contingency, showing that praise (or punishment) does not seem to be a guarantee but an expectation or possibility, potentially connected with certain actions.

47 48

49

R. N. Whybray, Proverbs (London: Marshall Pickering, 1994), 367. James D. G. Dunn, Romans (Vol 38B; Dallas, TX: Word Books, 1988), 757–774. See also Rom. 2:29, Phil. 4:8, 1 Cor. 4:5. Throughout the NT we find passages talking of suffering for Christ’s sake and this is what it means to suffer for doing good (cf. 1 Pet. 2:20, 3:17). Stanley E. Porter, Idioms of the Greek New Testament (BLG; Sheffield: JSOT, 1999), 43–44.

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Winter, in other words, leverages far too much here on the future tense form of the verb. Finally, in addressing Winter’s point about the shift to the singular form of σύ in Rom. 13.4, we grant that in Romans 13 there is a shift to singular person reference discourse. However, we are skeptical of the claim that Paul intended to target potential benefactors in the congregation via this grammatical shift. It seems much more likely to us that the singular second-person pronoun in Rom. 13.4 (as pronouns often do) resumes in Rom. 13.1: Πᾶσα ψυχὴ ἐξουσίαις ὑπερεχούσαις ὑποτασσέσθω. πᾶσα ψυχὴ functions as the explicit subject of the singular finite verb (ὑποτασσέσθω) so that the singular form directs the command toward the singular group (πᾶσα ψυχὴ), not specific wealthy individuals in that group. (Are only the wealthy to fear governing authorities? If so, why direct the command to πᾶσα ψυχὴ? And why would this be the case? Would not the elite have less reason to fear the authorities?) The singular reference frame is then continued into 13.4 (again, referencing the singular group, πᾶσα ψυχὴ) with the use of the pronoun that Winter highlights.

4.4 Conclusion Bruce Winter provides a reading of Rom. 13.1–7 that many interpreters have found quite compelling. Having now assessed Winter’s evidence, we note several difficulties with his analysis. First, Paul’s language does not reflect the most honourable type of benefaction (personal benefaction) but instead – if it is benefaction language at all – represents the form condemned by Seneca and Cicero, euergetistic benefaction. Rom. 13.3 also fails to resemble the benefaction form apparent in the very inscriptions that Winter uses as evidence. Rom. 13.3 (and 13.1–7 more broadly) remains more generic than the beneficiary inscriptions, lacking the details of the benefits, the honoured person or the honours bestowed. It may also seem bizarre to many ancients to discover an inscriptional form embedded in another literary form (a letter), as we do not find this elsewhere (to our knowledge) in antiquity. Second, ἀγαθός, κακός and ἔπαινος are extremely frequent words in ancient Greek literature, and in Greek moral discourse (such as Pauline paraenesis) in particular. So, that they occur here may more likely be the result of the shift into paraenesis (beginning in Rom. 12:1) than an evoking of a benefactive context. And we must

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remember that ἀγαθός and κακός language in Romans 13 functions as part of a larger local sematic chain, beginning in Romans 12. In light of this connection, we argued that the general morality of Romans 12 is continued in Rom. 13.3 in contrast to Winter’s proposal, which would require a significant shift in the function of this terminology.

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Powers, Baptism and the Ethics of the Stronger: Paul among the Ancient Political Philosophers Niko Huttunen

5.1 Compliance as a Universal Rule ‘Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God’ (Rom. 13.1).1 Paul’s famous words are usually read as a moral exhortation to subordinate oneself to the civil authorities. True, this is their character. Paul warns the readers about any rebellion, as it will lead to disaster: those who resist authorities will incur judgement. However, the imperative of third person (ὑποτασσέσθω) draws attention. Paul does not exhort just his readers. Rather, he expresses a general rule concerning ‘every soul’ (πᾶσα ψυχή).2 Paul’s choice of words recalls the creation story, where God creates human beings and lets them govern – imperative of the third person (ἀρχέτωσαν) – animals which are also called ‘all soul/life of the living’ (πᾶσα ψυχὴ ζῴων; Gen. 1.20–26). However, one should also note the dissimilarity between Paul and Genesis 1.  While Genesis 1 expresses a hierarchy between humankind and animals, Paul speaks of subjects under authorities. Only the hierarchical thought and the Hebraism (πᾶσα ψυχή) are similar.

1

2

In Greek: Πᾶσα ψυχὴ ἐξουσίαις ὑπερεχούσαις ὑποτασσέσθω. οὐ γὰρ ἔστιν ἐξουσία εἰ μὴ ὑπὸ θεοῦ, αἱ δὲ οὖσαι ὑπὸ θεοῦ τεταγμέναι εἰσίν. All biblical translations are from New Revised Standard Version unless otherwise indicated. This could also be translated as ‘all life’.

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Paul’s words seem to have been a stumbling block for some early copyists of his text: as if Paul could lay down rules for all life! No wonder that some manuscripts modestly read:  ‘Be subject to all governing authorities’ (πάσαις ἐξουσίαις ὑπερεχούσαις ὑποτάσσεσθε). This is a moral exhortation to the readers instead of a universal rule. Scholars, however, have nearly univocally rejected this reading as a secondary one.3 Paul expresses a universal rule with its divine ring, but likely without intending that he set the rule. The Septuagint is not the only context of Paul’s words on authorities, probably not even the primary one. Besides the biblical ring, Paul’s words also ring bells in the minds of his Greco-Roman audience. Despite its Hebraic connotations, the expression πᾶσα ψυχή also occurs in non-biblical Greek,4 and it was fully understandable to any Greek-speaking person. The imperative of the third person occurs in an interesting passage from the Stoic Epictetus. According to Epictetus, God’s law, which is most powerful (κράτιστος) and most just, prescribes, ‘Let the stronger always prevail over the weaker’ (τὸ κρεῖσσον ἀεὶ περιγινέσθω τοῦ χείρονος).5 The imperative of the third person describes the universality of the rule as it does in Rom. 13.1.6

5.2 The Law of the Stronger The formal similarities, however, are less important than the fact that Paul seems to communicate the idea of the law of the stronger. He assumes that one can do nothing but be subject to the authorities, willingly or unwillingly: ‘one must be subject (ἀνάγκη ὑποτάσσεσθαι), not only because of wrath but also because of conscience’ (Rom. 13.5). The wrath clearly refers to the sword (μάχαιρα) the authorities bear in order to ‘execute the wrath’ or literarily as an ‘avenger due to wrath’ (ἔκδικος εἰς ὀργήν). One should avoid trying to resist authorities, as it would always lead to disaster. This is the law of the stronger in the bare form.

3

4 5

6

Stefan Krauter, Studien zu Röm 13,1-7:  Paulus und der politische Diskurs der neronischen Zeit (WUNT 243; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 171. See, πᾶσα γὰρ ψυχὴ ἄκουσα στέρεται τῆς ἀληθείας (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.28.4; cf. Plato, Soph. 228c). Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.13; trans. W.A. Oldfather, slightly revised. All translations of the classical authors are from LCL unless otherwise indicated. On Epictetus’s passage, see Niko Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law. A Comparison (LNTS 405; London: T&T Clark, 2009), 63–65.

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The law of the stronger has its roots deep in the Greek culture. In his fable of a hawk and a nightingale Hesiod let the hawk say, ‘Stupid he who would wish to contend against those stronger (κρείσσονας) than he is: for he is deprived of the victory, and suffers pains in addition to his humiliations.’ Hesiod, however, warns of outrageousness or hybris:  ‘The better (κρείσσων) road is the one towards what is just, passing her by on the other side. Justice wins out over Outrageousness (Δίκη δ᾿ ὑπὲρ Ὕβριος ἴσχει) when she arrives at the end.’ Justice is Zeus’ law established for human beings while there is no Justice among animals.7 Hesiod’s warning implies that some people did not see anything wrong with the law of the stronger. Those people are vividly exemplified by Callicles and Thrasymachus in Plato’s dialogues. Callicles proclaims ‘that it is right for the stronger to have advantage of the weaker, and the abler of the feebler’ (δίκαιόν ἐστι τὸν ἀμείνω τοῦ χείρονος πλέον ἔχειν καὶ τὸν δυνατώτερον τοῦ ἀδυνατωτέρου). It is ‘so, not only in the animal world, but in the states and races, collectively, of men – that right has been decided to consist in the sway and advantage of the stronger over the weaker’ (ὸ δίκαιον κέκριται, τὸν κρείττω τοῦ ἥττονος ἄρχειν καὶ πλέον ἔχειν). According to Callicles, this is the law of nature in contrast to the law enacted by humans.8 Thasymachus, a cruder variant of Callicles, states his thesis as follows, ‘I say that justice is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger’ (τὸ δίκαιον οὐκ ἄλλο τι ἢ τὸ τοῦ κρείττονος συμφέρον).9 Thrasymachus rebukes Socrates for naive illusions. Shepherds and herdsmen consider the good of the flocks because of their master’s or their own good.10 Nevertheless, Socrates imagines that ‘the attitude of those who govern our cities (those who really are rulers) toward those who are governed is somehow different from the way one might regard sheep, and that they think of anything else night and day but how to make a profit out of them.’11 This was no pure speculation, as Plato’s contemporary Thucydides attests in the so-called Melian dialogue. The subject of the dialogue is the lot of the city of Melos in the hands of the Athenian army. The Athenians recommend

7 8 9 10 11

Op. 210–211; 216–218; 275–278; trans. Glenn W. Most. Plato, Gorg. 483d-e; trans. W. R. M. Lamb, slightly revised. Plato, Resp. 338c; trans. Christopher Emlyn-Jones and William Preddy. Cf. John 10.11–15 where the shepherd is ready even to die for the sheep. Plato, Resp. 343b-c; trans. Emlyn-Jones and Preddy.

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capitulation with the following rationalization:  ‘the powerful (δυνατά) exact what they can, while the weak (οἱ ἀσθενεῖς) yield what they must’.12 In the good Hesiodian manner the Melians put their trust in divinity. ‘We are godfearing men standing our ground against men who are unjust (οὐ δικαίους).’ The Athenians, however, believe that the law of the stronger is accepted by the gods: ‘For of the gods we hold the belief, and of men we know, that by a necessity of their nature wherever they have power they always rule (ὑπὸ φύσεως ἀναγκαίας, οὗ ἂν κρατῇ, ἄρχειν). And so in our case since we neither enacted this law nor when it was enacted were the first to use it, but found it in existence and expect to leave it in existence for all time.’13 These classical examples remained well known in later times. Seneca, following the Stoic Posidonius, supposed that ‘nature has the habit of subjecting the weaker to the stronger (potioribus deteriora summittere)’.14 Josephus also applied the law of the stronger. He tells how he admonished Jews to surrender during the siege of Jerusalem. Fortune, indeed, had from all quarters passed over to them, and God who went the round of the nations, bringing to each in turn the rod of empire, now rested over Italy. There was, in fact, an established law, as supreme among brutes as among men, ‘Yield to the stronger’ and ‘The mastery is for those pre-eminent in arms’ (νόμον γε μὴν ὡρίσθαι καὶ παρὰ θηρσὶν ἰσχυρότατον καὶ παρ᾿ ἀνθρώποις, εἴκειν τοῖς δυνατωτέροις καὶ τὸ κρατεῖν παρ᾿ οἷς ἀκμὴ τῶν ὅπλων εἶναι). That was why their forefathers, men who in soul and body, aye and in resources to boot, were by far their superiors, had yielded to the Romans – a thing intolerable to them, had they not known that God was on the Roman side.15

Josephus follows the theological tradition – already visible in Thucydides’ dialogue as the Athenian standpoint – in which divinity is on the side of the stronger. To make his point even clearer, Josephus adds, ‘listen, that you may learn that you are warring not against the Romans only, but also against God’.16 This is a very close parallel to Paul’s words, ‘whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed’ (Rom. 13.2). 12 13 14 15 16

Thucydides 5.89; trans. C. F. Smith. Thucydides 5.104–105; trans. Smith. Seneca, Ep. 90.4; trans. Richard M. Gummere. Josephus, J.W. 5.367–369; trans. H. St. J. Thackeray. J.W. 5.378–379; trans. Thackeray.

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Thus, the law of the stronger was well known in the Greco-Roman tradition, including the Jewish part of that tradition. In many of the passages cited, the relationship between power and justice is in focus. Hesiod preferred justice like Plato and Thucydides’ Melians do, while Callicles, Thrasymachus and the Athenians in the Melian dialogue represent figures who prefer unscrupulous use of power. Rom. 13.1–7 clearly belongs to this discussion. The passage contains several similarities to the Greco-Roman tradition. Paul speaks about how ‘one must be subject’ (ἀνάγκη ὑποτάσσεσθαι) like Athenians speak of ‘natural compulsion’ (ὑπὸ φύσεως ἀναγκαίας) in Thucydides’ dialogue. Callicles and Thrasymachus point out that the stronger make profit out of the weaker, while Paul admonishes his readers to pay taxes and revenues to the authorities (Rom. 13.7). Nevertheless, there is also a significant difference between Paul on the one hand and Callicles and Thrasymachus on the other hand. Paul does not present relative morals, which qualify the profit of the stronger as the good. He does not offer justice to the law of the stronger. In contrast, he claims that authorities operate ‘for your good’ (Rom. 13.4). Paul claims that the authoritarian power promotes justice in its genuine sense.

5.3 Resisting a Tyrant or Avoiding Troubles? It is quite amazing that Paul claims authorities execute power ‘for your good’. How could he think so? Epictetus seems to go in the opposite direction claiming that philosophical resistance is a relevant answer to the law of the stronger. He is seemingly commenting on Plato’s Gorgias when speaking of the stronger and the weaker in Diatr. 1.29 cited above. A.  A. Long has noted, ‘Epictetus knew the Gorgias more or less by heart, and he probably included it one of the main readings for his formal curriculum.’17 While Callicles in Gorgias claimed the superiority of the stronger, Epictetus answers by taking the advantage of the binary meanings in the Greek words κρείσσων and χείρων denoting ‘stronger’ and ‘weaker’. There are, however, other meanings for these words:  ‘better’ and ‘worse’, which create moral connotations.18 Epictetus states that physical 17 18

A. A. Long, Epictetus. A Stoic and Socratic Guide to Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 70. H. G. Liddell, R. Scott and H. S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon (TLG digital edition; Oakland:  University of California Press, 2011), κρείσσων and χείρων.

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strength and moral strength (i.e. goodness) are two different things. The law of the stronger/better leads to different conclusions when applied in physical and moral areas: ‘Ten are better (κρείττονες) than one’, you say. For what? For putting in chains, for killing, for dragging away where they will, for taking away a man’s property. Ten overcome one, therefore, in the point in which they are better (κρείσσονες). In what, then, are they worse? If the one has correct judgements, and the ten have not. What then? Can they overcome in this point? How can they? But if we are weighed in the balance, must not the heavier draw down the scales?19

This differentiation between strength and morality makes it possible to criticize the authorities despite their physical supremacy. Socrates is the chief example of this attitude. ‘The paltry body of Socrates may be carried off and dragged to prison by those who were stronger (ὑπὸ τῶν ἰσχυροτέρων) than he.’20 Now Epictetus changes the word κρείσσων into ἰσχυρότερος to make his point clear: he speaks of the physical superiority. Yet, Socrates was also the prevailing one as his moral judgements were superior. But do you prove that one who holds inferior judgements prevails over the man who is superior in point of judgements (χείρονα ἔχων δόγματα κρατεῖ τοῦ κρείττονος ἐν δόγμασιν). You will not be able to prove this; no, nor even come near proving it. For this is a law of nature and of God:  ‘Let the stronger always prevail over the weaker’. Prevail in what? In that in which it is stronger.21

The differentiation between the stronger and the better makes it possible to differentiate between the physical and mental freedom. The person, who is physically subjugated, can prevail in moral sense. This opens a possibility for a moral resistance as, for example, the following passage proves: For when the tyrant says to a man, ‘I will chain your leg’, the man who has set a high value on his leg replies, ‘Nay, have mercy upon me’, while the man who has set a high value on his moral purpose replies, ‘If it seems more profitable to you to do so, chain it’. ‘Do you not care?’ ‘No, I do not care’. ‘I will 19 20 21

Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.14–15; trans. Oldfather. Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.16; trans. Oldfather. Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.19–20; trans. Oldfather, slightly revised. For a further analysis of Epictetus’s text, see Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 63–65.

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show you that I am master’. ‘How can you be my master? Zeus has set me free. Or do you really think that he was likely to let his own son be made a slave? You are, however, master of my dead body, take it’. ‘You mean, then, that when you approach me you will not pay attention to me?’ ‘No, I pay attention only to myself. But if you wish me to say that I pay attention to you too, I tell you that I do so, but only as I pay attention to my pot’.22

A non-Stoic would mistakenly identify his freedom with the freedom of body. The Stoic, however, is interested in the mental freedom.23 Epictetus does not hide his bold attitude towards the tyrants who are recurrent figures in his Diatribai.24 He also expresses the resistant attitude in words reminding of those in Romans 13. Is it for this that the tyrant inspires fear (φοβερός ἐστιν)? Is it because of this that his guards seem to have long and sharp swords (τὰς μαχαίρας)? Let others see to that; but I have considered all this, no one has authority (ἐξουσίαν) over me. I have been set free by God, I know his commands, no one has power any longer to make a slave of me, I have the right kind of advocate, and the right kind of judges.25

God’s commands, which are equivalent for philosophy,26 make it possible to resist authorities. Paul, in contrast, claims that those resisting authority (ἐξουσία) resist God’s ordinance (διαταγή). Paul and Epictetus present opposite views. Moreover, the issue of fear is central in Diatr. 4.7 as its title ‘Of the freedom from fear’ expresses. The whole discourse affirms that one should not fear authorities. Actually, Epictetus even takes fearless Christians an example of that.27 They were surely not following what Paul states in Rom. 13.3:  ‘Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive its approval.’ Paul unambiguously identifies obedience with what is good. Disobedience towards the authorities is the same as to distance oneself from the good and to live in fear.

22 23 24 25 26 27

Epictetus, Diatr. 1.19.8-10; trans. Oldfather. Long, Epictetus, 198. See, e.g., Chester G. Starr, ‘Epictetus and the Tyrant’, Classical Philology 44 (1949): 20–29. Epictetus, Diatr. 4.7.16–17; transl. Oldfather, slightly revised. Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 87–88. Diatr. 4.7.6. On Epictetus’s sayings of Christians, see Niko Huttunen, ‘In the Category of Philosophy: Christians in Early Pagan Accounts’, in ‘Others’ and the Construction of Early Christian Identity (ed. Raimo Hakola, Nina Nikki and Ulla Tervahauta; Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 106; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2013), 242–254.

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Epictetus’ Stoic resistance was in line with that of the so-called Stoic opposition embodied by Helvidius Priscus who was martyred by Vespasian.28 Epictetus presents Helvidius’ bold dialogue with the emperor as an example for the future generations.29 Helvidius and his father-in-law, Thrasea Paetus, executed by Nero, became symbols for the philosophical and republican resistance in the early empire. Even their memory was felt as a threat for the empire as Tacitus reports: It is recorded that when Rusticus Arulenus extolled Thrasea Paetus, when Herennius Senecio extolled Helvidius Priscus, their praise became a capital offence, so that persecution fell not merely on the authors themselves but also on their books: the police, in fact, were given the task of burning in the courtyard of the Forum the memorials of our noblest characters.30

Without blaming Tharsea or Helvidius for their resistance, Tacitus presents an alternative way of Agricola, his own father-of-law:  ‘He read aright the reign of Nero, wherein to be passive was to be wise.’31 The Stoic Seneca seems to go along Agricola’s lines, although he did not escape death, committing suicide as per Nero’s order. In Epistle 14 he differentiates three types of fear, of which the third one is the most fearful: ‘we fear (timentur) the troubles which result from the violence of the stronger’ (per vim potentioris).32 It becomes clear that the stronger are the authorities, who make a parade with several violent means. Surrounding it is a retinue of swords and fire and chains and a mob of beasts to be let loose upon the disemboweled entrails of men. Picture to yourself under this head the prison, the cross, the rack, the hook, and the stake which they drive straight through a man until it protrudes from his throat. Think of human limbs torn apart by chariots driven in opposite directions, of the terrible shirt smeared and interwoven with inflammable materials, and of all the other contrivances devised by cruelty, in addition to those which I have mentioned! It is not surprising, then, if our greatest terror (timor) is of such a fate; for it comes in many shapes and its paraphernalia are terrifying (terribilis).33 28

29 30 31 32 33

On Helvidius, see, e.g., J. Malitz, ‘Helvidius Priscus und Vespasian. Zur Geschichte der “stoischen” Senatsopposition’, Hermes 113 (1985): 231–246. Epictetus, Diatr. 1.2.19–24. Tacitus, Agr. 2; trans. M. Hutton and W. Peterson. Agr. 6; trans. Hutton and Peterson. Seneca, Ep. 14.3; trans. Gummere. Seneca, Ep. 14.5–6; trans. Gummere.

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Keeping an eye on Paul, it is worth noting that Seneca assumes fear to be an important issue in the relationship between subjects and authorities. Paul admonished his audience to obey the authorities in order to avoid fear of their wrath (ὀργή). Seneca admonishes his readers to avoid anger: ‘So the wise man will never provoke the anger (potentium iras provocabit) of those in power; nay, he will even turn his course, precisely as he would turn from a storm if he were steering a ship.’34 This leads Seneca to recommend quiet life outside the political sphere: I beg you to consider those Stoics who, shut out from public life, have withdrawn into privacy for the purpose of improving men’s existence and framing laws for the human race without incurring the displeasure of those in power (potentioris). The wise man will not upset the customs of the people, nor will he invite the attention of the populace by any novel ways of living.35

Seneca’s stance comes close to Epicurus’s famous maxim, ‘Live unknown’.36 This is probably not a surprise, as Seneca repeatedly cites Epicurus in his Epistles. Epicurus’ own relationship towards society is as similarly quietist as Seneca’s in Epistle 14. In his Principal Doctrines 34–35 Epicurus’ motivation for quietism is a life without fear: Injustice is not in itself an evil, but only in its consequence, viz. the terror (φόβῳ) which is excited by apprehension that those appointed to punish such offences will discover the injustice. It is impossible for the man who secretly violates any article of the social compact to feel confident that he will remain undiscovered, even if he has already escaped ten thousand times; for right on to the end of his life he is never sure he will not be detected.37

Lucretius repeats these doctrines: a criminal can live undetected, but can never be sure that the crimes remain hidden. ‘Hence comes fear (metus) of punishment that taints the prizes of life.’38 Lucretius even ridicules how a fool not only fears the punishments in this life but also hereafter. But in this life there is fear of punishment (metus in vita poenarum) for evil deeds, fear as notorious as the deeds are notorious, and atonement for crime 34 35 36 37 38

Seneca, Ep. 14.7–8; trans. Gummere. Seneca, Ep. 14.14; trans. Gummere. Plutarch, Mor. 1128C. Diogenes Laertius 10.151; trans. R. D. Hicks. Lucretius 5.1151–1160; trans. W. H. D. Rouse.

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– prison, and the horrible casting down from the Rock, stripes, executioners, condemned cell, pitch, red-hot plates, firebrands; and even if these are absent, yet the guilty conscience (mens sibi conscia factis), terrified before anything (praemetuens) can come to pass, applies the goad and scorches itself with whips, and meanwhile does not see where can be the end to its miseries or the final limit to its punishment, and fears (metuit) that these same afflictions may become heavier after death. The fool’s life at length becomes a hell on earth.39

Epicurus and Lucretius present ideas that come quite close to the ideas Paul presents in Romans 13. Both the Epicureans and Paul subscribe to the idea that one has to follow rules in order to avoid fear of punishments. Actually, Paul seems to have noted the same as the Epicureans that authorities do not catch every wrongdoer. Paul asks and answers, ‘Do you wish to have no fear of the authority? Then do what is good’ (Rom. 13.3). He does not say that wrongdoers will be caught, but only that they will live in fear. However, Paul takes seriously what Lucretius ridicules, namely judgement hereafter:  ‘those who resist will incur judgement’ (κρίμα λήμψονται; Rom. 13.2). The expression κρίμα λήμψονται is a hapax legomenon in Paul, but in the rest of the New Testament it refers to the last judgement (Matt 23.14; Mark 12.40; Luke 20.47; Jas. 3.1).40 Thus, Paul is in line with Epicurus and Lucretius claiming that the criminals will always live in fear of punishment, but then differs from them taking seriously the idea of the divine punishment. There is also another aspect where Paul differs from the Epicureans. Epicurus claimed, ‘ There never was an absolute justice, but only an agreement made in reciprocal intercourse.’41 In other words, justice and injustice are just human agreements. Therefore, the concrete content of justice differs according to time and place, as Epicurus states in the same context. There is no reason to think that ‘good’ and ‘wrong’ imply some totally different moral code in Rom. 13.3–4 and in its context where Paul at least partly speaks of intra-Christian relationships (Rom. 12.9, 17, 21; 13.10). Thus, the good required in intra-Christian relationships is the same good required by the authorities.42 39 40 41 42

Lucretius 5.1151–1160; trans. Rouse. Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 95. Diogenes Laertius 10.150; trans. Hicks. Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 97.

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In sum, Paul seems to differ from the Stoic opposition embodied by Helvidius Priscus and celebrated by, for example, Epictetus. Paul’s answer to the law of the stronger is more quietist along the lines of Seneca’s Epistle 14 and the Epicureans. I generally agree with Runar Thorsteinsson’s conclusion that for Paul it was ‘important that the Christ-believers in Rome avoid unnecessary attention to themselves on behalf of the civic authorities’. In Paul’s words:  ‘So far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all’ (Rom. 12.18).43 There is, however, an important difference between Paul and other quietists trying to cope with authorities. Paul assumed that the authorities really promote the good, and ‘therefore one must be subject, not only because of wrath but also because of conscience’ (Rom. 13.5). Why did Paul view the authorities that optimistically? The answer lies in the fact that in ancient morals the stronger were not without obligations for the good of the weaker.

5.4 Morality of the Stronger Thucydides’ report of the Athenians’ shameless invocation of the law of the stronger in the Melian dialogue and the subsequent destruction of the city of Melos is often presented as a classical example of immoral power politics.44 This, however, is a misconception, because in ancient culture the stronger also had obligations toward the inferior. In the initial part of the dialogue, the Athenians openly state that they would like to have dominion over Melos ‘without trouble’, that is, without destroying the city. However, they claim that the capitulation of Melos would save the city ‘to the advantage of both’. When the Melians ask what the advantage is, the Athenians answer, ‘It would be to your advantage to submit before suffering the most horrible fate, and we should gain by not destroying you.’45 This is surely a piece of war propaganda, but not altogether. The Athenians destroy Melos only as a fearful example of a rebel among the other inferior cities in the Athenian dominion.46 As a general procedure, the destruction of 43

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Runar M. Thorsteinsson, Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism: A Comparative Study of Ancient Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 99. See, e.g., Gregory Crane, Thucydides and the Ancient Simplicity:  The Limits of Political Realism (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1998), 23 n. 3. Thucydides 5.91; trans. Smith. Thucydides 5.99.

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inferiors would disadvantage the Athenians themselves. The dominion needs its subjects.47 In the end of the dialogue, the Athenians counsel the Melians ‘to acknowledge yourselves inferior to the most powerful state when it offers you moderate terms’. The Athenians validate their counsel with a general wisdom: ‘Those who, while refusing to submit to their equals, yet comport themselves wisely towards their superiors and are moderate towards their inferiors – these, we say, are most likely to prosper.’48 This wisdom is the moral code of the hierarchically structured ancient societies. One can find it also in Roman times. Lucretius ascribes it to the dawn of the world when the human race started to make covenants, ‘signifying by voice and gesture with stammering tongue that it was right for all to pity the weak’.49 Augustus boasts, ‘when victorious I spared all citizens who sued for pardon. The foreign nations which could with safety be pardoned I preferred to save rather than to destroy.’50 Virgil puts this thought into his verses:  ‘Roman, be sure to rule the world (be these your arts), to crown peace with justice, to spare the vanquished and to crush the proud (parcere subiectis et debellare superbos).’51 Josephus clearly recalls this morality after he has impressed the law of the stronger to the besieged Jerusalem. He recounts what he told about the Romans to the Jews in the city. The Romans would bear them no malice for the past, unless they persisted in their contumacy to the end: they were naturally lenient in victory, and would put above vindictiveness considerations of expediency, which did not consist in having on their hands either a depopulated city or a devastated country. That was why, even at this late hour, Caesar desired to grant them terms; whereas, if he took the city by storm, he would not spare a man of them, especially after the rejection of offers made to them when in extremities.52

This is like a variant of the story of Melos in The History of the Peloponnesian War. Both cities are advised to capitulate with the motivation that the stronger would have an advantage of a living city, and both cities become destroyed after

47 48 49 50 51 52

Crane, Thucydides and the Ancient Simplicity, 291–293. Thucydides 5.111; trans. Smith. Lucretius 5.1022–1023; trans. Rouse. Res Gestae 3; trans. Frederick W. Shipley. Virgil, Aeneid 6.853; trans. H. Rushton Fairclough. Josephus, J.W. 5.372–373; trans. Thackeray.

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refusal of subjection. In a way, this morality came out also in Thrasymachus’ crude words about rulers as shepherds who consider the good of the sheep in order to profit from the animals. The stronger take care of the weaker – at least because of their own advantage. This is also the moral code, which Teresa Morgan showed in the popular morality of the early Roman Empire. Her sources were fables and the stories of the exemplary figures. Most of the fables she read deal with relations between the weak and the strong. Hierarchy is seen as a natural phenomenon. The weak get the advice that they should not put themselves in the way of the powerful. Instead, they should try to show themselves as useful for the strong.53 The whole society is interconnected: everyone is bound to those above and below, and the exemplary figures Morgan presents are loyal toward persons of higher rank. The state institutions such as the army, censorship, the magistracies and the law courts are regarded as moral authorities.54 Romans 13 is nothing but a Christian variation of this popular morality. Paul views the authorities optimistically, because they need their obedient subjects.

5.5 Hierarchies Collapse in the Dawn Paul’s teaching on the authorities turns very smoothly into a teaching of Christian in-group ethics. After admonishing readers to give to the civil authorities what is due to them, he continues admonishing the Christians to owe nothing but mutual love. It is as if all other obligations could be fulfilled but never the duty of love. The impending eschaton sharpens the ethical requirements. Troels Engberg-Pedersen has proposed that Paul is here depending on his Stoic ethics in 1 Cor. 7.31: those who deal with the world should deal ‘as if they had no dealings with it. For the present form of this world is passing away’ (transl. slightly revised). According to Engberg-Pedersen, Paul similarly thinks here that the obligations to the authorities are secondary when compared to love. Pay your taxes (fulfill your duties in that field) as something that can in fact be fulfilled. And then forget about it since the duty has, by now been

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Teresa Morgan, Popular Morality in the Early Roman Empire (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007), 63–67. Morgan, Popular Morality, 136, 142.

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fulfilled. In other words, do it “as if not”. Or: do it, but without paying any special attention to it. That is not what matters. By contrast, fulfil your obligation to love. Or rather: try to fulfil it, always, and everywhere. For that is what matters. And that kind of life precisely belongs with the eschaton.55

The distinction between what matters and what does not matter is basic Stoic ethics, and 1 Corinthians 7 fits well with it.56 Even the idea of impending eschaton is not strange in the Greco-Roman world. Lucretius reconstructs a theory of the growth and the fading of the world. He concludes, ‘now indeed the power of life is broken’, and the world goes ‘to the reef of destruction’.57 Stoics represented the cyclic view of the universe: everything will be destroyed in conflagration and/or in deluge so that a new cycle can begin. In his Naturales quaestiones Seneca says that the destruction is sudden, and ‘a single day will bury the human race’.58 According to Seneca, the deluge and the conflagration ‘will occur when it seems best to god for the old things to be ended and better things to begin’, and he estimates, ‘ There will be no long delay in the destruction.’59 Paul’s vision is similar:  ‘The night is far gone, the day is near’ (Rom. 13.12). The imminent end of this era emphasizes the right style of life (Rom. 13.12–14) as Seneca emphasizes the vanity of all human achievements with the cataclysmic visions.60 Paul illustrates the requirement of a new life with the metaphor of putting ‘on the Lord Jesus Christ’ (Rom. 13.14). This is a clear reference to baptism.61 In this new life one should already imitate the coming world after the eschatological turn. One can see this in Romans 6, where Paul rebukes the Christians for sinning. In baptism, Christians have mystically died to sin with Christ. This leads to the ethical conclusion:  ‘For if we have been

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Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ‘Paul’s Stoicizing Politics in Romans 12–13: The Role of 13.1–10 in the Argument’, JSNT 29 (2006): 170–171. See, e.g., Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 20–36. Lucretius 5.1150, 1173–1174; trans. Rouse. Interestingly, in 5.330–331 Lucretius claims just the opposite: ‘But, as I think, the world is young and new, and it is not long since its beginning.’ Nat. 3.27.2 and 3.29.9; trans. Thomas H. Corcoran. Nat. 3.28.7 and 3.30.5; trans. Corcoran. Cf. Sirkka Heinonen, Aika ja tulevaisuus Senecan tuotannossa [Time and Future in the Works of Seneca] (Helsinki: VAPK-Kustannus, 1990), 53–58. See also Francis Gerald Downing, ‘Common Strands in Pagan, Jewish and Christian Eschatologies in the First Century’, Theologische Zeitschrift 51 (1995): 196–211. Heinonen, [Time and Future in the Works of Seneca], 57–58. Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 827–828. Robert McL. Wilson, Colossians and Philemon (ICC; London: T&T Clark, 2005), 250: ‘Baptism by immersion lent itself to the development of an imagery of “garment symbolism”: the candidate left his garments behind as he entered the water, and put on a fresh set of clothing when he emerged’.

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united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his’ (Rom. 6.5). Here is the future resurrection life projected onto the present as an ethical standard.62 The very central consequence of the baptism is the collapse of social hierarchies. In Gal. 3:27–28 Paul declares, ‘As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.’ This maxim, which appears also in 1 Cor. 12:13 and Col. 3:11, probably belongs to the baptismal paraenesis.63 The indifference to ethnic status is at the heart of Paul’s thinking, but the paraenesis actually reveals that indifference also applies with respect to other statuses. Male and female, the free and the slaves are just examples of the statuses, which do not make a difference in the future life.64 In ancient society, one of those statuses which becomes indifferent by baptism is – of course – the statuses of the stronger and the weaker. Paul takes up the relationship between the strong (οἱ δυνατοί) and the weak (ὁ ἀσθενῶν, οἱ ἀδυνατοί) in the next chapters. In Romans 14–15, Paul presents himself as though he was a sage from the Golden Age. Posidonius (cited by Seneca) says that in the Golden Age, ‘the government was under the jurisdiction of the wise. They kept their hands under control, and protected the weaker from the stronger (infirmiorem a validioribus).’65 Paul tries to smooth over the disagreements between the strong and the weak, although he identifies himself with the strong (Rom. 15.1) and gives philosophical arguments for their views.66 The apostle does not get rid of the traditional vocabulary of the weak and the strong in Romans 14–15. This illustrates the fact that though ‘the night is far gone’, there are still Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female – and also strong and weak. The dawn has not yet broken, one can only get a dim idea (cf. 1 Cor. 13.12) of the future non-hierarchies. Paul ridicules the Corinthians who, according to him, already claim to have reached the eschatological fullness:  ‘Already you have become rich! Quite apart from us you have become 62 63

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Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 148–149. Col. 3.11 lacks the concrete reference to baptism. However, the metaphor of ‘clothing’ in verses 3.9–10 is clearly a reference to baptism. On this aspect in Paul compared to the Stoics, see Niko Huttunen, ‘How Fantasy Comes True: Paul Between Political Realism and Eschatological Fantasy’, Stasis 3 (2015): 101–105. Seneca, Ep. 90.5; trans. Gummere. Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 71–74.

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kings! Indeed, I wish that you had become kings, so that we might be kings with you!’ (1 Cor. 4.8). This ideal, which Paul ascribes to the Corinthians, is a Stoic one. Diogenes Laertius relates that Zeno and Chrysippus taught about the kingship of the wise. According to them not only are the wise free, they are also kings; kingship being irresponsible rule, which none but the wise can maintain:  so Chrysippus in his treatise vindicating Zeno’s use of terminology. For he holds that knowledge of good and evil is a necessary attribute of the ruler (ἐγνωκέναι γάρ φησι δεῖν τὸν ἄρχοντα περὶ ἀγαθῶν καὶ κακῶν), and that no bad man is acquainted with this science. Similarly the wise and good alone are fit to be magistrates, judges, or orators (ἀρχικοὺς δικαστικούς τε καὶ ῥητορικοὺς), whereas among the bad there is not one so qualified.67

According to Paul, it is premature to claim that someone has already become a philosopher-king. Even Stoics would deny those claims except in the case of few uncommon figures. For Epictetus, such figures were only Diogenes of Sinope, Socrates or Heracles.68 For Paul, the Corinthian claim is also premature, because the eschatological kingdom has not yet come. Besides this prematurity, Paul sees nothing wrong with the Stoic ideal, which is nothing but anarchical. In the future commonwealth (Phil. 3.20) there are only the saved who all are wise. They all become kings who hold the knowledge of good and evil, the same knowledge and power authorities have in this world (Rom. 13.3–4). Therefore, the need of hierarchies will disappear. Actually, this is what Paul expects Christ to do when the dawn cracks:  ‘He hands over the kingdom to God the Father, after he has annulled every ruler and every authority and power’ (καταργήσῃ πᾶσαν ἀρχὴν καὶ πᾶσαν ἐξουσίαν καὶ δύναμιν) (1 Cor. 15.24; transl. slightly revised).

67 68

Diogenes Laertius 7.122; trans. Hicks. Francis Gerald Downing, Cynics, Paul and the Pauline Churches. Cynics and Christian Origins II (London: Routledge, 1998), 88–90; Huttunen, Paul and Epictetus on Law, 130–139.

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Divine Causation and Prepositional Metaphysics in Philo of Alexandria and the Apostle Paul Orrey McFarland

6.1 Introduction Popular concern over the use of prepositions in the English language often extends only to the question of whether we should be allowed to end a sentence with one. One thinks of the famous quip popularly attributed to Winston Churchill:  ‘Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.’ But for philosophers and theologians throughout history, the proper use of prepositions has been considered significantly more important. As Grant notes, One of the most important ways in which early Christians set forth their understandings of the relation of God and Christ to the created world was by the use of various prepositions which are often identical with those used in Hellenistic philosophy to indicate causal relationships.1

But scholars still question how indebted to philosophical traditions the early Christians – and particularly Paul – were in their use of prepositions in discussions of causation. Theiler coined the phrase ‘metaphysics of prepositions’ to describe how ancient philosophers used prepositions in relation to the various causes.2 1 2

R. M. Grant, ‘Causation and “The Ancient World View”’, JBL 83 (1964): 34. W. Theiler, Die Vorbereitung des Neuplatonismus (Berlin:  Weidmann, 1964), 17–34. Following Theiler’s work, J. Dillon, The Middle Platonists:  A  Study of Platonism, 80 BC to AD 220 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 138 popularized the term. For broader discussion, T. H. Tobin,

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Broadly construed, prepositional metaphysics refers to the practice ‘in which the Aristotelian doctrine of causes is adapted to the requirements of Platonic doctrine’.3 Although the basic sense of prepositional metaphysics goes back to Aristotle’s understanding of the four causes, Aristotle did not ‘associate prepositional phrases with the causes in a technical way’, but he did ‘provide a precedent for the later scholastic development’ that did.4 In various philosophical traditions, therefore, prepositions acquired essentially technical uses, because they helped to define what one was saying about reality in a metaphysical context. For example, it is one thing to say ‘the world was created by God’. It is a very different thing to say ‘the world was created in God’. So if, in this example, God is a cause of creation, what preposition (or prepositions) appropriately signifies God’s causation? Philo of Alexandria, a near-contemporary of the apostle Paul, provides a clear example of the use of a form of prepositional metaphysics in the context of discussing divine causation. The first part of this essay will set forth Philo’s understanding of prepositional metaphysics. In the second part, I  will turn to Paul’s use of prepositions in passages that speak of divine causation. While nearly all scholars acknowledge that Paul’s use of prepositions is similar to the philosophical formulas, there are certain anxieties about placing Paul too closely to the tradition. Thus, some see a source problem: Paul’s formulations are not exactly like those found in the writings of the Peripatetics, Platonists or Stoics. In addition, there is also a theological problem. This problem takes a number of forms; for example, some worry that if Paul is using a Stoic formulation – as he seems to be in Rom. 11.36 – that background material will overdetermine the interpretation of what Paul is actually trying to say.5 More specifically, the larger worry throughout history has been that if Paul is using prepositions in a

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The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation (Washington, DC: CBAA, 1983), 67–72; R. R. Cox, By the Same Word: Creation and Salvation in Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity (BZNW 145; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 43–51. D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato (PA 44; Leiden:  Brill, 1986), 104, 133, 171–174. G. E. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics in Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christological Hymns’, SPhil 9 (1997): 221. Sterling’s essay is probably the most helpful discussion of the development of prepositional metaphysics within the various philosophical traditions. As Sterling notes, Seneca Ep. 65 is the most important account of the early debate and the difference between the Stoics, Peripatetics, and the Platonists. Cf. also G. E. Sterling, ‘“Day One”: Platonizing Exegetical Traditions of Genesis 1:1–5 in John and Jewish Authors’, SPhil 17 (1999): 126–129. See, e.g., D. E. Garland, 1 Corinthians (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2003), 377 on 1 Cor. 8.6, responding to Horsley.

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technical manner, christological problems arise. As G. E. Sterling narrates, Basil of Caesarea critiqued readings of 1 Cor. 8.6 that were dependent on technical understandings of prepositions, because this argument was used to support the belief that the use of different prepositions for God and Jesus ‘marked a distinction between the two since dissimilar terms imply dissimilar natures’.6 The aim of this essay is to show that these worries are unfounded. Thus, in the second half of the essay I will first situate Paul’s prepositional usage in relation to prepositional metaphysics, with the example of Philo providing a parallel case of a mixed use of philosophical traditions. Then, I will lay out one way of reading Paul’s use of prepositions in a traditional way and how it might affect his Christology.7 Once these concerns are removed, we will see that there is little need to distinguish Paul from the various traditions of using prepositions for technical reasons in defining causation.

6.2 Philo of Alexandria and Prepositional Metaphysics For Philo, the pious mind seeks ‘to attribute all things to God’.8 And yet, it is not enough to attribute causation to God; one must also do it rightly. In Cher. 124–130, Philo gives the fullest picture of his prepositional metaphysics as he explains how one should speak about God’s causation.9 In this text, Philo is interpreting Gen. 4.1. As he argues, it is necessary to critique the words Philo attributes to Adam (not Eve):  ‘I have obtained a man through God’ (ἐκτησάμην ἄνθρωπον διὰ τοῦ θεοῦ). For Philo, Adam has erred in the following way: he has made God the instrument rather than the cause, but ‘God is cause, not instrument’ (ὁ θεὸς αἴτιον, οὐκ ὄργανον). Whatever comes into existence is created through the agency of an instrument, but it is called into existence by a cause (δι᾿ ὀργάνου μὲν ὑπὸ δὲ αἰτίου).10 6

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Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 219. See further O. McFarland, ‘Philo’s Prepositional Metaphysics within Early Christian Debates about the Relation of Divine Nature and Agency’, SPhilo 27 (2015): 87–109. The point is not to argue for such a christology here – that is beyond the scope of this paper – but to show its plausibility while arguing for situating Paul within the tradition of prepositional metaphysics. Leg. All. 3.29. As Cox, By the Same Word, 108 explains, ‘the complexity of this excursus and its resemblance to similar discourses in Hellenistic philosophy make it quite likely Philo is drawing from an established philosophical topos, if not lifting his material directly out of an encheiridion’. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 228 notes that it is clear Philo is working within an ‘established schema’, because he did not have to argue for the distinction between the first cause and

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Philo explains that many things work together in the generation of anything, but we must be clear about what does what and how the many things work together. At this point, Philo lists his four causes. The first, the ‘by which’ (τὸ ὑφ᾿ οὗ), is ‘the cause’ (τὸ αἴτιον); the ‘from which’ (τὸ ἐξ οὗ) is the material (ἡ ὕλη) from which the thing is created; the ‘through which’ (τὸ δι᾿ οὗ) is the ‘instrument’ (ἐργαλεῖον or ὄργανον); and the ‘for which’ (τὸ δι᾿ ὅ) or the ‘why’ is also ‘the cause’ (ἡ αἰτία). Philo uses an illustration of the construction of a house to explain how the four causes work together. The builder (δημιουργὸς) is nothing other than the first cause or the ‘by which’ (τὸ αἴτιον ὑφ᾿ οὗ); the stones and trees are the materials from which the building is made (λίθοι καὶ ξύλα . . . ἡ ὕλη, ἐξ ἧς ἡ κατασκευή); the tools are the instruments through which the work is done (τὰ ὄργανα . . . τὰ δι᾿ ὧν); and the final cause, the reason for which (τὸ δι᾿ ὃ) the building is made, is for shelter and security. Working from this mundane example, Philo asks the reader to consider the origination of the greatest house, the world. In this fourfold schema of causation, Philo clarifies that: (1) God is the first cause ‘by which’ everything comes into existence (αἴτιον αὐτοῦ τὸν θεὸν ὑφ᾿ οὗ); (2) the ‘four elements’ (τέσσαρα στοιχεῖα) are the materials from which the world was created (ὕλην . . . ἐξ ὧν); (3) the instrument ‘through which’ creation occurred was God’s Logos (ὄργανον λόγον θεοῦ δι᾿ οὗ);11 and (4)  the reason for which the world was created was simply the Creator’s goodness (αἰτίαν τὴν ἀγαθότητα τοῦ δημιουργοῦ). The necessity of specificity in prepositional use is clear from Philo’s discussion here.12 To apply a different preposition to God would be both to make God something other than what he is (the Cause) and to deny his rightful work (causation). The preposition should fit the identity and role of the agent. Philo’s prepositional metaphysics taps into multiple philosophical traditions. First, Philo’s fourfold view of causation follows a basic Aristotelian

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the instrumental cause. Cf. Runia, Timaeus, 172:  ‘Apparently the schema is so well-known that it scarcely requires explanation.’ On the role of the Logos in Philo’s theology, see O. McFarland, God and Grace in Philo and Paul (NovTSup 164; Leiden: Brill, 2015), 71–76; Cox, By the Same Word, 87–140. Two other texts lay out Philo’s views of causation but basically follow the discussion here. In Quaest. in Gen. 1.58, Philo lists only the first three causes and does not include the final cause; and in Prov. 1.23 all four causes are present, but the final cause is given as the ‘to which’ or ‘towards which’ (πρὸς ὅ) rather than the ‘for which’ (τὸ δι᾿ ὅ) as in Cher. 124–130. According to Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 227–228, this ‘suggests that Philo knows more than one analysis’.

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understanding of causation.13 Second, Philo was also influenced by Plato. Plato’s influence on Philo can be felt on nearly every page of his writings, but for our purposes here the influence on his view of causation occurs specifically in Philo’s understanding of the final cause – the reason ‘for which’ (τὸ δι᾿ ὅ) divine causation occurs – as God’s goodness or grace. In the Timaeus (29E), Plato explains that God created because ‘He was good’ (ἀγαθὸς ἦν); although Philo does not mention Plato in this context, it is clear that here and elsewhere Plato stands behind Philo’s thought.14 Thus, for example, in his treatise on the creation of the world, Philo says that in answering why God created, one would not ‘miss the mark’ by following the answer given by one of the ancients: ‘that the Father and Creator is good’ (ἀγαθὸν εἶναι τὸν πατέρα καὶ ποιητήν).15 However, Philo explicitly attributes this teaching to Moses, the philosopher par excellence.16 Finally, we may also note that Philo can speak about causation in a Stoic way. As Philo says in Fug. 12, ‘the world has been created, and by all means has been created by a certain cause’ (γέγονέ τε γὰρ ὁ κόσμος καὶ πάντως ὑπ᾿ αἰτίου τινὸς γέγονεν). Hankinson explains that Philo’s designation of the first or efficient cause as the true cause is an effectively Stoic move.17 In this more Stoic framework, reality can be split between an active and a passive principle. Thus, in Opif. 8–9, Philo calls God the ‘active cause’ (δραστήριον αἴτιον) and the world is the ‘passive subject’ (τὸ παθητόν).18 As scholars have long noted, Philo evidences a number of philosophical influences – Aristotelian, Platonic and Stoic19 – and he uses these traditions 13

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For Aristotle’s explanation of the four causes, see Phys. 2.3 and Metaph. 5.2. D. Bradshaw, Aristotle East and West: Metaphysics and the Division of Christendom (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2004), 62 explains that for Aristotle God’s causation is an inward activity, while divine causation for Philo is an ‘avenue by which God may be known’. The influence of Plato – or even simply Plato’s Timaeus – on Philo cannot be explored here. See, above all, the detailed excellent work of Runia, Timaeus. Op. Mund. 21. Cf. Leg. All. 3.78; Mut. Nom. 46. As Runia, Timaeus, 135 explains, ‘Philo is the first thinker to associate the goodness of Plato’s demiurge with the Judeo-Christian conception of God the creator, an event of enormous significance in the history of ideas’. Cf. Deus 108. As C.A. Anderson, Philo of Alexandria’s View of the Physical World (WUNT II/309; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 77 puts it, ‘here Philo follows Plato . . . But as is typical, Philo also finds a biblical basis for this position’. R. J. Hankinson, Cause and Explanation in Ancient Greek Thought (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2001), 342. Cf. see D. T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria:  On the Creation of the Cosmos According to Moses: Introduction, Translation and Commentary (PACS 4; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 115–117 for commentary on this text. I follow Runia and G. Reydams-Schils. ‘Stoicized Readings of Plato’s Timaeus in Philo of Alexandria’, SPhil 7 (1995): 89 in arguing that an implied αἴτιον should not be supplied after τὸ παθητόν. God, the active cause, causes material to exist, which is not then a ‘passive cause’. Pace H. Weiss, Untersuchungen zur Kosmologie des Hellenistischen und Palästinischen Judentums (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1966), 42. For an overview of causation in each of these philosophical streams, see Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 222–226.

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as he desires.20 Yet, Philo finds justification for his views on divine causation in Moses just as much as he does in Plato. Thus, while Philo’s prepositional metaphysics – and his view of divine causation – works within particular traditional boundaries, he is also his own thinker. A few final points can be noted before drawing together the implications of Philo’s prepositional metaphysics for this essay. First, Philo, as well as other philosophers, is simply using prepositions in their straightforward meanings. There is no redefinition of prepositions; rather, the issue is one of properly applying prepositions to the right agent, substance or motivation.21 Second, other prepositions besides the ones mentioned above can rightly be used to describe God’s causation. For example, to return to Cher. 128–130, after also critiquing Joseph for using διά for God, Moses provides the example of speaking rightly in Exod. 14.13:  ‘Stand and see the salvation that is from the Lord’ (στῆτε καὶ ὁρᾶτε τὴν σωτηρίαν τὴν παρὰ τοῦ κυρίου). Moses thus teaches that one is saved not through God (or by means of God) but rather by God solely as the cause of salvation (ἐκδιδάσκων ὅτι οὐ διὰ τοῦ θεοῦ ἀλλὰ παρ᾿ αὐτοῦ ὡς αἰτίου).22 Finally, Philo can also – appropriately – apply prepositions of instrumentality or intermediary agency to God even when discussing causation. Thus, Philo says that of all created things ‘some come into existence by (ὑπό) God and through (διά) God, but others by God but not through God (τὰ δὲ ὑπὸ θεοῦ μέν, οὐ δι᾿ αὐτοῦ); the best things came into existence both by him and through him’ (ὑπὸ θεοῦ . . . καὶ δι᾿ αὐτοῦ).23 Since God is the true cause of all things, but he only causes what is good,24 Philo has to nuance how exactly God stands behind all reality. God employs his ‘Powers’ and other

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Given Philo’s use of diverse sources and ability to conceptualize ideas with different terminology, some have argued that Philo is an inconsistent or incoherent thinker. However, I  follow J. M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE–117 CE) (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996), 164 in thinking that while ‘[o]ccasionally Philo incorporates extraneous or inconsistent material . . . he is generally in control of his own theology and critical of ideas he cannot harmonize with Scripture’. On Philo’s place within the philosophical tradition, see, among others, D. T. Runia, ‘Was Philo a Middle Platonist? A Difficult Question Revisited’, SPhilo 5 (1993): 112–140. Thus, Philo’s use of preposition aligns with the explanations given in, for example, H. W. Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920). Thus, as J. M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2015), 217 points out, within certain limits, the ‘theological grammar is more important than its precise wording’. Leg. All. 1.41. E.g., Agr. 128–129. Indeed, to attribute evil to God is blasphemy (Fug. 84). God is the ‘nonproduction of evils’ (ἀφορία κακῶν, Abr. 268).

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subordinate agents in the creation of the ‘opposite things’ (τὰ ἐναντία).25 Philo walks along a steep ledge:  nothing comes into existence outside of God’s causation (ὑπό), but he is not responsible for evil – it does not come into being through (διά) him.26 Therefore, when Philo broadens out the discussion of divine causation to include the existence of evil, he gives himself more space in which to work, and a preposition like διά can be used without anxiety, because of the way Philo has drawn God’s subordinate agents into the scope of causation. To draw this discussion of Philo’s prepositional metaphysics to a close, we can ask: why is this so important for Philo? Philo’s creative blend of mostly Aristotelian and Platonic philosophy designates how God’s causation should be understood: God causes all things, and he does so because he is good and gracious.27 Causation is thus not merely an activity of God, but part of his identity. As Philo explains, ‘God never ceases creating,28 but as it is the ἴδιον of fire to burn and of snow to make cold, so also it is God’s ἴδιον to create.’29 Indeed, perhaps reflecting Stoic influence, Philo argues that creation belongs to God alone (ἴδιον μὲν δὴ θεοῦ τὸ ποιεῖν), while the rest of reality is passive or acted upon (ἴδιον δὲ γενητοῦ τὸ πάσχειν).30 In this way, Philo’s view of divine causation – as delineated by his prepositional metaphysics – also safeguards his distinction between the Creator and the created.31 Accordingly, getting causation right, and using prepositions correctly, is a matter of speaking truthfully about who God is and how God is different from all created reality. Philo knows that simply to change a preposition could cause one to speak erroneously – or even blasphemously – about God’s nature and dealings with the world.

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Abr. 143. See also Fug. 66; Quaest. in Gen. 4.42; Quaest. in Exod. 1.23. There is no space here to discuss the ‘Powers’ and God’s relation to them. See F. Calabi, God’s Acting, Man’s Acting: Tradition and Philosophy in Philo of Alexandria (SPA 4; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 73–109. A good example of Philo’s nuance is found in how he speaks of divine punishment (Fug. 66): it is not fitting for God to punish (τὸ κολάζειν), so he punishes through the service of others and not by himself (κολάζει δὲ δι᾿ ὑπηρετούντων ἑτέρων, οὐ δι᾿ ἑαυτοῦ). McFarland, God and Grace, 31. See further Fug. 177, 198; Rer. Div. Her. 36, 172; Vit. Mos. 2.100; Somn. 1.76; Spec. Leg. 4.187. D. Winston, ‘Philo’s Theory of Eternal Creation:  “De Prov.” 1.6–9’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 46/47 (1980):  593–606; G. E. Sterling, ‘Creatio temporalis, aeterna, vel continua? An Analysis of the Thought of Philo of Alexandria’, SPhilo 4 (1992): 15–41. Leg. All. 1.5. On Philo’s use of ἴδιον, see W.E. Mann, ‘Immutability and Predication: What Aristotle Taught Philo and Augustine’, International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 22 (1987): 22–24. Cher. 77. On which, see Poster. C. 14; Dec. 69; Leg. All. 2.3, 83; Deus 80; Op. Mund. 8–9; Somn. 1.249; 2.28.

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6.3 Prepositional Metaphysics in Paul? There is enough similarity between Paul’s prepositional formulations about causation to other such philosophical formulations that scholars have debated whether one can attribute to Paul a use – or at least knowledge – of a version of prepositional metaphysics.32 Did Paul use prepositions in a technical way for theological purposes, do his formulations owe more to traditional Jewish formulations, or was Paul just muddled with his use of prepositions?33 The debate cannot be settled here, nor can a full interpretation or history of interpretation be given, but I will seek to give some indicators of where I believe the debate could go. The two texts usually discussed are 1 Cor. 8.6 and Rom. 11.36: in both passages Paul uses prepositions in a ‘metaphysical context’, and in both prepositions are used for causation.34 Norden is often cited as the most important earliest scholar who advocated for viewing Paul’s use of prepositions as set within current philosophical thought.35 For example, with regard to Rom. 11.36, Norden stated: Auch derjenige, der ‘Hellenismen’ bei Paulus so skeptisch gegenübersteht wie ich selbst, wir bei unbefangener Prüfung des vorgelegten Tatbestandes nicht umhin können, das Sätzchen des Apostels mit dem des kaiserlichen Stoikers.36

The comparison here is between the words of Paul and of Marcus Aurelius. Rom. 11.36: ὅτι ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ δι᾿ αὐτοῦ καὶ εἰς αὐτὸν τὰ πάντα M.A. (Med. 4.23): ἐκ σοῦ πάντα, ἐν σοὶ πάντα, εἰς σὲ πάντα

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As Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 219–220 notes, this question has been particularly relevant historically because of the christological freight behind the issue. ‘The Patriarch Joseph, after agreeing with the Latins that their formula of the formula of the Holy Ghost proceeding from the Son meant the same as the Greek formula of the Holy Ghost proceeding through the Son, fell ill and died. An unkind scholar remarked that after muddling his prepositions what else could he decently do?’, S. Runciman, The Fall of Constantinople: 1453 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 17–18. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 231–232. Col 1.15–20 is also often discussed, but for reasons of space, and to avoid issues of authorship, I will instead point to Sterling’s discussion of the passage (234–236). E. Norden, Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede (Leipzig: Teubner, 1913), 240–263. Norden’s argument was convincing to many interpreters; see, e.g., R. Bultmann, The Theology of the New Testament: Volume One (trans. K. Grobel; London: SCM Press, 1956), 70–71. Norden, Agnostos Theos, 241.

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Paul and Marcus’s texts are similar in their application of all three prepositions to one cause: the God of Israel and Nature (φύσις) respectively. For Norden, the discrepancy between Paul’s use of διά and Marcus’ use of ἐν could be explained by the fact that both were drawing on earlier Stoic formulations.37 Schweitzer, however, argued that because Norden was ‘[u]nder the enchantment of the sound and splendour of the passage’, he missed the striking difference between Paul and Marcus:  the difference between ‘in’ and ‘through’.38 For Schweitzer, ‘In the difference between in and through lies the great gulf which divides the static mysticism of the Stoic from the dynamic mysticism of Paul.’39 As Lakey notes, Schweitzer’s general argument against Norden’s position has been successful enough that many scholars give little stock to asking whether a technical or semi-technical philosophical use of prepositions might stand behind Paul’s use.40 Sterling’s work on prepositional metaphysics, however, has put the question of a technical use of prepositions in Paul and other NT passages back on the table.41 In the final part of this essay, I will (1) briefly explain Sterling’s situating of 1 Cor. 8.6 and Rom. 11.36 in relation to the philosophical traditions of prepositional metaphysics; and (2) interact with a recent theological reading of these two texts that does justice to a kind of prepositional metaphysics.

6.4 Philosophy and Pauline Prepositional Metaphysics For Sterling, Rom. 11.36 and 1 Cor. 8.6 represent a Stoic and mixed philosophical background, respectively. As already mentioned, Rom. 11.36 is 37

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Norden, Agnostos Theos, 242. Norden provides an example from Chrysippus as a background for Paul. A. Schweitzer, The Mysticism of Paul the Apostle (trans. W. Montgomery ; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), 11–12. I  owe this reference to M. Lakey, Image and Glory of God:  1 Corinthians 11:12–16 As a Case Study in Bible, Gender and Hermeneutics (LNTS 418; London: T&T Clark, 2010), 89–90. Cf. Grant, ‘Causation’, 35 notes, Paul’s statement in Rom. 11.36 ‘resembles what Marcus Aurelius says’, but ‘the Stoic emperor, it would appear, means “in” by ἐν’. Lakey, Image and Glory, 89–90. Cf. J. D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1989), 179 on 1 Cor. 8.6:  ‘the use of the prepositions “from”, “through” and “to” when speaking of God and the cosmos (“all things”) was widespread in the ancient world and typically Stoic. But there is no real parallel to Paul’s formulation here’. Similarly, L. W. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (London:  T&T Clark, 1998), 97:  ‘There are partial parallels to be drawn between the wording of this passage and the religiophilosophical discourse of the Greco-Roman environment, but the content reflects a Christian adaptation of fundamentally Jewish categories.’ Lakey, Image and Glory, 90 calls Sterling’s work a ‘qualified rehabilitation of Norden’s initial hypothesis’.

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very similar to Marcus Aurelius’s praise to Nature, and so it is natural to place Paul’s formulation here against a Stoic background. For Paul, as for the Stoics, all three prepositions ‘denote one cause, the ultimate cause, God’.42 Sterling explains the difference between Paul’s διά and Marcus’s ἐν as ‘the Stoic application of all metaphysical prepositional phrases to God’, but he also notes that authors could vary their prepositions ‘as long as all were used in reference to the one cause’.43 Because there is only one putative tradition behind this formulation, commentators have not been bothered about noting Paul’s similarity – and perhaps reliance – on the Stoic tradition, while noting that Paul, of course, reworks the formula for his own ends.44 1 Cor. 8.6 is more interesting. As Sterling explains, 1 Cor. 8.6 is not only the ‘earliest Christian text which appears to utilize prepositional metaphysics’, but it is also ‘one of the most complex’.45 Sterling makes the common point that in 1 Cor. 8.6 Paul ‘appears to make a distinction between the Father and the Lord [Jesus] through the use of different prepositional phrases’.46 While ‘all things’ are from God (ἐξ οὗ τὰ πάντα), ‘all things’ are through Jesus (δι᾿ οὗ τὰ πάντα). Interestingly, Sterling confirms that the use of these two prepositions is ‘not haphazard’ from 1 Cor. 11.12: here Paul argues that woman has come from man (ἡ γυνὴ ἐκ τοῦ ἀνδρός), but man comes through woman (ὁ ἀνὴρ διὰ τῆς γυναικός), and yet all things come from God (τὰ δὲ πάντα ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ).47 42

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Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 233. Cf. E. Käsemann, Commentary on Romans (trans. G. W. Bromiley ; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1980), 318, who assumes ‘[a]n important formula from the Stoic tradition forms the conclusion’. The reason Paul uses διά rather than ἐν is to avoid pantheistic implications (319). Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 233. Sterling cites Norden, Agnostos Theos, 240–243 on this point. K. Barth, The Epistle to the Romans (trans. E. Hoskyns; London:  Oxford University Press, 1968), 423 makes this comment on 11.36:  ‘Marcus Aurelius said much the same in his “Meditations.” . . . It was not unknown to Philo and to others. But why were its implications not drawn out more clearly in the mysticism of the Hellenistic world? Why were its terror and its promise not emphasized? If Paul simply borrowed the formula, why is it that the theory of borrowing provides no more than an utterly superficial explanation of what he has actually done? Why is Paul’s use of the formula so much more original than in the source from which he borrowed it? Whatever the truth may be about the method of his borrowing, Paul could not have provided the chapter with a more appropriate conclusion’. Barth’s points are salient; but the issue here is not Paul’s borrowing of a formula, as it were, but showing that we do not have to deny Paul’s use of a traditional way of applying prepositions for causation. As do, e.g., A. J. Hultgren, Paul’s Letter to the Romans: A Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2011), 432–33; D.J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1996), 743. Both cite Norden, and Moo speculates that Paul received this formula the Stoics via Hellenistic Jewish synagogues. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 235. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 235. Cf. also Cox, By the Same Word, 149–150.

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The passage is a relevant supplement to 1 Cor. 8.6 both because of its implied reference to creation and because of how it draws all things together with a reference to God’s ultimate causation. Accordingly, the distinction between ἐκ and διά is a distinction in causation. Sterling argues that διά points us towards Platonism and its use of instrumental causes; the use of ἐκ for God as the material cause, however, seems Stoic.48 To explain the mixed usage here, Sterling speculates:  ‘Perhaps an early Christian – whether it was Paul or the author of a confession he was citing – used the Stoic formula for God and then balanced it with the Platonic formula for Christ.’49 As Sterling rightly points out, the use of multiple streams of prepositional metaphysics is neither surprising nor unprecedented; as seen above, Philo could draw on both Stoic and (Middle) Platonic conceptions as needed. What is ‘surprising’, however, ‘is the close proximity of the two’.50 Yet Engberg-Pedersen notes that the years between 100 BCE and CE 200 – what he calls the ‘Transitional Period’ – was a time ‘characterized by a flexible relationship between the different [philosophical] schools’. This flexibility ‘allowed philosophers . . . to absorb alien material from other philosophies into their own’. Importantly, ‘the same pattern immediately fits the way in which Jewish or Christian writers (themselves of a more or less philosophical bent) might make use of material drawn from Greco-Roman philosophy’.51 So Sterling’s mixed view is not implausible. Additionally, as Engberg-Pedersen explains, in this time period a thinker like Paul could absorb multiple philosophical influences into his writings without his own thought being overdetermined by those influences. In other words, Paul could use a formulation the roots of which belong both to Platonism and the Stoics without Paul himself becoming either.52 48

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Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 236. While some scholars note potential philosophical backgrounds, they usually only note one or the other, not a mixed influence. For example, Sterling points out that R. A. Horsley, ‘The Background of the Confessional Formula in 1 Kor 8:6’, ZNW 69 (1978): 135 has suggested it could be a Platonic formula, though he gives no evidence for it. Cf. similarly, N. Richardson, Paul’s Language about God (JSNTSup 99; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic, 1994), 296–97:  ‘It is . . . probable that the formulation owes something to Stoic influence, particularly its use of prepositions.’ Because Fee notes that Paul’s formulation is not exactly like any known Stoic formulations, he disregards the influence. G. D. Fee, Pauline Christology:  An ExegeticalTheological Study (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2007), 92 n. 18. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 236. See, similarly, Cox, By the Same Word, 146–147. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 236. T. Engberg-Pedersen, ‘Setting the Scene:  Stoicism and Platonism in the Transitional Period in Ancient Philosophy’, in Stoicism in Early Christianity (ed. T. Engberg-Pederson et. al.; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2010), 12–13. On this point, see the nuanced argument of C. K. Rowe, One True Life: The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press, 2016), 260–261:  ‘The treasures [early

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Sterling also explains that because 1 Cor. 8.6 represents a mixed philosophical grounding, it can be both cosmological and soteriological in nature.53 Thus, the first half of the formulation, which has ἐκ and διά + πάντα, is cosmological; the second half, with its focus on ‘us’ in relation to God (εἰς αὐτόν) and through the agency of Christ (δι᾿ αὐτοῦ), is soteriological. If διά were not understood against the Platonic background, it would be difficult to understand the causal relationship between ἐκ, διά, and πάντα.54 Accordingly, as Sterling speculated that perhaps 1 Cor. 8.6 was originally a Stoic formulation to which Platonic elements were added, he also speculates that perhaps the formulation was originally cosmological, but someone – perhaps Paul – ‘added a distinctive soteriological twist’.55 Sterling has argued well that Paul seems to employ ‘a variety of understandings current in the philosophical schools’ in his use of prepositions.56 The use of ἐκ for God and διά for Jesus in 1 Cor. 8.6 may thus imply a distinction in causation, but how does such a distinction actually function within the passage?

6.5 Prepositional Metaphysics within Paul’s Theology In a recent work, principally on Pauline Christology, Wesley Hill has put forth the argument that Paul’s formulation in 1 Cor. 8.6 points to both unity and distinction between God and Jesus Christ.57 This interpretation is relevant for our purposes because it provides an example of allowing Paul’s use of prepositions to fit within a technical philosophical background while also giving weight to the context of the prepositions within traditional theological formulas.58

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Christians] find are the words in the Stoic texts, not the Stoic “thoughts” that are somehow independent from the Stoic grammar in which thoughts have their shape and meaning – and that can somehow be transported from one grammar to the other without a change in meaning.’ Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 236. Pace esp. J. Murphy-O’Connor, ‘1 Cor 8:6, Cosmology or Soteriology’, RB 85 (1978): 253–267. Accordingly, Sterling notes that for Murphy-O’Connor, ‘1 Cor 8:6’, 260–261, the cosmological view cannot be upheld because the prepositions do not fit the Stoic schema. However, if a mixed formulation is present – both Stoic and Platonic – then there is no issue. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 236. Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics’, 232. W. A. Hill, Paul and the Trinity:  Persons, Relations, and the Pauline Letters (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 112–120. As Lakey, Image and Glory, 90 notes, with regard to Paul’s possible ‘semi-technical use of διά[+gen.] in 1 Corinthians 8:6 to describe the instrumental agency of the Lord, the scholarly debate has been

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First, with regard to the unity between God and Jesus, Hill discusses how Paul’s statement relates to Deut. 6.4. The ‘key structural terms of 1 Cor. 8:6 – εἷς, θεός, and κύριος – are all present in the LXX of Deut 6:4’ (Ακουε, Ισραηλ· κύριος ὁ θεὸς ἡμῶν κύριος εἷς ἐστιν).59 According to Hill, Paul apportions the key terms, which all refer to the one God of Israel in Deut. 6.4, to two distinct agents, God and Jesus Christ. Some have argued that Paul has simply added Jesus as κύριος to the ‘affirmation of “one God” ’. Consequently, there is only still one God of Israel and also ‘alongside him, there is Jesus as the exalted agent through whom he acts’.60 Yet Hill points out that Paul is not adding a κύριος to the confession of one God, but is rather identifying Jesus as the κύριος of Deut. 6.4 – he is not adding, but ‘making an interpretive gloss’.61 Hill thus argues that to identify ‘the God to whom Deut 6:4 is referring . . . [for Paul] requires one to mention both “God the Father” and “Jesus Christ” ’.62 As part of his confirmation of this interpretation, Hill explains that in 1 Cor. 8.6 Paul is reworking not just one formula (Deut. 6.4) but two: ‘Paul draws on another monotheistic formula and splits it apart it in a similar way, assigning half of it to “God the Father” and half to the “Lord Jesus Christ.” ’63 Hill believes that the original phrasing of this formula would have looked like Rom. 11.36.64 1 Cor. 8.6 ἀλλ᾿ ἡμῖν εἷς θεὸς ὁ πατὴρ ἐξ οὗ τὰ πάντα καὶ ἡμεῖς εἰς αὐτόν,

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dominated by whether, and if so how far, the verse departs from the Shema’. It is thus easy for scholars to play these two aspects off of each other, as if one excludes the other. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 113. Viewing 1 Cor. 8.6 as Paul’s reworking (or adaptation, etc.) of the Shema is standard; for discussion, see N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant: Christ and the Law in Pauline Theology (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 1993), 125–129; L. W. Hurtado, Lord Jesus Christ: Devotion to Jesus in Earliest Christianity (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2003), 114; E. Waaler, The Shema and The First Commandment in First Corinthians: An Intertextual Approach to Paul’s Re-reading of Deuteronomy (WUNT II/253; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2008); R. Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel: God Crucified and Other Studies on the New Testament’s Christology of Divine Identity (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008), 97–104. Hill points to J. F. McGrath, The Only True God: Early Christian Monotheism in Its Jewish Context (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009), 40. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 114. Cf. Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel, 28. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 114. In developing what he calls ‘Paul’s relational Christology’, C. Tilling, Paul’s Divine Christology (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2012), 91 makes the following argument about 1 Cor. 8.6:  ‘Precisely in a context that contrasts the monotheistic “knowledge” of the Corinthians with the relational “necessary” monotheistic knowledge of love for God, Paul includes Christ directly in this relational dynamic, and does so by employing a text in Deuteronomy that was central to the daily prayer life of Jews and to the relationship between YHWH and Israel.’ Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 114. See 115 for the rest of Hill’s argument. Cf. Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel, 28–29; Tilling, Paul ’s Divine Christology, 83; Richardson, Paul ’s Language, 297–298.

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καὶ εἷς κύριος Ἰησοῦς Χριστὸς δι᾿ οὗ τὰ πάντα καὶ ἡμεῖς δι᾿ αὐτοῦ.

Rom. 11.36a ὅτι ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ δι᾿ αὐτοῦ καὶ εἰς αὐτὸν τὰ πάντα· The points of similarity between the two formulations are obvious. While in Rom. 11.36 all of the prepositions relate to God, Paul has now, according to Hill, apportioned half of the formulation to God (ἐκ and εἰς) and half to Jesus (διά).65 Thus, Paul has split two monotheistic formulas to include Jesus within them, so that ‘God and Jesus are bound together . . . by sharing the role as originator as well as concluder of all things’.66 In this way, formulations that formerly distinguished God from all created reality now distinguish God and Jesus from that reality. Hill argues, however, that the way Paul has reworked these monotheistic formulations to indicate the unity between God and Jesus do not override the ways in which Paul also points to a distinction between God and Jesus. For example, while Paul applies the κύριος of Deut. 6.4 to Jesus, he does not here call God κύριος – even though in Deut. 6.4 both κύριος and θέος designated the same referent.67 Rather, in 1 Cor. 8.6, by giving Jesus the title κύριος Jesus both bears the name/title given to God, and is also distinguished from him. Furthermore, Hill confirms that the distinction in prepositions signals a distinction in agency:  ‘Jesus is the mediating agent (δι’ οὗ) of a creation that finds its initiation in God.’68 Jesus is thus distinct from God in both ‘role’ and ‘identity’. As Hill explains, Jesus ‘is the Lord, the one involved in the divine work of creation and salvation as its instrument, while God is his Father, the one who gives creation its impetus (ἐξ οὗ) and who serves as its (and salvation’s) telos (εἰς αὐτόν)’. There is therefore both unity and differentiation, and Paul’s use of prepositions plays a key role in making and defining the 65 66

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Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 114. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 115. Bauckham, Jesus and the God of Israel, 214–215 notes the similarity between Paul’s formula and other formulas in Jewish writings, such as Philo’s in Cher. 127. He concludes that we can ‘be confident that Paul’s formulation [in Rom. 11.36] is neither original to Paul nor borrowed directly from non-Jewish sources, but was known to him as a Jewish description precisely of God’s unique relationship to all other reality’. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 116. Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 116. Cf. M. J. Harris, Prepositions and Theology in the Greek New Testament (Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2012), 70–71; L. W. Hurtado, How on Earth did Jesus Become a God? Historical Questions about Earliest Jesus Devotion (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2005), 49.

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differentiation69 – and this occurs within Paul’s use of monotheistic formulas, which signifies the unity between Jesus and God.70 In this way, Hill’s reading of 1 Cor. 8.6 (and, by extension, Rom. 11.36) alleviates any tension between having to choose a technical use of prepositions for Paul or a use of prepositions that is defined solely by Paul’s repurposing of pre-existing monotheistic formulas. The two are not antithetical, but are rather interrelated, as Paul’s use of formulas and his prepositional metaphysics work together in his theological argumentation to unite and distinguish God and Jesus. In other words, Hill shows how an interpreter can accept the traditional philosophical use of prepositions without letting the prepositions overdetermine Paul’s argumentation, and also without overpowering Paul’s use of traditional monotheistic formulas. Such an argument would not satisfy Philo – for him Paul’s use of διά would indicate that Jesus is an instrument and cannot be identified with God in the strong way for which Hill argues. But while Philo and Paul are both tapping into traditional uses of prepositions for designating causation, we have already seen that this does not lock them into the same understanding of causation. Both Philo and Paul display forms of prepositional metaphysics that are influenced by multiple philosophical traditions, and yet each is able to use prepositions to define causation precisely as they intended to do.

6.6 Conclusion Building upon the foundation of Sterling’s work in prepositional metaphysics, as well as Hill’s integrative theological reading of Paul, this essay has attempted to show how Paul, as with Philo, can safely be placed within the realm of the traditional use of prepositional metaphysics. Philo was examined first as a clear, uncontroversial example of the use of prepositional metaphysics, and some important nuances were seen in his use of prepositions within his discussions

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Hill notes Sterling in this context for an explanation of ‘how Stoic and Middle Platonic conceptualities are here intermingled and modified’. As Hill, Paul and the Trinity, 116–120 notes, many interpreters find it difficult to hold together both unity and distinction, so they tend to emphasize one to the neglect of the other. While I cannot elaborate on Hill’s argument against these two positions, I agree with his assessment that we should ‘reject the choice between these two interpretive options as a false one’. Cf. Harris, Prepositions and Theology, 74–75, who also tries to balance both aspects.

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of divine causation. Three points of connection between Philo, Paul and their use of prepositions may be noted here in summary, with a fourth point looking towards further study of Paul’s use of prepositions. First, as we saw in Philo, a varied use of prepositions is related to the influence of multiple philosophical traditions. As Sterling argued, Paul, as with Philo, could use and mix various philosophical traditions in his theological formulations. The lesson here is that if we are unable to find a single background for a Pauline formulation, we need not write off the whole question of an indebtedness to prepositional metaphysics.71 While what Paul proclaimed was wholly unique, his grammar, however, was not. As with Philo, Paul used the grammatical and philosophical tools of his time, while he also had a certain amount of linguistic and conceptual freedom in how he related the work of divine causation to the world. Second, for Philo it was paramount to get one’s prepositions correct in speaking of divine causation, because properly designating causation was a matter of correctly understanding who God is. Similarly, as Hill has shown, Paul’s prepositions also do important work in defining the distinction between God and Jesus in the work of divine causation: they are distinct both in role and identity. Yet, Paul is also different from Philo in this regard: for Paul, Jesus is the intermediary agent of divine causation – he would be the ‘instrument’ according to Philo – and yet he is also identified with God through Paul’s reworking of monotheistic formulas. The Christological divide between Philo and Paul is not the issue, but that they do not have identical prepositional metaphysics. Third, while Philo is drawing on various philosophical traditions in his argumentation, he believes the ultimate justification for what he is saying is found in the philosopher Moses, not other philosophers. In other words, Philo is in charge of his use of prepositions and they serve his purposes. In a similar manner, simply to place Paul in the tradition of prepositional metaphysics does not mean that the interpretation of Paul’s use of prepositions needs to be determined by some putative background. Paul borrows, uses and adapts for his own purposes – and, like Philo, his argument draws chiefly upon

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scripture. We can acknowledge Paul’s intellectual debts without overturning his distinctiveness. Fourth, placing Paul within the conversation about prepositional metaphysics can provide stimulus for further study of Paul’s use of prepositions. For example, as in the case of 1 Cor. 8.6, we might ask what Christological freight might be when Paul does not distinguish God and Jesus through the use of different prepositions, but unites them in the use of a single preposition.72 How does Paul’s theological move here fit not only in his letters, but within the philosophical traditions as well as the theological formulations of early Christianity and Judaism? For Paul, as for Philo, bigger issues were at hand with the use of prepositions than the question of their placement in a sentence. For both, the use of prepositions were significant for defining God’s role in causation, and therefore for speaking rightly about God. In reading Paul, as in reading Philo, the importance of the smallest words cannot be overemphasized.

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Cf., e.g., Harris, Prepositions and Theology, 62 on ἀπό in Paul’s letter openings:  ‘The single ἀπό standing before both personal names points to the unity and singularity of the source. God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ jointly form a single source of divine grace, mercy, and peace. They sustain a single relation – not two diverse relations, such as source and channel – to the grace and peace that come to believers. A monotheistic Jew would never claim that a mere human being, together with God, is a fount of spiritual blessing; the deity of Christ is thus implicitly affirmed.’ The issue with such assertions is not that they are incorrect, but that they are generally unsubstantiated.

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Paul and Pan(en)theism Runar M. Thorsteinsson

7.1 Introduction There is a long and strong tradition to understand Paul’s idea of God as theistic and, more specifically, monotheistic – that is, of God as the creative source of the world, who transcends and yet is immanent in the world, and of whom one may also speak in personal terms. Most of what Paul says of his God does indeed point towards such an understanding. In that respect, Paul’s understanding of God was in line with traditional Jewish understanding of the deity – that is, the notion of God that most contemporary Jews had and expressed by the so-called shema:  ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone’ and so forth.1 But there are several passages where Paul may divert from the traditional Jewish perception of God. These passages may imply pantheism of some sort – that is, the belief that God is identical with the universe, that God is the world and the world is God. The passages may also imply some form of panentheism – the belief that God is ontologically different from the world and greater than everything, but that God is (literally) in everything and everything is in God, God being both in the world and outside of it. It should be noted that the terms ‘theism’, ‘monotheism’, ‘pantheism’ and ‘panentheism’ are modern terms that Paul and his contemporaries knew nothing of. In this essay, they are used for convenience’s sake as descriptive

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Some strands of ancient Jewish conception of the deity may also be described as ‘megatheism’ – that is, the belief that there are many gods but only one who is superior to the others and worth worshipping; see Angelos Chaniotis, ‘Megatheism: The Search for the Almighty God and the Competition of Cults’, in One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire (ed. Stephen Mitchell and Peter Van Nuffelen; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 112–140.

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technical terms. But is Paul’s understanding of God really pan(en)theistic in these passages? And how does that understanding relate to and fit with contemporary pan(en)theism – that is, pan(en)theism among contemporary Stoics? Paul’s closeness to Stoic ethics is well documented,2 but how is the relationship between Paul’s theology and Stoic theology?3 Is there a relationship in that regard? In this essay I will first give an overview of Paul’s perception of God and present the passages in which he may be flirting with pan(en)theistic ideas. Then I will move to the Stoics and give an overview of contemporary Stoic theology, and ask if the Stoics always draw a clear-cut line between pan(en)theistic and theistic conceptions, and where they themselves stand in that respect. As a conclusion I will then interpret the potential pan(en)theistic passages in Paul in the light of Stoic theology. But let us start with Pauline theology.4

7.2 Pauline Theology There is little doubt that Paul’s God is normally what we might call traditionally Jewish. Paul’s God is for the most part theistic, a divine power outside of his5 creation that intervenes in worldly affairs, and monotheistic. God is the immortal (ἀφθάρτου) creator of the world who should be worshipped as such,6 an arranger (συνεκέρασεν) of the human body7 and an eternal power8 whose divine nature is invisible (ἀόρατα)9 and yet at the same time understandable and visible (νοούμενα καθορᾶται) through the things he has made.10 There are nevertheless Gentiles who do not know God.11 Paul notes that there

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In a number of publications, Troels Engberg-Pedersen in particular has shown the close relationship between Pauline moral teaching and Stoic ethics; see esp. Paul and the Stoics (Louisville, KY:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2000). I  myself have discussed the issue in Runar M. Thorsteinsson, Roman Christianity and Roman Stoicism: A Comparative Study of Ancient Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). In a recent publication, Engberg-Pedersen has argued that Paul understood the pneuma (‘spirit’) in a Stoic way as a material entity; Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Translations of Pauline texts are mine, with some aid from the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV). Translations of Classical texts follow the Loeb Classical Library (LCL), unless otherwise noted. In this essay I will speak of God in masculine terms, since the authors under discussion do so. Rom. 1.23, 25; cf. Phil. 1.11. 1 Cor. 12.18, 24. Rom. 1.20; cf. 2 Cor. 4.7; 6.7; 13.4. Rom. 1.20. Rom. 1.19–20; cf. Gal. 4.8–9. 1 Thess. 4.5; cf. Gal. 4.8–9.

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may be ‘so-called gods either in heaven or on earth’, as there are many ‘gods’ and many lords,12 but these beings do not really exist.13 For the living and true God14 is one,15 and he is the Lord of all.16 Here Paul’s monotheistic belief comes very clearly to the fore. Although there are a number of references in which God is said to be present in the world17 and to intervene in human affairs,18 some passages describe God in a traditionally Jewish way as a distant being who surpasses all understanding. Thus, the riches of God, the wisdom of God and the knowledge of God are ‘deep’,19 his wisdom (σοφία) being ‘mysterious and hidden’,20 and his judgements and ways are ‘unsearchable’ (ἀνεξεραύνητα) and ‘inscrutable’ (ἀνεξιχνίαστοι).21 Also, his glory can only be seen as though reflected in a mirror.22 In other words, while God is at work on earth and his nature can be understood and seen through his creation, he is also outside of the created world, existing too in a sphere that is hidden from his creatures. Paul’s description of God in anthropomorphic terms is also traditionally Jewish. After all, according to Paul as well as the Septuagint (LXX), the human being (‘man’ in Paul) is the ‘image and glory of God’ (εἰκὼν καὶ δόξα θεοῦ).23 Like people,24 God has a mind (νοῦν).25 God also has a certain will and purpose,26 and ‘speaks’ through his prophets (in Scripture).27 Correspondingly, people do things ‘before God’,28 things like praying.29 Like human beings, God has a son,30 and is the ‘father’ of human beings.31 God takes revenge32 and is full of wrath (ὀργή).33 He makes 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

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1 Cor. 8.5; cf. 2 Cor. 4.4. 1 Cor. 8.4; Gal. 4.8. 1 Thess. 1.9. Rom. 3.30; 1 Cor. 8.4, 6; Gal. 3.20. Rom. 3.29; 10.12. 2 Cor. 2.17. Rom. 1.24, 26, 28; 3.25; 11.23; 1 Cor. 4.9; 12.6; 15.27–28; 2 Cor. 1.21–22; 5.5; 9.8; 12.21; Gal. 1.15; 3.5; Phil. 1.28; 2.13; 4.19; 1 Thess. 2.13. Rom. 11.33; cf. 1 Cor. 2.10–11; Phil. 4.7. 1 Cor. 2.7; cf. 4.1. Rom. 11.33. 2 Cor. 3.18; but cf. 4.6. 1 Cor. 11.7; cf. Gen. 1.26; cf. also 2 Cor. 4.4 and Phil. 2.6 on Christ being the image of God. Rom. 7.23; 12.2; 1 Cor. 14.14; Phil. 4.7. Rom. 11.34; 1 Cor. 2.16. Rom. 1.10; 8.27–28; 12.2; 15.32; 1 Cor. 1.1, 21, 28; 2 Cor. 1.1; 8.5; Gal. 1.4; 1 Thess. 4.3; 5.9, 18. 2 Cor. 4.2, 6; 6.2, 16–18; cf. Rom. 1.2; 9.6, 25–26. 2 Cor. 12.19; Gal. 1.20; 1 Thess. 3.9, 13. Rom. 1.9; 2 Cor. 13.7; Phil. 1.4; 4.6; 1 Thess. 1.2; 3.10. Rom. 1.3; 5.10; 1 Cor. 1.9; 2 Cor. 1.19; 11.31; Gal. 1.1, 16; 2.20; 4.4; Phil. 2.11; 1 Thess. 1.10. Rom. 1.7; 8.14–16, 19; 9.8; 1 Cor. 1.3; 8.6; 15.24; 2 Cor. 1.2; Gal. 1.3; 3.26; 4.5–7; Phil. 1.2; 2.15; 4.20; 1 Thess. 1.1, 3; 3.11, 13; Phlm. 3. Rom. 12.19. Rom. 1.18; 5.9; 9.22; 12.19; 1 Thess. 2.16.

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sacrifice(s)34 and has ‘bought’ people for a price.35 God promises things to people36 and he has taught them certain things.37 People should seek to ‘please’ God,38 but he is not always ‘pleased’ with their effort.39 Paul even states that God can appear as ‘foolish’ (τὸ μωρὸν τοῦ θεοῦ)40 and ‘weak’ (τὸ ἀσθενὲς τοῦ θεοῦ),41 although, one should note, these terms are used as a rhetorical comparison with human foolishness and weakness in order to emphasize the latter. In other words, the point is not to say that God is foolish or weak, but only that he may at times appear that way. God is a personal god who justifies and rewards those who ‘do the law’ (οἱ ποιηταὶ νόμου)42 and build on the faithfulness of Jesus (τὸν ἐκ πίστεως Ἰησοῦ),43 and he judges and punishes those who do wrong.44 Searching the hearts of people45 and having imprisoned all in disobedience,46 God shows no partiality in this respect.47 Everyone is deemed accountable to God on the day of judgement. According to Rom. 2.24, God has a name, but as a true and pious Jew, Paul does not articulate God’s holy name, using instead the words ‘God’ (θεός) and ‘Lord’ (κύριος). God loves human beings,48 welcoming every one of them,49 and he is gracious towards them50 and shows them mercy,51 although he hardens the heart of some people.52 Being the God of hope,53 peace54 and consolation,55 he gave the growth to the believing communities,56 having

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Rom. 3.25. 1 Cor. 6.20; 7.23. Rom. 4.20–21; 9.9; 2 Cor. 1.20; Gal. 3.17–18, 21. 1 Thess. 4.9. 1 Thess. 4.1. 1 Cor. 10.5. 1 Cor. 1.25, 27; 3.19–20. 1 Cor. 1.25, 27. Rom. 2.13. Rom. 3.26, 30; cf. Gal. 3.8, 11. Rom. 1.32; 2.2, 3, 5, 6, 16; 3.6; 11.22; 14.10; 1 Cor. 5.13; 10.5; 1 Thess. 2.15–16. Rom. 8.27. Rom. 11.32. Rom. 2.11; Gal. 2.6; cf. Rom. 3.5–6; 9.15. Rom. 5.5, 8; 8.39; cf. Rom. 1.7; 2 Cor. 13.11, 13; 1 Thess. 1.4. Rom. 14.3. Rom. 5.15; 1 Cor. 1.4; 3.10; 15.10; 2 Cor. 6.1; 8.1; Gal. 1.15; 2.21; Phil. 1.2, 7, 29. Rom. 9.16, 18; 11.30–32; 12.1; 2 Cor. 1.3; 4.1; Phil. 2.27. Rom. 9.18. Rom. 15.13. Rom. 16.20; 1 Cor. 14.33; 2 Cor. 13.11; Phil. 1.2; 4.7, 9; 1 Thess. 5.23. 2 Cor. 1.3–4; 7.6. 1 Cor. 3.6.

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himself many congregations.57 Having the power to act in the world,58 God frequently does so, both directly and indirectly, in the latter case either through his own son,59 through his spirit60 or through his messengers, Paul and his co-workers,61 who bring the gospel of God to light as the power of God in the world.62 Directly intervening in worldly affairs, God calls to existence the things that do not exist.63 He tests people64 and calls them to certain tasks.65 Moreover, God gives life to the dead66 and will raise ‘us’ from the dead by his power,67 precisely as he allotted to his son, Jesus Christ,68 thus saving those who believe69 and granting them eternal life.70 In fact, God has reconciled the whole world to himself in Christ.71 According to Paul, God once established a covenant72 and law73 for people to follow. God has also established a measure of faith74 and a way for people to discern what is the will of God – that is, what is ‘good, acceptable and perfect’ (τὸ ἀγαθὸν καὶ εὐάρεστον καὶ τέλειον).75 As a judge, God is righteous and just.76 Moreover, his kingdom is ‘righteousness, peace and joy in the holy spirit’77 and depends not on talk but on ‘power’.78 Paul’s God has many good qualities: He is kind,79 patient,80 faithful,81 truthful,82 and forbearing,83 steadfast and encouraging.84 He gives commendation to 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

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1 Cor. 1.2; 10.32; 11.16, 22; 2 Cor. 1.1; 1 Thess. 2.14. Rom. 11.23. Rom. 8.3; 1 Cor. 1.24, 30; Gal. 4.4, 6. 1 Cor. 2.10. 2 Cor. 2.17; 3.5–6; 5.20; Gal. 4.14; 1 Thess. 2.4. Rom. 1.9, 16; 1 Cor. 1.18, 24. Rom. 4.17. 1 Cor. 10.13; 1 Thess. 2.4. Rom. 11.29; 1 Cor. 1.9; 7.15, 17, 24; 12.28; Gal. 1.15; Phil. 3.14; 1 Thess. 2.12; 4.7; cf. Rom. 8.33; 9.11; 11.1–2; 1 Thess. 1.4. Rom. 4.17; 8.11. 1 Cor. 6.14; 1 Thess. 4.14; cf. 2 Cor. 1.9. Rom. 4.24; 8.11; 10.9; 1 Cor. 6.14; 15.15; 2 Cor. 13.4; Phil. 2.9; 1 Thess. 1.10. 1 Cor. 1.21. Rom. 6.23. 2 Cor. 5.18–19. Gal. 3.17. Rom. 8.8; 1 Cor. 9.21. Rom. 12.3. Rom. 12.2. Rom. 1.17; 3.5; 3.21, 22, 25, 26; 4.6; 10.3; cf. 8.33; 1 Cor. 6.11; 2 Cor. 5.21. Rom. 14.17. 1 Cor. 4.20. Rom. 2.4; 11.22. Rom. 2.4; 9.22. Rom. 3.3; 1 Cor. 1.9; 10.13; 2 Cor. 1.18. Rom. 3.7. Rom. 2.4; 3.25. Rom. 15.5.

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people.85 God is also generous,86 which can best be seen by the fact that he gives his ‘holy spirit’ to people,87 and in turn, he loves a cheerful giver.88 God is indeed the source (ἐξ αὐτοῦ) of people’s lives in Christ Jesus89 and ‘shines’ (ἔλαμψεν) in their hearts.90 All this bears witness to a devout (Christ-believing) Jew whose conception of God is (mono)theistic, personal and traditionally Jewish. However, there are three passages in Paul’s letters that may suggest otherwise. They may suggest that the apostle was picking up some pan(en)theistic language and conceptions, presumably from Stoic philosophy. The first passage is found in Rom. 11.36, in which Paul states that ‘everything’ (τὰ πάντα) is ‘of him [i.e. God]’ (ἐξ αὐτοῦ), ‘through him’ (δι’ αὐτοῦ) and ‘to him’ (εἰς αὐτόν, cf. also 1 Cor. 8.6). Prior to verse 36, Paul has spoken of the ‘depth’ (βάθος) of the riches (πλούτου), wisdom (σοφίας) and knowledge (γνώσεως) of God, and that God’s judgements and ways are ‘unsearchable’ (ἀνεξεραύνητα) and ‘inscrutable’ (ἀνεξιχνίαστοι). ‘Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counsellor? Or who has given a gift to him, to receive a gift in return?’ Paul exclaims (vv. 34–35), quoting Isaiah and Job.91 Verse 36, it should be noted, is no quotation, but contains expressions of Paul himself. Does the phrasing ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ δι’ αὐτοῦ καὶ εἰς αὐτόν τὰ πάντα imply some pantheistic influence? The second passage is a short clause in 1 Cor. 15.28:  ‘so that God may be all in all [or: everyone]’ (ἵνα ᾖ ὁ θεὸς τὰ πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν). This is a purpose clause connected to a preceding temporal clause stating that when all things are subjected to God, then Christ will also be subjected to God, the latter being ‘the one who put all things in subjection under him’. Does the wish that ‘God may be all in all’ denote an ontological understanding of God, that is to say,

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1 Cor. 4.5. Rom. 11.29; 1 Cor. 2.12, 14. 1 Thess. 4.8; 1 Cor. 2.12. 2 Cor. 9.7. 1 Cor. 1.30. 2 Cor. 4.6; cf. Gal. 4.6. In addition to these passages (and the three passages referred to below), God is also mentioned in the following passages: Rom. 8.17 (‘we’ are heirs of God); 13.1, 4, 6 (all authorities are from God); 1 Cor. 1.20 (God has made the wisdom of the world foolish); 2.7 (God decreed his wisdom before the ages for people’s glory); 6.13 (God will destroy both food and stomach); 1 Cor. 8.3 (people are known by God; cf. 2 Cor. 5.11; Gal. 4.9); 15.50 (flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; cf. Gal. 5.21); 2 Cor. 11.31 (God knows ‘that I do not lie’; cf. 12.2); Phil. 3.15 (God reveals things to people). Isa. 40.13 LXX; Job 41.3 LXX (close to but not identical with Paul’s quotation).

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the belief that God can literally be everything in everything (or everyone)? Or should we understanding Paul’s expression differently? The third passage under discussion is more extensive, namely the one in Rom. 8.9–11, in which it is stated that the ‘spirit of God’ can be ‘in’ people: Paul’s addressees are not ‘in flesh’ but ‘in spirit’, provided that the ‘spirit of God dwells in’ them (εἴπερ πνεῦμα θεοῦ οἰκεῖ ἐν ὑμῖν, v. 9), which is repeated in verse 11. There is also the question of ‘having’ the ‘spirit of Christ’ (εἰ δέ τις πνεῦμα Χριστοῦ οὐκ ἔχει) and Christ himself being ‘in’ people (εἰ δὲ Χριστὸς ἐν ὑμῖν) (vv. 9–10). Do we detect here some pantheistic or rather panentheistic tendencies in Paul? What does he mean when he speaks of the spirit of God (and Christ) as dwelling ‘in’ people? Before we consider these questions, we need to acquaint ourselves with pan(en)theistic belief in Paul’s days. In other words, we need to acquaint ourselves with Stoic theology and examine the question of how it was understood in contemporary Stoicism – that is, in the first and early second centuries CE.

7.3 Stoic Theology In this section I present and discuss Stoic theology as outlined by two of the most important Roman Stoics of the period: Seneca and Epictetus.

7.3.1 Theology in Seneca Seneca’s references to God and divine entities are very extensive, too extensive to be treated here comprehensively.92 But there is no doubt that Seneca’s God is pantheistic. On the other hand, as we shall see here, it is also clear that Seneca’s conception of the divine is panentheistic, polytheistic and theistic as well.93 92

93

In addition to the passages referred to below, God/gods/Nature/Fortune/Fate/Jove/Jupiter/The Supreme Good/deity/divinity/creator of the universe are mentioned in the following passages: Ep. 9.12–13, 15; 12.2, 9; 18.8, 13; 19.6; 30.11; 31.9; 36.6; 41.4; 44.1; 47.1; 51.9; 65.2, 4, 7–10; 66.1, 3, 7; 70.13; 71.4, 13, 16, 34; 72.5; 73.14; 74.8, 14, 16, 19–20; 85.20; 90.3, 34, 37; 92.1–2; 93.1, 4, 10; 94.18; 95.2; 98.2–3; 102.25; 107.8, 11–12; 108.8; 110.1; 116.3; 117.6; 118.4; 119.15; 120.4, 13; 121.2, 11, 24; 122.5, 7; 123.16; 124.7, 23; Prov. 2.9; 3.4, 9; 4.12; 5.6–8; 6.1, 6; Const. 2.1; 19.3; Ira 2.30.2; 2.27.2; Clem. 1.1.1; 1.7.1; 1.19.1–2; Marc. 7.1, 3; 9.1; 10.6; 15.1; 19.5; 20.1; 25.2; 26.1, 7; Vit. beat. 3.3; 8.1; 11.3; 20.5–6; 26.6; Otio 5.1, 3; Tranq. 10.2–3; Brev. vit. 2.1; Polyb. 1.1, 3; 10.5; 11.1; 15.3; 17.1; Helv. 5.2, 4; 6.8; 8.3; 15.4; 16.6; 18.1; Ben. 1.1.11; 2.16.2; 2.28.2; 2.29.1; 3.15.4; 3.28.2; 4.6.6; 4.17.3; 4.25.1; 5.2.2; 5.6.3; 6.23.5–6; 6.31.6; Nat. 1.Pref. 3, 7; 2.59.2; 3.16.4. On the mixture of pan(en)theism, polytheism and theism in Stoic philosophy, see the discussion in Keimpe Algra, ‘Stoic Theology’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics (ed. Brad Inwood; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 165–170.

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The pantheistic understanding is in line with classic Stoicism.94 According to Stoic theory, the world is made up of two principles: the active principle and the passive principle. The former is Reason (λόγος) – that is, God – who acts upon the latter, which is substance without quality (i.e. matter, ὕλη).95 The two principles are always conjoined and interdependent, and both are corporeal. In other words, God is corporeal through and through. As Alexander of Aphrodisias explains, in Stoicism, ‘God is mixed with matter, pervading all of it and so shaping it, structuring it, and making it into the world’.96 God is indeed the Cosmos itself, a being that is an intimate part of the world, an immanent being who is at work everywhere in nature as Nature. At the same time, God is Zeus/Jupiter, Reason, The Supreme Good, Providence and Fate. God is also the soul of the living cosmos and its governing principle (τὸ ἡγεμονικόν). According to Seneca, Fate is nothing but a connected chain of causes, and God is the first of all causes97 as well as the creator of this world.98 God is everywhere, as he himself fills all his work99 and is himself the all-embracing world,100 thus maintaining his work both from within and without.101 Hence God is ‘all that you see, all that you do not see’.102 As his members, people are associates of God.103 Jupiter can also be called Universe:  ‘He himself is all that you see, infused throughout all his parts, sustaining both himself and his own.’104 Agreeing with earlier Stoic theory, Seneca explains that God is Creative Reason (Ratio faciens)105 and that all things are made up of matter and of God.106 God controls matter, which encompasses God, following him as its guide and leader. On the other hand, God is more powerful than matter, the latter of which is acted upon by God.107 God is entirely Reason, being the mind of the universe (mens universi).108 God is also Nature,109 and his existence 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109

See further Runar M. Thorsteinsson, ‘Justin and Stoic Cosmo-Theology’, JTS 63.2 (2012), 535–539. Diogenes Laertius 7.134. Mixt. 225.1–2; trans. Long and Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers. Ben. 4.7.2. Ep. 16.5; 65.23; 71.14; 113.16; Ben. 4.6.1–4; 4.7.1. Ben. 4.8.2. Vit. beat. 8.4; Ep. 92.30. Nat. 1.Pref. 13. Nat. 1.Pref. 13. Ep. 92.30; cf. 31.8; Nat. 1.Pref. 6. Nat. 2.45.3. Ep. 65.12. Ep. 65.23. Ep. 65.23. Nat. 1.Pref. 13–14. Ben. 4.7.1; 4.8.2, 3.

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can, in turn, be seen in nature.110 People should worship Nature,111 the Divine Reason that pervades the whole world and all its parts.112 Seneca’s God is also described in panentheistic terms. According to the Stoic philosopher, God’s place in the world resembles that of the soul’s relation to human beings.113 In fact, a soul that is good is nothing but ‘a god dwelling as a guest in a human body’.114 God comes into the midst of people’s thoughts, and he may at any time depart from their thoughts.115 As a matter of fact, a mind without God cannot be good.116 Seneca’s panentheistic understanding shows itself in his claim that God does not just come ‘to’ people; he comes ‘into’ people (in homines venit).117 In other words, God is not only near people, and not only with them; he is ‘within’ (intus) them.118 A  ‘holy spirit’ (sacer spiritus) dwells within people.119 At the same time, a human being is part of the divine spirit.120 That is to say, God is both within people and outside of them, being larger than his creation. As Seneca puts it, ‘something of divinity exists in one who is a part of God’.121 This is pure panentheism. But the pan(en)theistic understanding of God does not seem to rule out more personal and theistic expressions about the deity. Thus, Seneca holds that God is the ‘Father of us all’.122 God is all-glorious123 and the highest and most powerful being,124 under whose guidance everything grows.125 Being omniscient, God sees everything126 and concerns himself with people and their doings.127 Therefore, one should live as if God is always watching,128 constantly obeying129 and following him.130 On the other hand, God is not an omnipotent 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130

Ep. 41.3. Otio 5.8. Ben. 4.7.1; cf. Ep. 66.6. Ep. 65.24. Ep. 31.11; cf. 71.27; 87.21; 109.1 on the Supreme Good. Cf. also Plato, Tim. 90A. Ep. 83.1. Ep. 73.16. Ep. 73.16. Ep. 41.1. Ep. 41.2; cf. 66.12. Otio 5.5. Ep. 92.30; cf. 120.14. Ep. 110.10; Prov. 1.5; Ben. 2.29.4; 4.8.1. Prov. 1.5. Ep. 31.10. Ep. 107.9; cf. Ben. 4.6.5−6. Ep. 83.1. Prov. 1.1; Ben. 4.6.5–6; cf. Prov. 5.1–2. Ep. 10.5. Vit. beat. 15.4; cf. 15.7. Vit. beat. 15.5; cf. also Ep. 45.9; 93.2 on Nature.

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being, since he cannot do harm,131 and should therefore not be feared,132 and since he could not make certain things imperishable.133 Nevertheless, as a being who controls the earth, sky and indeed the universe as a whole,134 one should speak to,135 thank136 and pray to God.137 One should strive to be the pupil, imitator and true offspring of God,138 fully accepting that God breeds the good man with great austerity, precisely as fathers are expected to do.139 Favouring certain individuals,140 God loves good people (deus ille bonorum amantissimus).141 In fact, people are loved by him ‘to the point of being spoiled’.142 God helps people,143 providing them not only with good counsel144 but also with all that they need and possess,145 without expecting anything in return.146 Without the help of God, no one can be truly good.147 As a matter of fact, in spite of Seneca’s basic pantheistic belief, one can at times see expressions that seem to emphasize the transcendence of God. According to Seneca’s worldview, ‘the upper air sunders the human from the divine’148 – in other words, there is a sharp spatial divide between the divine and human. As he says in the Naturales quaestiones, the difference between human beings and God is great.149 These utterances appear to counter what Seneca says elsewhere about the relationship between human beings and the divine, which stands closer to pantheistic understanding, namely that human beings and God are ‘of the same nature, distinct only by virtue of the immortality of the one and the mortality of the other’.150 In other words, the only difference between the good man and God is the element of time.151 For 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151

Ben. 7.7.3. Ep. 17.6; cf. 75.17−18; Tranq. 11.1; Ben. 3.17.3; 4.19.1. Ep. 58.27. Cf. Ep. 93.9; 94.56, 68 on Nature in this role. Ep. 10.5. Ep. 12.10. Ep. 10.4−5; 20.8; cf. 67.11; contra Marc. 21.6. Prov. 1.5. Prov. 1.5−6; 2.6; 4.7−8, 11−12. Prov. 4.5; cf. Ep. 22.12; Prov. 1.5. Prov. 2.7; 4.7; cf. Ep. 78.7; 95.52; 102.18 on Nature; cf. also Marc. 22.3. Ben. 4.5.1. Ep. 95.48. Ep. 41.2. Ben. 4.5.1; cf. 4.28.3. Ben. 4.9.1. Ep. 41.2. Ep. 102.21. Nat. 1.Pref. 2. Ep. 124.14; cf. 48.11; 53.11; 124.21; Const. 8.2; Ben. 2.29.3, 6. Prov. 1.5.

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this reason it is possible for human beings to be ‘in the likeness of God’.152 It comes therefore as no surprise to find anthropomorphic images of God in Seneca’s text. Thus, God can ‘speak’,153 ‘long for’ things154 and ‘carry’ everything.155 Similarly, Fortune (= God) lays ‘snares’ for human beings156 and mistreats them.157 To be sure, Fortune can be ‘kind’,158 but often she is quite unfair.159 Nature (= God) can also be described in anthropomorphic terms. Thus, Nature speaks and discusses things,160 suggesting some things, too.161 Nature also has needs,162 wishing certain things163 and ‘boasting’ of others.164 Moreover, the Supreme Good (summum bonum) is able to ‘adorn’ and ‘handle’ things.165 And speaking in the plural, the gods, having experienced difficulties,166 can both be angry167 and be envious of people,168 being quite needy.169 But they can also feel joy.170 After all, the gods were originally ‘moulded in clay’.171 Returning to the theistic images of God as a transcendent being, alongside these anthropomorphic images, Seneca claims rather surprisingly that God is situated in heaven172 and that the realms of God and human beings are separated by ‘an unalterable distance’.173 For this reason no one has knowledge of God,174 for God, the greatest part of the universe, remains hidden.175 In sum, while traditional Stoic (pantheistic) as well as traditional Roman (polytheistic)176 expressions and images come clearly to the fore, Seneca’s 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

Ep. 31.11; cf. 92.3, 27, 29. Prov. 6.3−9; Ben. 4.32.2−4; 7.3.3. Prov. 4.5. Ep. 31.10. Ep. 8.3; cf. Helv. 5.2; Ben. 6.3.2. Ep. 8.4; cf. 63.10; 82.1; Const. 8.3; Polyb. 2.7; 13.4; 14.2; 15.1; 16.4, 5; Helv. 5.3; 15.2; 18.6. Ep. 18.6; 76.30; Helv. 18.3. Ep. 18.10; cf. Polyb. 3.3. Ep. 3.6; 22.15; Marc. 17.6; cf. Prov. 6.3–9. Ep. 9.21. Vit. beat. 8.2; Helv. 10.11. Clem. 1.19.3; Otio 5.4; cf. Otio 5.8; Helv. 5.1; Nat. 1.17.1. Ben. 6.23.7. Ep. 66.8. Marc. 12.4. Ben. 6.30.1. Marc. 12.6; contra Ep. 73.15. Tranq. 8.5. Prov. 2.11; cf. Ep. 25.4. Ep. 31.11. Helv. 8.5; Nat. 1.Pref. 2; cf. Ep. 92.31. Helv. 8.5. Ep. 31.10. Nat. 7.30.4. As for polytheistic expressions, as noted above, Seneca believed that God created the world, but elsewhere he states that the gods, in plural, created the universe and set it in order (Ben. 6.23.3;

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understanding is greatly coloured by panentheistic and theistic conceptions of a personal deity, the latter of which may perhaps reveal a Platonizing tendency on Seneca’s behalf, or, more likely, he could be drawing on an earlier strand of Stoicism.177 The theistic understanding is in fact so prominent and lucid that scholars have sometimes likened it with Christian theology. Thus, Richard Gummere wrote in his Loeb Classical Library introduction to the letters of Seneca:  ‘Although his connection with the early Church has been disproved, Seneca shows the modern, the Christian, spirit.’178 Similarly, the church father Tertullian called Seneca Seneca saepe noster (‘often our Seneca’), and Jerome simply called him noster Seneca (‘our Seneca’).179

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179

cf. 7.31.2). As he explains in De Beneficiis, the author of this world goes by different names, one of which is Jupiter (Ben. 4.7.1; cf. Nat. 2.45.1–3), who is ‘the pilot of this worldmass’ (Ep. 107.10). Seneca also states that the gods are ‘supreme commanders in the universe, controlling all things by their power’ (Ep. 95.50). Nevertheless, elsewhere Seneca reduces their existence to the sun, moon and stars (Ben 6.23.3), locating them in heaven (Tranq. 8.5). There is a certain tension in Seneca’s writings regarding the way in which the gods intervene in worldly affairs. On the one hand, he tells us that the gods distribute their blessings among the nations and peoples (Ben. 7.31.4; cf. 4.3.2; 4.28.1) and that they cannot do harm (Ep. 95.49; Ira 2.27.1; 2.28.4; Ben. 1.1.9; 7.31.4). On the other hand, he writes that the gods are sometimes unmindful of the individual (Ep. 95.50; cf. Prov. 3.1) and that they can bestow magnificent ills on people (Ep. 22.12; 48.7; Prov. 4.6), punishing those who deserve to be punished (Ep. 95.50; 110.2). However, the gods are not omnipotent beings, which can be seen by the fact that it is not in their power to change what they have determined upon (Ben. 6.23.1–2). According to Seneca, the gods sometimes follow and concern themselves with happenings among human beings (Prov. 2.11). Even though the gods have a greater concern for the human race as a whole rather than particular individuals (3.1; cf. Ep. 95.50), they often relate to people on a personal level. In fact, nothing escapes the knowledge of the gods (Ben. 5.25.4). The vast ‘temple’ of the gods is the world itself (Ep. 90.28), the world also being a ‘city’ shared by gods and human beings (Marc. 18.1). Moreover, there exists a friendship between good human beings and the gods brought about by virtue; ‘there is a tie of relationship and a likeness’ (Prov. 1.5). While they can bestow ills on people, it lies in the nature of the gods to do kind deeds (Ep. 95.48; cf. Ira 2.27.1). Thus, the gods often open the door to people, help them (Ep. 73.15) and show them favour (Ep. 22.12; cf. Prov. 4.5; Ben. 2.29.6), including giving them children (Marc. 12.4). Indeed, the gods are guardians of the human race (Ep. 95.50). In response, one should thank the gods (Ep. 15.10; 93.8; Marc. 13.3; Ben. 2.29.3; 5.17.7), pray to them (Ep. 10.4; 22.12; 60.1; 96.4; Ben. 2.1.4; 5.25.4; Nat. 2.37.2), obey them (Ep. 76.23) and worship them (Clem. 1.19.8), not by such ceremonies as lighting a lamp or uttering morning salutation or thronging the doors of temples (Ep. 95.48; cf. 115.5; Ben. 1.6.3; 4.4.2), but by imitating the gods and thus being a good man (Ep. 95.50; cf. 96.2; Ben. 7.31.5; Ira 2.16.2). Such worship is sufficient (satis). Algra argues that ‘One should not regard such remarks in later Stoics as Platonizing intrusions; they reflect a strand that had been present in orthodox Stoicism all along’ (‘Stoic Theology’, 167– 168; italics in the original). See also idem, ‘Epictetus and Stoic Theology’, in The Philosophy of Epictetus (ed. Theodore Scaltsas and Andrew S. Mason; Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2007), 32–55 on Epictetus in particular. Theistic expressions were already found, e.g., in Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus; see discussion in Johan C. Thom, ‘Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus and Early Christian Literature’, in Antiquity and Humanity: Essays on Ancient Religion and Philosophy Presented to Hans Dieter Betz on His 70th Birthday (ed. Adela Yarbro Collins and Margaret M. Mitchell; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 477–499. Richard Gummere, ‘Introduction’, Seneca: Epistles 1–65 (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917), xii. See further Runar M. Thorsteinsson, ‘The Role of Morality in the Rise of Roman Christianity’, in Exploring Early Christian Identity (ed. Bengt Holmberg; WUNT 226; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 154–155.

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7.3.2 Theology in Epictetus While Epictetus does refer to gods in the plural, he most frequently speaks of God or Zeus. He seldom refers to Nature and even less so to Fortune/Fate or The Supreme Good. As was the case in Seneca, Epictetus’s theology is a combination of pan(en)theism, polytheism and theism. For a pantheist who also had household gods,180 the great quantity of theistic language is remarkable indeed. The panentheistic expressions are less frequent than in Seneca, but they are there nevertheless.181 There are utterings in Epictetus that apply equally to pantheism, polytheism and theism. For instance, according to Epictetus, God is the maker of things, indeed of the whole universe,182 and the gods in the plural administer (διοικούντων) the universe, doing so ‘well and justly’.183 Epictetus notes that there are many opinions among the philosophical schools of the existence and activities of the gods,184 but according to him, the gods not only exist but exercise care of the world.185 Speaking in the singular, Epictetus is of the belief that God provides for the universe186 and is present everywhere in his works (πάρεστιν τοῖς ἔργοις),187 an understanding that can apply to both pantheistic and theistic belief, the former meaning that God is everything and therefore everywhere, whereas the latter can mean that God’s works in the world reveal his presence everywhere. Also pantheistic and/or theistic is the claim that one cannot conceal oneself from God, whether with regard to one’s actions or thoughts or purposes.188 It should be noted that clear pantheistic expressions are actually quite rare in Epictetus. On one occasion he observes that God created the sun, which is a ‘small portion of Himself ’.189 On another occasion he says that each and every person is a fragment (ἀπόσπασμα) of God,190 which may be interpreted as a pantheistic expression, but 180 181

182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190

Diss. 1.18.15. In addition to the references below, God/gods/Zeus/Nature/Deity are also mentioned in the following passages: Diss. 1.9.16; 1.12.25–26; 1.13.5; 1.14.12; 1.19.9, 11, 13; 1.29.13, 19, 29, 47; 2.5.22, 26; 2.7.14; 2.8.13–14, 28; 2.16.44, 46; 2.17.22, 25; 2.18.13, 19; 2.19.27; 2.23.6, 42; 3.1.19, 36; 3.7.26; 3.8.6; 3.13.4, 15; 3.21.18; 3.24.21, 24, 42, 60; 3.26.31; 4.1.82, 101, 154; 4.3.12; 4.4.39; 4.7.17; 4.11.3; Ench. 22; 31.5. Diss. 1.6.3−7; 1.9.4, 7, 13; 2.6.9; 2.8.10−11, 20−22; 2.16.13; 4.7.6. Ench. 31.1. Diss. 1.12.1−3. Diss. 1.12.6; 2.20.9. Diss. 2.14.11. Diss. 1.6.24. Diss. 2.14.11. Diss. 1.14.10. Diss. 2.8.11.

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the context suggests that Epictetus is here (also?) speaking in panentheistic terms, for he continues, ‘you have within you a part (μέρος) of Him’, emphasizing that people are carrying God himself in their bodies and should behave accordingly.191 God sees and hears everything because of his presence in the human being.192 Elsewhere he claims that human beings are not alone, for God is within them (ὁ θεὸς ἔνδον ἐστί), and their own ‘genius’ (δαίμων) is within.193 In other words, the souls of human beings are ‘bound up with God and joined together with Him, as being parts and portions of His being’.194 Similarly, Zeus has given a certain portion (μέρος) of himself to human beings.195 It has long been acknowledged that characteristic of Epictetus’ theology is its ‘warmly and urgently personalist tone’.196 Among the expressions where God is described in personal and theistic terms is the claim that God watches over and protects people like a father197 and that God ‘nurses’ (θεραπεύσει) people who are sick.198 In fact, God neglects no one, nor their affairs,199 as he oversees everything200 and is able to be present with all (πᾶσιν συμπαρεῖναι).201 Human beings are begotten by God,202 who is their father203 and to whom people should render thanks.204 In fact, people are able to talk to the gods,205 for there is a communication between them and human beings – indeed, to each personally.206 Zeus has given people directions207 and he has sent the true (Stoicized) Cynic as a messenger (ἄγγελος) to human beings ‘in order to show them that in questions of good and evil they have gone astray’,208 for it is through his noblest messenger that he gives his sign.209 People should go to God as a guide210 and call upon him to help them 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210

Diss. 2.8.11−14. Diss. 2.8.14. Diss. 1.14.13−14; cf. 2.7.3. Diss. 1.14.6. Diss. 1.1.12. A.A. Long, Epictetus: A Stoic and Socratic Guide to Life (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 143. Diss. 3.24.3; cf. 3.24.15, 19. Diss. 3.26.37. Diss. 3.26.28; 3.24.113. Diss. 1.14.1, 9−10; cf. 1.16.7; 1.17.27; 3.11.6. Diss. 1.14.9. Diss. 1.3.1; cf. 1.6.19; 1.25.4; 2.8.19; 3.26.30; 4.1.104, 107; 4.10.16. Diss. 1.3.1; 1.6.40; 1.9.6−7; 3.24.3; cf. 1.3.2; 1.13.3, 5; 1.19.12; 3.22.82; 3.24.15−16. Diss. 1.4.32; 1.16.6; 2.23.5; 4.1.105; 4.7.9; cf. 1.19.25; 2.23.23; 4.5.35; cf. 1.12.32. Diss. 1.6.37. Diss. 1.12.6; cf. 1.14.9; 2.16.42−43; 2.18.29; 3.5.8−10; 3.24.96−102; 4.10.14. Diss. 1.25.3, 5; cf. 2.17.23. Diss. 3.22.23; cf. 3.22.46, 56; 3.24.101, 113; 4.8−31. Diss. 3.1.37; cf. 1.16.14. Diss. 2.7.11; 3.21.12.

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and stand by their side,211 for he is truly helpful.212 In turn, people should offer themselves to God,213 follow him,214 swear allegiance to him,215 obey him in everything,216 serve him,217 and act as his imitators.218 God is indeed a generous giver,219 and one should never find fault with things that God has given,220 things like people’s organs and limbs.221 While God sometimes tests people,222 they should trust him,223 for he has made all mankind to be happy and serene.224 As the proper response, one should sing hymns of praise about the deeds of God.225 The gods should be prayed to, too.226 The gods, however, are not omnipotent,227 and neither is God, who has put everything under people’s control, and since everything has been determined by Fate,228 God has not allotted himself the power to prevent or hinder the actions of human beings.229 According to Epictetus, there is a kinship between God and human beings, both being rational beings,230 which also explains that people have the capacity to understand the governance of God231 and that God communicates through reason.232 In light of this kinship, even though it applies mainly to rational kinship, it is not surprising to see some examples of anthropomorphism in Epictetus. Thus, God/Zeus speaks.233 God has a will234 and makes choices,235 like a human being. Moreover, the ‘gaze’ (βλέμμα) of 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220

221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228

229 230 231 232 233 234 235

Diss. 2.18.29. Diss. 2.8.1; cf. 3.22.53. Diss. 2.16.42. Diss. 1.30.5; 2.16.42; 3.26.29; cf. 1.12.8; 2.19.29; 3.24.114. Diss. 1.14.15. Diss. 2.16.42, 46; 4.12.11; cf. 3.1.37; 3.24.95, 97; 4.1.172. Diss. 3.22.56, 69, 82, 95; 3.24.65, 98, 113–114; cf. 4.7.20; 4.8.32; frg. 23. Diss. 2.14.13. Diss. 3.13.13−14; 3.24.3; 4.1.100, 103−104, 107; 4.4.47; 4.5.34; 4.10.16; Ench. 11. Diss. 1.14.16; cf. 1.29.17; 2.16.13; 2.19.26; 3.5.8; 3.17.1; 3.22.13, 48, 59; 3.24.58; 4.1.103, 108–109; 4.7.11; frg. 24. Diss. 1.16.17; cf. 2.16.13−14. Diss. 1.24.1; cf. 3.24.113. Diss. 2.1.39. Diss. 3.24.2. Diss. 3.26.29−30; cf. 1.16.15−21; 4.1.131; 4.4.34; Ench. 53. Diss. 3.21.14; cf. 1.1.13. Diss. 1.1.8. On Fate and determinism in Stoic philosophy, see esp. Susanne Bobzien, Determinism and Freedom in Stoic Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). See also Dorothea Frede, ‘Stoic Determinism’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics (ed. Brad Inwood; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2003). Diss. 1.6.40; cf. 1.17.27; 1.22.15; 3.3.10; 3.24.96. Diss. 1.9.1, 4–5, 11, 13, 22–25; cf. 1.3.3; 1.9.25; 1.14.11; 2.16.42; 2.17.33; 3.24.11. Diss. 4.7.7; 4.10.14. Diss. 3.13.12. Diss. 1.1.10; 1.29.4, 47; 1.30.2-5; 2.8.23; 3.10.8; 3.13.14; 3.24.98, 112; 4.4.30; cf. 3.1.39. Diss. 4.1.89–90, 99; 4.4.29; 4.5.21; 4.7.20; cf. 4.7.35. Diss. 4.1.100.

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Zeus is said to be steady,236 and it is stated that he will commune with himself at the conflagration of the world and contemplate.237 Sometimes Epictetus seems to depart somewhat from Stoic pantheism and lean towards theistic conceptions of God as a transcendent being. In Discourses 2.8.2 he appears to play down the Stoic orthodox understanding that God is corporeal, when he poses the question what is the true nature of God and answers that it is neither ‘flesh’ (σάρξ) nor ‘land’ (ἀγρός) – that is to say, entities that everyone could agree were corporeal. Instead, Epictetus says, the true nature of God is ‘intelligence, knowledge, right reason’ (νοῦς, ἐπιστήμη, λόγος ὀρθός) (which, of course, is not at all un-Stoic, but the rejection of flesh and land may point in that direction). Furthermore, Epictetus seems to locate God above earth: Zeus is located ‘above’ (ἄνωθεν),238 God looks from ‘above’ (ἄνωθεν)239 and people can ‘look up’ (ἀναβλέψας) towards God,240 towards heaven (εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν ἀναβλέπειν).241 Elsewhere Epictetus states that human beings everywhere are ‘equally distant from God’ (τὸ ἴσον ἀπέχουσιν).242 In sum, we may safely assume that Epictetus subscribes to orthodox Stoic pantheism, although the pantheistic expressions are quite rare and sometimes unclear. Panentheistic expressions are more common and more clear, and so are the personal and theistic remarks. As Long observes, ‘Theist rather than pantheist, personalist rather than impersonal, ethical rather than physical – these are distinct tendencies in Epictetus’ theological language and emphasis.’243 In fact, because of these personal, theistic and ‘Christian-like’ statements, some earlier scholars called Epictetus an anima naturaliter christiana, ‘a naturally Christian soul’.244

7.4 Pan(en)theism in Paul? As we have seen, Paul’s Stoic contemporaries, Seneca and Epictetus, are basically pantheists, like their fellow Stoics, but their texts also show clear leanings 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244

Diss. 2.8.26. Diss. 3.13.6–7. Diss. 1.13.3. Diss. 1.30.1. Diss. 2.16.42. Diss. 2.17.29. Diss. 4.4.48. Long, Epictetus, 156. See the discussion in Marcia L.  Colish, ‘Stoicism and the New Testament:  An Essay in Historiography’, ANRW II 26.1: 364. The scholars concerned were from the nineteenth century.

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towards other interpretations of the deity – panentheistic, polytheistic and theistic. It is not to be expected that Paul’s ontological understanding of the deity is as fluid as that of the Stoics whose religious tradition was much more flexible in these terms than Paul’s Jewish tradition. We have seen the ways in which Paul speaks about God and how his perception is basically theistic and sometimes monotheistic and therefore in essence traditionally Jewish. But is it possible that Paul’s understanding of God was, if not as fluid as that of the Stoics, then somewhat fluid as well? With this question in mind, we return to the three passages mentioned above where Paul may be inspired by Stoic theology. It has long been known that Paul’s language in Rom. 11.36, where he states that ‘everything is of him, through him and to him’ (ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ δι’ αὐτοῦ καὶ εἰς αὐτὸν τὰ πάντα), has a strong Stoic character (cf. also 1 Cor. 8.6).245 Addressing God, Marcus Aurelius writes similarly that ‘all things are of you, in you, to you’ (ἐκ σοῦ πάντα, ἐν σοὶ πάντα, εἰς σὲ πάντα).246 The difference is that Paul says ‘through’ God instead of ‘in’ God,247 the latter pointing in the direction of pan(en)theism. It could be argued in ontological terms that what goes ‘through’ something must be ‘in’ it at a certain point. But that would surely be a twist of Paul’s words. By the word ‘through’ (διά) Paul is probably expressing the belief that God has his ‘hands’ in everything – in other words, that all things are dependent upon the governance and will of God. In Stoic terms, everything grows under the guidance of God (Seneca), who oversees everything (Epictetus). The expression ‘of him’ (or ‘from him’) describes the origin of everything, that is to say, God as the creator of everything in the world. As Seneca would have put it, God is the first of all causes. The words ‘to him’ imply that in the end everything will follow a path designed by God, a path which leads to his kingdom. Paul is therefore hardly stating a pantheistic understanding of God in this verse. However, it is significant that in this substantial piece of theology at the very climax of Romans 1–11 he applies an expression that 245

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See esp. Eduard Norden, Agnostos Theos:  Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede (Leipzig: Teubner, 1913), 240–250; James D. G. Dunn, Romans 9–16 (WBC 38B; Dallas, TX: Word, 1988), 701–702; with further references, for instance, the Stoic text of Pseudo-Aristotle, De Mundo 6 (ἐκ θεοῦ πάντα καὶ διὰ θεοῦ συνέστηκε); Philo, Spec. Leg. 1.208 (ἓν τὰ πάντα ἢ ὅτι ἐξ ἑνός τε καὶ εἰς ἕν); Cher. 125–26 (τὸ ὑφ’ οὗ, τὸ ἐξ οὗ, τὸ δι’ οὗ, τὸ δι’ ὅ); Seneca, Ep. 65.8 (paraphrasing Plato: quinque ergo causae sunt, ut Plato dicit: id ex quo, id a quo, id in quo, id ad quod, id propter quod ); and the Hermetic Asclepius 34 (omnia enim ab eo et in ipso et per ipsum). Med. 4.23; my translation. Rightly noted by Albert Schweitzer, The Mysticism of Paul the Apostle (2nd ed.; London:  Black, 1953), 11–12.

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stands so close to Stoic language. It suggests that the apostle did not see any obstacle in using such language, despite the affinity with pantheistic belief. It shows a certain fluidity on his behalf when it comes to speaking of the deity, despite the strong Jewish tradition of (mono)theism. What about the passage in 1 Cor. 15.28: ‘so that God may be all in all [or: all in everyone]’ (ἵνα ᾖ ὁ θεὸς τὰ πάντα ἐν πᾶσιν)? The context is eschatological: Paul explains that at the end of everything Christ will hand over the kingdom to God, having destroyed every authority and power in the world (v. 24), the last enemy being death (v. 26). In other words, what happens at the end of all things is this: Christ wipes out every power and authority in the world so that the kingdom will be totally devoid of such power, including death, when he hands over the kingdom to God. Paul is not speaking in metaphorical terms, but quite literally about what is going to happen at the end of times. It means that God receives a kingdom without error, a pure and perfect entity. Everything is subjected to God and all that is left is this perfect kingdom. At that point God will be ‘everything in everything’. That is to say, taken literally, everything will in some sense contain God who at the same time is everything. Commentators pay rather little attention to this statement in 15.28, but note that Paul must be talking about ‘agency and goal more than metaphysical existence’.248 Gordon Fee claims that Paul’s words must be understood soteriologically, not metaphysically, and that Paul is saying that at the end of times ‘God’s will will be supreme in every quarter and in every way’.249 But Paul does not say ‘God’s will’ or God’s ‘sovereignty’ (so Hans Conselmann) or the like.250 It is God himself who is ‘all in all’, not his will. This is plain pan(en)theistic language. Paul may have intended something else than a pantheistic understanding of the deity, but there is no denying that he uses pan(en)theistic terms to express his understanding, whatever that understanding is. In fact, the text leaves little room for other readings, if one intends to take seriously what Paul says rather than what he does not say. Paul does not seem to be talking in metaphorical terms in the text immediately preceding about everything becoming subjected to God. That is to say, Paul seems to be speaking, not in metaphors, but quite literally of the way in which

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Richard A. Horsley, 1 Corinthians (ANTC; Nashville, TN: Abingdon, 1998), 206. Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1987), 760. Hans Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians (trans. James W. Leitch; Hermeneia; Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1975), 275.

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the world comes to an end. He is speaking of metaphysical reality, which, in turn, makes it more likely that he is doing so, too, in v. 28. I see no good reason not to take Paul’s words in v. 28 at face value. To be sure, Paul was a Jew, and Jewish language about God did normally not include pantheistic expressions. But there were exceptions to this rule, Sirach 43.27−28: τὸ πᾶν ἐστιν αὐτός (‘He [i.e. God] is the all’); and the Wisdom of Solomon 12.1: τὸ γὰρ ἄφθαρτόν σου πνεῦμά ἐστιν ἐν πᾶσιν (‘For your immortal spirit is in all things’). Even Philo does not hesitate to use pantheistic and Stoic expressions in his description of God:  ‘For not even the whole world would be a place fit for God to make His abode, since God is His own place, and He is filled by Himself, and sufficient for Himself, filling and containing all other things in their destitution and barrenness and emptiness, but Himself contained by nothing else, seeing that He is Himself One and the Whole.’251 Paul would therefore not have been alone as a Jew in speaking of God in this way. It may be the case that Paul is applying rhetoric of some sort, in light of his statement in 1 Cor. 9.22–23, where the apostle explains that ‘I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some’, including becoming or pretending to have become a pantheist. ‘I do it all for the sake of the gospel’, Paul continues. In other words, by using pantheistic expressions Paul may have been making an effort to persuade those who had sympathies with such views. But there is no indication whatsoever that Paul’s statement in 15.28 is mere rhetoric. There is no indication that this statement is not part of his theology. At the same time he shows a remarkable fluidity as a Jew in terms of theology, although there are other examples of such an understanding in Jewish writings, as we have seen. We have also seen how far Stoic pantheists were prepared to go beyond their traditional dogma. That may have applied to Paul as well, although to a much smaller degree (1 Cor. 15.28 seems to be the only Pauline text that includes an explicitly pantheistic statement). By using the pantheistic language he was unfolding the potential understanding that at the end of all things, when everything has been subjected to God (even Jesus), God will be everything everywhere and in everything. Nothing will be devoid of God. When all powers in the world, including death, have been destroyed, everything will become divine. We know from Paul’s texts 251

Leg. 1.44: θεοῦ γὰρ οὐδὲ ὁ σύμπας κόσμος ἄξιον ἂν εἴη χωρίον καὶ ἐνδιαίτημα, ἐπεὶ αὐτὸς ἑαυτοῦ τόπος καὶ αὐτὸς ἑαυτοῦ πλήρης καὶ ἱκανὸς αὐτὸς ἑαυτῷ ὁ θεός, τὰ μὲν ἄλλα ἐπιδεᾶ καὶ ἔρημα καὶ κενὰ ὄντα πληρῶν καὶ περιέχων, αὐτὸς δὲ ὑπ’ οὐδενὸς ἄλλου περιεχόμενος, ἅτε εἷς καὶ τὸ πᾶν αὐτὸς ὤν. I am grateful to Craig Keener for pointing this passage out to me.

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elsewhere that he believed that eventually Jesus Christ would return, that the world would then come to an end, and that the dead would rise and everyone would be ‘changed’ into something else (1 Cor. 15.51−52). The Stoics, too, believed that the world would come to an end at the great conflagration and that the only thing left would be God (until God creates the world anew and everything begins again). Similarly, without seeing it as a breach of Jewish traditions (cf. Sirach and the Wisdom of Solomon), Paul may have been teaching that at the end there would be nothing which was not divine and full of God (who, unlike in the Stoic understanding, was not the only being left). God would be ‘all in all’. There would be no need of a mediator – all relations between God and his creatures would be direct.252 The final passage to be considered here is Rom. 8.9−11. It goes like this, in the nrsv: ‘But you are not in the flesh; you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.’ In this text Paul states that his audience is ‘in spirit’, in so far as the ‘spirit of God’ dwells ‘in’ them. At the same time, Paul speaks about Christ and his life-giving spirit being ‘in’ this people.253 The spirit of God/Christ does not simply dwell in everything and everyone (as the panentheistic view would have it), but in every believer in God/Christ. It is clear from the passage that ‘having’ the spirit of Christ is equal to Christ himself being ‘in’ them. Correspondingly, having the ‘spirit of God’ must be equal to God himself being ‘in’ these people. The spirit of God and the spirit of Christ seem also to be two sides of the same coin.254 As in the passage above, there is no good reason not to take Paul’s words literally: he is referring to ontological reality. The spirit is probably both physical and cognitive, precisely as the Stoic ‘spirit’ (πνεῦμα).255 As a matter of fact, Paul’s terminology of the spirit/Christ/God being ‘in’ people comes very close to the 252

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Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians (2d. ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1914), 358. Cf. 1 Cor. 6.19; 2 Cor. 6.16. So also James D. G. Dunn, Christology in the Making: An Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (London:  SCM, 1980), 145; James D.  G. Dunn, Romans 1–8 (WBC; Dallas, TX: Word, 1988), 429–430. Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self, 61–65.

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Stoic one: as we saw above, Seneca explained to his friend that ‘God is near you, he is with you, he is within you (intus est). This is what I mean, Lucilius: a holy spirit (sacer spiritus) dwells within us, one who marks our good and bad deeds, and is our guardian. As we treat this spirit, so are we treated by it. Indeed, no man can be good without the help of God’,256 where Seneca clearly equates the ‘holy spirit’ with God. In fact, ‘no mind that has not God, is good’;257 compare Rom. 8.9:  ‘Anyone who does not have the spirit of Christ does not belong to him.’ James Dunn simply dismisses the relevance of the Senecan parallels, but he does so without any real argument,258 as also does Robert Jewett.259 We also saw above how Epictetus described the ontological relation between God and human beings in panentheistic terms. According to the Stoic teacher, ‘you have within you a part (μέρος) of Him’.260 People are never alone, for God is ‘within’ them (ὁ θεὸς ἔνδον ἐστί). These utterances by Seneca and Epictetus are so close to Paul’s that it can hardly be denied that Paul is applying panentheistic – that is, Stoic – language to describe the relationship between his audience and the spirit/Christ/God, although, as noted above, Paul himself would not have used term ‘panentheism’ in this respect. The text shows how close Paul’s understanding was to Stoic theology. Again, the difference between Paul and the Stoics is that, according to the latter, God (or the spirit) is found within everything, whereas, according to Paul, the spirit/Christ/God is only within all believers, that is to say, less pantheistic. But Paul’s terminology is without a doubt a Stoic one, much more so than scholars have been willing to admit.

7.5. Conclusion In this essay, we have seen that Paul’s theology was thoroughly (traditionally) Jewish, but that there were some passages where he may have diverted 256 257 258 259

260

Ep. 41.1–2. The LCL translation slightly modified. Ep. 73.16. Dunn, Romans 1–8, 429. Robert Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2007), 489–490. Jewett insists that we should translate εἴπερ πνεῦμα θεοῦ οἰκεῖ ἐν ὑμῖν in 8.9 as ‘if indeed/since indeed God’s Spirit dwells among you’, referring to Paul’s wording in 1 Cor. 3.16 as an argument (in Jewett’s translation): ‘Do you not know that you [pl.] are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in your midst (ἐν ὑμῖν οἰκεῖ)?’ Jewett then uses this interpretation as an argument for Paul drawing on Jewish tradition rather than Greco-Roman. But if Paul’s readers are themselves ‘God’s temple’, God’s spirit does not dwell ‘in their midst’. Rather, if God’s spirit dwells within God’s temple, God’s spirit must dwell within them. Diss. 2.8.11.

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from this and (quite surprisingly) presented theology that was closer to Stoic pan(en)theism. We have also seen that contemporary Stoics and therefore pan(en)theists, Seneca and Epictetus, also diverted from traditional Stoic pantheism and frequently so, betraying more personal and theistic understanding of the deity. Their theology was fluid. The discussion of the three texts in Paul that appear to divert from traditional (mono)theism and advocate pan(en)theism showed that Paul’s theology may have been somewhat fluid as well – or at least his theological terminology. In these three passages his language about and understanding of God clearly resembles distinctive Stoic terminology and theology, which was one of the most widespread systems of theology in the Mediterranean in the first century CE. Paul appears to have been ready to bend the traditional Jewish views of God, much like the Stoics discussed above. Like them, Paul was willing to speak of the ontology of God in more than one way.

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The Wilderness Tradition in 1 Corinthians, Wisdom of Solomon and Hebrews Madison N. Pierce

8.1 Introduction The Greek philosopher Aristobulus considered one philosopher to be the source of all true insight.1 This ‘philosopher’ is not Pythagorus, Plato or Aristotle, but instead the humble Israelite Moses, of whom Aristobulus writes: Others had translated accounts of the events surrounding the exodus from Egypt of the Hebrews, our countrymen . . . thus, it is very clear that the aforementioned philosopher [Plato] had taken over many ideas; for he was very learned, just as Pythagoras, having transferred many things from our traditions into his own doctrinal system. (Praep. ev. 9.7–8)2

Even if Plato and Pythagoras were not inclined to ‘borrow’ from Moses, as Aristobulus claims, the appropriation of Mosaic traditions by later Jewish and Christian authors certainly is widespread.3 The philosophy underlying the 1

2

3

The teachings of Aristobulus sadly are preserved only in fragments in the form of citations within Eusebius and Clement of Alexandria. My citations are taken from Eusebius’s Praeparatio evangelica (Praep. Ev.), which generally is recognized as the more reliable tradition. Translation via Carl R. Holladay, ed., Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol. III: Aristobulus (Texts and Translations 20; Atlanta, GA:  Scholars Press, 1995), 155. Philo makes a similar claim about Moses: ‘For it has been said, not without reason, that states [τὰς πόλεις] can only make progress in well-being if either the kings [philosophize] and the philosophers [rule] [ἐὰν οἱ βασιλεῖς φιλοσοφήσωσιν ἢ οἱ φιλόσοφοι βασιλεύσωσιν]. But Moses will be found to have displayed, and more than displayed, combined in his single person, not only these two faculties – the kingly and the philosophical – but also [others]’ (Mos. 2.2–3). Translation via Philo, On Abraham. On Joseph. On Moses (trans. F. H. Colson; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935). Later translations are my own unless otherwise noted. By referring to these texts as Mosaic or from Moses, I am not making a final claim regarding authorship in a modern sense. For the authors to which I refer, and thus for this essay, these are the writings of Moses.

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Pentateuch taught later authors about their spiritual heritage or ethnic ancestry, as well as often provided a model or example for their current generation. The type of example, however, varies among the retellings. While the ‘wanderers’ sentenced to die in the desert might offer a wholly negative account of their own journey, the canonical text as a whole paints another picture. The wilderness is a place where both divine punishment and divine provision abound. For example, Psalm 105 tells only of God’s compassionate acts, with no mention of the rebellion and resulting punishment. Psalm 106, instead, highlights the wickedness of the people who gave no thought to God’s works (106.7).4 These accounts stand in parallel, but at a great distance from one another. Like the canonical arrangement of these Psalms, this essay will place three other distinctive accounts of the wilderness tradition in juxtaposition, examining the use of the philosopher Moses’s narrative teaching about the wilderness in three later texts: 1 Corinthians, Hebrews and the Wisdom of Solomon. With 1 Corinthians as my main text, I will compare Paul’s account with Hebrews and/ or Wisdom with regard to two major components: (1) the provision of divine gifts and (2) human rebellion and the resulting punishment. By looking at the way that each of these authors uses the same tradition differently, the rhetorical strategy and underlying worldview of each is brought to the fore.

8.2 Divine Provision In Paul’s recollection of the wilderness journey, one point of significant emphasis is that God’s gifts were extended equally to all of his people: Our ancestors were all [πάντες] under the cloud, and they all passed through the sea. Also, all were baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea, and all ate the same spiritual food [τὸ αὐτὸ5 πνευματικὸν βρῶμα], and all drank the same spiritual drink [τὸ αὐτὸ6 πνευματικὸν . . . πόμα]. (1 Cor. 10.1–4, emphasis added)

In this short section of text Paul uses πάντες five times emphatically to demonstrate God’s graciousness on behalf of the people of Israel. With this Paul 4 5 6

Francis Watson, Paul and the Hermeneutics of Faith (London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 352. P46, ‫א‬, A, and C all lack αὐτά. ‫ א‬also lacks the article. P46 and A lack αὐτά in this verse also.

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reminds his readers that the fact that the majority rebelled cannot be due to God being miserly or inequitable: he graciously gave to all the ‘same’ food and drink and rescue. In Wisdom of Solomon also, two of God’s extraordinary gifts are food and water in the desert. The Sage first describes the latter: [The righteous] were thirsty and called upon you, and water was given to them from a sharp-edged stone and from a sharp rock a remedy for their thirst. (Wis 11.4)

Offering a selective account of Exod. 17.1–7 and its parallel in Num. 20.1–13, the Sage details God’s gift, but not the grumbling of the people. Throughout this section, he presents water as an element divinely appropriated (10.18–19; 11.4–14): For the enemies of the righteous, water is turned to blood (11.6) and ultimately is the source of their demise at the Red Sea (10.19). For the righteous, the answer to their cries of thirst is a reminder that ‘through the very things by which their enemies were punished, they themselves were benefitted in their need’ (11.5).7 As the Sage later reports, ‘salvation of the righteous was expected by [God’s] people, and destruction of the wicked’ (18.7). The Sage’s depiction of water is just one example of his outline of God’s command over Creation to execute retributive justice.8 This principle also is reflected in the Sage’s recollection of the food given to the righteous in the wilderness: At another time, even in the midst of water, [the judgment of God] burned more intensely than fire to destroy the crops of the unrighteous land. Instead you [God] did not feed your people those things, but the food of angels and the bread from heaven ready [to eat], tirelessly strengthening every pleasure for them [πᾶσαν ἡδονὴν ἰσχύοντα] and making it fit to every taste; for indeed your substance [ὑπόστασίς] has manifested sweetness [γλυκύτητα] to your children, and the bread, serving the desire

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8

This is the first of seven diptychs that serve the comparison of the wicked and righteous in this section. For the other themes, see Maurice Gilbert, ‘Wisdom of Solomon and Scripture’, in Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation (ed. Magne Sæbø; 3 vols.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 1:606–617; Moyna McGlynn, Divine Judgement and Divine Benevolence in the Book of Wisdom (WUNT II/139; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), esp. 180–220. Creation, like Sophia or Logos, is a well-developed personification in Wisdom. It ‘is exalted to and identified as the champion of Israel who fights and serves besides God as his agent rather than just as his tool’ (see Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification: Rhetorical Purpose in the Book of Wisdom and the Letter to the Romans [BZNW 161; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008], 70).

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of each to whom it was offered, was changed to the [taste] of anyone. (16.19–21; see also 16.1–4)

Here the Sage reinterprets aspects of the biblical narrative. Namely, when the Israelites saw their food and asked, ‘What is it?’ this was not due to distaste, but wonder. With each retelling of God’s gracious actions in the wilderness, the Sage outlines the true (spiritual) benefit to the people. The bread, for instance, was not just ‘food’ as such; it was given ‘so that [his] children . . . might comprehend that it is not the production of fruit that sustains humanity, but [his] word [τὸ ῥῆμά σου] being observed by those who believe’ (16.26).9 The Israelites chose to partake in this heavenly gift because it is pleasurable and meets their physical needs.10 While the bread is corporately offered, it satisfies each person distinctively. For the Apostle, the food is the ‘same’ for all (1 Cor. 10.3), but not for the Sage. Nevertheless, Paul presents the sustenance as extraordinary in another sense. Rather than ‘angelic’ or ‘divine’, for Paul this food and drink is ‘spiritual’ or ‘from the Spirit’ (πνευματικός). Other Pauline use of πνευματικός (e.g. Rom. 1.11; 7.14; 1 Cor. 2.13, 15; 3.1) suggests that this term denotes more than merely ‘supernatural’ or even ‘immaterial’; it implies a connection with the Spirit of God directly.11 Associating these gifts with the Spirit is a slight development from Jewish traditions. For example, with reference to the canonical texts, when God first gives them manna, he tells Moses that ‘[he] will rain bread from heaven’ (Exod. 16.4:  ἐγὼ ὕω ὑμῖν ἄρτους ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ), which is echoed in the prayer of thanksgiving in Nehemiah 9 (Greek: 2 Esdras 19), as well as within the Psalter (Ψ 77.24 and Ψ 104.40). And this is of course not Paul’s only development of his source material. For instance, in 1 Corinthians 10.1 the Israelites are ‘under’ the cloud (ὑπὸ τὴν νεφέλην), rather than simply led by it. Like the ‘heavenly’ manna, this

9

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The original subject of this clause (paraphrased) is: ‘Creation served your bounty through the provision of bread, so that . . .’ For a brief discussion of ‘food’ and the ‘word’ being paired, see John R. Levison, Filled with the Spirit (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 399. This paired with the fact that this sustenance is said to ‘strengthen every pleasure’ (πᾶσαν ἡδονὴν ἰσχύοντα) resonates with Epicurus’s teaching that pleasure cannot be found without virtue, and virtues are chosen ‘on account of pleasure’ (Vit. Phil. 10.137–139). Later words used to describe the bread, such as ‘ice-like’ (κρυσταλλοειδής) and ‘heavenly’ (ἀμβρόσιος), are also associated with the Epicurean tradition. See James M. Reese, Hellenistic Influence on the Book of Wisdom and Its Consequences (AnBib 41; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1970), 69–71. Contra Volker Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul:  Transformation and Empowering for Religious-Ethical Life (WUNT II/283; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 96.

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tradition can be found in Greek Psalm 104 where the cloud is spread over them ‘for shelter’ (104.39: εἰς σκέπην). Nevertheless, the most intriguing Pauline development in 1 Corinthians 10.4 is the fact that the rock from which the Israelites received their drink is identified as ‘Christ’.12 Though some might use this reading to accuse Paul of capriciously inserting Christ into the original narrative, a number of texts (e.g. Ψ 77; cf. Ψ 94 and Deut. 32) identify the rock in the wilderness with the Lord of Israel, who not only provided water from a ‘rock’ (‫ )צור‬but also was himself their ‘Rock’ (‫)צור‬. These texts that both recall the wilderness and describe God as a rock might be an extension of elements in the original story. In Exodus 17, God told Moses he would be present when Moses struck the rock of Horeb: Take in your hand the staff with which you struck the [Nile] and go. I will stand before you there on the rock in Horeb [ἐγὼ ἕστηκα πρὸ τοῦ σὲ ἐκεῖ ἐπὶ τῆς πέτρας ἐν Χωρηβ], and you shall strike the rock, and water will come out from it, and my people will drink. (17.5–7)

Even in Exodus, the presence of God and the rock of Horeb are connected.13 Along a similar vein, in Philo the rock that gives the ‘drink of unchangeable health’ stands for another intermediate figure, Wisdom: ‘the sharp rock is the Wisdom of God’ (Leg. 2.86:  ἡ . . . ἀκρότομος πέτρα ἡ σοφία τοῦ θεοῦ ἐστιν). But the presence of God or Wisdom is not ‘Christ’, so how does Paul arrive at this reading? For this we must return to those texts that refer to the ‘Lord’ as a rock, which primarily occur in the Psalms.14 For Paul, ‘Lord’ (YHWH or κύριος) can refer to the Father, Son, or Spirit as evidenced by many of his arguments from Scripture.15 First Corinthians 10.4, it seems, is evidence that 12

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By extension, Paul draws upon a tradition that the rock moved with the people. For a survey of the background for this tradition, see Peter Enns, ‘The “Moveable Well” in 1 Cor 10:4: An Extrabiblical Tradition in an Apostolic Text’, BBR 6 (1996): 23–38. Richard S. Briggs, ‘“The Rock Was Christ”:  Paul’s Reading of Numbers and the Significance of the Old Testament for Theological Hermeneutics’, in Horizons in Hermeneutics:  A  Festschrift in Honor of Anthony C.  Thiselton (ed. Stanley E. Porter and Matthew R. Malcom; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 104. In the Greek tradition, this fact is obscured by the translator’s move away from ‘God as rock’ language (e.g. the use of βοηθός to translate ‫ צור‬in Ψ 77.35), but the number of texts where this occurs (fourteen at my count) suggests that Paul likely encountered the tradition if not the Hebrew version of the text itself. For a more thorough discussion of this phenomenon in the LXX, see Staffan Olofsson, God Is My Rock: A Study of Translation Technique and Theological Exegesis in the Septuagint (ConBot 31; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1990). To my knowledge, κύριος is only applied to the Spirit by Paul in 2 Cor. 3.12–18, but is applied to Jesus far more. For a thorough discussion of Paul’s interpretation of κύριος texts, see David B. Capes, Old Testament Yahweh Texts in Paul’s Christology (WUNT II/47; Tübingen: Mohr, 1992).

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Paul read one of the texts about the Lord as a rock with Jesus in mind. Rather than outlining the argument, he simply states the conclusion:  ‘the rock was Christ’.16 With this, Paul draws further continuity between the current and past communities. Whereas the author of Hebrews makes clear that through Jesus the ‘new covenant’ has better gifts (Heb. 2.4) and harsher punishments (Heb. 10.26–29), Paul connects Christ to the wilderness further encouraging solidarity between the Corinthians and the ‘wanderers’. This connection to the previous community, while valuable for Paul’s argument, cannot fully account for this unconventional reading. Why does Paul assert that the rock was Christ? How does this reading serve his argument? At the very least, it allows him to assert that Christ was in some way responsible for their nourishment – the provision of food and drink in the wilderness. But by describing those elements as ‘Spiritual’, Paul implies that something more is taking place. This is not ordinary water that happens to come from a magic source; it is a drink that consists of the life-giving Spirit (cf. 1 Cor. 12.13).17 According to Joseph Fitzmyer, the action of the Rock ‘in some way was already a salvific force for the Israelites of old’.18 Christ works in conjunction with the Father to offer this gift to the people. A related issue of interest is the extent to which Jesus is truly present in/ as this rock. Either Paul simply is making a figurative declaration that compares the work of Christ with the work of God in the narrative found in Exodus 17,19 or he imagines the presence of Christ within this stone. This latter option, while perceptibly strange, is found in two of the traditions that Paul brings to his writings.20 First, some Jewish texts were read to suggest 16

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The ‘rock’ appears stationary in the canonical text; however, Peter Enns notes extra-biblical traditions about the ‘moveable well’ (Peter Enns, “The ‘Moveable Well’ in 1 Cor 10:4: An Extrabiblical Tradition in an Apostolic Text,” BBR 6 [1996]: 23–38). This is perhaps corroborated by the fact that Paul avoids describing the drink as ‘water’, despite its appearance in the Pentateuch, as well as Ψ 104.41, the most likely source of Paul’s list. Additionally, this text is often connected with the Lord’s Supper, due to its mention of baptism, as well as the proximity to Paul’s later treatment of the sacraments in the Corinthian church. For more on the sacramental aspect of this text, see Mark D. Vander Hart, ‘The Exodus as Sacrament: The Cloud, the Sea, and Moses Revisited’, Mid-America Journal of Theology 12 (2001): 9–46. Joseph A. Fitzmyer, First Corinthians (AB 32; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 384. ‘There is a strange retroactive power at work here, in which a present occurrence makes possible the reality of the event that prefigures it . . . Can one separate an event as such from the same event as prefigurative?” (John David Dawson, Christian Figural Reading and the Fashioning of Identity [Berkeley :  University of California Press, 2001], 136). This useful resource for insight into Paul’s ‘relation between the Christ-event and time’ was first noted by John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 561. Both of these potential backgrounds are outlined first by Matthew Thiessen, ‘“The Rock Was Christ”: The Fluidity of Christ’s Body in I Corinthians 10.4’, JSNT 36, no. 2 (2013): 103–126. These

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that God inhabited physical forms when interacting with the created realm. These forms were fluid and temporary, allowing God to move between wood and stone and even humans to interact with people. For example, the ‘burning bush’ in Exodus 3, one or all of the ‘men’ in Genesis 18 and the numerous appearances of the ‘angel of the Lord’ are divine manifestations, forms inhabited by YHWH himself.21 A  second framework that could be operative is found in Stoicism. As Troels Engberg-Pedersen has argued, the Spirit in Paul’s writings likely is portrayed in terms of the Stoic material spirit.22 Namely, spirit is a material but cognitive entity. Since this Stoic spirit was said to be able to ‘[pervade] all bodies by being mixed will all of them’ (Alex. Aphr. Mixt. 224.14–16),23 then it seems plausible that Paul envisions the Spirit of Christ pervading the rock in the wilderness.24 Either of these underlying frameworks could offer evidence that Paul imagines Christ (or the Spirit of Christ) to have been present in the wilderness. Among major commentators, some version of a figurative reading is preferred. These works apply a number of adjectives with a broad scope of meanings to Paul’s strategy without clarification. His reading may be typological,25 spiritual,26 metaphorical27 or

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two options might not be mutually exclusive. In either case, this bold, yet brief, declaration offers little evidence about Paul’s meaning beyond the fact that the wilderness generation was offered some measure of Christ’s gift. For a thorough discussion of God’s ‘bodies’, see Benjamin D. Sommer, The Bodies of God and the World of Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). While Sommer likely overstates the ubiquity of this tradition, the weight of his evidence at least establishes the plausibility of his overall thesis. Troels Engberg-Pedersen, ‘The Material Spirit:  Cosmology and Ethics in Paul’, NTS 55, no. 2 (2009):  179–197; Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul: The Material Spirit (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). For more on the later influence of the Stoic material spirit, see Rabens, The Holy Spirit and Ethics in Paul. Rabens also offers a caution to those scholars (like Engberg-Pedersen and Martin) who extend this background to the ethical dimensions of Paul’s pneumatological teachings. ‘The Spirit is the Spirit of God and of Christ and that just so, concomitantly rather than competitively, the identities of God and Jesus are inseparable from the identity and activity of the Spirit’ (Wesley Hill, Paul and the Trinity:  Persons, Relations, and the Pauline Letters [Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015], 136). ‘The “was” of the typological statement, of the interpretation of the rock as being Christ, means real preexistence, not merely symbolic significance’ (see Hanz Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians [trans. James W. Leitch; Hermeneia; Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1975], 167). Finally, ‘it seems far more likely that [Paul] uses the verb “was” to indicate the reality of Christ’s presence in the OT events than that he sees him there simply in a figurative way’ (see Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1987], 449). ‘ “Allegorical” would misrender Paul’s word (πνευματίκος) here, for the well was not a mere representation of Christ but a scene of his activity’ (Gordon D.  Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians, 449). ‘Christ was present with Israel in their wanderings . . . [But t]he metaphorical identification should not be pressed too hard, as though preachers should solemnly seek to determine whether Christ was igneous, metamorphic, or sedimentary’ (see Richard B. Hays, First Corinthians [Interpretation; Louisville, KY: John Knox Press, 1997], 160–61).

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allegorical,28 but whatever poorly defined term one prefers:29 Paul’s creative strategy reminds his readers that God has consistently cared for them. The Apostle and the Sage both enhance or develop the wilderness traditions in ways that emphasize the graciousness of God’s provision during those years. In Wisdom of Solomon, the manna is a delicacy crafted for the enjoyment of everyone, and Creation itself acts on their behalf. In 1 Corinthians, the universal gifts of spiritual food and drink are secondary to the source of their life-giving liquid – the Rock. But even with this member of their caravan of courage, ‘God was not pleased with most of them’, Paul concludes; ‘their bodies were scattered in the wilderness’ (1 Cor. 10.5).

8.3 Human Rebellion and Punishment In each of the texts with which we are concerned, God’s provision is highlighted. Even in Hebrews, which is arguably the most negative retelling of the three, the author amends his citation of Greek Psalm 94 to read that the people saw God’s works ‘for forty years’, in place of the original reading where it is God’s anger that lasts for that span.30 Authors utilizing the wilderness tradition unanimously include God’s gifts, but the portrayal of the human wanderers is not so homogenous. In this section, I will analyze our three authors’ characterizations of the wilderness generation. By including ‘human rebellion’ within the title to this section, I already have placed myself at odds with the account in the Wisdom of Solomon. In the Sage’s recollection of the wilderness, the people do not rebel; they live up to the author’s designation by being ‘righteous’ (e.g. Wis. 10.20; 11.14; 12.9). Even in those few moments where

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See Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (Sacra Pagina; Collegeville, PA:  Liturgical Press, 1999), 365. Thiselton differentiates between a typological reading, which for him is tied to history. The exception among commentators is Anthony C. Thiselton, who differentiates between typology and allegory and clarifies how his reading fits within both categories (though typology seems to be his preferred term). For his explanation, see The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 729–730. Another hermeneutically minded resource is Briggs, ‘The Rock Was Christ’. The author inserts the inferential conjunction δίο so that ‘for forty years’ must be read with what precedes, rather than what follows (3.10). William L. Lane, Hebrews 1–8 (WBC 47A; Nashville, TN:  Thomas Nelson, 1991), 86; Craig Koester, Hebrews (AB; New  York:  Doubleday, 2001), 256. This is strengthened by David M. Allen’s argument that Hebrews 3.7–4.11 contains significant allusions to Deuteronomy, which tends to focus on the ‘works’ over the ‘wrath’. See ‘More Than Just Numbers: Deuteronomic Influence in Hebrews 3:7–4:11’, TynBul 58, no. 1 (2007): 129–149.

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the people experienced trials (Wis. 11.10–11; 16.5–6; 18.20–21) or discipline (Wis. 3.4–6), the author stresses the exceptional quality of the negative experience. The Sage depicts the righteous and wicked acting according to their nature, able only to confirm God’s categorization. In this sense, the Sage also finds himself in agreement with some Stoic philosophers. Were we only to read Wisdom of Solomon 10–19, we would likely assume that the Sage has the view of Stoic determinism that Alexander of Aphrodisias criticizes in de Fato, 27–28.31 We might reason that the Sage has whitewashed the biblical narrative because, if behaviour is bound to one’s nature, then the people that God has declared ‘righteous’ must act accordingly. But, while the second half of Wisdom might suggest this view, the first offers a more balanced account of human agency. From his opening line, the Sage exhorts his readers to virtue:  ‘Love righteousness, rulers of the earth; be wise in goodness concerning the Lord and seek him with sincerity of heart’ (Wis. 1.1). In fact, these chapters primarily seem concerned to outline the behaviour and results of life for the righteous or wicked.32 Rather than a strict determinist view of human behaviour, the Sage assumes that his readers have the choice to act in accordance with or in opposition to their nature. This too is reflected among the Stoics, for example, in this simile attributed to Chyrissipus and Zeno: ‘just as a dog tied to a cart follows while being pulled, if it is willing to follow, making its own self-determination comply with necessity; yet it will be in all respects subject to compulsion if it is unwilling to follow. So it is too with humans’ (Hippolytus, Haer. 21.2).33 The Israelites are righteous by nature, per the Sage, but they have the choice to continue to demonstrate this – something they do particularly well in his retelling. In Plato’s Republic, Socrates and Adeimantus discuss what stories should be told to children. Socrates tells him: We must make it of prime importance that the first stories [children] hear are the finest tales possible to encourage their sense of virtue. (Resp. 378e)34

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Text and translation via R. W. Sharples, ed., Alexander of Aphrodisias on Fate (London: Bloomsbury, 2013). The Sage’s exceptions are primarily dedicated to the characterization of Wisdom (e.g. 7.13–8.1). Translation (with slight alterations for inclusive language) via A. A. Long, ‘Freedom and Determinism in the Stoic Theory of Human Action’, in Problems in Stoicism (ed. A. A. Long; London: Athlone Press, 1971), 192. Plato, Republic (trans. Christopher Emlyn-Jones and William Preddy, vol. I: Books 1–5, LCL 237; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 201.

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For Plato, this means not telling any stories publicly that might give anyone (though children in particular) a wrong impression of what constitutes virtuous behaviour (377d–380c). It also means that the ‘model’ (τύπος) for a story about the divine requires it to ‘present the god as he really is’ (379a), even though some storytellers have not done so consistently (e.g. even Hesiod and Homer). Stories should show us the good and the bad that might result from our actions. Returning to the storytelling in our texts, we see that each author has constructed his ‘tale’ about the wilderness in accordance with his perception of what will spur his readers on to virtuous, or righteous, behaviour (see below). Even if these authors do not have the Republic’s teaching in mind, its principles are operative. Each author portrays God, and by extension his people, through a different lens, reflecting his worldview onto the resulting narrative. Beginning with a common assumption for each of these Judeo-Christian authors, such as the fact that God is just, we unpack that claim by analyzing the unique elements of each portrayal. For the Sage, the fact that God is just clearly means that, apart from some minor exceptions, the righteous are rewarded, both individually (Wis. 10.1–14) and corporately (Wis. 10.15–19.22). This notion is reflected in his concluding prayer: For in every way, Lord, you have made great and glorified your people, and you have not neglected to stand beside them at any time or in any place. (Wis. 19.22)

While Paul uses the graciousness of God in service of his exhortation to selfdiscipline (1 Cor. 9.24–26), the Sage uses this fact to encourage his audience to be confident that God will continue to give graciously to them. This is also, I  expect, the reason that the Sage anonymizes the history of Israel, making almost no mention of any proper names within this section.35 By eliminating these details, he makes clear that these events are not isolated incidents that relate only to God’s provisions for the great patriarchs; they are indicative of the kind of provision that any righteous person should expect. Indeed, just as the Lord provided for those people of the past, the Sage insists that he will continue to provide in the future.36 The indisputable fact for this author is that 35 36

The exceptions I have found are ‘Five Cities’ (10.6) and ‘Red Sea’ (10.18). David Winston suggests that this view (i.e. in his words, that these figures serve as ‘types’) implies that the figures are not ‘historical’ (The Wisdom of Solomon [AB 43; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979],

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God has been gracious and rewarded them. If they too were unjust, then one might say that God has distributed his gifts to those who were undeserving.37 For the Sage, the tale that ‘encourages virtue’ is the tale of God’s consistent compassion and graciousness for his people over and against their enemies. This is the tale that can effectively encourage his Jewish audience that God will continue to provide. ‘For Wisdom, the distinction between the righteous and the wicked corresponds to the distinction between Israel and non-Israel.’38 Paul and the author of Hebrews, on the other hand, do not set the boundaries for these qualities (esp. righteousness) on the basis of an ethnic designation; instead, both refer to the wilderness generation as their readers’ ‘ancestors’ (Heb. 3.9; 1 Cor. 10.1). These authors choose to demonstrate that God is just precisely because the wilderness generation’s sins did not go unpunished. For these communities committing the same sins of their ancestors, it is imperative that they remember the negative consequences, lest they also fall. Paul makes this point explicit in his discussion offering two explicit statements about his rhetorical intentions: 10.6: Now these things are examples for us [τύποι ἡμῶν], in order that we might not desire evil things, just like those that they desired . . . 10.11: But these things came about for them as an example [τυπικῶς], and they were written for our instruction – to whom the end of the ages has come. Paul situates both of these statements firmly within his section on the offences of the people, rather than the gifts of God. This makes clear that the emphasis is on the human response to God in the wilderness, rather than the provision itself. Further, the author of Hebrews encourages his audience to ‘make every effort to enter that rest, so that no one falls into the same pattern of disobedience (4.11:  ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ . . . ὑποδείγματι . . . τῆς ἀπειθείας). Thus Paul and

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139), though if he is using these examples as evidence of God’s provision, he implies that there is some historical dimension to the stories. On the contrary, after surveying claims about the Sage’s use of anonymity, Samuel Cheon argues:  ‘Through reshaping the biblical story without proper names, Pseudo-Solomon urges his audience to identify themselves and their enemies with biblical figures’ (see ‘Anonymity in the Wisdom of Solomon’, JSP 9, no. 18 [1998]: 116). ‘But in order for this overtly Exodus-shaped historiography to function as an Exodus-shaped theodicy, Israel, as the object of divine rescue, must be re-presented as consistently righteous in contradiction to their unrighteous oppressors’ (Jonathan A. Linebaugh, God, Grace, and Righteousness in Wisdom of Solomon and Paul’s Letter to the Romans:  Texts in Conversation [NovTSup 152; Leiden: Brill, 2013], 83). Linebaugh, God, Grace, and Righteousness, 82.

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Hebrews respectively conceive of the events, and the people themselves, as instructive for their current readers. So it seems that both of these authors present the graciousness of God chiefly so that the brazenness of the people can be properly understood. Both draw upon the narrative of Numbers 14, where after the report of the spies the people cry out claiming that they would have been better off to die in Egypt along the way. The Lord responds by telling Aaron and Moses: ‘your little ones, who you said would become prey, I  will bring in, and they shall know the land that you have despised. But as for you, your dead bodies shall fall in this wilderness’ (Num. 14.31–32). This final judgement on the people, after they tested God ‘ten times’ (Num. 14.22), is recalled by Paul (1 Cor. 10.5) and the author of Hebrews (Heb. 3.17), but is omitted by the Sage.39 Hebrews recalls their rebellion in more general terms, but Paul outlines a number of specific offences. ‘Many’ (πολύς, 1 Cor. 10.5) of them did not please God because ‘some’ (τινές) were idolaters (10.7), some sexually immoral (10.8), some tested Christ (or the ‘Lord’ or ‘God’, 10.9)40 and some grumbled (10.10).41 In addition to being easily tied to concrete episodes in the Pentateuch, these stories all feature in Greek Psalm 105, which confesses the sins of Israel surrounding the Exodus. The wealth of pentateuchal transgressions from which Paul could draw suggests that the selected sins are mirrored in the behaviour of the Corinthian church, though only idols (esp. 1 Cor. 8.1–13; 10.14–22) and sexual immorality (5.1–13; 6.12–20) are explicitly mentioned. Hebrews similarly draws parallels between the sins of the past and present by likening the wilderness generation to apostates. In a bit of wordplay on the lexical form πίπτω, he encourages his readers not to fall away (Heb. 4.11) like those who fell down dead in the wilderness (Heb. 3.16–19). In addition to the offences outlined in the citation of Psalm 94 (Heb. 3.7– 11), the author describes their actions as ‘rebelling’ (3.16), ‘sinning’ (3.17) and ‘disobeying’ (3.18). Finally, he summarizes the reason for their exclusion from the promised rest as ‘unbelief ’ (3.19: ἀπιστία). With Psalm 94 and its summary 39

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Since the wilderness is a positive space for Wisdom, the goal of their journey is muted. The Sage only mentions their entrance into the land once (12.3–11), and it is in between two stories about the wilderness, never praising the end to their nomadic period. No reading for this variant has overwhelming manuscript evidence. Some mss. read κυριον (‫א‬, B, C) or θεον (A). NA28’s Χριστόν is attested in P46 and D; as the most difficult reading, it has been preferred. Paul might be contrasting God’s five gifts with their five failures, but ‘not pleasing God’ seems to be a summary of the four more specific offences (contra Fitzmyer, First Corinthians, 378).

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of human rebellion in the wilderness, Hebrews easily draws parallels between those at the time of Psalm’s composition (to which he refers in 4.7) and those reading his own interpretation. He provides us with no specific clues about the community’s transgressions, but he ensures that his message is applicable to any in danger of not entering God’s rest. Paul, on the other hand, selects Psalms with specific points of correspondence to his audience (Psalms 104– 105). He hopes that his readers will see the Psalmist’s sorrowful recollection of ‘their’ ancestors’ sins (1 Cor. 10.1) and heed the implicit warning in its ‘example’ (τύπος, 10.6, 11). The virtue of Paul’s reading is its obvious connection with his audience. Who among those engaging with temple prostitutes would not shudder at the reference to the plague that resulted from their forbidden exploits with the Moabites (Numbers 25; cf. 1 Cor. 6.12–20)? Both Paul and Hebrews select texts as their interpretive lens for the sins of their readers, but their selection and application differs substantially.42 Returning to Paul’s list of the four specific sins and punishments incurred by the Israelites in the wilderness, we find the Apostle and the Sage at odds again. First, Paul describes the idolatry of the people, recalling what might be their most egregious offence – the Golden Calf (Exodus 32). He does not include a punishment, as with the other sins, but instead a two-fold description of the episode. They participated in idolatry, and they celebrated it: ‘The people sat down to eat and to drink, and they rose again to play’ (Exod. 32.6; 1 Cor. 10.7). The Sage, as expected, does not include this story, but instead paints the ‘enemies’ as those engaged in idolatry (Wis. 13.10–15.17).43 Later, Paul also recalls the venomous snakes that ‘destroyed’ (ἀπόλλυμι) the Israelites in Numbers 21 (1 Cor. 10.9). Surprisingly, the Sage also includes this story, but not with the same emphasis: For also when the danger of wild animals came upon them, and they were being destroyed [διεφθείροντο] by the bites of writhing serpents,44 your

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For a more thorough contrast of the application of the wilderness in Hebrews 3–4 and 1 Corinthians 10, see Hermut Löhr, ‘“Heute, wenn ihr seine Stimme hört . . .”: Zur Kunst der Schriftanwendung im Hebräerbrief und in 1 Kor 10’, in Schriftauslegung im antiken Judentum und im Urchristentum (ed. Martin Hengel and Hermut Löhr; WUNT 73; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 226–248. For a discussion of the absence of the Golden Calf, but presence of other elements from Exodus 32–34, see John M. G. Barclay, ‘“I Will Have Mercy on Whom I Have Mercy”: The Golden Calf and Divine Mercy in Romans 9–11 and Second Temple Judaism’, Early Christianity 1, no. 1 (2010): esp. 90–91. The imperfect tense-form of διαφθείρω introduces some ambiguity about the extent of this ‘warning for a short time’ (νουθεσίαν . . . πρὸς ὀλίγον), as the ‘destruction’ could be in process, but the Sage emphasizes its minimal effect on the group as a whole.

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wrath did not persist until the end. But as a warning for a short time, they were troubled, bearing a sign of deliverance as a reminder of your law’s command. (Wis. 16.5–6)

Apart from calling this God’s ‘wrath’ (ὀργή), the Sage curtails the punitive elements of this story. Once again the grumbling of the ‘righteous’ is omitted, and the ‘wild animals’ (θηρία) are presented acting precisely as we expect: they attack. Moreover, the Sage seems most interested in this story for the ending, what he calls God’s ‘kindness’ (16.2). This is seen also when he returns to this episode later in the chapter: And not even the teeth of venomous serpents conquered your children, for your mercy came to their aid and healed them. (16.10)

For the Sage, the fact that God relented is more significant than the fact that Israel rebelled.45 A final intersection between these two authors is worth mention. As Paul’s conclusion to this list, he commands the Corinthians: ‘Do not grumble, as some of them grumbled and were destroyed by the destroyer [ὑπὸ τοῦ ὀλοθρευτοῦ]’ (1 Cor. 10.10). The text underlying this verse has puzzled commentators. ‘The destroyer’ appears to be a reference to Exodus 12.23, where God promises not to let ‘the destroyer’ (τὸν ὀλεθρεύοντα) into the Israelites’ homes, but the rest of Paul’s description does not fit with this text. The fact that the Israelites are accused here of ‘grumbling’ might fit best with Numbers 14, where it is precisely the complaining of the people that finally excludes them from entrance into the land. But what about the looming messenger? Here the Sage offers an insight into Paul’s reading: The experience of death also touched those among the righteous, and plague came to many of them in the wilderness. But the wrath did not remain for long because the righteous man quickly fought as their champion [προεμάχησεν] . . . To [his vestments] the destroyer [ὁ ὀλεθρεύων] yielded. (18.20–21, 25)

45

This reading coheres with Dodson’s on the mitigation of Israel’s rebellion and subsequent punishment, but Dodson offers a thorough and (by my estimate) correct reading of the personification of Wrath in Wisdom. Per Dodson, the Destroyer is another name for this figure, which would explain the interchange of this terms in the narrative. See ‘Powers’ of Personification, chap. 6.

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Like Exodus 12, this story features an inexplicable illness. It is possible that a tradition developed linking supernatural epidemics with this ‘destroyer’ figure, or, as Francis Watson suggests, that this might be indicative of direct influence between these two authors.46 Whatever the connection between these texts, this reading in Wisdom suggests that Numbers 16 might be the more likely text that Paul has in mind in 1 Corinthians 10. If this is the episode that Paul has in mind (perhaps via Psalm 105), then its context might be instructive for Paul’s message to the Corinthians. He might not be criticizing complaining generally, but is instead criticizing the type of complaining depicted in this episode. First, Korah and the other Levites who were not chosen to serve in the tabernacle complained about their status and office (16.1–30), but this resulted in the ground opening to ‘swallow them up’ (16.32). Second, the community responded to their punishment with complaints. They cry out that they too will be destroyed and then rebel against Moses and Aaron. Implicit in their rebellion is the assumption that God acts unjustly – that he might decide on a whim to destroy them. Even though the second round of rebellion fits the punishment, the Corinthian correspondence seems to fit the first crime, since Paul’s discourse on spiritual gifts in 1 Corinthians 12 encourages each person to be content with the type and measure of gifts that God has given.

8.4 Conclusion This essay brought three accounts of the philosopher Moses’s teaching into conversation. Within each account, the authors of 1 Corinthians, Hebrews and Wisdom of Solomon reveal their own underlying philosophy and assumptions about how God interacts with his people. From the Sage’s tale of God’s gracious provision to Paul’s christological exhortation to the strict warning of Hebrews to avoid the wanderers’ rebellion, we see three constructions of the wilderness tradition crafted for three distinct contemporary contexts. The diversity 46

‘It is unlikely that both interpreters of Numbers inserted this figure into the text independently of each other, and it is at least possible that Paul is here dependent on Wisdom’ (see Paul and the Hermeneutics of Faith, 371–372). An alternative suggestion is that these readings are due to Ψ 105.15–16 where the mention of the disease directly precedes Korah’s Rebellion. The Hebrew tradition places these elements in two different stanzas, but this might have been obscured by the Greek text since the lines would be contiguous.

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among these accounts demonstrates the multivalence of the biblical narrative, reminding us that the wilderness was not just a place where God provided and not just a place where the people rebelled. Similarly, the wilderness is not just a past story with no value for later generations, but is an example for ‘us’ (1 Cor. 10.6, 11).

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Natural Hair: A ‘New Rhetorical’ Assessment of 1 Cor. 11.14–15 Timothy A. Brookins

In 1 Cor. 11.14–15, Paul suggests that ‘nature’, or φύσις, might have something to teach people about hair length: And does not nature itself teach you that a man, if he grows his hair long, it is a dishonor to him, but that a woman, if she grows hers long, it is a glory to her, since her hair has been given to her as a covering?1

Since Paul introduces the question with οὐδέ (= οὐ + δέ,),2 he evidently expects his listeners to affirm the proposition put forth – that short hair for men and long hair for women is in fact nature’s teaching. Where Paul employs φύσις or cognate terminology elsewhere (e.g. the adjective, φύσικος), it seems invariably to refer to the inherent biological or

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Though most take the ὅτι in v. 15 as introducing a declarative clause, giving the grounds on which the question’s implied answer finds support, it may just as naturally be taken as introducing a causal clause, extending the question to the end of the verse. Historically, a number of translations have understood the verse in this way (Vulgate; Tyndale; Coverdale; NAB), as have a few modern commentators (e.g. A. T. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians [ICC; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1914], 234; A. C. Thiselton The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NIGTC; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2000], 800; J. Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians [AB 32; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008], 421). Pace Padgett (A. Padgett, ‘Paul on Women in the Church’, JSNT 20 [1984]:  69–86, esp.  82), it is irrelevant that οὐδέ is ‘never used in a rhetorical question by Paul’. We clearly have οὐδέ in its ‘continuative’ sense here (οὐ + δέ), with δέ serving as a conjunction and οὐ performing its customary function of introducing a rhetorical question that expects the answer ‘Yes’. οὐδέ occurs in this capacity also in Mk 12.10 and Lk. 2.40; the continuative function of οὐδέ occurs in Mt. 6.15, 26, 28, 29; 7.6; 21.27; Mk 4.22; Jn 7.5; 1 Cor. 5.11; 10.7–10 (cited in A. T. Robertson, A Grammar of the Greek New Testament in the Light of Historical Research [Nashville: Broadman, 1934], 1185); see also Rom. 11:21, where οὐδέ, = ‘also not’. Also, in 1 Cor. 11.13, we have ‘consider x’ (βλέπετε τὸ Ἰσραήλ) preceding an expectant rhetorical question, similar to ‘judge for yourselves’ (ἐν ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς κρίνατε) prior to the two rhetorical questions here (11.13–14).

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organic constitution of things as given to them by God.3 It has been widely disputed, however, whether this meaning holds also in the case of 1 Cor. 11.14–15. The main views on this text are as follows. 1. A few interpreters think that Paul refers here to a universal, ‘natural truth’, valid for all times. Kistemaker, for instance, thinks that, at the moment when God created male and female, ‘he gave the male shorter hair than the female’.4 Grosheide shares the same conclusion, albeit on different grounds: ‘Nature stands for the general notion all people have by virtue of their being human beings’. This, he says, ‘holds true of every nation’; and so ‘[a]ll women should have that sort of a [hair] dress always’.5 2. Many conclude that Paul was speaking of φύσις only as those in his world knew it, as it was understood in his period or context, as it had been examined by Greek philosophy of his day, and so forth, since – it is argued – men seem to be just as capable of growing their hair long as women are.6 3

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The noun occurs in Gal. 2.15; 4.8; Rom. 1.26; 2.14; 2.27; 11.21, 24; Eph. 2.3 (whether this is also the meaning in Rom. 1.26 is sometimes disputed, though see discussion on ‘Nature vs. Convention’ below). The adjective occurs in Rom. 1.26, 27. S. J. Kistemaker, 1 Corinthians (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 1993), 381. F. Grosheide, Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthian (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1953), 260. From the ancient sources, one may cite Herodotus, Hist. 1.82.7; Plutarch, Mor. 267b; Lucian, Dial. meretr. 5.3; see also C. L. Thompson’s article on ancient statuary, ‘Hairstyles, Head-Coverings and St. Paul: Portraits from Roman Corinth’, BA 51 (1988): 99–115. For a variety of reasons, some men did wear their hair long (e.g. Homer, Il. 2.472, 542; Herodotus, Hist. 1.82; 5.72; Aristotle, Rhet. 1.9.26; Dio, Or. 35.11–12; Plutarch, Mor. 267b; Aristophanes, Eq. 580), although later satires found in this practice fodder for ridicule (e.g. Juvenal, Sat. 2.96; Petronius, Satyr. 119). Among other modern interpreters, most who speak of the ongoing validity of the ‘nature’ argument understand it in looser, or more analogical, terms. Robert Gagnon draws attention to the phenomenon of ‘male-pattern baldness’, which is supposed to reveal that males have a tendency toward thinner hair (at least on the head), which in turn provides a clue as to what is to be deemed ‘natural’ (R. A. J. Gagnon, The Bible and Homosexual Practice: Texts and Hermeneutics [Nashville: Abingdon, 2001], 374–375, citing an ancient argument from Synesius of Cyrene, In Praise of Baldness 14; cf. also Aristotle, Gen. an. 782a.). Michael Lakey credits Paul with looking past the ‘surface level of phenomenological observation’ to the ‘underlying framework’ of sexual differentiation:  ‘nature’ teaches merely that there are intrinsic physiological differences between male and female (Image and Glory of God: 1 Corinthians 11:2–16 as a Case Study in Bible, Gender and Hermeneutics [LNTS 418; London: T&T Clark, 2010], 120). C. K. Barrett, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Harper’s NTC; New York:  Harper & Row, 1968), 256, 257; F. F. Bruce, 1 & 2 Corinthians (NCB 38; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1971), 107–8; H. Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians:  A  Commentary (Hermeneia; Philadelphia:  Fortress, 1975), 190; W. Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (EKKNT 7; Zürich; Düsseldorf:  Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 3:522; F. Lang, Die Briefe an die Korinther (NTD 7; 2d ed.; Göttingen:  Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 143; J. Kremer, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (Regensburger:  Pustet, 1997), 231; A. Lindemann, Der erste Korintherbrief (HNT; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 245. G.  T. Montague would add that it is the way ‘most people’ in history have understood the natural order (1 Corinthians [New Catholic Commentaries on Sacred Scripture; Grand Rapids, MI:  Baker Academic, 2011], 188).

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3. With the latter point in mind, some have endeavored to alleviate Paul of error by claiming that he did not in fact suggest that ‘nature teaches’ about hair-length. Padgett, accordingly, argues that the verse should be taken, not as an interrogative, expecting the answer ‘Yes’, but as an indicative, stating the contrary: ‘Nature does not (οὐδέ) teach that long hair is a disgrace to man . . .’7 4. But the most popular interpretation in recent times has been that, for Paul, nature ‘meant convention’.8 Those who endorse this view should not be confused with those who adopt option (2), surface similarities notwithstanding. Both interpretations, indeed, recognize a difference between ancient and modern mindsets. But whereas the second view aims to interpret Paul’s statement from within its cultural context, with the fourth view a modern (and Western) perspective is overlaid atop the ancient text and the verse is ‘exposited’ in terms of the modern (and Western) viewpoint; the historical question whether Paul actually shared this perspective himself is then either suppressed or slips the interpreter’s notice altogether. In social-scientific terms, one might say that (2) reflects an ‘emic’ perspective on the matter (an insider-account) and (4) an ‘etic’ one (an outsider-account). These, then, are the four main views on 1 Cor. 11.14–15: 1. What Paul calls φύσις is, in a realist sense, the ‘order of the universe’. 2. What Paul calls φύσις (‘the order of the universe’) is understood by most moderns actually to be ‘convention’. 3. Paul actually dissociates the hair issue from φύσις (‘the order of the universe’). 4. Paul is thinking of φύσις as ‘convention’.

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Padgett, ‘Paul on Women in the Church’, 82; also in As Christ Submits to the Church: A Biblical Understanding of Leadership and Mutual Submission (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2011), 109–110. ‘Convention’:  Fitzmyer, 1 Corinthians, 420; M. Nissinen, Homoeroticism in the Biblical World (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress 1998), 105–108; R. E. Ciampa and B. S. Rosner, The First Letter to the Corinthians (Pillar; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2010), 539. ‘Custom’:  W. F. Orr and J. A. Walther, 1 Corinthians (AB 32; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976), 264; G. D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 1987), 526–7; R. Horsley, 1 Corinthians (ANTC; Nashville, TN:  Abingdon, 1998), 157. ‘Sitte’:  C. Wolff, Die erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (THKNT; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 255. ‘A social argument’: R. Collins, 1 Corinthians (Sacra Pagina 7; Collegeville, PA: Liturgical, 1999), 403–404. ‘What society understands to be natural’:  D. E. Garland, 1 Corinthians (BECNT; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2003), 530.

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As a preliminary matter, it needs to be asked to what extent these interpretations accord with the ancient data: Did φύσις, in ancient discussions, refer invariably to the ‘universal order of things’, or did speakers sometimes use it as a synonym for ‘convention’? As we shall see, a survey of the ancient data suggests that conclusions on this matter have often been driven less by attention to the ancient context than they have by an inclination, witting or unwitting, either to ‘dismiss’ Paul’s remarks as outdated or to ‘rescue’ them by bringing his perspective into alignment with our own. To put this more directly:  it seems upon examination that modern interpreters’ commonly shared intuition that by φύσις Paul or his contemporaries meant ‘convention’, defies historical testimony. We shall review the evidence for this claim below. It will be argued, nonetheless, that this state of affairs does not force us to yield to either position (1) or position (3), according to which Paul unequivocally either affirms or denies that φύσις, ‘the order of the universe’, dictates proper hair length for men and women. All speech is grounded in real-life circumstances. It is constrained by particular occasions and informed by the specific needs, attributes and biases of the speaker’s audience. We shall probe this dimension of Paul’s argument here with special recourse to ‘New Rhetorical’ theory. As will be shown, the terms of Paul’s argument are deeply complicated by his attempts (a) to ‘identify’ with his auditors and (b) to do so, signs will show, without committing unambiguously to their point of view. This chapter unfolds in two parts. The first part undertakes a reassessment of current opinion regarding the relationship between ‘nature’ and ‘convention’ in ancient discourse, and of the meaning of the ‘nature’ language in 1 Cor. 11.14–15. It would be impossible to incorporate the full breadth of literature available on these points. Especially at present, as (important) work in ancient gender ideologies proliferates, we are faced as never before with the very real constraints of space and the necessity of selectivity. Thus, in reviewing the state of the question in part I, efforts have been made to incorporate the secondary literature that represents the range of views most frequently encountered. In the second part, the chapter undertakes a fresh interpretation of 1 Cor. 11.14–15 in the light of New Rhetorical theory.

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9.1 Nature vs. Convention in Ancient Discussions Greek discussions of ‘objective’ morality can be traced back to Archaic times.9 At this stage, sources rooted objective morality in the ‘νόμος’, the unwritten ‘law’ given to humans by Zeus, and thought to be enforceable among all peoples everywhere.10 The belief that these ‘laws’ represented a divine standard, universally applicable, seems to have remained largely uncontested among Greeks of this period. Proof of this is shown in part by the outcry that came from all sides when the sophists of the fifth century BCE contested it. The sophists argued, based on the diversity of traditions held among Greeks and barbarians, that νόμοι were relative, and indeed, merely a matter of ‘convention’. Thus, they posed an antithesis (and still at that time a controversial one) between φύσις (‘nature’) and νόμοι (‘convention’), challenging the widely held conviction that there was an objective morality, common to all.11 The philosophers sought a solution to this rift in their idea of ‘natural law’ (φύσικος νόμος or νόμος φύσεως). Since pre-Socratic times, philosophers had advocated living ‘according to nature’ (κατὰ φύσιν), or that a thing ‘be what it ought to be’ according to the ‘rule’ of nature (λόγος).12 The introduction of ‘natural law’, then, represented an attempt to reattach ‘law’ to the natural order, in which consisted a truly unchanging foundation, binding for all peoples at all times.13 In this way, the philosophers argued that diversity in humanity’s legal orders, and of νόμοι, merely amounted to deviation from the universal ideal that was intrinsic to and plainly manifest within nature. In actuality, law and ethics were both rooted in an absolute standard. From that point, the sources begin to reflect a distinction, at least in theory, between the universal ‘order of things’, referred to as φύσις, and ‘convention’, referred to usually as either νόμος (lex) or συνήθεια (consuetudo).14 Natural 9

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For the following discussion, compare the articles in Brill’s New Pauly: A. Neschke, ‘Law’; H. Lück, ‘Natural Law’; G. Schiemann, ‘Ius’; ‘Mores’; Siewart, ‘Νόμος’. Hesiod, Op. 275–279; Theog. 901–903; and, later, in Aristotle, Rhet. 1.13.1–2; 1.15.6. This view is recorded by the Skeptical Academy by Sextus Empiricus (Prof. 11.140):  ‘Nothing is good or bad by nature (φύσει), it is all convention (νόμω)’; see also Plato, Resp. 1.331; Cicero, Resp. 3.11.18–19. Heraclitus, Fr. 1.8, 9. See Aristotle, Rhet. 1.15.25; Eth. nic. 1134b 31–33. On the distinction, see Cicero, Off. 3.69; and Pseudo-Socrates, Ep. 39, 7–8. Though, the older sense of νόμος as universal law did not disappear. Aristotle, for example, defines ‘general laws’ (κοινά) as those that are ‘based on nature’ (κατὰ φύσιν; Rhet. 1.13.2; 1.15.6). See also: Aristotle, Rhet. 1.10.3; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.26.2; 2.10.3; Diogenes Laertius 7.87–89; Socrates, Ep. 6, 6–7; Lucian, Patr.

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law, as developed especially by Plato and Aristotle in the fourth century BCE, was subsequently developed in the philosophical schools of the Hellenistic period. It entered its way into Roman philosophy as lex naturae/lex naturalis (‘the law of nature’) or simply natura (‘nature’), in distinction from ‘custom’ (consuetudo), positive ‘law’ (lex) and ‘common law’ (civilis lex).15 In Roman jurisprudence, the notion of natural law eventually led to the codification of a system of ‘Justice’ (Ius) based supposedly on the standard held by all human beings everywhere.16 In all of this, one is able to find examples where what is assigned to ‘nature’ in the ancient sources would be assigned to ‘convention’ by most Westerners today: Plato thought that women were in every way inferior to men, ‘by nature’ (φύσει);17 Aristotle found them ‘by nature’ less virtuous than men, though ‘by nature’ superior to slaves;18 even the great ‘humanitarian’ Seneca said that men were ‘born (nata) to command’ and women were ‘born to obey’.19 This disparaging view, ubiquitous in ancient times, also found expression in more popular works.20 That this ancient viewpoint was erroneous almost anyone would now agree. But it does not for that reason follow that for the ancients ‘nature meant convention’ (as W. Schoedel has also observed).21 On the contrary, law and morality as rooted in mutable convention was, as just sketched out, the very notion that philosophically minded Greeks summoned the concept of ‘nature’ to combat. In this regard, it is remarkable how often interpreters, in commenting on 1 Cor. 11.14–15, have noted that Paul’s φύσις is our ‘convention’, and then confused the latter for Paul’s intention. Gordon Fee, for instance, says that this verse is: not an appeal to Nature, or to ‘natural law,’ or to ‘natural endowment’; nor is Nature to be understood as pedagogic (actually ‘teaching’ these ‘laws’). Rather, for Paul it is a question of propriety and of ‘custom’ (vv. 13–16)

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laud. 4; arguably also Rom. 2.11–16 and 1 Cor. 14.34; on the last example, see H. Hollander, ‘The Meaning of the Term “Law” in 1 Corinthians’, NovT 40 (1998): 127–130. See Cicero, Off. 3.27, 30, 31, 69; Nat. d. 1.14.36. See Gaius, Inst. 1.1 (second c. CE). Resp. 453b–455d; see also Tim. 41e–42a; 90e. Rhet. 1.9.22 and Pol. 1252b. Seneca, Const. 1.1. See also Marc. 1.1, 5; Helv. 15.1; Polyb. 17.2; Ep. 78.17; Tranq. 16.2; Const. 14.1; Ira 2.30.1. Aeschylus, Ag. 483–487; Pseudo-Cicero, Rhet. Her. 4.16.23; Vergil, Aen. 4.569–570. W. R. Schoedel, ‘Same-Sex Eros: Paul and the Greco-Roman Tradition’, in Homosexuality, Science, and the ‘Plain Sense’ of Scripture (ed. D. Balch; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 59.

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. . . Thus Paul is not arguing that men must wear their hair short, or that women must have long hair, as though ‘nature’ meant some kind of ‘created order’.

Fee then adds: ‘After all, what “nature teaches” comes about by an “unnatural” means – a haircut.’22 So also Orr and Walther: Paul’s reference ‘must be to common custom, for there is no analogy in nature itself that bears out the argument (Perhaps the reference to custom in v. 16 is an indication of his intent here.)’.23 In fact, a survey through the commentaries (as noted above in n8) reveals that ‘custom’, ‘convention’, ‘Sitte’ and so on are perhaps the most commonly provided interpretations of φύσις for this passage. Similar assumptions seem to underlie Thiselton’s discussion of the ‘four distinct views’ on φύσις, of which he notes the following: (1) an intuitive or inborn sense of what is fitting, right or seemly; (2) the way humans are created, that is, their constitution as men and women; (3) the physical reality of how the world is ordered; and (4) the customs of a given society.24 After some discussion, Thiselton decides that all of these views, with the exception of the first one (nature as an inborn sense of what is fitting, etc.),25 find support in the ancient sources. Supposing that Paul himself sometimes uses φύσις ‘to denote “how things are” in more situational or societal terms, Thiselton at last decides that ‘customs’ (the fourth view) is the ‘best understanding’ of Paul’s meaning here.26 This, however, is very misleading; ‘custom’ is in fact the only one of the four meanings mentioned by Thiselton that does not find evidence in its favor in the ancient sources. Thiselton provides no examples, nor have I found any in the other literature that shares this view. As we have seen, the concept of ‘custom’ was ordinarily designated by terms like νόμος (lex) or συνήθεια (consuetudo), in contrast with φύσις.27 I  note in this regard that in 1 Cor. 11.16 συνήθεια, or ‘custom’, appears as a separate argument, added independently of those with which Paul precedes. 22 23 24 25

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Fee, 1 Corinthians, 527; the note in 527 n. 15. Emphasis on ‘for Paul’ and ‘custom’ is mine. Orr and Walther, 1 Corinthians, 264; my italics. Thiselton, First Epistle, 844. Despite Thiselton’s claims, this meaning is in fact quite well attested in the sources. It finds expression in the fundamental notion of the ‘primary impulses of nature’, developed in all the major philosophical schools; e.g., Cicero, Fin. 3.16–21; 5.18–19, 24–26, 33; Lucretius, Nat. d. 2.1–61; Diogenes Laertius 7.85–86; Seneca, Ep. 121.6–15. Thiselton, First Epistle, 845–846. Cicero, Off. 3.69.

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The other three options Thiselton provides, on the other hand, are all tied together in the ancient view: morality was built into the very fabric of the universe, and so was both innate, in the sense that it was available to all – early on, through ‘first impulses’,28 and later, through ‘reason’ – and empirically verifiable, in the sense that nature, by its example, provided clues as to appropriate human conduct. It was the Stoic school of philosophy that developed these ideas most fully (although these ideas eventually worked their way into Hellenistic Judaism and popular systems of thought as well).29 Holding that God infused the universe as ‘Reason’ (λόγος/ratio),30 Stoics maintained that all people, as parts of the universe, shared in reason’s power, giving people privileged insight into the objective standard of Law and Justice inherent in the natural order, and binding them with an obligation to live in accordance with the structured reality into which they were incorporated.31 In this sense, all people were common citizens of a single ‘world-city’, and subject to a universal ‘law of nature’, which was understood and fulfilled by ‘correct reasoning’ (ὀρθὸς λόγος/recta ratio).32 For the Stoics, then, physics and ethics were inextricably linked: as parts of an interconnected whole, people carried with them a divinely-imposed obligation to select behaviors in accordance with the structure of the universe – or as the Stoics put it, to live ‘in accordance with nature’ (κατὰ φύσιν).33 This formula came to encapsulate the Stoic viewpoint on the highest ‘ends’ (τέλη) of human existence. Interpreters have long recognized the similarity between the Stoic argument from nature and Paul’s argument in 1 Cor. 11.14–15.34 Both argued that nature’s design, as seen in the distribution of hair on the human body, provided a criterion for differentiation between the sexes. The Stoics argued that, since God made women naturally smooth and men naturally hairy, it followed that men who plucked their hair acted contrary to nature.35 In this regard, 28 29 30 31 32

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Cf. n. 25. E.g. Philo, Mos. 2.48–52, 211; Vita 59; Abr. 133–41; Spec. 3.37–41; 4 Macc. 5.14–38. Diogenes Laertius 7.147; Cicero, Nat. d. 1.39. Cicero, Leg. 1.23; Off. 3.23–26; Diogenes Laertius 7.53; SVF 2.528. Cicero, Off. 3.27; Resp. 3.33; Epictetus, Diatr. 2.10.3; SVF 3.640. This ‘law’, moreover, sometimes clashed directly with convention; see, e.g. Plutarch, Mor. 1044f–1045a; Sextus Empiricus, Pyrr. 3.247–248. In addition to Diogenes Laertius 7.87–89, see A. A. Long and D. N. Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers (2 vols., London: Cambridge University Press, 1987), §63A–G. As far back as J. Weiss, Der erste Korintherbrief (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910), 276. Epictetus, Diatr. 3.1.14, 24–45; 3.22.10; Musonius Rufus, Diatr. 21.1–7.

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interpreters have often drawn attention to a passage in Epictetus that bears a close resemblance to our passage: Can anything be more useless than the hairs on a chin? Well, what then? Has not nature (φύσις) used even these in the most suitable way possible? Has she not by these means distinguished between the male and the female? . . . [I]n the case of women, just as nature has mingled in their voice a certain softer note, so likewise she [nature] has taken the hair from their chins. (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.16.9–14: Epictetus: Diatr. 1.16.9-14” ; emphasis added)

In addition to their common appeal to the (1)  ‘natural’ growth of (2) hair as an argument for differentiation between sexes, it should be noted that the two passages both use (3)  leading rhetorical questions to drive home the point: Does not even nature (φύσις) teach you that any man who wears his hair long dishonors himself? (1 Cor. 11.14) Has not nature (φύσις) used even these [the hairs on the chin] in the most suitable way possible? Has she not by these means distinguished between the male and the female? (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.16.9–14 )

Yet, beneath the surface similarities, a pivotal difference also confronts us:  whereas Epictetus advises leaving the hair that grows on the body, Paul calls for cutting the hair that grows on the head. At first glance, either of two conclusions might then seem to follow: (1) that Paul or the Stoics, or both, sometimes understood φύσις in terms of convention, a fluid conceptuality that changed with context; or (2) that Paul must not have been using φύσις in the Stoic sense. But while each of these statements contains some truth when looked at from a certain point of view, neither shows adequate appreciation for what Paul is doing. On the one hand, it should be reiterated that φύσις was not – from any ancient point of view I am aware of, much less a Stoic point of view – understood to be a matter of convention. Far from that, φύσις in its ethical sense had been developed in order to close the gap between νόμος and an absolute standard of morality, which had been opened up at the time of the sophists:  the νόμος φύσεων (or φύσικος νόμος) served as an eternally grounded benchmark for all that changed according to convention. Yet on the other side, Paul’s

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creative reuse of this Stoic commonplace need not indicate that he intended to sever resonances between his own argument and the system that seems to have provided its original field of reference. There may in fact be reason to suppose that Paul had every intention of passing off his argument as a ‘Stoic’ one, exploited with the deliberate forethought of meeting an audience sympathetic to that system (as we shall demonstrate below), even if he did not find the argument convincing himself. From here, then, we enter into the realm of ‘Rhetoric’, the selection and shaping of premises most suited to the audience in hopes of establishing ‘identity’ of understanding.

9.2 Rhetorical Argumentation and 1 Cor. 11.14–15 9.2.1 Argumentation in Paul’s Letters It is a truism of biblical scholarship that Paul’s letters are ‘occasional’. Because he addressed not universal audiences but particular communities, each embedded in unique historical situations, he adapted his speech to the needs of the circumstances, varying his arrangement, style, tone and premises as seemed best. This point has special relevance for our passage, where (it has often been noted) Paul is found casting about from one argument to another, apparently unsatisfied with the promise of any one of them to clinch the matter.36 Between verse 2 and verse 16 of the present chapter he dashes off some three or four or five different arguments, each one independent of the others.37 Why he took such a hard line against the church’s hair-styling practices is no longer clear to us, but the nature of his rejoinder tells us that his approach must have been precipitated by what he perceived to be dire circumstances.

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E.g., J. Moffatt, The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians (New  York:  Hodder & Stoughton, 1938), 154; Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, 2:520; T. Engberg-Pedersen, ‘1 Corinthians 11:16 and the Character of Pauline Exhortation’, JBL 110 (1994):  682; Kremer, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, 231; Gagnon, The Bible and Homosexual Practice, 375; Fitzmyer, First Corinthians, 407. Most identify three arguments: one from scripture (vv. 7–12), one from nature (vv. 13–15), and one from the customs of the churches (v. 16); representative is Collins (1 Corinthians, 402). Fitzmyer, however, locates five (First Corinthians, 407–408).

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Beyond commenting on Paul’s strained efforts to locate a suitable argument, however, interpreters have not often appreciated the extent to which the unique features of his argument may have been informed by the ‘discourse’ of his interlocutors. Upon closer consideration, the well-known oddities of this passage, far from exposing it as a ‘non-Pauline interpolation’,38 merely exemplify a strategy that all agree is happening throughout the remainder of the letter: Paul is co-opting the discourse of his dialogue partners and refashioning it to the purposes at hand.39 There is in fact a significant consensus among interpreters about the remnants of ‘Corinthian language’ in other portions of the letter.40 Interpreters are virtually unanimous that Paul cites ‘Corinthian slogans’ in 6.12a, 13a, 7.1b, 8.1b, 4b, 10.23a, and 15.12c. A considerable number of individual terms have been identified also, including especially certain terms pertaining to ‘wisdom’ and ‘knowledge’.41 This language, contextualized by the letter’s recurring themes, tells us a lot about the Corinthians’ philosophical frame of reference. In particular, interpreters have noticed a striking pattern of connections between the views of the Corinthians and the ideas of Stoicism: they fancy themselves ‘wise men’, the only ones rightly called ‘rich and king’, ‘perfect’ as against the ‘immature’, ‘knowledgeable’ as against the ‘weak-minded’, and ‘free’ as wise men to do what they alone judge fitting.42 This language, however, also helps bring Paul’s 38

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41 42

W. Walker, ‘The Vocabulary of 1 Corinthians 11:3–16:  Pauline or Non-Pauline?’, JSNT 35 (1989): 75–88. Paul’s peculiar choice of ἐξουσία in 11.10 (‘a woman should have ἐξουσίαν over her head’) is easily made sense of if we imagine Paul again seizing upon Corinthian terminology (cf. the Corinthian slogan of 6.12, and the discussion in chs. 8–10). This terminology, moreover, is commonplace in the Stoics. Commentators have often noted that Paul’s argument from what is ‘fitting’ in 11.13 (πρέπον) is Stoic as well. For quantitative evidence for a ‘consensus’ on many of the slogans, see the tabulation in T. A. Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom, Stoic Philosophy, and the Ancient Economy (SNTSMS 159; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 82–101, esp. 92, tables 4–5. For a summary, see Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom, 94–99. See, e.g., S. Stowers ‘A “Debate” over Freedom: I Corinthians 6:12–20’, in Christian Teaching: Studies in Honor of LeMoine G. Lewis (ed. E. Ferguson; Abilene, TX:  Abilene Christian University, 1981), 59–71; R. Hays ‘Conversion of the Imagination’, NTS 45 (1999):  391–412; T. Paige, ‘Stoicism, Eleutheria and Community at Corinth’, in Worship, Theology and Ministry in the Early Church (eds. M. J. Wilkins and T. Paige; Sheffield, Eng.:  JSOT, 1992), 180–193; A. J. Malherbe ‘Determinism and Free Will in Paul:  The Argument of 1 Cor 8 and 9’, in Paul in His Hellenistic Context (ed. T. Engberg-Pedersen; London:  T&T Clark, 1995; London: Continuum, 2004), 231–255. Brookins (Corinthian Wisdom, 4–5, n. 10) cites several other studies as well. For possible influences from other systems of thought, see the helpful overview of the possibilities provided in E. Adams and D. Horrell Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 1–50.

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own response into focus. As interpreters since J. B. Lightfoot have recognized, Paul draws much of his language in this letter from Stoic discourse.43 Several of the Corinthians’ slogans are met directly with Stoic-like responses, and Paul uses a number of distinctive Stoic terms, sayings and arguments that in his prior letters are nowhere else approximated, and that he develops only from 1 Corinthians onward.44 In short, Paul has become in this letter ‘a Stoic to Stoics’. I have recently provided a lengthy defense of this view elsewhere (something of the same sort has been articulated in varying degrees of detail by a number of interpreters over the last hundred years).45 Recognition of the Stoic connection is crucial to our understanding of what Paul is doing in 1 Cor. 11.14–15.

9.2.2 The ‘New Rhetoric’ The ‘New Rhetoric’ emerged in the mid-twentieth century as a revival of interest in classical rhetoric in the tradition of Aristotle. In contrast to earlier theories, the New Rhetoric sought to push the boundaries of rhetoric further by venturing beyond the rules prescribed for success in public speaking, to the task of describing the kinds of interactions that take place at all levels of discourse. Drawing from anthropology, sociology, linguistics and the social sciences more broadly, the New Rhetoric offers rich potential for explaining the complexities of social discourses, both written and unwritten. The analysis of 1 Cor. 11.14–15 provided here is especially indebted to the works of Kenneth Burke and (usually credited with developing the New Rhetoric) Chaim Perelman and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca (hereafter, P/OT).46

43

44 45 46

J. B. Lightfoot Notes on the Epistles of St. Paul (London: Macmillan, 1895), 195, 200, commenting on 3.21, 22; 4.8; and 6.12; similarly, Weiss Der erste Korintherbrief (1910), 89–91, 157–159. For a good summary, see D. A. de Silva, ‘Paul and the Stoa: A Comparison’, JETS 38 (1995): 549–564. See Brookins, Corinthian Wisdom. See also the literature cited in nn. 40–42. K. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives (Berkeley :  University of California Press, 1950; repr. 1969); A Grammar of Motives; with A  Rhetoric of Motives (Cleveland, OH; New  York:  Meridian, 1962); C. Perelman and L. Olbrechts-Tyteca, The New Rhetoric:  A  Treatise on Argumentation (trans. J. Wilkinson and P. Weaver; South Bend, IN; London:  University of Notre Dame Press, 1969). For a discussion of the differences with the old rhetoric, see Burke, ‘A Rhetoric of Motives’, ix–x; and ‘Rhetoric – Old and New’, The Journal of General Education 5 (1951): 202–209; and Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 5–8.

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9.2.3 ‘Identification’ and ‘Adherence’ Fundamental to the New Rhetoric is a distinction between ‘demonstration’ and ‘argumentation’. Whereas demonstration deals with self-evident principles or truths universally acknowledged (where there is no ‘argument’ to be made), argumentation deals with generally acknowledged ‘opinions’ or ‘probabilities’. Building on probable premises, the task of argumentation is to establish agreement, or at least the appearance of it, between parties.47 Burke defines this agreement in terms of ‘identification’ of interests, P/OT in terms of ‘adherence’. 1. Burke’s ‘identification’. For Burke, identification between parties involves a kind of ‘consubstantiality’: A and B, although distinct persons, ‘identify’ with each other inasmuch as they share the same interests, or are led to believe that they do.48 Where identification does not exist, there is ‘division’. Finally, situated between the two, is rhetoric, the bridge of common understanding. This bridge, however, not only generates identification; it also exposes division. Indeed, ‘there would be no strife in absolute separateness, since opponents can join battle only through a mediatory ground that makes their communication possible, thus providing the first condition necessary for their interchange of blows’.49 Thus, for communication to take place, parties must first share a common discourse, complete with common lexical stock and an underlying set of shared attitudes, ideas and assumptions. For feelings of consubstantiality to occur, moreover, the person speaking must show signs of identification through ‘deference’ to the audience’s way of speaking and thinking.50 In a word, the speaker persuades his audience only insofar as he is able to speak their language, ‘by speech, gesture, tonality, order, image, idea’, identifying his ways with theirs. The ‘discourse’ in which parties find common ground is always in some sense that of the ‘ruling class’, which ‘controls the main channels of expression’.51 This, however, is easily turned to one’s own advantage in debate:  by

47

48 49 50 51

Just as Aristotle distinguishes between ‘demonstrating’ (τὸ ἀποδείκνυναι) and ‘seeming to demonstrate’ (τὸ δοκεῖν ἀποδείκνυναι), and between self-evident truths (ἀληθῆ, πρώτα) and opinions (δόξα, ἔνδοξα) or probabilities (ἐοίκοτα). Rhetoric, he holds, is concerned with opinions or probabilities. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives, 20. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives, 25; my italics. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives, 55. Burke, A Rhetoric of Motives, 105.

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using the ruling discourse one is able to change the audience by ‘utilizing the mentality already at hand ’.52 How, for instance, does the politician reach the masses? By ‘becoming’ one of them, associating her/himself with all of the symbols with which they already identify. The same general principles apply in particular argumentative situations. Even if the speaker wields a ‘power’ of his own, the audience, which it his burden to convince, to a great extent ‘controls’ the terms of the conversation, for they cannot be persuaded unless on terms they already find acceptable, or at least in terms they become convinced are compatible with their discourse of understanding. 2. P/OT’s ‘adherence’. P/OT hold that, in contrast to formal ‘demonstration’, or logic, which establishes bedrock truth, accepted as valid by all, the purpose of ‘argumentation’ is to establish mere adherence, a kind of persuasion valid for particular audiences, but perhaps not convincing to all. Arguments aimed at particular audiences are all in one sense ad hominem. Ad hominem arguments (not to be confused with ad personam arguments, which attack the character of the person) proceed on the basis of the terms assumed by the particular person or audience addressed; it is ‘to the person’ in that sense only. P/OT provide a simple example:  ‘There will be eleven people for lunch. The maid exclaims, “That’s bad luck!” Her mistress is in a hurry, and replies, “No, Mary, you’re wrong; it’s thirteen that brings bad luck.” ’ As P/OT observe, the argument is ‘unanswerable’ and immediately dissolves the disagreement, for rather than questioning the maid’s assumptions, it leaves the impression that the mistress shares them, and thus provides a more peremptory response than a prolonged argument on, say, ‘the ridiculous character of superstitions’.53 In short, such a response answers from within the framework of the maid’s prejudice, rather than confronting those prejudices head on. Such arguments, which essentially dissociate ‘effectiveness’ from ‘validity’, are rational even if not everyone accepts their premises, and remain honourable to the extent that the speaker has other reasons justifying his or her point, even if these are not the reasons he or she uses to make the appeal. From the speaker’s perspective, however, the audience is a ‘construct’, an imagined ensemble of persons holding some peculiar set of ideas, attitudes 52 53

K. Burke, ‘Boring from Within’, The New Republic 4 (1931): 327; my italics. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 111.

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and prejudices. Thus, the speaker must contrive some approximation of the premises they will find acceptable. In that sense, it could even be said that the audience ‘determines’ the speaker’s arguments. Indeed, as Demosthenes put it, it is not that audiences aim at whatever orators desire for them to do, but that orators aim at whatever they think their audiences desire.54 In the process, the speaker may use arguments he finds objectionable, or ‘concede’ arguments he finds dubious, and indeed go as far as he can to procure the audience’s adherence, although he is always at liberty to surrender his efforts if he feels he cannot convince them without compromising his integrity.55 Because audiences are usually diverse in composition, the speaker may feel compelled to use a multiplicity of arguments in order to win over its varied constituents. To employ Pliny’s metaphor: if the speaker does not know where the ‘throat’ is, he attacks ‘every part’ in order to hit it.56 This, note P/OT, is why discourses often feature arguments that appear to be inconsistent with each other: each applies ‘to different situations or different audiences’.57 The unfortunate effect can be the impression that the speaker lacks confidence in his own arguments, or that he has no better arguments at hand – the same effect that many interpreters have noticed in connection with Paul’s series of arguments in 1 Cor. 11.2–16.58 If the audience determines a speech’s content, it is the rhetorical genre corresponding with the occasion that determines its form. The ‘epideictic’ genre, as we find represented in the short unit of 1 Cor. 11.2–16, exhorts or dissuades with a view to either shaming (dishonouring) or praising (honouring) the audience. According to P/OT, epideictic discourse seeks to establish a communion ‘centered around the values recognized by the audience’. These values the speaker then attempts to present as ‘universal’. Thus, it is epideictic speeches that ‘are most prone to appeal to a universal order, to nature, or a god’.59 In sum, the function of rhetoric, according to Burke and P/OT, is to bridge the gap between the speaker’s conceptualization of an issue and the audience’s 54 55 56 57 58 59

Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 24; citing Demosthenes, Syntax. 36. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 486–488. Pliny, Ep. 1.20, cited in Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 477. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 477. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 483–484. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 51; my italics.

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conceptualization of it. While speakers are advised generally to use arguments with universal appeal over those with more particular appeal, when dealing with particular audiences, speakers must attempt to align themselves with the audiences’ preferred discourse, adopting their vocabulary, exploiting their premises and putting forth arguments that work from within their framework, even if the speaker does not find those arguments entirely convincing himself. The form of argument must be adaptive as well. To convince a diverse audience, the speaker must use diverse arguments. Moreover, because Paul is dealing, at least in 1 Cor. 11.2–16, with an issue of the ‘honourable’ versus the ‘dishonourable’ (the concern of epideictic discourse), he chooses to rest his appeal in an authority he imagines his audience will deem universal, namely, the teaching of ‘nature’. But to what extent does Paul identify with the argument that he hopes will win his audience over? If he successfully creates an impression of ‘identification’ with his audience, how deeply does that identification really penetrate? It is to these questions that we now turn.

9.2.4 ‘Dialectical’ Argumentation Although intelligible dialogue requires a common intelligible discourse, that discourse never remains stable, for as its users engage one another, it is constantly being altered in a process of dialectic. The dialectic to which I  refer is that conceived in its most general sense:  ‘the employment of the possibilities of linguistic transformation’,60 that is, the refinement of ideas through the constant exchange of ‘converse and redefinition’, the becoming of one thing into another. Burke illustrates this dynamic with the metaphor of birth, which begins with consubstantiality or ‘merger’ of ideas, and ends at last with their ‘division’: The offspring is ‘substantially one’ with the parent: its history thus being a development from merger . . . to division . . . and its status as offspring of this parent rather than that keeps it consubstantial with the familial source from which it was derived . . . [T]hat which was ‘a part of ’ the parent has become

60

Burke, A Grammar of Motives, 402; my italics.

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‘apart from’ the parent; yet it may, from the familial point of view, still be considered consubstantial with its ancestral source.61

From this point of view, the gradual deviation of meaning that emerges over the course of the dialectical process does not eventuate in the dissolution of the ideas’ original connecting links. Rather, a ‘familial’ relationship between the offspring and its parental source remains. Moreover, the defining moment when the process from merger to division completes itself is not always possible to pinpoint. At any point, emerging distinctions can be ‘sharpened’ into contrasts, and contrasts can be ‘attenuated’ into distinctions.62 Differences can be treated as ‘in apposition or in opposition’.63 And there is the ever-present possibility of treating distinctions as nothing more than a ‘common ground of indifferences’.64 It is important to bear this dynamic in mind as we reflect upon Paul’s interactions with contemporary topoi. Paul, like anyone else, had no choice but to utilize the discourses of his day if he wanted to be understood. Moreover, he reached his highest potential for success if he selected from the ‘ruling’ ideas. But in so doing, he could identify with that discourse either more or less, could keep mergers or create divisions, could pose ideas as being in apposition or pit them in opposition, could adjust definitions or transform them, could highlight common ground or conceal it. The point that needs to be underlined with respect to 1 Cor. 11.14–15 is that Paul arguably did mean for his words to give off ‘Stoic’ resonances – those ‘familial bonds’ do not disappear by the sheer fact that the ideas are adjusted beneath the surface – but this need not lead one to conclude that he identifies one-to-one with the views of his interlocutors where the appearance of identification is established, not even with the views that his audience thinks he is currently expressing. In short: the same links that secure a continuing familial attachment between a source idea and its withdrawing offspring secure a similar measure of association between the speaker’s conceptualization of that offspring and the conceptualization of the original source idea born in mind by his audience. There is neither complete merger nor complete division of meaning.

61 62 63 64

Burke, A Grammar of Motives, 405–406. Burke, A Grammar of Motives, 418. Burke, A Grammar of Motives, 419; my italics. Burke, A Grammar of Motives, 426.

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9.2.5 Stability and Change No idea is univocal. Every ‘notion’, simply on account of the infinite number of contexts in which it can be situated, is subject to ambiguity. But it is just this ambiguity, this plasticity of language, that makes possible the adaptation of old notions to new situations. P/OT note that, because the meaning of a notion depends on its system of reference, ‘all that is necessary, in order to change the meaning . . . is to put it in a new context and particularly to integrate it in new lines of argument’.65 This ‘obscuration of notions’ occurs any time people use ideas metaphorically or analogically, for any extension of usage, however small, entails some measure of change. This change, moreover, occurs even when a person’s words are merely repeated by another, since in the act of repetition the speaker always adopts toward those words a position that is ‘in some way new, even if only in the degree of importance he attaches to them’.66 Thus there occurs not a simple ‘transfer of values’, but ‘reinterpretation in a new context’.67 One thinks here of Corinthian slogans with which Paul might to some extent have agreed: ‘Food is meant for the stomach and the stomach for Food’ (6.13a); ‘It is good for a man not to touch a woman’ (7.1b); ‘We all have knowledge’ (8.1b); ‘There is no idol in the world’ (8.4b); ‘There is no God but one’ (8.4c); and so forth. That Paul might have been able to quote these slogans with approval need not indicate that he shared deep-level agreement with the meaning assigned to them by his opponents. If or when he had a mind to make these statements his own, he would almost certainly have construed them in different terms. For P/OT, this process of change is endemic to the ‘life of language and thought’.68 Moreover, it is a process that generates a potentially endless series of links between older meanings and newer and even newer ones. But as new meanings emerge, they do not simply replace the old ones; rather, they coalesce with them to create ‘an evocative conceptual entity that does not correspond to any moment of semantic development’.69 Future meanings thus become more indeterminate as ‘traces’ of new, analogical usages become 65 66 67 68 69

Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 135. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 317. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 318. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 137. Perelman, The New Rhetoric, 138.

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added to the total number of possible meanings and the multiplicity of usages increases. P/OT’s idea of ‘obscuring notions’ shares similarities with Jacques Derrida’s concept of ‘iterability’ or ‘citationality’.70 According to Derrida, accepted communicative scripts, when repeated in new contexts, take on new meaning in light of those contexts. Iterability is thus a mediating phenomenon between mere imitation on the one hand and attempts to innovate by transforming or flouting previous usages on the other.71 In this way, interaction with the dominant discourse can be simply citational or allusive – that is, ‘parroting’ common usages – or it may have more subversive purposes – that is, turning the ruling ideology against itself. It should be noted here that this instability of language can be at least partly attributable to authorial intention. A speaker can intentionally obscure notions in order to generate polyvalent meanings capable of accommodating multiple perspectives simultaneously. Timothy Marquis explains this phenomenon in terms of the ‘floating’ or ‘transient signifier’ (an idea he borrows from NeoMarxist theory): in order to unite diverse groups, the speaker uses a signifier that is ‘specific enough to be meaningful but . . . general and vague enough that it can mean different things to different parties’, thus enabling fluid adaptation to new situations.72 Marquis argues that exploitation of the floating signifier was essential to Paul’s strategy as an itinerant missionary, as he faced the task of building up a new social movement comprised of vastly diverse constituencies, without appearing to outsiders to be promulgating something utterly foreign or ‘other’. These points have profound implications for our reading of 1 Corinthians. Again, the transference of conventional language into new contexts always entails some transformation of meaning. But the emerging usage may be located anywhere on the spectrum, from imitation, to allusion, to intentional subversion. For Paul’s present purposes, he need do no more than keep any transformations or departures in meaning from moving beyond the bounds of basic ‘identification’ with his audience. 70

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J. Derrida, ‘Signature Event Context’, in Limited Inc. (Baltimore, MD:  Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), 1–24. Cf. Cicero, Or. 2.255. Marquis, Transient Apostle, 18; borrowing the idea from E. Laclau, ‘Subject of Politics, Politics of the Subject’, in Emancipations(s) (2nd ed., London:  Verso, 2007), 47–65; and On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2005), 88–89.

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9.2.6 Summary of the New Rhetoric and 1 Cor. 11.14–15 Let us draw the foregoing discussion together. First, a common-ground discourse is an essential precondition for the opening up of meaningful dialogue. Second, that discourse is inevitably provided courtesy of the ‘ruling class’ or ‘hegemonic’ group, or in more specific contexts, by the party that has the upper hand in the dispute. Where each party holds a kind of dominance, each party is advised to speak the preferred sub-discourse of the other if they could wish to be found persuasive. Third, the ‘dominant’ or opposing discourse, however, can be adjusted, transformed or even emptied of its original meaning in the dialectical process of meaningcreation. This process owes partly to the way in which changes in context in themselves entail changes in meaning (which could account for ‘unconscious’ transformations), but it may also owe to the conscious artifice of the speaker. In 1 Corinthians, these transformations are often blatantly obvious: when Paul speaks of ‘the wisdom of the world’ (1.17; 2.1), ‘the wisdom of this world’ (1.20, 21; 3.19) or ‘the wisdom of men’ (2.5), he does not pretend to be sharing the Corinthians’ assessment of σοφία, but is manifestly redefining ‘their’ word in new, pejorative terms. This maneuver involves (to use P/OT’s language) the ‘dissociation’ of the Corinthian’s notion of wisdom (a ‘mistaken’ notion of wisdom) from the ‘true’ kind of wisdom as it is found in God/Christ (1.21, 24, 30), and which provides the criterion against which he can declare the first kind of wisdom spurious.73 Paul uses the same strategy in response to the Corinthians’ conceptualization of the πνευμάτικος person as superior to the ψύχικος person (esp. 2.15–16) and of the τέλειος person as superior to the νήπιος person (cf. 2.6–16; 3.1–3; cf. 13.11; 14.20):  his usage provides the ‘real’ meaning of these terms as against the Corinthians’ ‘faulty’ usages. Dissociation is also discernible where ironic appropriations of Corinthian language occur: context makes clear that Paul did not think the Corinthians truly ‘prudent’ (cf. 4.10; 10.15; 2 Cor. 11.19), ‘rich’ or ‘kings’ (4.8), though he would pretend to concede it. More subtle transformations occur as well. We have already noted how the act of ‘citing’ another’s words (a Corinthian slogan, for example) in itself involves a reinterpretation of meaning. But it should be added here that we have the same dynamic at work where Paul uses 73

For P/OT’s idea of ‘dissociation’, see The New Rhetoric, 411–459.

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‘Stoic-sounding’ arguments: they remain ‘Stoic’ arguments to the extent that Stoicism remains their system of reference, the discursive framework from within which the discourse is drawn, even if Paul extends those arguments in innovative directions. Put differently, we have not in those cases reached the liminal point where ‘divergence’ turns into ‘division’. All of this is of profound relevance to 1 Cor. 11.14–15. Paul’s question there has to be understood within its larger discursive context, taking account of the kinds of arguments his interlocutors are likely to have found convincing; the extent to which his arguments ‘obscure’, extend or modify conventional notions; and how total the ‘merger’ of meaning is, or is even intended to be.

9.2.7 1 Cor. 11.14–15 in Context Before concluding, it should be asked what Paul could have meant to accomplish in these verses by formulating his thought as a rhetorical question. One of the advances made in the New Rhetoric is its attention to the ways in which ‘modalities’ in the expression of thought are, like the content expressed, determined by rhetorical purposes.74 In this regard, our interest here penetrates deeper than simply identifying the pragmatic force of the erotetic ‘speech-act’ encoded (i.e. what the question does to the listener), and extends rather to the issue of why Paul chose to encode his point in this particular form rather than some other one.75 It is here where we find the ‘ostensive’ clues necessary to make a determination regarding Paul’s orientation toward his own remarks. In speech-act terms, rhetorical questions can be seen as ‘coercive’, in that they ask by force of their syntax not simply for the audience to make an unconstrained decision, but for them to succumb to the current in which the speaker’s question already seems to be pulling them.76 Two qualifications need to be made here, however. The first, in the light of Burke’s understanding of rhetoric as ‘identification’, is that the audience admits agreement in such instances not just by dint of the speaker’s suasions – that is, the speaker acting upon the

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For discussion in the New Rhetoric, see Perelman, The New Rhetoric, §39. For an exceptional analysis of Paul’s rhetorical questions in the light of P/OT’s New Rhetoric, see W. Wuellner, ‘Paul as Pastor: The Function of Rhetorical Questions in First Corinthians’, in L’Apôtre Paul:  Personalité, Style et Conception du Ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; BETL 73; Leuven:  Leuven University Press, 1986), 49–77. D. Estes provides a discussion of ‘coercive’ questions in The Questions of Jesus in John (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 145–153.

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listener – but also by the listeners’ acting upon themselves in their eagerness to ‘identify’ with the speaker, or with the group that his terms represent.77 Thus the wise Corinthians may identify with Paul inasmuch as he presents himself here as a ‘Stoic’ of sorts, or as one who seems to ground his ethics in a system with which they identify, apart from the force of the individual argument to which he appeals. Second, the full force of Paul’s rhetorical strategy does not rest in the syntactical, or even the ‘coercive’ pragmatic force of the question. For several reasons – and here we reach an important climax – it cannot be assumed that simply because Paul expected his listeners to answer his question with a Yes (οὐ + δέ), he would have answered as such himself, and on the same terms. His use of a question in itself puts the content at a certain remove by shifting the responsibility of affirmation from himself to the listener. (Note, too, ‘Judge for yourselves’ in 11.13). Thus, in contrast to a statement, a question does not amount to a definite affirmation on his part.78 On the other hand, not even an affirmative answer would necessarily indicate that he shared his listener’s terms of understanding. In this regard, 1 Cor. 6.5 provides a compelling example of the kind of layering of meaning that a rhetorical question can contain. Rebuking the Corinthians for going to the secular law courts against each other, Paul asks there:  ‘Is there no wise man (σοφός) among you who is able to judge between one believer and another?’ The tension in these words is that while the syntax signals the expectation of an affirmative response (for the question is introduced by οὐκ), that response obtains only if Paul now grants to the Corinthians what, in the first four chapters of the letter (chaps. 1–4), he had vehemently denied to them, namely ‘wise man’ status.79 Thus the terms of the proposition work on multiple levels simultaneously:  Paul now redefines σοφός as something which the Corinthians should aspire to be, while evoking their understanding of the term (left allusively attached to his own understanding) on a lower plane of meaning. The aim of the question is achieved regardless of whether they perceive the shift in meaning: they recognize their 77 78 79

On this point, see Burke, ‘Rhetoric – Old and New’, 202–209. See n. 1 for the syntax of the question. See 1.19, 20, 27; 3.19, 20 in the context of chapters 1–4. Note here that, in ancient philosophical discourse, σοφός was gendered in the masculine because it was thought to be a properly masculine trait. Thus, B. Inwood and L. P. Gerson make the case that, when σοφός is substantive, the masculine gender (‘wise man’) should be retained in translation (The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia [Indianapolis, IN; Cambridge: Hackett, 2008], ix).

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qualifications, as ‘wise men’, to judge among their brothers and sisters rather than going to the secular law courts.80 All of this complicates any attempt to look at 11.14–15 in terms of ‘how Paul understands φύσις’. Or let us speak more clearly: this text does not significantly advance our understanding of Paul’s thinking on, one might say, the inherent nature of man or woman, and neither should we necessarily expect it to. To treat the text as such would be not only to ignore the thoroughly contingent nature of this unit but also to ask more of a single text than should ever be asked. His ingenuity in playing with Corinthian (and indeed, Stoic) discourse makes it impossible to isolate a ‘Pauline’ meaning as separate from the dialogue in which his remark participates. One has to consider the constraints of the rhetorical situation, including chiefly the Stoic premises of his audience and the subtleties of his ‘interactions’ with their ideas. In fact, it is this, I  think, that explains the differences, almost universally recognized by interpreters, between his apparent usage of the term in this passage and his usage of it elsewhere. In short, ‘Paul’s understanding’ of φύσις was no more univocal than was ‘his understanding’ of any other concept he found occasion to discuss; as we have seen, from σοφία to ἔξουσια to πνευμάτικος and more, Paul was more than willing to adapt usages as the situation demanded. Moreover, total identity of meaning is usually unnecessary to the establishment of basic agreement with one’s audience. A more generic kind of common ground is usually sufficient. If Paul did not share his interlocutors’ understanding of φύσις, then it was enough for him to have shared it in part, provided that both parties felt they could move forward as being at least to some extent single-minded.

9.3. Conclusions In the past, Paul’s use of the term φύσις in his argument concerning hair length in 1 Cor. 11.2–16 has been used to support the claim that he sometimes understood the concept in terms of ‘convention’. As we have seen, however, such a claim flies in the face of the evidence we have for the term’s development in its 80

Note also that Paul often uses questions that appear (if with a touch of irony) to assume the mentality of his interlocutors (e.g. 6.7). He sometimes also assumes his opponents’s perspectives only as a launching-off point, without necessarily expressing his concurrence (e.g. 11.19; 15.29).

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ancient context. Against ‘convention’, which was usually referred to as νόμος (lex) or συνήθεια (consuetudo), φύσις constituted the objective, unchanging benchmark by which the endless inflections of conventional systems of value were to be measured. The fact of the matter, then, is this: not that they understood nature in terms of convention, but that what they considered nature sometimes amounts to convention to us. It has further been argued, however, that there is a deeper hermeneutical complexity to Paul’s argument in 1 Cor. 11.14–15, appreciated in its underlying rhetorical dimension, in which subtle ambiguities of meaning are capitalized on to create basic ‘agreement’ between parties. Let us conclude with a full account of the argument I have advanced. Paul is distraught by the divisive effects of certain hairstyles within the Corinthian church and wishes the state of affairs changed. In order to win the ‘adherence’ of his audience to his perspective, he adopts their preferred ‘Stoic’ discourse, exploiting its terminology, metaphors, superstructure and so on, to the fullest extent possible. But like the mistress responding to her maid (‘It’s not eleven, but thirteen, that brings bad luck’), rather than making a direct assault on their ideology at its deepest levels, he aims to disable it by working from within their own frame of reference. Yet, he also keeps a certain distance between himself and the argument he ushers forth. In this regard, we have commented on the apparent diffidence with which he holds to his arguments in vv. 2–16, and of his choice to avoid signalling direct assent by effectively asking his audience to supply the argument themselves in answer to a rhetorical question in vv. 14–15. Equally important, however, we have focused on the potential latitude of interpretation inherent in his very words. That is, there may remain a certain ‘allowable differential’ between his own meaning on the one hand and the interpretation of his audience on the other – this being attributable in part to the inescapable ambiguity of language, but in part also to the subtle transformations of meaning intentionally enacted in the dialectical process of conversation. But in final analysis, even if the two parties understand the terms of argument in relation to differing ideological systems, partial common ground may be sufficient to bring discussion to an end. There is an analogy, then, between the notion of ‘parallel’ between ideas on the one hand, and the notion of ‘identification’ between speaker and audience on the other: just as ‘parallel’ continues even where there is adaptation, inasmuch as the original idea

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still resonates from the new form given to it, so also ‘identification’ continues where there remains a pattern or configuration of unbroken associations, even if the two parties’ conceptualizations of the idea cannot be mapped onto each other at every point. As a final remark, let it be said that the approach taken here has far-reaching implications for how we understand Paul vis-à-vis the discourses of his day, and especially his relationship with Stoicism. One of the greatest contributions of the New Rhetoric is its appreciation for the ‘dialectical’ nature of the relationship shared between society’s individual members and the ideological matrices and linguistic resources from which those individuals are free to draw.81 Thus, just as Paul drew from the available discourses of his day, both ‘Jewish’ and ‘Greek’ (to risk perpetuating a false dichotomy), so he also transformed those discourses in the light of his own experiences, and in response to the varied eventualities that he faced in the course of his ministry. In that regard, 1 Cor. 11.14–15 is a good reminder that Paul was not always a systematic theologian, nor a philosopher, so much as he was a ‘pastor’.

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A complete volume has been dedicated to this approach in honour of W.  Wuellner:  James D. Hester and J. David Hester, Rhetorics and Hermeneutics:  Wilhelm Wuellner and His Influence (London: T&T Clark, 2002).

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Gendered Exegesis of Creation in Philo (De Opificio Mundi) and Paul (1 Corinthians) Jonathan Worthington

In the Roman Imperial context, space and its associated tasks and tools were highly gendered, not least in the ritual realm.1 ‘Femininity’ was typically seen as weak, soft, emotional and passive in contrast to masculinity as strong, intellectual, virtuous and active.2 A  general ‘fear of gender boundary transgressions’ saturated texts of the time.3 Within this context, Philo of Alexandria and Paul of Tarsus each used Genesis 1–2 to help them define reality, including gendered status and activity. This chapter contends that both interpreters’ exegesis of creation-texts is asymmetrically gendered – which is not surprising – though in unexpected manners. 1

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Cf. Xenophon, Oec. 7.22–31 (made popular in Rome by Cicero) and Philo, QG 1.26; Spec. 3.169–171; Flacc . 89. Jorunn Økland, Women in their Place (London:  T&T Clark, 2004); Mary Rose D’Angelo, ‘Gender and Geopolitics in the Work of Philo of Alexandria: Jewish Piety and Imperial Family Values’, in Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourses (ed. Todd Penner and Carolina Vander Stichele; Leiden:  Brill 2007),63–88 [84–85]. Regarding gendered Roman space, see Richard P. Saller, ‘Symbols of Gender and Status Hierarchies in the Roman Household’, in Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture (ed. Sandra R. Joshel and Sheila Murnaghan; London:  Routledge, 2005), 87–93 [89]. Regarding gendered Greek space, see Sean Corner, ‘Bringing the Outside In:  The Andrōn as Brothel and the Symposium’s Civic Sexuality’, in Greek Prostitutes in the Ancient Mediterranean, 800 BCE – 200 CE (ed. Allison Glazebrook and Madeleine M. Henry ; Madison:  University of Wisconsin Press, 2011), 60–61. Regarding gendered tasks and tools, see Jerome H. Neyrey and Eric C. Stewart, ‘Gender’, in The Social World of the New Testament (ed. Jerome H. Neyrey and Eric C. Stewart; Peabody, MA:  Hendrickson, 2008), 163–164. Dorothy Sly, ‘The Plight of Women: Philo’s Blind Spot?’, in Hellenization Revisited (ed. Wendy E. Helleman; Lanham, MD:  University Press of America, 1994), 173–188; Kate Gilhuly, ‘The Phallic Lesbian’, in Prostitutes and Courtesans in the Ancient World (ed. Christopher A. Faraone and Laura K. McClure; Madison:  University of Wisconsin Press, 2006), 287, though see James Davidson’s nuance in ‘Dover, Foucault and Greek Homosexuality: Penetration and the Truth of Sex’, Past and Present 170 (2001): 3–51. Holger Szesnat, ‘Philo of Alexandria’, in Gay Histories and Cultures (ed. George E. Haggerty ; New York: Garland, 2000), 685–686.

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This essay sets side by side Philo’s and Paul’s interpretations of scripture regarding creation and gender. This draws attention to similarities and differences in a shared interpretive endeavor while honing our apprehension of each on their own terms. Focusing only on Philo’s commentary, De opificio mundi (Opif.), and Paul’s epistle, 1 Corinthians (1 Cor.), enables sufficient focus and depth while also making our conclusions limited and therefore provisional. We will first examine Philo’s overall pattern of interpreting the creation narrative before highlighting aspects of his exegesis of specific gender passages in Genesis 1–2. We will repeat this process for Paul. Contrary to popular belief, Philo’s hermeneutic of creation sets him up for philosophical symmetry of genders, in which both the male and female of Genesis 2 should equally share the divine image and authority of Genesis 1. But his exegesis of the particular gender passages does not follow suit; with great consistency, he applies human categories from Genesis 1 to the male and female of Genesis 2 asymmetrically. Paul’s hermeneutic of creation in 1 Cor. is less philosophical and somewhat more straightforward. Creation provides language and categories for what reality is, should be and will be like. His exegesis of the specific gender passages in Genesis 1–2 combines aspects of gender symmetry and asymmetry, holding together from the texts of creation what modern interpreters typically dichotomize. And contrary to popular belief, the complexity of Paul’s treatment of genders 'in the Lord' in 1 Cor. is not derived from his Christological eschatology but from creation itself.

10.1 Gendered Exegesis of Creation in Philo:  De Opificico Mundi Numerous resources discuss Philo’s view of women, including a female’s spiritual progress through de-sexualization and ‘male-ization’ (ἀρρενωθεῖσα; Legat. 319–320).4 But what exactly does Philo say (or not say) about gender in Opif.? 4

E.g. Dorothy Sly, Philo’s Perception of Women (Atlanta, GA:  Scholars Press, 1990); Sly, ‘Plight’, 173–188; Sharon Lea Mattila, ‘Wisdom, Sense-Perception, Nature, and Philo’s Gender Gradient’, HTR 89.2 (1996):  103–129, 106–112, 119 (chart), 126–127 (explanation); Genevieve Lloyd, The Man of Reason (2nd ed.; London:  Routledge, 1993), 22–27; Leslie Baynes, ‘Personification, and the Transformation of the Grammatical Gender’, The Studia Philonica Annual 14 (2002):  31–47; Richard Arthur Baer, Philo’s Use of the Categories Male and Female (Leiden:  Brill, 1970) (critiqued by Sly, ‘Plight’; Colleen Conway, ‘Gender and Divine Relativity in Philo of Alexandria’, Journal for the Study of Judaism 34.4 [2003]:  471–491); D’Angelo, ‘Roman “Family Values” and the Apologetic Concerns of Philo and Paul:  Reading the Sixth Commandment’, NTS 61.4 (2015):  525–546; Joan E.  Taylor, ‘Spiritual Mothers:  Philo on “ Therapeutrides”’, in Letters and Texts of Jewish History (ed. Norman Toby Simms; Hamilton, ON:  Outrigger, 1998), 68–88; Joan E. Taylor, ‘Virgin Mothers: Philo on the Women Therapeutae’, Journal for the Study of the

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Crucial to the answer is Philo’s interpretation of the ‘human’ in Gen. 1.26–28 – created in God’s image, likeness, to rule – and how Philo relates this human to the particular gendered people of Genesis 2. Whether introductory or detailed, many studies present Philo’s 1.27 human as the Platonic incorporeal and noetic Human, the paradigmatic Form according to which the sense-perceptible and earthly man will be formed in Gen. 2.7.5 Due to Philo’s ‘philosophical categories and imperial sexual politics’,6 in which male aligns with mind (Word, Logos, Reason) and female with senseperception,7 such a Platonic ideal man is just that – a man.8 But Philo does not understand the 1.27-human in this way in Opif. What is more, Philo’s actual interpretation sets up both genders for symmetrical value, dignity and even authority.

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Pseudepigrapha 12 (2001):  37–63; Joan E.  Taylor, Jewish Women Philosophers of First-Century Alexandria (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 288; Peter Richardson and Valerie Heuchan, ‘Jewish Voluntary Associations in Egypt and the Roles of Women’, in Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (ed. John S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson; London:  Routledge, 1996), 226–252, 239–246; Taylor, ‘ Therapeutae’, in Encyclopaedia Judaica (2nd ed.; vol. 19; ed. Fred Skolnik; Farmington Hills, MI:  Keter Publishing House, 2007), 699–701; Ra’anan Abush, ‘Eunuchs and Gender Transformation:  Philo’s Exegesis of the Joseph Narrative’, in Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond (ed. Shaun Tougher ; London:  Duckworth, 2002), 103–121; D’Angelo, ‘Gender’, 74, 82–83. Cf. QE 1.8; Fug. 51–52; Abr. 101–102; Contempl. 68. Introductory:  Maren R.  Niehoff, ‘Philo, Exposition of the Law’ (1074–1076) and Gerbern S. Oegema, ‘Creation’ (496–500), in The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism (ed. John J. Collins and Daniel C. Harlow ; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2010); James R. Royse, ‘The Works of Philo’, in The Cambridge Companion to Philo (ed. Adam Kamesar; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2009), 32–64, 47. Detailed: Valentin Nikiprowetzky, ‘Problèmes du “Récit de la creation” chez Philon d’Alexandrie’, Revue des Études Juives 124 (1965):  271–306, 65; David Winston, Logos and Mystical Theology in Philo of Alexandria (Cincinnati, OH:  Hebrew Union College Press, 1985), 25; Roberto Radice, ‘Philo’s Theology and Theory of Creation’, in The Cambridge Companion to Philo, 124–145 [134]; Radice, Platonsismo e creazionismo in Filone di Alessandria (Milan:  Vita e Pensiero, 1989), 122; George van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 272– 273; Jonathan Worthington, Creation in Paul and Philo (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 149–150; Gregory Sterling, ‘Different Traditions or Emphases? The Image of God in Philo’s De Opificio Mundi’, in New Approaches to the Study of Biblical Interpretation in Judaism of the Second Temple Period and in Early Christianity (ed. Gary A. Anderson, Ruth Clements, and David Satran; Boston, MA:  Brill, 2013), 41–56 [50–55]. Cf. the 1.27 human as a transcendent celestial reality, see Dieter Georgi, ‘Frau Weisheit oder das Recht auf Freiheit als schöpferische Kraft’, in Verdrängte Vergangenheit, die uns bedrängt (ed. Leonore Siegele-Wenschkewitz; Munich:  Kaiser, 1988), 243–276 [248–259]; as the human mind, see Harry Austryn Wolfson, Philo (2  vols.; Cambridge:  University of Chicago, 1947), 1.310; Baer, Philo’s Use, 30; as the noetic and ideal ‘androgyne’, see Judith M. Gundry-Volf, ‘Paul on Women and Gender: A Comparison with Early Jewish Views’, in The Road from Damascus (ed. Richard N. Longenecker; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1997), 184–212 [195–201]; Verna E. F. Harrison, ‘The Allegorization of Gender: Plato and Philo on Spiritual Childbearing’, in Asceticism (ed. Vincent L. Wimbush and Richard Valantasis; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 520–534; Økland, Women, 180. D’Angelo, ‘Gender’, 83, 83–87. Mattila, ‘Wisdom’, 112–120; N. Harrison, ‘The Feminine Man in Late Antique Ascetic Piety’, Union Seminary Quarterly Review 48 (1994): 49–71. According to Daniel Boyarin, ‘On the History of the Early Phallus’, in Gender and Difference in the Middle Ages (ed. Sharon A. Farmer and Carol Braun Pasternak; Minneapolis:  University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 3–44, there is a distinct maleness of the ideal, universal androgyne.

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10.1.1 Hermeneutic: Philo’s Interpretation of Creation in Opif. Less commonly noted (and certainly less developed) than Philo’s obvious Platonism is Philo’s use of the Aristotelian categories of genus, species and particulars to interpret Genesis 1–2. Exploring this will help us understand his overall hermeneutic of creation.

10.1.1.1 Gen. 1.6–31 Is about What Is Sense-Perceptible, Not Noetic In Opif. Moses recounts God’s creation of the Platonic Forms on Day One (Gen. 1.1–5) while Gen. 1.6–31 testifies to God’s sense-perceptible creation. After exploring Moses’s shift between 1.5 (noetic, incorporeal) and 1.6 (‘firm’, corporeal) in §36,9 Philo consistently maintains that 1.6–31 refers to senseperceptible reality. So on the fourth day (§§45–61) he discusses ‘the senseperceptible stars’ (τοὺς αἰσθητοὺς ἀστέρας) and ‘corporeal existence’ (τῆς σωματικῆς οὐσίας) (§55). Likewise, on the sixth day (§§69–88) Philo compares the heavens (second day) as ‘the most perfect among the incorruptible things among what is sense-perceptible (ἐν αἰσθητοῖς)’ with humanity (sixth day) as ‘the best of the things earth-born and corruptible’ (τῶν γηγενῶν καὶ φθαρτῶν) (§82). Gen. 1.6–31 is about God’s sense-perceptible – not noetic – creation.

10.1.1.2 Genesis 1 Is about Genera Aristotle’s Categories was an important document in philosophical debates in Philo’s day.10 Sense-perceptible items can be organized by their unity (genus) and plurality (species and particulars).11 Nile crocodiles and Egyptian geckos (as species) are importantly different – not least for practical purposes! – as are brown and green crocodiles (as particulars); but all can be understood within the genus ‘creeping things’. Generic qualities, by definition, equally apply to any species and any particular within the genus; otherwise it is not truly a quality of the genus.

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On Philo’s interpretation of LXX’s ‘firmness’ in Opif., see Worthington, Creation, 99–100, especially nn. 96–103 (contra n. 99). Andrea Falcon, ‘Commentators on Aristotle’, in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (ed. Edward N.  Zalta; Fall 2013),http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2013/entries/aristotlecommentators/. Herbert Granger, ‘Aristotle and the Genus-Species Relation’, The Southern Journal of Philosophy 18.1 (Spring 1980): 37–50 [37].

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For Philo, Aristotelian categorization into ‘genera’ provides ‘the basis for identifying the essence of all things’ (Leg. 2.86).12 Being necessary for avoiding confusion (Det. 77),13 it is unsurprisingly ubiquitous in his corpus.14 In Opif. Genesis 1 describes the qualities of each genus while Genesis 2 focusses on particulars and includes distinctions. Philo establishes this hermeneutic in §16: in Genesis 1 ‘the corporeal world (τὸν σωματικὸν) . . . would contain as many sense-perceptible genera (αἰσθητὰ γένη)’ as there are noetic ones. The samples below will illuminate this philosophical hermeneutic.

10.1.1.3 Samples of Genesis 1 Describing Genera of Sense-Perceptible Creatures In the beginning God created particular plants, but Moses’ focus in Gen. 1.11–13 was God’s establishment of the botanical process whereby the selfgeneration of particulars ‘immortalizes the genera’ (ἀπαθανατίζων τὰ γένη) (§§40–44; cf. Aet. 69). On the fifth day God molds into life ‘the mortal genera’ (τὰ θνητὰ γένη) of fish and birds (§§62–63 on Gen. 1.20–23). On the sixth day God creates cattle, beasts and creeping things ‘according to each genus (κατὰ ἕκαστον γένος)’ (§64 on Gen. 1.24–25). Before explaining generic human nature, Philo reflects on the fifth and sixth days (§§65–68 on Gen. 1.20–25), again highlighting their corporeality15 and classification according to genera: On one hand, the laziest and least type of soul that has been stamped out has been allotted to the genus of fishes (τῷ γένει τῶν ἰχθύων); on the other, the most precise and in every way best type of soul has been allotted to the 12

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Daniel Norman Jastram, ‘Philo’s Concept of Generic Virtue’ (PhD dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1989), 69, esp.  10–72. Caution is necessary. Bluntly contrasting ‘Aristotelian’ and ‘Platonic’ categorical distinguishing misses the flexibility in Plato, Aristotle and Middle Platonism (e.g. Arius Didymus, Seneca, Albinus) (Thomas H.  Tobin, The Creation of Man [Washington, DC:  The Catholic Biblical Association, 1983], 115–118; David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria: On the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses [Leiden:  Brill, 2001], 242). Indeed, while Aristotle critiqued Plato’s use of transcendent Ideas (José Edgar González Varela, ‘La crítica aristotélica a la teoría platónica de las Ideas’, Diánoia 59.73 [2014]: 135–154), the extent and nature of his critique and/or incorporation have been disputed (Chung-Hwan Chen, ‘Aristotle’s Analysis of Change and Plato’s Theory of Transcendent Ideas’, Phronesis 20.2 [1975]: 129–145). Jastram, ‘Philo’s Concept’, 63–64. See Philo’s Aristotelian categorization of:  creation (Her. 133–140); virtues (Leg. 1.56–65; Mut. 77–79); human affairs (Mut. 148; cf. Plato’s Republic 430b and Aristotle’s Historia Animalia and De Generatione Animalium); and Pentateuchal laws (Dec. 19, 50, 154; Spec. 4.132–134; Her. 168–173; Hans Svebakken, Philo of Alexandria’s Exposition of the Tenth Commandment [Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2012], 2–8). Jastram, ‘Philo’s Concept’, 14–36. Baer, Philo’s Use, 26–27 recognizes Philo’s Aristotelian categories here but misses the implications for interpreting the 1.27 human. Fish have σωματικῆς . . . οὐσίας and τῶν σωμάτων (§66). Birds and land-dwellers are αἰσθητικώτερα and have τῆς κατασκευῆς (§66). All of this is ἐν γενητοῖς (§67).

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[genus] of humans (τῷ τῶν ἀνθρώπων). And the type of soul bordering on both has been allotted to the [genus] of land-dwellers and of air-dwellers (τῷ τῶν χερσαίων καὶ ἀεροπόρων). (§65)16

Genesis 1 is about the genera of sense-perceptible creatures.

10.1.1.4 The Genus ‘Human’ on the 6th Day In §§69–88 Philo treats humanity in 1.26–28 as he had the creatures of 1.6– 25: sense-perceptible yet generic. Though many scholars describe Philo’s 1.27 human as the Platonic Ideal Human or Mind, Philo himself describes the 1.27 human as ‘earth-born’ (§§69, 82),17 ‘mixed-nature’ (§§73–74)18 and ‘senseperceptible and corruptible’ (§82).19 Also continuing to see Aristotelian categorization,20 Philo writes: After calling the genus ‘human’ (τὸ γένος ἄνθρωπον), [Moses] separated the species (διέκρινε τὰ εἴδη) saying ‘male and female’ had been crafted, even though the particulars (ἐν μέρει) had not yet taken shape, for the most proximate of the species are present in the genus (ἐνυπάρχει τῷ γένει). (§76)21

Gen. 1.26–28 is not about what it means to be specifically male or female (or Jew, Egyptian or Roman), or individually Adam or Eve, but what it means to be generically a mixed-nature and sense-perceptible ‘human’. Genesis 1 and 2 are not stages, but different ways to categorize, understand and speak about the same creative event. One is broader and more fundamental to understand the nature of the things: genera, 1.6–31; the other is narrower and more peripheral:  species and particulars, Genesis 2.22 Regardless of a human’s gender, race, status, etc., Gen. 1.26–28 reveals what it means to be ‘human’.23 16 17 18

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Translations are my own unless otherwise noted. This undercuts Baer’s construal of ‘the two men’ (Philo’s Use, 26–31). Moses’s reason for ‘us’ in 1.26 (§73) makes no sense if the 1.27 human is the matter-less paradigm anyway. Runia, Creation, 224. Runia, Creation, 254; contra Nikiprowetzky, ‘Problèmes’, 288–300. John R. Levison, Portraits of Adam in Early Judaism (Sheffield: Continuum Intl., 1988), 67; Runia, Creation, 242–43. Contra A.  J. M.  Wedderburn, ‘Philo’s “Heavenly Man” ’, Novum Testamentum 15.4 (1973):  301–326 [310] and Tobin, Creation, 114–119 who interpret ‘genus’ as Plato’s noetic paradigm for the sense-perceptible ‘species’. Runia’s translation, Creation, 66. Cf. Mut. 77–78; 148–150; Leg. 1.56–59. Jastram, ‘Philo’s Concept’, 14, 24, 63. Mattila, ‘Wisdom’, 104; Baer, Philo’s Use, 26–27.

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Philo’s hermeneutic implies that whatever descriptions the text attributes to generic humanity in Genesis 1 should be equally applicable to both species (genders) in Genesis 2. That is how ‘genus’ works. Philo has (seemingly unwittingly) laid a philosophical foundation for each gender to share value, dignity, image, divine likeness and authority in symmetrical balance. But his exegetical follow-through is very asymmetrically gendered.

10.1.2 Exegesis: Genesis 1 Defines Humanness in Genesis 2 – for Adam, not Eve Philo’s exegesis regularly carries the broad definitions in Genesis 1 of being ‘human’ into Genesis 2. (Occasionally it even works the other direction.) But they tend to only reach Adam.

10.1.2.1 Adam’s Body and the Human of Earth I will first provide an exegetical example of Philo’s hermeneutic working well. Genesis 1 and 2 are so closely connected for Philo – they are about the same event, after all – that descriptors flow in both directions regarding the human body. In Opif. 69–88 (cited above) Philo called the 1.27 human ‘earth-born’ (§§69, 82), ‘mixed-nature’ (§§73–74) and ‘sense-perceptible and corruptible’ (§82). Philo derived ‘mixed nature’ from ‘us’ in Gen. 1.26 (§73), but ‘earthborn’ is assumed backwards from 2.7.24 God’s creative method in Genesis 2 (from earth) helps Philo explain something about humanity (regardless of species) in Genesis 1 (earth-born). Philo’s description of Adam’s physical body also works from Genesis 1 to 2. From where did the earthy substance come for God’s formation of Adam in 2.7? Gen. 2.6 seems obvious (especially if Genesis 1 were the noetic realm and Genesis 2 the material). But Philo returns to Gen. 1.9–10 to explain the material quality of the earth in 2.7 (§§136–138; cf. §39). This exegetical move makes sense within Philo’s hermeneutic, for Genesis 1 and 2 both describe God’s sense-perceptible creation (albeit from different categorical angles). This example of Philo’s hermeneutic working well serves as a backdrop for the next three examples in which his exegesis does not follow his hermeneutic regarding the specifically gendered particular humans. 24

Runia, Creation, 224, 254; Worthington, Creation, 143–144.

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10.1.2.2 Image and Likeness from Gen. 1.26–27 Are for Adam, not Eve In §135 ‘the particular human’ (τοῦ ἐπὶ μέρους ἀνθρώπου) in 2.7 matches the description of the genus in Genesis 1:  Adam is ‘sense-perceptible’ (cf. §82), ‘mortal’ (cf. §82) and ‘composite’ (cf. §§69, 73, 74)  – that is, of ‘earthly substance’ (cf. §§69, 82) and divine spirit. More importantly, Philo’s observations on 1.27 that God’s Word/Reason/Mind were stamped into human matter – thus it is generic human nature to reason25 – are worked out for Adam. God breathed into Adam’s senses so his reasoning could be the perfect copy of God’s paradigmatic Word (§§137, 139; cf. §144). This is precisely how ‘genus’ works: descriptions of it (1.27) are applicable to the species within it (2.7). The surprise – hermeneutically and philosophically, not culturally – is that in Opif. Eve is not considered ‘like God’ or according to God’s ‘image’. In fact, simply by existing she draws Adam away (§151) from his God-likeness (§150).26

10.1.2.3 Dominion from Gen. 1.26–28 Is for Adam, not Eve While ‘image’ and ‘likeness’ expresses what a human – well, a male – is in relation to God, ‘authority’ captures his relation to creation. Authority had appeared throughout Philo’s interpretation of 1.26–28 (§§65–66, 83–88). As is hermeneutically fitting, Adam receives the regal categories in Genesis 2. In §142, before Eve entered, Adam was ‘held worthy of rule (ἡγεμονίας) of the denizens of earth’. Animals were taught or compelled ‘to submit as to a master (ὑπακούειν ὡς δεσπότῃ)’. In §148, Adam’s naming of animals in 2.19 receives numerous royal descriptors:  royalty (βασιλείας), king (βασιλεύς), ruler (ἡγεμόνι), subordinates (τῶν ὑπηκόων), power of rule (δύναμις ἀρχῆς), established ruler (ἡγεμόνα τιθείς), masters (δεσπόζουσι), sovereignty and dominion (ἀρχῆς καὶ δυναστείας). Adam is not king because he named animals. Rather, since Adam is king, his naming is appropriate (§148). Philo knows Adam is 25

26

Philo often compares human and divine reasoning:  Opif. 71, 146; Det. 86–87; Abr. 41; Fug. 63; Virt. 204–205. Cf. his fuller three-tier anthropology: Opif. 25; Her. 231; Leg. 3.96; QG. 2.62 (Tobin, Creation, 57–59, 96–97; van Kooten, Paul ’s Anthropology, 50–51, 366–367). This has no tension with his two-tier structure:  Radice, Platonismo, 122; Annewies van den Hoek, ‘Endowed with Reason or Glued to the Senses: Philo’s Thought on Adam and Eve’, in The Creation of Man and Woman (ed. Gerard P. Luttikhuizen; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 63–75 [69]; contra Tobin, Creation, 51. ‘[T]he demise of the feminine other . . . marks the Adamic vitality’ (Sarah Pessin, ‘Loss, Presence, and Gabirol’s Desire:  Medieval Jewish Philosophy and the Possibility of a Feminist Ground’, in Woman and Gender in Jewish Philosophy [ed. Hava Tirosh-Samuelson; Indianapolis, IN:  Indiana University Press, 2004], 27–50 [37]).

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king because of 1.26–28 (shaped by Psalm 8).27 This makes hermeneutical and philosophical (and cultural) sense: the essential (generic) nature of a human is to have authority (Gen. 1.28), so Adam has authority (Genesis 2). But Philo’s exegesis of the gender passages in Genesis 2 is lopsided. The woman, although within the genus ‘human’, is not given the authority of a human.

10.1.2.4 God’s Method of Building Eve Is Ignored or Male-ized God directly crafted Adam while we came ‘from humans’. Thus Adam’s nature is superior to ours (§140). What about Eve’s? She was taken ‘from Adam’ (Gen. 2.22), but this is not what Philo means by ‘from humans’. ‘The more eminent the maker is’, he writes, ‘so much the better is the work.’ His logic is about causative, not material, source: God versus natural generation. But in Philo’s sacred text God directly ‘built’ (ᾠκοδόμησεν) Eve. Philo’s exegetical logic would suggest Eve’s bodily superiority too, but he, rather lopsidedly, does not. Later Philo male-izes God’s ‘building’ of Eve:  ‘the woman not yet having been formed (διαπλασθείσης)’ (§153). Adam was ‘formed’ (ἔπλασεν; 2:7), and Philo likes this term.28 Philo typically appreciates scripture’s nuances and individual words,29 yet here Philo male-izes God’s ‘building’ into ‘formed’ (ἐπλάσθη, §151; διαπλασθείσης, §153), lumping the woman’s body into the male’s mould. In Opif. the ‘two creation accounts’ are two angles describing the same event:  God’s sense-perceptible creation; Genesis 1 from the perspective of genus, Genesis 2 from the perspective of species/particulars. Gen. 1.26–28 is about what it means to be human. With hermeneutical ground cleared, interesting features emerge in Philo’s exegesis of creation’s gender-passages. Descriptors of the human genus in Genesis 1 – for example, ‘image’, ‘likeness’, ‘authority’ – should apply to the particular people of the male and female species of Genesis 2. As is philosophically expected, Philo applies generic humanness from Genesis 1 into Genesis 2 – for Adam. But flowing with the torrents 27

28 29

Cf. Philo:  ἐπὶ πᾶσιν (§§65–66) and καθίστη and πάντα ὑπέταττεν (§§84–85); Ps. 8:  κατέστησας, ἐπὶ, and πάντα ὑπέταξας (8:6b–7). Peder Borgen, ‘Man’s Sovereignty over Animals and Nature According to Philo of Alexandria’, in Texts and Contexts (ed. Tord Fornberg and David Hellholm; Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1995), 369–389. Cf. Opif. 134, 135, 140, 148. In QG 1.26–27 ‘built’ shows that ‘to the man the public affairs of state are committed, but the particular affairs of the house belong to the woman’, and she was not from earth like Adam (and animals) ‘so that the woman might not be of equal dignity with the man’. Cf. Ralph Marcus, Philo Supplement, LCL; D’Angelo, ‘Gender’, 83–84, 86, 87.

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of his Greco-Roman and Jewish cultures, yet fighting against the current of the philosophy implied by his own hermeneutic, Philo’s asymmetrical gendered exegesis sweeps the woman away from partaking in true humanity.

10.2 Gendered Exegesis of Creation in Paul: 1 Corinthians In 1 Cor. gender proves to be an important category.30 So does creation. Paul connects God’s creational activity to Christ (1 Cor. 6.16–17; 8.6; 15.44–49), cosmos (8.6; 11.12; 15.37–41), bodily ontology (12.12–26; 15.37–41, 44–49), gender relations (11.7–12), sexual ethics (6.16), community dynamics (12.12– 30) and eschatological resurrection (15.37–49). Concerning gender, the passage from 1 Cor. 11 ‘remains the single most significant discussion of the male/ female relation in the Pauline corpus’.31 Unsurprisingly, dialogue about it is fraught with divergent understandings of Paul’s view of women in general32 and with conflicting opinions about Paul’s overarching understanding of creation, especially in relation to his Christological eschatology. This is broader than Paul. Frederick Brenk sees a connection between a certain type of ‘eschatological’ thinking in Musonius Rufus (c. 30–100 CE) and Plutarch (c. 45–125 CE) and how they press women’s equality beyond traditional boundaries.33 Perhaps Paul, whose eschatological thinking extends well beyond these two,34 might see (e.g.) ‘authority’ for women for an eschatological reason that supersedes creation. Gender and creation are locked together in 1 Cor. Paul’s hermeneutic of creation is a key, but divergent conceptions about the relationship between Paul’s eschatology and protology cause scholars to turn the key in various directions. I will describe Paul’s general pattern of interpreting and applying 30 31 32

33

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Økland, Women, 4. Francis Watson, ‘The Authority of the Voice’, NTS 46.4 (2000): 520–536 [522–523]. Cf. G. E. M. de Ste. Croix, The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World from the Archaic Age to the Arab Conquests (Ithaca:  Cornell University Press, 1981), 103–110 (and a more moderate form in Martha Nussbaum, ‘The Incomplete Feminism of Musonius Rufus, Platonist, Stoic, and Roman’, in The Sleep of Reason [ed. Martha Nussbaum and Juha Silvola; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002], 284) with Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her (New York: Crossroad, 1983). Frederick E.  Brenk, ‘Most Beautiful and Divine:  Graeco-Romans (especially Plutarch) and Paul on Love and Marriage’, in Greco-Roman Culture and the New Testament (ed. David E. Aune and Frederick E. Brenk; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 87–111. De Ste. Croix, Class Struggle, 107–108 is less optimistic about eschatology helping, but he misjudges Paul’s deliberate social impact of eschatology on current ethics and relationships (e.g. Jew/Gentile in Galatians; slave/owner in Philemon). Brenk, ‘Most Beautiful’, 108.

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creation within the eschatological community in Corinth. Then I will make observations about his use of Gen. 1.26–28 and Genesis 2 when discussing gender and creation in 1 Cor. 11.

10.2.1 Hermeneutic: Paul’s Interpretation of Creation in 1 Corinthians Creation certainly lies ‘at the heart of the Corinthians’ anthropology’.35 This is an important observation. But its impact extends well beyond that.

10.2.1.1 1 Cor. 6.15–17 – Creation Helps Define Sex and Ethics for the Church Creation first explicitly appears in 6.16. Some Corinthians claimed permission, the right, even authority36 to visit prostitutes. Paul primarily motivates them to ‘flee sexual immorality’ in 6.12–17 by Christology and eschatology: body and Lord are ‘for’ (τῷ) each other (6.13); God will resurrect Christians like Jesus (6.14); being Christ’s ‘members’ excludes being ‘members’ of a competing group (6.15).37 But why would Paul think someone could be a ‘member’ of a prostitute? In 6.16 Paul quotes Gen. 2.24 to explain the nature of sex per se.38 ‘Clinging’ to someone (sexually) creates ‘one body . . . “one flesh” ’ with them.39 The text’s word ‘clinging’ or ‘being glued’ (κολλώμενος) is broader than copulation (cf. LXX Ruth 2.21, 23) but, like ‘knowing’ or ‘lying together’, it can be a euphemism for sex (cf. Sir. 16.2). Aided by the breadth of ‘cling’ and perhaps by its other uses in scripture,40 Paul then uses a de-sexualized version of ‘cling’ and ‘one’ from Gen. 2.24 to explain union with Christ:  ‘clinging’ to the Lord (cf. Deut. 10.20) makes ‘one’ Spirit (6.17). 35

36

37

38

39 40

Gregory Sterling, ‘Wisdom Among the Perfect: Creation Traditions in Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity’, NovT 37.4 (1995): 355–384 [357]. The Corinthians’ slogan-word ‘right’ (ἔξεστιν) (6:12–13) is lexically related to ‘authority’ (ἐξουσία); LSJ Lexicon, ἐξουσία; Bruce W.  Winter, After Paul Left Corinth:  The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2001), 92 and 95. ‘Rights’, ‘authority’, and how Christians use them is a dominant theme. See Margaret M.  Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 120. Paul does not label this ‘adultery’, so these males may be young and unmarried, perhaps even elite, entitled and participating in sexualized ‘after-dinner’ parties; see Plutarch, On Listening to Lectures 37C–D; Katherine M.  D. Dunbabin, The Roman Banquet:  Images of Conviviality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Winter, After Paul, 86–93. ‘Flesh’ and ‘body’ are interchangeable here: see ‘for’. Cf. 2 Ki. 18.6 and Ps. 72.28; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, First Corinthians (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 267.

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It is Christology and eschatology that motivate a Christian to un-glue themselves from prostitutes. And it is God’s creation of coitus that provides its on-going ontological effect (‘one body/flesh’), even within the eschatological community. Creation describes present reality – the way things work – and contributes to Christian ethics. Genesis 2 even provides language that clarifies something about Christ and the eschatological community: ‘clinging’, ‘one’.

10.2.1.2 1 Corinthians 8–10 – Creation Helps Define Food and Ethics for the Church In 1 Cor. 8–10 Paul introduces creation twice: 8.6 and 10.26.41 With it Paul lays a theological foundation that theoretically supports the ‘strong’: 8.6 supports (though furthers) their monotheism (8.4), undergirding the Strong’s opinion about eating meat sacrificed to ‘nothings’, while 10.26 outright supports their eating opinions (not necessarily their practices!), for creation belongs to the Lord (he created it).42 This foundation, though, also subtly connects monotheism and creation with principles that undercut the Strong’s ability to use their theology in ways that hurt the Weak. The Corinthian Christians’ one LordGod is the Father and Jesus43 who created everything (‘from’ God, ‘through’ the Lord)44 and saves us (‘for’ God, ‘through’ the Lord) (8.6), even by dying for the Weak (8.11). What is theoretically true about this Lord-God’s creation cannot be disconnected from their specifically Christian ‘ought’: Christians must do everything (including eating) for their Lord-God’s glory, which includes 41

42 43

44

Contra Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “1 Cor. 8:6:  Cosmology or Soteriology,” RB 85 (1978):  253– 267 (cf. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, Keys to First Corinthians [Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2009], 58–75). Rightly Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids, MI:  Eerdmans, 2000), 635–638; Ronald R.  Cox, By the Same Word (BZNW 145; Berlin:  Walter de Gruyter, 2007), 172; James D.  G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998), 267. 10.26 quotes Ps. 24.1 (LXX Ps. 23), which builds God’s cosmic ownership on creation in 24.2. Paul’s monotheism is complex: N. T. Wright, The Climax of the Covenant (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1992), 136; Christopher Tuckett, Christology and the New Testament (Louisville, KY:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2001), 57–60. On splitting the Shema cf. James D.  G. Dunn, Christology in the Making (Philadelphia:  Westminster Press, 1980), 180–181; Larry Hurtado, One God, One Lord (Philadelphia:  Fortress Press, 1988), 97–99; Gordon D.  Fee, Pauline Christology (Peabody, MA:  Hendrickson Publishers, 2007), 17, 92; and commentaries on 1 Cor. by Witherington, 198; Thiselton, 636; Schrage, 2.237; Strobel, 135; Wolff, 171; Weiss, 219. For more on ‘prepositional metaphysics’ see Gregory Sterling, ‘Prepositional Metaphysics in Jewish Wisdom Speculation and Early Christian Liturgical Texts’, Studia Philonica Annual 9 (1997): 219– 238. Cf. examples in Eduard Norden, Agnostos Theos (Teubner: Leipzig, 1923), 240; John M. Dillon, Alcinous, The Handbook of Platonism (Oxford:  Clarendon Press, 1993), 16; Hermann Diels, Doxographi Graeci (Berlin: Weidmann, 1879), 10.35–11.2; Rainer Kerst, ‘1 Kor. 8:6 – Ein vorpaulinisches Taufbekenntnis?’ ZNW 66 (1975): 130–139 [131 n. 19]; John Whittaker, ‘Parisinus Graecus 1962 and the Writings of Albinus’, Phoenix 28 (1974): 320–354, 450–456.

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the good of all his people (cf. 10.31–33). Father-God as creative source and salvific telos and Jesus-Lord as creative and salvific agent, as in 1 Cor. 6 (above), describes reality and should affect Christian ethics.

10.2.1.3 1 Cor. 12.12–31 – Creation Helps Define How the Church should Function Exploration of Paul’s handling of creation in 1 Cor. 11 is deferred until below. In 1 Cor. 12 Paul describes God’s calculated construction of the human body.45 From this divine act of creation Paul derives the same balance of unity (or nonautonomy) and diversity (or uniqueness)46 that he had just derived from creation in 1 Cor. 11 (see my treatment below).47 And he applies it (again) to ‘the church’.48 As throughout 1 Cor., creation defines present reality for every embodied human. However, Paul’s main point with creation in 1 Cor. 12 is to suggest that God’s creational design and activity in the beginning provides a model for the Christian community’s interpersonal interaction – that is, their ethics.

10.2.1.4 1 Cor. 15.35–49 – Creation Helps Define Present and Future Bodies In 1 Cor. 15 Paul packs in protology more than anywhere else. First, it is God’s creative design and power to differentiate bodies, fleshes and glories that provides hope for glorious resurrected bodies (15.35–42a). Then God’s creation of Adam from dust (Gen. 2.7) and passing of Adam’s nature (‘image’) to Seth (Gen. 5.3) together help Paul explain the current human condition and provide Paul the categories for the human condition in the eschaton: an ‘Adam’ (first or last) has a certain body (dusty or heavenly), and those ‘in’ each Adam do and will bear their respective ‘images’ in bodily nature (dusty or heavenly) (15.42–49).49 45

46

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49

Even if not directly informed by God’s ‘forming’ of Adam and ‘building’ of Eve, but simply a general sense of God’s creation of the human body, it is most logical to assume that the anthropogony in ch.12 harmonizes with Paul’s understanding of the first occurrences of anthropogony in Gen. 2. Cf. Worthington, Creation, 176–180; Martin, The Corinthian Body, 94; Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele, ‘Unveiling Paul:  Gender Ethos in 1 Corinthians 11:2–16’, in Rhetoric, Ethic, and Moral Persuasion in Biblical Discourse (ed. Thomas H.  Olbricht and Anders Eriksson; New York: T&T Clark International, 2005), 214–237. Watson, ‘Authority’, 523–524; Lietaert Peerbolte, ‘Man, Woman, and the Angels in 1 Cor 11:2–16’, in The Creation of Man and Woman, 76–92, 80; Thiselton, First Corinthians, 803. ‘Just as . . . in this manner also . . .’ (cf. Rom. 12.3–8). Dale B. Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). See the treatment of creation in 1 Cor. 15 in Worthington, Creation and his bibliography.

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As in 1 Cor. 6, 8–10, (11), and 12, creation in 1 Cor. 15 helps Paul describe present reality – the way things are, the way we are. As in chapter 6, creation in chapter 15 also provides the categories and words to describe the eschaton. In chapter 15, however, the eschaton described has only been inaugurated for Jesus, though it is still part of Paul’s rhetorical package that stimulates hope and affects current ethics (15.58). Eschatology and Christology do go beyond creation. ‘Clinging’ to Christ and being ‘one’ in Spirit are presumably better than sex. The last Adam and resurrection-in-him are as beyond the first Adam and creation-in-him as a plant is beyond a seed. But far from seeing Christology and eschatology opposed to or in any way overthrowing protology, the principles and language of creation itself (clinging, oneness, one LordGod, God’s design and power, Adam’s ontology, Adam’s image) consistently help Paul explain current ecclesial ethics, what has happened in the initiation of the new creation and even what will happen in the final end.

10.2.2 Exegesis: Genesis 1–2 Establishes Symmetry and Asymmetry of Genders in the Church Having established Paul’s manner of handling creation throughout 1 Cor. (hermeneutic), we now explore Paul’s particular treatment (exegesis) of the gender texts in Genesis 1–2 in 1 Cor. 11.

10.2.2.1 Paul’s Handling of Genesis 1–2 in 1 Corinthians 11 Remains Consistent In 1 Cor. 11, gender, exegesis and creation meet in two connected places: 11.7– 9 and 11.11–12. In 11.3–9 Paul presents multiple aspects of a one-directional (asymmetrical) and non-reversible hierarchical relationship:  status (11.3, 7), ontology (11.8) and function (11.9). In 11.11–12 Paul articulates a twodirectional, symmetrical sense of gender interdependence, which some scholars see as Christological, eschatological and opposed to Paul’s creational principle in 11.3–9. For Paul, it is argued, Christological eschatology trumps protology.50 50

Morna Hooker, ‘Authority on Her Head: An Examination of 1 Cor. 11:10’, NTS 10 (1964): 410–416; Robin Scroggs, ‘Paul and the Eschatological Woman’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 40.3 (1972):  283–303; and Watson, ‘Authority’, 520–536 (cf. Francis Watson, Agape, Eros, Gender [Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2000], 40–90. Cf. Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an

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But Paul’s principle of interdependence in 11.11 is not based on Christology/ eschatology. And we must carefully parse the creational aspects of 11.3–9 to see which Paul modifies in 11.11–12. First, Paul’s two-directional gender interdependence in 11.11 functions ‘in the Lord’ (11.11), but gender interdependence exists because of creation: ‘for’ (γάρ) woman is ‘out of ’ man (11:12a; Gen. 2.21–23) and man is ‘through’ woman (11.12b; the woman’s birth canal, cf. Gen. 4.1). The principle’s eschatological setting should not be confused with its protological nature and basis. Whether 11.12 functions minimally as an ‘analogy’ or ‘parable’ of 11.1151 or maximally as its ‘proof ’ (which is more typical of γάρ), Paul’s gender interdependence in 11.11–12 is not specifically Christological or eschatological. His wording suggests it is specifically creational. (This creational principle in 11.11–12 surely has an analogy – even a fuller analogy – in Christological eschatology, but Paul does not mention it here.) Here it is creation – the ‘out of ’ and the ‘through’ – that guards men and women from gender autonomy, even ‘in the Lord’. This is consistent with Paul’s other uses of creation in 1 Cor. Second, in 11.7–9 woman’s status is as ‘man’s glory’ (cf. man as ‘head’ in 11.3) for two reasons: her physical ontology was derivative (‘out of ’ his side) and her function was man-ward, ‘on account of ’ him (as helper ‘for him’). Neither aspect of human origins is reversible (‘not . . . but rather . . .’), and this necessitates ‘properly’ gendered prayer and prophecy in the church.52 Yet again, creation is supposed to affect church dynamics. In 11.12 Genesis 4 complements the physical source expressed in 11.8,53 balancing woman’s ontology ‘out of ’ man with man’s ontology ‘through’ woman – which is still the case ‘in the Lord’. Paul never reverses or complements the functional aspect from 11.9. Thus in 11.3–9 Paul derives from creation an ‘ought’ for Christians to pray or prophesy in gender-specific ways,54 and in 11.11–12 Paul derives from creation

51 52

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die Korinther, ad loc.; Leopold Zscharnack, Der Dienst der Frau in den ersten Jahrhunderten der christlichen Kirche (Göttigen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1902), 15–16. Watson, Agape, 79; Watson, ‘Authority’, 523; Schrage, Der erste brief, 2.519. Paul’s argument is about ‘propriety’ (πρέπον) in worship (Collins, First Corinthians, 404; Watson, ‘Authority’ ” 528), especially by producing glory (δόξα) rather than shame/dishonour (αἰσχρόν/ ἀτιμία) for respective ‘heads’ (11.4–7) (Gundry-Volf, ‘Gender’, 152–169). 11.11–12 does not reduplicate 11.7–9, contra Sheila E. McGinn, ‘ “Exousia echein epi tês kephalês’: 1 Cor 11:10 and the Ecclesial Authority of Women’, Listening: Journal of Religion and Culture 31.2 (1996): 91–104. Loren Stuckenbruck helpfully suggests 11.11–12 keeps the Corinthians from taking 11.7–10 too far (‘Why Should Women Cover Their Heads Because of the Angels? [1 Corinthians 11:10]’, Stone- Campbell Journal 4.2 [2001]: 205–234). E.g. Watson, ‘Authority’, 530, 532; cf. 529–533; Thiselton, Corinthians, 837; Gundry-Volf, ‘Gender’, 157; Hooker, ‘Authority’, 411.

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a symmetrical guard protecting Christians of each gender from autonomydriven abandonment. Paul’s hermeneutic of creation in 11.3–12 is thus identical to chapters 6, 8–10, 12, and 15, for creation describes present reality and demands ethical activity – gendered activity (11.2–10) and gender interdependence (11.11–12)55 – within the eschatological community.

10.2.2.2 Women may Be God’s ‘Image’ in 11.7, but not Explicitly so Paul explicitly calls a man ‘God’s image and glory’ (11.7), so it makes sense that Paul encourages a man to represent God speaking to people (prophecy) and people speaking to God (prayer).56 But Paul actually encourages gender equality in these activities,57 proactively affecting their methods so that both genders can continue with ethical propriety.58 Does this imply that woman also is God’s image? It seems manifest she is not.59 Some even assume she is man’s image. In 1 Cor. 11.7b man as ‘God’s image’ captures Gen. 1.27a, ‘in God’s image he made him,’ with the ‘him’ opening a door to asymmetrical gendered exegesis. In 11.7c ‘woman is man’s glory’ glosses the two aspects of God’s creation of Eve noted above: ontology (11.8) and economy (11.9). But Paul’s syntax in 1 Cor. 11.7 has a gap at precisely the place where woman might meet the word ‘image’: A man ἀνὴρ

image and εἰκὼν καὶ

glory of God δόξα θεοῦ

being ὑπάρχων

The woman ἡ γυνὴ

–

glory of man δόξα ἀνδρός

is ἐστιν

55

56

57 58

59

Because Paul is establishing two principles in 11.2–12 – gendered activity and gender interdependence, which are related but not identical – the quest of Watson, ‘Authority’, 525ff (cf. 528)  for whether Paul’s suggested head-covering practices can ‘plausibly be understood as concrete applications of the general principle of interdependence’ starts on a truncated trajectory, and understanding Paul’s ontological interdependence as a fuller Christological interdependence points even the truncated aspect at a wrong angle. We should not outrun the data here, even if we want to: for Paul ‘prophets’ and ‘teachers’ are not identical (1 Cor. 12.28). Watson, ‘Authority’, 525–528. ὀφείλει carries ‘moral overtones’:  Gordon D.  Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 514 n. 8; Conzelmann, Corinthians, 188 n. 77. Lone Fatum, ‘Image of God and Glory of Man: Women in the Pauline Congregations’, in The Image of God (ed. Kari Elisabeth Børresen; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress Press, 1995), 50–133; Økland, Women, 181–182. Early interpreters (until Augustine) took Paul’s silence as denial (Kari Elisabeth Børresen, ‘God’s Image, Man’s Image? Patristic Interpretation of Gen 1,27 and 1 Cor 11,7’, in The Image of God, 187–209).

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Four possibilities exist: negatively (1) woman is not God’s image and not man’s image; positively (2)  woman is man’s image and also God’s image; between these (3) woman is man’s image but not God’s image; and (4) woman is not man’s image but is God’s image. Acknowledging the silence and thus mere probabilities, (2) and (3) can be ruled out. Woman is (probably) not man’s image for Paul. If Paul thought she were, specifying this within the rhythmic pair would have been most natural:  ‘. . . but woman is man’s image and glory’. Of course woman might be no-one’s image (1), for Paul does not explicitly use ‘image’ for woman. Yet woman-as-God’s-image (4) is also possible. If Paul considered her God ’s ‘image’60 while being man’s glory, then due to his already initiated rhythm (‘man is God’s image and glory, but woman is . . .’) he would have two options. Wreck the parallelism:  ‘but woman is . . . well, she is God’s image, but man’s glory’. Or leave precisely this gap:  ‘man is God’s image and glory, but woman is man’s – well, his glory’. Paul’s syntax makes sense if he considers woman to be God’s image while being man’s glory. This would also fit his assumption here that women, equally with men though in a female-gendered manner, represent God to humans (prophesying). Paul’s exegetical argument is still asymmetrically gendered, though, for he is explicit about men while silent about women.

10.2.2.3 Women Have Complex ‘Authority’ in 11.10 Regal authority is an important category for the male-and-female ‘them’ in Gen. 1.26–28.61 Philo made much of it – for Adam. Amid Paul’s exploration of gender and creation and its implications in the church (11.7–9, 11–12), he claims the Corinthian women ‘ought to have authority over the head’ (11.10).62 Is this a symbol of a man’s authority over the woman?63 Or the woman’s own authority to pray and prophesy?64 Two details of 11.11 suggest the latter is primary. 60 61

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‘Them’ in Gen. 1.27b may explain ‘him’ in 1.27a. Phyllis Bird, ‘Sexual Differentiation and Divine Image in the Genesis Creation Texts’, in The Image of God, 5–28. 11.10 is important for interpreting the whole argument (Fee, Corinthians, 494; McGinn, ‘Exousia’, 91–104). Thomas R.  Schreiner, ‘Head Coverings, Prophecies and the Trinity:  1 Corinthians 11:2–16’, in Recovering Biblical Manhood and Womanhood (ed. John Piper and Wayne A. Grudem; Wheaton:  Crossway, 1991), 124–139, 132–136; Lone Fatum, ‘Women, Symbolic Universe and Structures of Silence:  Challenges and Possibilities in Androcentric Texts’, Studia Theologica 43 (1988): 61–80. Schüssler Fiorenza, Memory, 228–29; Hooker, ‘Authority’, 415–416; Annie Jaubert, ‘Le Voile des Femmes (1 Cor 11.2–16)’, NTS 18 (1971/72): 419–430 [430]; Murphy-O’Connor, ‘Sex and Logic’, 497; Watson, ‘Authority’, 532 n. 17; Andre Feuillet, ‘La dignité et le rõle de la femme d’après quelques

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‘Nevertheless’ (πλὴν) implies that Paul assumes his audience will take 11.10 in a wrong way and deduce that he advocates gender autonomy for the praying or prophesying woman.65 Paul does not then clarify in 11.11 that women really do not have any authority, that it is actually the husband’s. Rather, Paul confirms that the authority is hers as he mentions woman’s non-autonomy first in 11.11 – ‘Nevertheless, woman is not without man’ – before bringing symmetry to the gender-interdependence (all based on creation, 11.12). ‘Authority’ is the woman’s. But what is its source? Christological eschatology? In 11.10 Paul writes, ‘On account of this (διὰ τοῦτο) the woman ought to have authority over her head’. Διὰ τοῦτο most typically and naturally means that an implication will be drawn from what was just written, which was all about creation here (11.7–9).66 On account of her creational source and function (11.7–9) the woman ought to have her own authority (11.10), though without implying gender autonomy (11.11–12). (Many interpreters hold a false dichotomy between the woman’s own creational authority and her husband’s creational ‘head’ship – false from Paul’s perspective – which renders them confused at this point; see below.) The ‘ought’ in 11.10 is also rhetorically connected to 11.4–7. Paul’s μὲν – δὲ construction in 11.7 follows from the parallel man/woman oughts in 11.4–6, but it was left incomplete: ‘On the one hand (μὲν), man ought not cover . . . On the other hand (δὲ), woman . . .’ and 11.10 concludes, ‘ought to have . . .’ Verse 10 concludes 11.4–9: on account of creation the woman ought to have authority. Paul’s rhetoric in 11.10–11 provides two points:  (1)  the woman has her own dangerously-close-to-but-not-quite-autonomous ‘authority’ to pray and prophesy in the eschatological assembly; (2)  this ‘authority’ is hers because of creation. Strikingly different than Philo’s Adam-centered treatment of the anthropogonic ‘dominion’ text (which would have been culturally expected), Paul only explicitly argues that women have creational authority, though he undoubtedly assumes that man as God’s image and glory does too (and man is

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textes pauliniens’, NTS 21 (1973): 157–191 [160–161]; Barrett, First Corinthians, 255. A sub-set argues for woman’s authority to decide whether or not to cover: Alan Padgett, ‘Paul on Women in the Church: The Contradictions of Coiffure in 1 Corinthians 11:2–16’, JSNT 20 (1984): 69–86 [72]; Gundry-Volf, ‘Gender’, 159–160, 169; Phillip Barton Payne, Man and Woman, One in Christ (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2009), 51–53; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (Collegeville, PA: The Liturgical Press, 1999), 410–411; Fee, Corinthians, 520. Watson, ‘Authority’, 527, 528 n. 11. Contra Padgett, ‘Paul on Women’, 71–72; Schrage, Der erste Brief, 2.514; Gundry-Volf, ‘Gender’, 160.

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praying and prophesying). We must remember, though, that Paul also argues that female authority ‘ought’ to be enacted in a properly gendered manner and within a structure that is simultaneously hierarchic and interdependent – all according to creation. To understand what Paul is taking from Genesis 1–2 and applying in the Lord, we must admit what would be a false dichotomy to Paul: it is not the case that either the husband has authority over his wife as head based on creation (11.3–9), and her head-cover conveys that, or she has her own authority from creation to pray and prophesy, with her head-cover portraying that too. Rather, the woman has equal authority with her husband to rule God’s creation specifically as his helper, which means that her portrayal of herself as her husband’s helper and glory (head covered so as to honour and not shame him) is her own authority, granted her by the Creator in Genesis 1–2, to equally represent God to people and vice versa through prayer and prophecy. Whether modern readers reject or appreciate how Paul is interpreting and applying the gender passages of Genesis 1–2 is an important but entirely separate issue from the purpose of this chapter. We must understand Paul’s own creative complexities on his terms before placing a value judgement on them.

10.3 Conclusion Philo’s and Paul’s interesting exegetical observations about creation and gender are sometimes asymmetrical and sometimes strikingly balanced. They both have aspects that rub against and nestle naturally within their Roman imperial context where gender was hierarchically structured and ‘femininity’ easily meant weak, soft, emotional and passive in contrast to masculinity as strong, intellectual, virtuous and active. For Philo, his hermeneutical approach to Genesis 1–2 in Opif. opened a philosophical door to a counter-cultural, symmetrically gendered understanding of personhood. But his exegesis remained asymmetrically gendered in the above-mentioned categories, granting only to the male the ‘generic’ human qualities of divine image and likeness and regal authority, leaving the female somewhat un-‘human’. Paul’s hermeneutical approach to Genesis 1–2 in 1 Cor. painted descriptions of current and coming reality – regarding sex, food, gendered worship, community and resurrection. Where his exegesis of creation-texts met

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gender issues in the church (1 Cor. 11), his symmetrically and asymmetrically gendered observations proved complex. Even though Paul’s point about woman’s ontology in 11.8 is balanced in 11.11–12, Paul’s point about woman’s function as man’s helper (and therefore glory) nowhere finds a correlate or balance. Relatedly, man as woman’s ‘head’ remains one-directional.67 Men and women are to enact their equally prayerful and prophetic activity in gender-specific manners that ‘properly’ honour their respective heads. (‘Asymmetrical’ is not a fitting descriptor for this, and ‘non-identical’ is true but does not say enough.) Because of creation, men and women probably share symmetrical status as divine images (11.7), though this is expressed asymmetrically – explicitly for men, implicitly for women. Because of creation, men and women certainly share symmetrical interdependence, they manifestly share equal roles in divine-human communication in prayer and prophecy, and women have ‘authority’ to do so (expressed asymmetrically – explicitly for women, implicitly for men). Interestingly, due to the way Paul discusses gendered activity in 1 Cor. 11, terms like weak, soft, emotional and passive versus strong, intellectual and active seem foreign. And his Christological eschatology is not what makes Paul so counter-cultural in certain aspects of gendered activity (simultaneously within a hierarchical framework). It is his protology. Throughout 1 Cor., creation consistently helps Paul define Christian life as it is, sometimes as it should be, and sometimes as it will be. Creation even provides categories and language by which the eschaton – both already and not yet – is rightly understood. Finally, as a way forward, I will offer a speculation about Paul’s exegetically based theology of creation. At a few points in 1 Cor. Paul used creation to shape the rights and authority that he saw as important to many of the Corinthians’ issues (cf. 8–10, 11). Are there elements of ‘authority’ elsewhere in 1 Cor. that Paul derives from creation? Francis Watson considers Paul’s principle of interdependence from 11.11–12 (which I have argued is creational) to be ‘open to an unlimited range of concrete applications’ and that ‘Paul himself applies it elsewhere to sexual conduct within marriage’.68 Indeed, in 1 Cor. 7.4 a married 67

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Thiselton, First Corinthians, 811–822; William R. G. Loader, The Septuagint, Sexuality, and the New Testament: Case Studies on the Impact of the LXX in Philo and the New Testament (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 2004). Økland, Women, 175–176. Watson, ‘Authority’, 523–524. Cf. Bartchy’s ‘general reciprocity’ and ‘generous mutual support and sharing without keeping score’ (‘Who Should be Called “Father”?’ 177). In the case of 1 Cor. 7, Paul wants more: mutual authority in the sexual arena.

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man has sexual ‘authority’ over his wife’s body – a non-shocking statement within Paul’s context – and the woman has equal sexual ‘authority’ over the husband’s body! From where does Paul derive such symmetrically gendered sexual ‘authority’ in marriage?69 Only a few statements before this, Paul argued from creation that sex produces ‘one body’ (Gen. 2.24 in 6.16). Perhaps Paul has deduced spousal symmetry in sexual ‘authority’ from their bodily ‘oneness’ according to creation. If so, two aspects of a woman’s ‘authority’ arise from creation. The dominion of ‘them’ in Gen. 1.26–28 may have affected Paul more profoundly than we realize. And how far do we go with Paul’s language of dominion and authority for all Christians – whether male or female – in 1 Cor.? There is certainly an eschatological stage to the ‘reigning’ in 4.8 and ‘judging the world (and angels)’ in 6.2–3, which are roles given without distinction or qualification to Chloe, Prisca, Phoebe, the women of Stephanas’s household (etc.) as well as to Corinthian Christian men. These statements are also shocking.70 But is such reigning and judging based purely – or at all – on eschatology? Could it be that Paul believes that the male and female will together have dominion in the eschaton because that is what God designed in the beginning, and has now redeemed, secured, and even heightened by Christ? That would certainly fit with his hermeneutic of creation throughout 1 Cor. Elsewhere we have inappropriately divided Paul’s eschatology and protology.

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Such was beginning to be discussed in Paul’s day (e.g. Musonius Rufus, Plutarch). See Maarit Kaimio, ‘Erotic Experience in the Conjugal Bed: Good Wives in Greek Tragedy’, in The Sleep of Reason, 97; Nussbaum, ‘Incomplete Feminism’, 283–326; Brenk, ‘Most Beautiful’, 100; Gretchen Reydams-Schils, ‘Musonius Rufus, Porphyry, and Christians in Counter-Point on Marriage and the Good’, in Metamorphoses of Neoplatonism (ed. Agnieszka Kijewska; Lublin: Wydaw KUI, 2004), 151–168 [158–159]. For shocking statements in Musonius Rufus, see his ‘Should Daughters and Sons Get the Same Education?’ and ‘That Women too Should do Philosophy’. Cf. Frederick E. Brenk, With Unperfumed Voice (Stuttgart:  Steiner, 2007); Otto Hense (ed.), C. Musonius Rufus Reliquiae (Leipzig:  Teubner, 1905); Cora E. Lutz, ‘Musonius Rufus: The Roman Socrates’, Yale Classical Studies 10 (1947): 3–147. Cf. Plutarch’s Moralia IX: Table Talk, Books 7–9, Dialogue on Love.

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Early Conceptions of Original Sin: Reading Galatians through Philo’s De Opificio Mundi Gitte Buch-Hansen

11.1 Introduction: Sexuality, Generation and Desire in Galatians 11.1.1 The Puzzle of Lust in the Galatian Vice List In 2016, I  taught a course on Paul’s letter to the Galatians. As part of the students’ preparation for our reading of Galatians 5, I  asked them to consider whether there was a pattern in Paul’s listing of τὰ ἔργα τῆς σαρκός in Gal. 5.19–21. They soon identified three groups in the list of vices and evil deeds. The first group – πορνεία, ἀκαθαρσία, ἀσέλγεια – were vices related to the body, with the first and last terms referring explicitly to sexual lust. The middle term, ἀκαθαρσία, should probably be taken in the metaphorical sense as an allusion to moral depravity (cf. Leg. All. 3.139). The next two – εἰδωλολατρία, φαρμακεία – were examples of a wrong relationship with the divine. The third and largest group consisted of social misdeeds. We categorized the second group as vertical vices and those in the third group as horizontal misbehaviour. Apparently, Paul tried to explain to his readers how a wrong relationship with the divine would result in socially destructive modes of behaviour. Yet two problems remained. First, as theologians we had intuitively expected Paul to start his list with the vices that represented an erroneous relationship with the divine, but somehow these were displaced to the second group. Second, if Paul really meant that the appetites were the source of all evils, why

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did he focus solely on the consequences of lust and sexual intemperance and displaced drunkenness (μέθη) to the third group of social vices? The easy answer, of course, is that no idea guides the list of vices: it was haphazardly composed. Nevertheless, I shall argue that there is more to it. In this chapter, I will demonstrate how the above-sketched tripartite pattern summarizes the anthropology that underlies Paul’s overall argument in Galatians and, specifically, underpins his allegorical exposition in Gal. 4.21–31 of the Hagar-Sarah story from the book of Genesis. A brief glance at Paul’s exposition of the Hagar-Sarah story already makes the list of vices appear less arbitrary. In Paul’s allegory, sexual activity plays an important role, because the two women’s different manners of conception set up two antagonistic columns. In the first column, there is the slave woman Hagar, who ‘had the man’ (Gal. 4.27) and consequently conceived in a natural way; that is κατὰ σάρκα (Gal. 4.23).1 With reference to the biblical narrative, and in accordance with the social reality of slaves, Paul claims that children born by Hagar will also live in slavery (Gal. 4.25).2 In the other column, we encounter the free but barren woman, Sarah, whose children are said to come into being κατὰ πνεῦμα (Gal. 4.29); they will live in freedom. Paul’s interpretation of the Hagar-Sarah story has two steps. He first interprets the biblical narrative allegorically in terms of the two covenants (Gal. 4.21–31), but then in the next section, which contains the above-mentioned list of vices, expounds the columns/covenants in terms of ethics. In Gal. 5.13–26, Paul accounts for the kind of slavery and freedom that underlies his allegorical composition, and the allegory takes a stoically inspired turn. The spirit, which belongs to the Sarah column, will ransom Hagar’s naturally conceived children from their slavery to the ‘flesh with its passions and the desires’ (Gal. 5.24). Consequently, Paul links natural conception with the disastrous desire. After all, the vices did not have their origin in an erroneous relationship with God. As indicated by the list of vices, it is the other way around:  evil takes its beginning with the conception

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Translations are from the NRSV, unless otherwise mentioned. Jennifer Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2002); Jonathan Edmondson, ‘Slavery and the Roman Family’, in The Cambridge World History of Slavery, vol. 1: The Ancient Mediterranean World (ed. Keith Bradley and Paul Cartledge; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2011), 337–361.

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κατὰ σάρκα. The question begs itself:  Did Paul operate with a concept of original sin? By drawing attention to the anthropology of Paul’s contemporary philosophical Greco-Roman tradition, the chapter will attempt to answer this question.

11.1.2 Paul’s Anthropologizing in its Greco-Roman Context Although the agenda in Paul’s letter to the Galatians is determined by the problems he encountered in his missionary work among Jews and Gentiles, it was his theological anthropologizing that inspired his solution to these problems. On the one hand, Galatians is a polemical letter occasioned by a highly conflict-ridden situation. On the other hand, Paul’s argument also taps into the contemporary discourse on anthropology among Greco-Roman philosophers, above all the thinking of Philo, Paul’s fellow exegete from Alexandria (c. 25 BCE – c. 50 CE). Philo’s anthropology is set out in his allegorical interpretation of Genesis 1–3, first and foremost in De opificio mundi. Scholars are aware that in his interpretation of the generation of the first woman and her fatal encounter with the snake (Op. Mund. 152, 161), Philo takes issue with the so-called cradle argument through which the various philosophical schools of his time – the Epicureans, the Stoics and the sceptical Academy – addressed the question about the nature of the primary driver of human action and the human τέλος. The cradle argument is known from Cicero’s treatise De finibus bonorum et malorum, in which he presents the contemporary philosophical schools’ versions of the argument. The cradle argument found its place in the repertoires of philosophical topoi to which traditions that had abandoned idealism could appeal. In this situation, the nursery appears an obvious place to look for congenital manners of behaviour that could serve as a starting point for an inductive approach to claims about the human condition. After all, none of the cradle arguments featured in De finibus – Epicurean, Stoic and Sceptic – refer to empirical observations or experiments. Instead, the arguments allude to cultural commonplaces about childhood and children’s behaviour. In his exposition, Philo appears to adopt the position of the Academy, combining the Epicurean first mover with the Stoic τέλος. However, Philo gives the Epicurean argument his own twist and mixes biblical exegesis, medical science

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and Greco-Roman philosophy. In accordance with contemporary medical science, e.g. Galen from Alexandria (c. 130 – c.  200 CE) and Soranus from Rome (1st/2nd century CE) who argued for the necessity of pleasure for impregnation, Philo links the generation of the instinctive urge for pleasure in the fetus with the pleasure needed for conception to take place (Op. Mund. 161). Although Philo describes sexual pleasure positively as a divinely created ‘helper’ (Leg. All. 2.9), this pleasure has a flipside. The inherent danger is that, instead of being the means to a necessary end, namely procreation, pleasure in itself becomes the desirable goal (Op. Mund. 152, 165–166). The result is a causative link between the act of generation, pleasure as the primary driver and the vicious state of humanity. It is against this backdrop – that is, Philo’s Jewish approach to Greco-Roman philosophy – that I suggest Paul’s anthropology must be understood. Consequently, if we want to reconstruct the discourse on anthropology that may have informed Paul’s argument in Galatians, we need to include a large amount of contextual material in our analysis. First and foremost, we must consult Philo. But in order to understand Philo’s allegorical exegesis and his discussion of the motives that drive human behaviour, we must revisit the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition with which Philo takes issue: the cradle argument among Epicurean and Stoic philosophers. In turn, these traditions (as well as a brief look at Plato) will help us understand what Paul alluded to when in Galatians he appealed to his readers’ childhood experiences and encouraged them to recollect their memories about their παιδαγωγός. As we shall see, Paul’s appeal may be seen as his own approach to their cradle argument. Informed by this contextual material, we will then return to Paul’s reading of the Hagar-Sarah story.

11.2 The Discourse on Anthropology in Hellenistic Philosophy 11.2.1 The Cradle Argument in Hellenistic Philosophy 11.2.1.1 Epicureanism: Pleasure as the Alpha and Omega of Human Life According to the Epicureans, fate was determined by the random movement of atoms. To identify a guiding principle for life and behaviour, human beings

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had to rely on common experiences arising from life in this world ruled by chance. In his Letter to Menoeceus – referred in Diogenes Laertius’s Lives of Eminent Philosophers – Epicurus explains how:  ‘Pleasure is our first and kindred good [ταύτην γὰρ ἀγαθὸν πρῶτον καὶ συγγενικὸν] . . . and . . . our first and native good [καὶ ἐπεὶ πρῶτον ἀγαθὸν τοῦτο καὶ σύμφυτον]’ (Diogenes Laertius  10.129).3 Consequently, pleasure was the feeling that offered human beings a ‘rule by which to judge of every good thing [ὡς κανόνι τῷ πάθει πᾶν ἀγαθὸν κρίνοντες]’. In this way, human beings were able to identify the good which was of an appropriate nature for them (τὸ φύσιν ἔχειν οἰκείαν ἀγαθόν) (Diogenes Laertius 10.129).4 Pleasure was at once the means to achieve the good, a measurement of it (ὁ κανών), the goal of human strivings (τὸ τέλος) and the ultimate good itself (τὸ ἀγαθόν). Followers of Epicurus supplemented his argument with the empirical observation that from the very beginning the child as well as the animal reacted to pleasure and pain by pursuing the first and shunning the latter: We are inquiring, then, what is the final and ultimate Good, which as all philosophers are agreed must be of such a nature as to be the End to which all other things are means, while it is not itself a means to anything else. This Epicurus finds in pleasure; pleasure he holds to be the Chief Good, pain the Chief Evil. This he sets out to prove as follows: Every animal, as soon as it is born, seeks for pleasure, and delights in it as the Chief Good, while it recoils from pain as the Chief Evil, and so far as possible avoids it. (Cicero, Fin. 1.29–30)

11.2.1.2 Stoicism: Self-Preservation as the Primary Driver Due to Epicurus’ identification of pleasure as the experience that enabled human beings to find an appropriate way of living in this world, his doctrine of pleasure has also been called the Epicurean doctrine of οἰκείωσις (cf. Diogenes Laertius 10.129). In De finibus, the more well-known Stoic doctrine of οἰκείωσις is presented as a correction of the Epicurean cradle argument. According to the Stoics, a more foundational motive existed behind the Epicurean drivers, namely love of self. Nature had endowed every living being, animal and human alike, with an affection for its own constitution. Consequently, every being was favourably disposed towards things that would 3 4

Translations are from the LCL editions, unless otherwise mentioned. Jacques Brunschwig, ‘The Cradle Argument in Epicureanism and Stoicism’, in The Norms of Nature (ed. Malcolm Schofield and Gisela Striker; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 115.

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preserve it and, conversely, wanted to avoid situations that might damage its constitution. This behaviour presupposed an awareness of the self and of what belonged to it, as the name of the theory indicated:  οἰκείωσις. The experiences of pleasure and pain were secondary – or epiphenomena – to that. As explained in De finibus, In proof of this opinion they [the Stoics] urge that infants desire things conducive to their health and reject things that are the opposite before they have ever felt pleasure or pain; this would not be the case, unless they felt an affection for their own constitution and were afraid of destruction. But it would be impossible that they should feel desire at all unless they possessed self-consciousness, and consequently felt affection for themselves. This leads to the conclusion that it is love of self which supplies the primary impulse to action. (Cicero, Fin. 3.16; emphasis added)

11.2.1.3 Congenital Preconceptions and their Necessary Development Although the drivers and goals of humanity could be determined by the observation of nature, the cradle argument did not imply – either for the Epicureans or for the Stoics – that the child would automatically develop into a fully mature human being. After all, human beings differed from animals. The congenital impulse only offered a preconception of the good, which had to be refined through continuous awareness of the consequences that a particular kind of behaviour would have. As Epicurus explains, ‘While therefore all pleasure because it is naturally akin to us is good, not all pleasure is choice worthy’ (Diogenes Laertius 10.129). In spite of the standard defaming of Epicureanism for hedonism, the Epicureans did not subscribe to Horace’s notion of carpe diem. With regard to the Stoics, their doctrine of love of self also gave rise to slander from opponents who argued that their philosophy wrongly praised man for achievements which philosophers of a Middle Platonist observation ascribed to the divine. Yet, the Stoics’ love of self developed in light of the notion that every ‘being’ was nothing but a part artificially isolated from a larger, unified, divine whole. Consequently, humanity lived against the divine will if man’s conception of his self was too narrow – that is, restricted to his own body, his particular family or his native city. The Stoic ideal of the wise man was a cosmopolitan whose self-love encompassed the whole of the cosmos and whose actions were motivated by the good that would benefit the

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extended self. As a consequence, the wise man lived in harmony with the all or in accordance with nature, the divine or natural law (the same ethical principle could be expressed in different ways). However, this attitude and awareness presupposed that the first impulse towards self-preservation was subjected to reason – and the right use of it (Diogenes Laertius 7.87). For this reason, one of the three pillars of Stoic philosophy (besides physics and ethics) was the logical use of language. In our discussion of Paul’s appeal to the παιδαγωγός, we will return to the role of language and logic in the child’s development.

11.2.2 Philo and his Exegetical Approach to the Philosophical Cradle Argument From a philosophical point of view, it may come as a bit of a surprise that a Middle Platonist such as Philo, into whose worldview the idea of transcendence had been reintroduced, would appeal to the cradle argument. In addition, it may seem even more surprising that Philo opts for the Epicurean version of the argument, since his God – as ‘the Father of all’ (Quaest. in Exod. 2.46) – then becomes responsible for the instalment of the drive for pleasure in human beings. The explanation is simple. These philosophical doctrines helped Philo make sense of the biblical creation stories by offering him a symbolic interpretation of the myths. In this combination of philosophy and mythological narratives, something new happened which was to have decisive significance for Western history. When the narrative of creation was allegorized by the aid of the cradle argument, a sexual and gendered dimension was added to the philosophers’ various versions of the argument. It is in Philo’s exposition, which links the desire for pleasure with generation, that we find an explanation of Paul’s problem with the flesh and gain insight into the ideas that some decades later inspired Augustine’s doctrine of original sin. But in order to understand how, we must look in detail at Philo’s interpretation in De opificio mundi of the generation of the first woman and her fatal encounter with the serpent.

11.2.2.1 The Golden Age of Philo’s First Man and the Decline of the Human Race Of course, Philo’s God did not create man flawed by desire. As opposed to the rest of the human race, who came into being through their parents’ sexual activity, the first man was not a lust-driven creature. As Philo explains, ‘God

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created him, and the more eminent the maker is, so much the better is the work’ (Op. Mund. 140). Since ‘the Divine Breath was breathed into his face’, the first man was created in the likeness and imitation of God’s Word and Reason, his λόγος (139). Consequently, he who was to become the ancestor of all excelled greatly in body and soul in comparison to those who came after him (136). The time that the first man spent in the Garden of Eden is Philo’s version of the golden age in Greco-Roman mythology. Philo describes the first man as a Stoic cosmopolitan whose city and dwelling place was the entire world (Op. Mund. 142). In spite of the fact that he was the only human being, he was not alone. He belonged to a state (ταύτης τῆς πόλεως καὶ πολιτείας) whose constitution was natural law (ὁ τῆς φύσεως ὀρθὸς λόγος) (143). According to Philo, this state ‘must have had citizens before man. . . . And who should these be but spiritual and divine natures, some incorporeal and visible to mind only, some not without bodies, such as are the stars?’ (144). Living in perfect, unalloyed bliss (εὐδαιμονία), the first man was ‘conversing and consorting with these’ (144). But since ‘for men born many generations later, when owing to the lapse of ages, the race had lost its vigour’ (148), something must have happened which disturbed the first man’s paradisiac life. Why were the descendants of this divinely blessed ancestor subjected to an accumulating decline? What event caused the golden age to end? The advent of lust was to blame. It came with the arrival of the woman and with her the first experience of sexual pleasure. After all, the blessed life of the first man appears to have been a life without the experience of bodily pleasures. In his description of the first man’s encounter with the woman (Op. Mund. 151–152), Philo borrows images and language from Aristophanes’ humorous account of the origins of love in Plato’s Symposium:5 But when woman too had been made, beholding a figure like his own and a kindred form, he was gladdened by the sight, and approached and greeted her. . . . Love supervenes [ἔρως δ᾿ ἐπιγενόμενος], brings together and fits into one the divided halves, as it were, of a single living creature, and sets up in each of them a desire for fellowship with the other with a view to the production of their like. And this desire begat likewise bodily pleasure [ὁ δὲ 5

Cf. by David Runia, On the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses: Introduction, Translation and Commentary (PACS; Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill, 2001), 355.

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πόθος οὗτος καὶ τὴν τῶν σωμάτων ἡδονὴν ἐγέννησεν], that pleasure which is the beginning of wrongs and violation of the law, the pleasure for the sake of which men bring on themselves the life of mortality and wretchedness in lieu of that immortality and bliss. (Op. Mund. 151–152; emphasis added)

However, the outcome of this encounter is more than the child, which was a ‘production of their like’. The encounter also stimulated desire and, in turn, ‘desire begat . . . bodily pleasure’. The generation of these two products – child and pleasure – are intimately related. As already mentioned, in his exegesis Philo is on a par with contemporary medical science, as found for instance in the writings of Galen, Hippocrates and Soranus, which argued for the necessity of pleasure for impregnation to take place.6 In the case of Hippocrates, orgasm was the subjective experience of the body releasing the semen, which – according to their pangenetic understanding of conception – both men and women emitted.7 In the case of epigenesis, favoured by more philosophically minded physiologists, the production of heat during intercourse simultaneously stimulated the man’s ejaculation and the opening of the womb in the female.8 By alluding to these traditions, Philo managed to naturalize his allegorical interpretation. Consequently, Philo can also describe sexual pleasure as a divinely created ‘helper’ (Leg. All. 2.9: βοηθός) or ‘guide’ (Op. Mund. 161: ξεναγός) that simultaneously instructs human beings and facilitates the conception. However, this pleasure has a flipside. Instead of being the pedagogical means to a necessary end, pleasure may itself become the desirable goal (cf. Op. Mund. 165–166). In Legum Allegoria Philo interprets the saying from Gen. 2.18: ποιήσωμεν αὐτῷ βοηθὸν κατ᾽ αὐτόν allegorically: There are two species of this helper: the one has its sphere in the passions, the other in sense-perception. . . . You see who are our helpers, the wild beasts, the soul’s passions . . . These are not properly called our helpers, but by a straining of language; in reality they are found to be our actual foes. . . . The

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Thomas W. Laqueur, Making Sex:  Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA:  Harvard University Press, 1990), 25–62; Elizabeth A. Clark, ‘Generation, Degeneration, Regeneration:  Original Sin and the Conception of Jesus in the Polemic between Augustine and Julian of Eclanum’, in Generation and Degeneration: Tropes of Reproduction in Literature and History from Antiquity to Early Modern Europe (ed. Valeria Finucci and Kevin Brownlee; Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), 39–40. Anthony Preuss, ‘Science and Philosophy in Aristotle’s Generation of Animals’, Journal of the History of Biology 3, no. 1 (1970): 1–52. Ann Hanson, ‘Hippocrates: Diseases of Women’, Signs 1, no. 2 (1975): 567–584.

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passions he likens to wild beasts and birds, because, savage and untamed as they are, they tear the soul to pieces. (Leg. All. 2.9–11)

Consequently, the snake, which according to Philo represented sexual pleasure, was seen as ‘the most subtle of all the beasts on earth, which the Lord God had made’ (Gen. 3.1 quoted in Leg. All. 2.71).

11.2.2.2 Philo’s Biblical Approach to the Epicurean Cradle Argument Because of the ambiguous nature of these passions, Philo is critically disposed towards the Epicurean doctrine of pleasure as the driver, canon and goal of human living. When the snake is said to emit a human voice, Philo explains this disturbing mythical element as a reference to the proponents of the Epicurean doctrine: ‘Pleasure employs ten thousand champions and defenders, who have undertaken to look after her and stand up for her, and who dare to spread the doctrine that she has assumed universal sovereignty over small and great, and that no one whatever is exempt therefrom’ (Op. Mund. 160). This rhetorical swipe at the Epicureans serves as a warning to the reader before he or she is introduced to Philo’s version of the Epicurean cradle argument. Although Philo subscribes to the idea of pleasure being the first mover, he does not – as ‘they [the Epicureans] tell us’ – accept it as τὸ τέλος: And certainly the first approaches of the male to the female have pleasure to guide and conduct them, and it is through pleasure that begetting and the coming of life is brought about, and the offspring is naturally at home with nothing sooner than pleasure [τά τε γεννώμενα οὐδενὶ πρῶτον οἰκειοῦσθαι πέφυκεν ἢ ταύτῃ], delighting in it and feeling distress at pain its contrary. This is why the infant when born actually weeps aloud, chilled most likely by the cold all round it; for when leaving a place of fiery warmth in the womb, which for a long time it has tenanted, it suddenly issues into the air, a cold and unaccustomed place, it is taken aback and utters cries, a most clear sign of its pain and its annoyance at suffering. And they tell us that every living creature hastens after pleasure as its most necessary and essential end [ἐπ᾿ ἀναγκαιότατον καὶ συνεκτικώτατον τέλος]. (Op. Mund. 161–162)

The new and decisive step in this passage is Philo’s association of the necessity of bodily pleasure for conception and the Epicurean doctrine of pleasure as the first driver. The link suggests an explanation of the Epicurean observation. According to Philo, bodily pleasure, essential for begetting, is transferred to the foetus who,

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as a consequence, ‘is naturally at home with nothing sooner than pleasure’. In Philo’s version of the cradle argument, the newborn baby’s reaction to the transition from the pleasurable, warm womb to the cold and unaccustomed place outside of it – an example borrowed from the Epicurean tradition (cf. Sextus Empiricus, Adv. Eth. 96) – empirically confirms his link. Consequently, but in a misunderstanding of ‘its most necessary and essential end’, ‘every living creature hastens after pleasure’. Instead of the Epicureans’ risky endeavour to maximize pleasure, Philo recommended another canon and guide: the Law. According to Philo, the complete extinction of passions was impossible, because pleasure was a congenital driver. Radical abstinence from activities that were accompanied by the experience of bodily pleasure – first and foremost sexual intercourse – was only to be practiced by the gifted few, such as Moses. Instead, Philo’s recommended solution to bridle lust was the μετριοπάθεια – moderation of the passions – which was the lifestyle that followers of the Mosaic Law automatically adopted.9 In order to remind man that his desire for pleasure must be ‘cut off ’ – that is, moderated and controlled – God gave him the sign of the circumcision. In his treatise De specialibus legibus, Philo explains the symbolic function of circumcision: I consider circumcision to be a symbol of two things most necessary to our well-being. One is the excision of pleasures which bewitch the mind. For since among the love-lures of pleasure the palm is held by the mating of man and woman, the legislators thought good to dock the organ which ministers to such intercourse, thus making circumcision the figure of the excision of excessive and superfluous pleasure, not only of one pleasure but of all the other pleasures signified by one, and that the most imperious. (Spec. Leg. 1.8-10)

11.2.2.3 Philo on Natural Family Affection Philo also links sexual pleasure with the natural impulse to care for the generated offspring: And the greatest desire is that of intercourse between man and woman, since it forms the beginning of a great thing, procreation, and brings about in

9

Gitte Buch-Hansen, ‘It Is the Spirit that Gives Life’:  A  Stoic Understanding of Pneuma in John’s Gospel (BZNW 173; Berlin:  De Gruyter, 2010), 138–144; William Loader, Philo, Josephus, and the Testaments on Sexuality: Attitudes towards Sexuality in the Writings of Philo and Josephus and in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Attitudes towards Sexuality in Judaism and Christianity in the Hellenistic Greco-Roman Era; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans Publishing, 2011), 91–100.

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the progenitors a great desire towards their progeny, for it is rather natural [φυσικόν τι] to be very fond of, and tender toward, them. (Quaest. in Gen. 3.48)

Philo’s idea of natural care for one’s offspring was inspired by the Stoic doctrine of οἰκείωσις, although again with a twist. As with the Epicurean doctrine, Philo also supplemented the Stoic theory with an explanation of his own: the observable phenomenon of family affection – or the appropriation of the offspring to the self – had its origin in the experience of sexual pleasure. To the Stoics, this step represented a progression from the childish approach to the self, in which the individual body was identified with the self, to the awareness of participating in a larger social body, namely the family, which was now perceived as an integrated part of the self. However, the natural identification of the self with the family still had to be transcended in order to reach the cosmopolitan stage in which every human being – without regard for ethnicity, social class or gender – was to be appropriated to the self. Although in his exegetical treatises on Genesis Philo seems to value family affections positively, he ends up following the Stoics in his description of the Essenes. After all, parental care also had a flipside, because the natural solicitude for family members prevented human beings from becoming true world citizens.10 In accordance with the Stoic doctrine of true freedom as freedom from the rule of passions, Philo here describes family affection as a kind of slavery: For he who is either fast bound in the love lures of his wife or under the stress of nature makes his children his first care ceases to be the same to others and unconsciously has become a different man and has passed from freedom into slavery. (Hyp. 11.17)

Since the woman had to engage in sexual intercourse regularly in order to avoid the unhealthy condition of hysteria,11 she would incessantly allure her husband into the sexual acts that, for his part, weakened his resistance to his body’s desire for pleasure. Consequently, the Essenes, as Philo explains, ‘eschew

10 11

Loader, Philo, Josephus, and the Testaments on Sexuality, 58. Cf. Hanson, ‘Hippocrates’.

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marriage because they clearly discern it to be the sole or the principal danger to the maintenance of the communal life’ (Hyp. 11.14). In Philo’s depiction, the Essenes constituted an ascetic community of Stoic sages who had overcome the natural impulse for parental care: the wise Essenes’ ‘vocation is not based on birth, for birth is not a descriptive mark of voluntary associations, but on their zeal for virtue and desire to promote brotherly love [φιλανθρωπία]’ (Hyp. 11.2).

11.2.2.4 Summarizing Philo In the above exposition, we have seen how Philo links the cradle arguments of his contemporary philosophers with the sexual pleasure experienced during intercourse. Philo explained the Epicurean first driver as the result of the transference of the sexual pleasure essential for conception to the foetus. With this rhetorical manoeuvre, the desire for pleasure became part of the human being’s ontology as an unavoidably fact of the flesh. Consequently, the Stoic ἀπάθεια, in which desire was entirely overcome by wisdom, was not an option. Instead, human beings were to strive for the condition of ἐγκράτεια in which the will had become stronger than the desire of the flesh. Mετριοπάθεια was the solution, and the Mosaic Law offered the Jew that. If he were to forget it, his circumcision would remind him of the condition that had characterized human beings since the serpent seduced Adam and Eve: that he was born as a slave to the flesh and its desires. Philo also attached sexual pleasure to the Stoic theory of οἰκείωσις:  the natural affection and care for the parents’ offspring had its origin in the experience of sexual pleasure. Nevertheless, man should avoid marriage in favour of the ascetic life, because family affections prevented men from becoming true cosmopolitans. Instead, Philo recommended the free association of men (and maybe of women as suggested in Philo’s De vita contemplativa), which was not based on generation, but on the voluntary care for others. As we shall see, Paul wholly subscribed to Philo’s intimate link of the flesh with desire and to his critical approach to family life. However, with regard to the solution, their ways parted. Paul was not satisfied with the moderation of desire that the Law offered. Instead, he sided with the Stoics and wanted a complete extinction of desire. Nothing short of a new generation to replace the first, fatal one was needed.

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11.3 The παιδαγωγός in the Greco-Roman Tradition We are now almost ready for a rereading of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. But before we turn to his exposition of the Hagar-Sarah story, we must become acquainted with the παιδαγωγός who Paul introduces in the course of his argument. As mentioned, Paul’s featuring of the childhood tutor can be seen as his approach to the cradle argument. Twice Paul leads his readers to the area of the house in which the children of the family live. In both cases, the purpose of the visit is to explain the awkward sequence of God’s initiatives in the course of salvation history. The Hellenistic philosophers did not study children empirically, nor did Paul. Instead, he invokes the social discourse on the raising of children, which he assumes will be recognizable to his GrecoRoman audience. For this reason we will turn to the description of the rearing and primary education of children as described in Plato’s treatise on the Laws, which is most likely representative of the tradition to which Paul alludes.

11.3.1 Childhood Memories in Galatians 11.3.1.1 The Tutor The first visit to the children’s quarter takes place in Gal. 3.23–25. Here we are introduced to the tutor – the παιδαγωγός – who takes care of the child’s upbringing, regulates their behaviour and forms their manners before they start attending school. Typically, the παιδαγωγός was a slave or a former slave from the household. Paul establishes an analogy between life under the Law (before the advent of Christ) and the experience of being kept under surveillance by the παιδαγωγός. In line with the παιδαγωγός, who regulates the child’s behaviour, the Law is given to prevent transgressions (Gal. 3.19). The harshness of being subjected to the custody of the tutor slave was a standard topos in ancient literature. Plato’s unfolding of his preferred pedagogy in the Laws is an illustrative example: With the return of daylight the children should go to their teachers; for just as no sheep or other grazing beast ought to exist without a herdsman, so children cannot live without a tutor [οὐδὲ δὴ παῖδας ἄνευ τινῶν παιδαγωγῶν], nor slaves without a master. And, of all wild creatures, the child is the most intractable; for in so far as it, above all others, possesses a fount of reason

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that is as yet uncurbed, it is a treacherous, sly and most insolent creature. Wherefore the child must be strapped up, as it were, with many bridles – first, when he leaves the care of nurse and, with tutors, to guide his childish ignorance [παιδαγωγοῖς παιδίας καὶ νηπιότητος χάριν], and after that with teachers of all sorts of subjects and lessons, treating him as becomes a freeborn child. On the other hand, he must be treated as a slave [ὡς δ᾿ αὖ δοῦλον]; and any free man that meets him shall punish both the child himself and his tutor or teacher, if any of them does wrong. (Plato, Leg. 7.808D–E)

The Laws presents an understanding of the child’s congenital social nature which must be overcome and developed by a sequence of helpers and custodies. The tutor was needed because the ‘spring of reasoning’ had not yet developed the capacity to operate with the syllogisms that were the foundation of rational thinking. Until that happened, the child was to be compared with animals notoriously known for their stupidity: sheep and other grazing animals. Plato also likens the child to the slave. As argued by Aristotle in his Politics, the slave was in need of a master because he only ‘participates in reason so far as to apprehend it but not to possess it’ (Pol. 1.1254b). Apparently, Plato also subscribed to this view. The passage from the Laws demonstrates that Plato associated the child with the lowest part of the tripartite soul, τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν, which human beings had in common with the animals. The child’s driver was the simple satisfaction of the appetites. Seemingly, not much changed from Plato’s Greek fourth-century BCE to the Christian fourth-century CE. In his Confessions, Augustine remembers the beatings which – with his parents’ approval – were inflicted on him by his childhood grammarians because he preferred playing to exercises in composing précis and paraphrases (Conf. 1.9ff ).12 Consequently, we may assume that the discourse on childhood in Paul’s Roman first-century CE did not differ much from Plato’s description.

11.3.1.2 The νήπιος: The Pre-Rational Child The second visit paid to the children’s nursery (Gal. 4.1–3) explains the lateness of the Christ event by an analogy with the young male heir’s situation in the 12

Cf. Catherine Atherton, ‘Children, Animals, Slaves and Grammar’, in Pedagogy and Power: Rhetorics of Classical Learning (ed. Yun Lee Too and Niall Livingstone; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1998), 224.

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Greco-Roman household. In his childhood, the son of the house was subjected to the custody of household guardians and trustees (Gal. 4.2: ἐπιτρόπους and οἰκονόμους): he lived among slaves and was reared by slaves. In fact, before the father decided to give the adolescent son formal and legal status as citizen, it was difficult to distinguish the son from the slaves of the household. The new civic and legal status installed the son as the coming lord of the household. Paul alludes to this tradition13 in Gal. 4:1, ‘Λέγω δέ, ἐφ᾽ ὅσον χρόνον ὁ κληρονόμος νήπιός ἐστιν, οὐδὲν διαφέρει δούλου κύριος πάντων ὤν.’ By analogy, the advent of Christ represented the time appointed by the divine Father for Jews and Gentiles to receive their formal sonship (Gal 4:5, 7). Until then both groups were enslaved to the enigmatic ‘elemental spirits of the world’ (Gal. 4:1, 3:  οὕτως καὶ ἡμεῖς, ὅτε ἦμεν νήπιοι, ὑπὸ τὰ στοιχεῖα τοῦ κόσμου ἤμεθα δεδουλωμένοι). In the case of the Gentiles, these elemental spirits are probably an allusion to the stock criticism of Stoicism for worshipping heavenly bodies. In the case of the Jews, they refer to the injunctions to observe the Sabbath and the other feasts of the Jewish calendar (cf. Gal. 4.10), which were determined by the same celestial bodies (cf. Gen. 1.14–17). Most likely, this synecdoche for the entire Law was invoked to establish a parallel with the Gentile Galatians’ former situation. The development of reason, which was said to happen around the age of seven, was closely linked to the ability to use language. Plato’s reference to the child’s παιδία καὶ νηπιότης, which the LCL edition mistakenly translates as ‘childish ignorance’ (808E), confirms this. According to LSJ Dictionary, the etymological meaning of the term νήπιος stems from the privative ‘νη’ plus the noun ἔπος; hence the adjective or subject νήπιος refers to the non-speaking individual. The term is typically used of young animals, but it may also be used metaphorically to describe something childish or silly, or a person without forethought. But since the child was expected to have acquired a language at the age of seven, νηπιότης – in Plato’s text as well as in Gal. 4.1.3 – must refer to something other than a suckling.

13

Michele George, ‘Slavery and Roman Material Culture’, in The Cambridge World History, vol. 1: The Ancient Mediterranean World (ed. Keith Bradley and Paul Cartledge; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 385–413.

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In the Greco-Roman world, the possession of language referred to two very different things. On the one hand, there is the ordinary language, which the child habitually learned by listening to and conversing with the adults – often the slaves who cared for the child. On the other hand, there is the skilled use of language, which was characterized by the right pronunciation and the right use of words, without barbarisms or solecisms and with knowledge of grammar (and awareness of the exceptions from it). In addition, this refined kind of speech was informed by the cultural canon, through which literacy was achieved. Thus, the young child was a νήπιος, not because he did not yet have any words, but because he was an uneducated speaker. As the fourth-century CE grammarian Diomedes explains in his Ars grammatica, the skilled use of language differed as widely from the ordinary, unlearned language as the child’s first language differed from the unarticulated sounds of an animal. In her essay ‘Children, Animals, Slaves and Grammar’, Catherine Atherton concludes that the ‘bare possession of language is not the end of humanity’s struggle to raise itself above the level of the beasts’.14 Without this skilled use of language, appeals to reason would not work. Until that happened, the child’s behaviour must be regulated by punishment or the threat of it. Apart from explaining salvation history, Paul’s childhood analogies also serve as empirical documentation of the problematic nature of human beings after the fall, whose solution and liberation had come with the advent of Christ. The two visits to the nurseries frame Paul’s interpretation of the baptism ritual and his exposition of the significance of the Christ event for both Jews and Gentiles (Gal. 3.26–29). In this context, the offering of a new ‘dress’ in baptism (Gal. 3.27:  ὅσοι γὰρ εἰς Χριστὸν ἐβαπτίσθητε, Χριστὸν ἐνεδύσασθε) replaces the reception of the Roman toga as a symbol of maturity. The question before us is now how this contextual material will inform and influence our reading of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Where does it leave the human being in need of this kind of παιδαγωγός? How does it illuminate Paul’s attack on the Law? Paul’s exposition of the Hagar-Sarah story answers these questions.

14

Catherine Atherton, ‘Children, Animals, Slaves and Grammar’, 216.

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11.4 Paul’s Anthropology: Galatians as a Case Study In Gal. 4.21, Paul finally addresses the conflict between him and the Galatians directly. After all, the problem is not that some outsiders have forced the Galatians to Judaize, but that the Galatians themselves want to be under the Law. Paul has postponed the confrontation until the premises for his ultimate blow against his opponents’ position are in place, but now he delivers it forcefully in the form of an allegory based on the story of Hagar and Sarah. Paul juxtaposes the two women and their respective covenants as categorical alternatives between which the Galatians are to choose: it is either the Law or Christ. Since the baptized Galatians belong to Sarah’s column, the opposition suggests that by their choice, they may ‘fall from grace’ (Gal. 5.4). However, the impression of an either-or choice is false, which Paul also admits in his conclusion to the letter. After all, neither circumcision nor foreskin matters; only the ‘new creation’ makes a real difference (Gal. 6.15:  οὔτε γὰρ περιτομή τί ἐστιν οὔτε ἀκροβυστία ἀλλὰ καινὴ κτίσις). But the Galatians appear uninformed about the anthropological implication of the Christ event, and so Paul tries to make up for their ignorance with his letter. As we shall see, his allegory is a perfect summary of his anthropology.

11.4.1 Motherhood κατὰ σάρκα and κατὰ πνεῦμα The surprising moves in Paul’s allegorical interpretation of the story of Hagar and Sarah are his identification of the covenant that God made with the Israelites through Moses with Hagar and his displacement of the present Jerusalem to her column (Gal. 4.25: τὸ δὲ Ἁγὰρ Σινᾶ ὄρος ἐστὶν ἐν τῇ Ἀραβίᾳ· συστοιχεῖ δὲ τῇ νῦν Ἰερουσαλήμ). Paul’s provocative shifts are unwarranted by Scripture since the stories about the patriarchs associate Israel and its history with the Isaac-Jacob branch in Abraham’s pedigree. Yet, the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition, which I have suggested that we should bring into our interpretation, provides the logical basis for the allegory. Initially, Paul reminds us that Sarah’s slave girl Hagar conceived κατὰ σάρκα; in the Hebrew Bible’s narrative, nothing extraordinary was involved in her pregnancy (Gal. 4.23). In spite of the fact that Hagar’s child was her master’s son, he was born into slavery (Gal. 4.24). In Paul’s allegorical exposition, Hagar’s case

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refers to the kind of anthropology with which we became acquainted in Philo’s exposition of the cradle argument in Op. Mund. 160–161: the pleasure of the flesh, necessary for successful conception, was transmitted to the child and engendered the primordial driver for pleasure in it. Consequently, children begotten κατὰ σάρκα were born as slaves to the flesh. In order to gain their freedom from their innate ‘master’, they had to learn to control their desire. We have also seen how, in his stories of the nurseries in Gal. 3 and 4, Paul presupposes a similar understanding: the child is born a beast, and becoming a human being presupposes observant child-minders and skilled teachers. The vice list in Gal. 5.19–21 with which we introduced this chapter is indicative of just this kind of anthropology. In the beginning was lust – and then everything went wrong. The figure of the freeborn woman Sarah is juxtaposed to Hagar. However, to make her a fitting symbol of the new covenant in Christ, Paul must again adapt the biblical story a little: whereas Hagar’s pregnancy took place κατὰ σάρκα, Sarah’s birth, which came about in accordance with the promise, happened κατὰ πνεῦμα (Gal. 4.29). In the book of Genesis, we do not get any information about how the barren Sarah’s miraculous pregnancy happened, but Paul apparently imagined that God’s spirit was involved in her impregnation. Maybe Paul had a kind of heavenly Viagra in mind which assisted Abraham’s age-weakened πνεῦμα? After all, a virgin birth as we encounter in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke would not fulfil the promise to Abraham that he was to be the father of many nations (Gen. 17.5) and that these nations were to be blessed in him (Gen. 12.3). Nevertheless, Paul is keen to omit any references to a real conception in the case of Sarah; the expression κατὰ σάρκα and the verb γεννάω are reserved for Hagar’s pregnancy (Gal. 4.23, 29). The discrepancy between Paul’s version and the biblical narrative is caused by the fact that the allegory is subsumed into his anthropology. Because Hagar’s column represents the first and ordinary generation κατὰ σάρκα and Sarah’s column refers to Paul’s καινὴ κτίσις, a radical polarization is needed. Paul depicts Sarah’s maternity as a paradox. On the one hand, she is said to be the mother of numerous Christ believers (Gal. 4.26, 31). On the other hand, she is also described as barren with a quotation from Isa. 54.1. Paul’s riddle may be solved intertextually by once more consulting Philo and his GrecoRoman tradition.

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11.4.2 Moses’s δευτέρα γένεσίς and Paul’s καινὴ κτίσις In Quaest. in Exod. 2.46, Philo discusses the divine regeneration (δευτέρα γένεσίς) of Moses at Sinai. In Philo’s exposition of Exod. 24.16b – ‘the glory of the Lord settled on Mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it for six days; on the seventh day he called to Moses out of the cloud’ – the nature of the second generation is explained: But the calling above of the prophet is a second birth better than the first [ἡ δὲ ἀνάκλησις τοῦ προφήτου δευτέρα γένεσίς ἐστι τῆς προτέρας ἀμείνων]. For the latter is mixed with a body and had corruptible parents, while the former is an unmixed and simple [LCL’s suggested reading: part of the sovereign soul] . . . which has no mother but only a father, who is (the Father) of all. . . . For he is called on the seventh day, in this (respect) differing from the earth-born first moulded man, for the latter came into being from the earth and with a body, while the former (came) from the ether and without a body.

In Quaest. in Exod. 2.46, Philo operates with two sets of parents. In the first, earthly and ordinary generation, both parents are by necessity involved. However, since a body now exists, the second generation only involves the heavenly Father, ‘who is the Father of all’. Philo here echoes Plato’s Timaeus (28C), which is no coincidence. The relationship in Philo’s treatises between the first/earthly and the second/heavenly generation corresponds to Plato’s distinction between the heavenly, divinely generated, but motherless Ἀφροδίτη Οὐράνια and her ordinary or popular version, Ἀφροδίτη Πανδήμος from Pausanias’ speech in the Symposium (180). When Paul associates Sarah with the Jerusalem above (Gal. 4.26: ἡ ἄνω Ἰερουσαλὴμ), it may be seen as an invitation to the children of her covenant to understand themselves in light of Philo’s and Plato’s heavenly generations. The Galatians’ heavenly generation – their καινὴ κτίσις – happened when they received the divine spirit in their hearts through baptism. Their new status was confirmed by their recognition of God as their heavenly father (cf. Gal. 3.2, 5; 4.6). In contrast, Plato’s Ἀφροδίτη Πανδήμος, whose longing for immortality was satisfied by the generation κατὰ σάρκα, corresponds to the Hagar column. In addition, the denigration of the ties of kinship κατὰ σάρκα, which we saw in Philo’s recommendation of the Essenes’ voluntary associations, may also have inspired Paul’s construction of the columns. According to Philo, virtue thrived in ascetic communities because their members were not ‘enslaved’ by

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family ties. Paul’s Sarah column represents the same conviction. Recruitment to Sarah’s family transcends kinship κατὰ σάρκα and opens up Abraham’s blessed lineage to the Gentiles. Paul ends his exposition of the story of Hagar and Sarah with a reference to the conflict that exists ‘today’ between the offspring of the two women: the sons of Hagar, who are conceived κατὰ σάρκα, persecute Sarah’s children, who come into being κατὰ πνεῦμα (Gal. 4.29). However, neither the Hebrew Bible nor the Septuagint depicts any mocking of Isaac by his older brother Ismael. The Septuagint uses the verb παίζω, which according to the LSJ Dictionary has no negative connotations; it refers to children’s play or sport. Most commentaries on Galatians refer to the conflicts between non-Christian Jews and Christ believers in the Early Church in which Paul himself was involved before his encounter with the risen Christ. Paul may hint at this – probably ongoing – conflict, but I argue that there is more to it. The contextual material from Paul’s Greco-Roman tradition to which I have drawn attention points to a more psycho/anthropological interpretation of the conflict between the two allegorically juxtaposed brothers. Therefore, I suggest that Paul introduces the persecution of Sarah’s offspring by Hagar’s sons because he wants to illustrate the state of ἀκρασία, in which the desires belonging to the flesh (Hagar/Ismael) are at odd with the spirit (Sarah/Isaac). Paul can now use the biblical request from Sarah (Gen. 21:10) – which is unwarranted in the original narrative – to cast out the bondwoman and her son (Gal. 4.30). Again, the allegorical exposition is subordinated to Paul’s anthropology. When read in this way, we get a fine transition to the next section in the letter, in which Paul reminds the Galatians how ‘the flesh sets its desire against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh; for these are in opposition to one another’ (Gal. 5.17). But since the Galatians have received the spirit of Christ, they are expected to bring forward its fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and gentleness (Gal. 5.22–23). In the end, these virtuous attitudes are the result of the pursued self-control (ἐγκράτεια) that comes with the spiritual regeneration.

11.5 Postscript In his famous essay ‘Paul and the Introspective Consciousness of the West’ (1963), Krister Stendahl had repudiated the idea that Augustine’s theological

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anthropology – especially his doctrine of original sin – was a historically reliable interpretation of Paul’s worldview and letters. To a large extent Stendahl’s position still characterizes Pauline scholarship. Scholars agree that Paul’s Adam/ Christ typology in Romans 5 and the soliloquy in Romans 7 inspired Augustine’s doctrine of original sin, but many question whether Paul himself had a concept of original sin. In her book Adam, Eve, and the Serpent: Sex and Politics in Early Christianity, Elaine Pagels explains: When we actually compare Augustin’s interpretation with those of theologians as diverse as Origen, John Chrysostom, and Pelagius, we can see that Augustine found in Romans 7 what others had not seen there – a sexualized interpretation of sin and a revulsion from ‘the flesh’ based on his own idiosyncratic belief that we contract the disease of sin through the process of conception.15

Elizabeth A. Clark shares Pagels’s conviction. In her 2001 essay, ‘Generation, Degeneration, Regeneration: Original Sin and the Conception of Jesus in the Polemic between Augustine and Julian of Eclanum’, she argues: Although Paul does not so much highlight the responsibility of Adam for all future sin in contrast to the divine gift of forgiveness with human waywardness, his authoritative words set the stage for discussions by various church fathers . . . yet, neither theologian tightly tied the notion of original sin to a biological process. This task was left to Augustine, whose developed theory was refined in the process of debate with Pelagius and his followers after 412 C.E.16

However, as our analysis of Philo’s biblical and medical contribution to the philosophy of his time has demonstrated, the link between ‘the notion of original sin’ and ‘a biological process’ was developed about four centuries before Augustine. I have argued that this kind of reasoning also informed Paul’s thinking on flesh and desire. It is not the idea of a sexually induced concupiscence which separates Paul from Augustine, but their ideas about humanity’s possibility for overcoming it – and, in the end, their ideas about God. Compared to Augustine, whose baptized believer remained simul justus et peccator, Paul

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16

Elaine Pagels, Adam, Eve, and the Serpent: Sex and Politics in Early Christianity (New York: Random House, 1988), 143. Emphasis added. Clark, ‘Generation, Degeneration, Regeneration’, 19. Emphasis added.

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stands out as a more optimistic thinker, because in his view the new generation in Christ de facto enabled human beings to control their desire. According to Augustine, the church controlled and administered the continuing need for reconciliation and forgiveness that Christ had achieved though his vicarious death on the cross. But Paul’s God also differs from Augustine’s forensically scrupulous God. Paul’s letters points to a generous and repentant God, who offers believers a new and better creation than his first attempt. Paul allows his God to intervene in his first creation in order to mend human nature by the aid of Christ’s spirit.

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Death as an Ethical Metaphor in Seneca’s Writings and in Paul’s Letter to the Romans Mathias Nygaard

12.1 Introduction The various Hellenistic schools of philosophy propounded practical teachings, meaning a particular mode of life.1 In this discourse philosophers were thought of as physicians of the soul who helped their followers overcome undue passions and fears as well as establish eudaimonia – that is, thriving or blessedness.2 Disagreements between philosophical schools were more a question of what is the best way to attain this desired state than a disagreement on the goal of human practice.3 To the Stoics the goal of ethical practice was the attainment of apatheia (ἀπαθεία), that is the absence of fear, sorrow, desire, or any other state resulting from tension in the soul.4 The main hindrance to the attainment of this apatheia was the fear of death. Only the sage, the ideal Stoic philosopher engaging in the practice of overcoming death, was free from this fear and its consequences (as described in the μελέτη θανάτου or commentatio mortis).5 Seneca, being a contemporary of Paul and living in Rome, 1

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Cf. Malte Hossenfelder, Die Philosophie der Antike 3:  Stoa, Epikureismus und Skepsis (2nd ed.; München: C. H. Beck, 1995), 14; Pierre Hadot, Exercises Spirituels et philosophie antique (Paris: Albin Michel, 2002), 289–304; Michel Foucault, The Hermeneutics of the Subject: Lectures at the Collège de France 1981–1982 (New  York:  Picador, 2005), 1–24. For the practical emphasis of Seneca, cf. Ep 6.1–5. On medical analogies in ethical discourses, cf. Martha C. Nussbaum, The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). Hossenfelder, Philosophie, 23. Cf. Marcía L. Colish, The Stoic Tradition:  From Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages (Leiden:  Brill, 1990), 42–50; Tad Brennan, The Stoic Life: Emotions, Duties and Fate (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2005). Cf. Cicero’s Stoic Paradoxes. Gill argues that Stoics and Epicureans construct their philosophical systems as a solution to the problem posed by death. Christopher Gill, The Structured Self in

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provides a good interlocutor for his letter written to the church in that city.6 As I will show, their use of death as an ethical metaphor displays some interesting convergences.7 The possible philosophical backgrounds of Paul’s thought have been extensively discussed by scholars. Often the question of Paul’s use of ethical metaphors has been understood against a Platonic background.8 Philo is a good example of a Platonic approach in the thought that a person given over to sins, that is ‘the passions’, is as one whose soul is dead.9 Emma Wasserman reads Romans in a similar way, interpreting the person described in Romans 7 as someone suffering from extreme immorality and therefore unable to stop sinning.10 She engages in this Platonic reading to counter both Bultmann’s holistic anthropology and Engberg-Pedersen’s reading of Paul in light of Stoicism.11 Although I  hold that Paul’s overall thought system makes most sense in a Second Temple Jewish covenant framework, the following will show that

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Hellenistic and Roman Thought (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2006), 120–122. Cf. likewise Vogel:  ‘Das intensive ethische Interesse, das die antike Philosophie am Todesproblem hegte, war allen philsophischen Richtungen gemeinsam und zielte auf die Übervindung der Todesfurcht und auf die Entwicklung und Begründung eines philosophisch verantworteten Todesverständnisses’. Manuel Vogel, Commentatio Mortis:  2 Kor 5,1–10 auf dem Hintergrund antiker ars moriendi (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2006), 148. Starting with Panaetius (c. 185–110 BCE) later Stoicism emphasized Ethics over Logics and Physics. Cicero saw ethics as ‘the highest branch of philosophy’. Fin. 3.6. Cf. the Epitome of Stoic Ethics collected by Stobaeus (5th century CE). Cf. A. A. Long, ‘Arius Didymus and the Exposition of Stoic Ethics’, in Stoic Studies (Berkeley : University of California press, 1996), 107–133. ‘Death as a metaphor for the morally transformed life occurs neither in early Judaism nor in Hellenism apart from the commentatio mortis theme. It is therefore possible that Paul’s use of the metaphor of death as the basis for ethical behavior, is based, at least in part, on the popular philosophical commentatio mortis theme in both its cognitive and behavioural dimensions.’ David E. Aune, ‘Human Nature and Ethics in Hellenistic Philosophical Tradition and Paul: Some Issues and Problems’, in Paul in his Hellenistic Context (ed. T. Engberg-Pedersen; SNTW; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1995), 310. For the Jewish background, cf. Brian Rosner, Paul, Scripture, and Ethics: A Study of 1 Corinthians 5–7 (AGJU 22; Leiden:  Brill, 1994); Richard Hays, The Conversion of the Imagination (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2005), 143–162. For more general comparisons, cf. Jan Nicolaas Sevenster, Paul and Seneca (NovTSup 4; Leiden: Brill, 1961). Seneca is an eclectic thinker using Cynical, Epicurean, Platonic and Peripatetic thoughts in his Stoic framework. In the Phaedo Plato quotes Socrates exclaiming that philosophy is nothing but a preparation for death and dying (64a). Phil. 1.21 on death as a gain (κέρδος) is sometimes seen as a Platonic argument. cf. Plato Apol. 32, 40d. Cf. also Rom. 7.24. ‘The death of the man is the separation of the soul from the body, but the death of the soul is the decay of virtue and the bringing in of wickedness. It is for this reason that God says not only “die” but “die the death”, indicating not the death common to us all, but that special death properly so called, which is that of the soul becoming entombed in passions and wickedness of all kinds’ (Leg 1.105–106). The ‘Platonic tradition about extreme immorality or soul-death illuminates the monologue as the dramatic self-narration of the mind explaining its total disempowerment at the hands of passions and desires represented as sin’. Emma Wassermann, The Death of the Soul in Romans 7 (WUNT II/ 256; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 145. Cf. p. 8, 51–116. This also means that death and sin are not ‘powers’ imposing themselves on the speaker. Wassermann, Death, 11, 36–38, 146.

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Stoicism is a better hypothetical interlocutor for certain ethical elements of the letter of Romans than is Platonism.12 However, when speaking of ethics in this context it must be remembered that neither Seneca nor Paul detaches ethics from an underlying philosophical theory. In this discourse Ethics, as a prescription and description of behaviour, is wholly caught up in thoughts about what we call theology and cosmology. In its most basic sense ‘death’ is the observable cessation of bodily functions; here, however, we will be concerned with the metaphorical uses of this term. In this essay I use ‘metaphor’ to denote a figure of speech in which a word is applied to an object or action in a transferred meaning. An ‘ethical metaphor’ is using such a figure of speech to give value judgements on certain actions, and thereby to propound certain patterns of behaviour. It is clear that in both Seneca and Paul we can discern a negative and a positive use of the metaphor of death: a) Negative uses: This entails the use of death imagery to provide value judgements on undesirable mode of acting. The result is to construe an ideal by means of its opposite. b) Positive uses: This entails the use of death imagery to denote a desirable act or mode of acting. In the rest of this essay I will display ways in which death is used as an ethical metaphor in both positive and negative ways, first in Seneca and then in Paul. I will then finish up by comparing the positive and negative uses of this metaphor in both thinkers.

12.2 Seneca To Seneca death is the cutting loose of the (physical) soul from the body, and its final dissolution some time later. For virtuous persons, the soul has the potential to last until the impending cataclysm, due to its ‘tension’. For others, the soul is likely to dissolve or evaporate within a short time. Beyond

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this notion, Seneca also has a wealth of material on death and its ethical implications. He shared with his contemporaries the thought that the moment of death summed up the ethical character of a person.13 A worthy death would contribute to being remembered, and in that sense attaining to some sort of immortality in public memory.14 It is the process that Seneca saw as leading up to this conclusion which will concern us here.

12.2.1 Negative Metaphorical Uses of ‘Death’ In his ethical works Seneca emphasizes rigorous self-control as a way to attain peace of mind, apatheia. This is achieved through philosophical reflection that enables the rational element within the soul to take control of the whole being. Towards this end Seneca provides several negative images of persons being controlled by desires. De Brevitate Vitae uses the metaphor of death to great effect. In section 11 the wise man is described as meeting death with steady steps. In contrast to this ideal Seneca portrays people engrossed in idle occupations (13.4). They are only concerned about consumption, their hairdo and gluttony (12.2–5). Such persons become enfeebled and unable to make any decisions (12.6), ‘they are dead’ (mortuus est, 12.9). Similar problems pertain to those engaged in meaningless academic pursuits (12.1), or fame which is ‘toiling for an inscription on a tomb’ (20.1). The only way out of this meaningless conundrum is the study of philosophy.15 In becoming heirs to the philosophers one can attain to a form of immortality through fame (15.4).16 The rest of reality will perish and cannot give any true pleasure (17.4). In Epistle 59, Seneca likewise describes men who give in to meaningless pleasures. This is a process with a power of its own which draws men into its wheel of misfortunes. In contrast to the Stoic ideal, those who enter on this road are passive. They live their life at home, for the sole sake of attaining pleasure. Seneca’s verdict on them is as follows:  ‘Those men, however, who creep into a hole and grow torpid are no better off in their homes than if they 13

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Cf. Tranq.; Prov. 2.9–12. Cf. also Ep. 26.6: ‘What you have done in the past will be manifest only at the time when you draw your last breath.’ The virtues are what make humans most like the gods. So Daniel C. Russel ‘Virtue as “Likeness to God” in Plato and Seneca’, Journal of the History of Philosophy 42 (2004): 241–260. ‘Of all men they alone are at leisure who take time for philosophy, they alone really live’, Brev. Vit. 14.1. Philosophy partakes in the principles that guide all of reality and are in that sense outside of the changes evident in the cosmos.

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were in their tombs. Right there on the marble lintel of the house of such a man you may inscribe his name, for he has died before he is dead.’17 As with the previous example, the negative characterization singles in on indecisive acts. Those who do not take control of their own lives, suppressing the passions, are dead. In De Vita Beata 19–20 Seneca takes those to task who criticize philosophers for not practicing what they preach. According to Seneca, the failures of the philosophers are due to their heroic and mighty words that cannot even be compared to those coming from others ignorant of philosophy (19.3). In fact, these philosophers are fighting to loosen themselves from a single gibbet (stipes), whilst the others ‘are stretched upon as many crosses (crucibus) as they have desires’ (19.3).18 The man without virtue nails himself to the cross by his own hand; meaning he is responsible for the punishment he brings upon himself through his passions. Here we see the freedom of the sage as contrasted to the slavery of those controlled by desires. True freedom is attained by departing life freely (20.5). Through suicide one enables reason to better even nature through actively engaging death. Common to each of these examples is the construction of a negative image that is consistently indecisive and effeminate in contrast to the ideal. The ideal human being is the vir optimus of Epistle 81 who lives to be generous towards others (5.1.3). To Seneca, ‘one must live for one’s neighbor, if one would live for oneself ’.19 The one who lives for his own pleasures is given over to a personal and civic passivity which to Seneca can only be described as death. This negative character is subject to death, inactively experiencing it. On the other hand, the ideal man actively engages death, and thereby somehow overcomes it.

12.2.2 Positive Metaphorical Uses of ‘Death’ For Seneca, humans are beset by a number of challenges that hinder their attainment of virtue, and through that, happiness. These challenges all stem from a basic fear of death that feed all human shortcomings. To Seneca, ‘he 17 18

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Ep. 59.4. Plato also uses this metaphor negatively: ‘Each pleasure or pain nails the soul as with a nail to the body and rivets it on and makes it corporeal, so that if fancies the things which are true which the body says are true’, Phaed. 83d. ‘alteri vivas oportet, si vis tibi vivere’, Ep. 48.2; so also Ep. 95.52. Cf. Rom. 13.8.

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who fears death will never do anything worthy of a man who is alive’.20 Most humans are given over to pursuing pleasures; a mode of life stemming from a basic ignorance about reality. 21 This ignorance means that humans are slaves to that which besets them in life.22 Seneca can even say, somewhat hyperbolically, that pleasure as such is a vice to Stoics.23 In fact, the pursuit of pleasures, being a search for more of the same, paradoxically leads to an aversion for life itself. 24 This basic ignorance is supplemented by a pervasive cowardice that keeps people from pursuing truth.25 This in turn leads to a self-deception concerning the reality of life. Therefore, to Seneca, it is not death in itself that poses a problem for humans; rather, it is the forgetfulness of death which is problematic. This is because forgetfulness of death makes a true philosophy of life impossible. Not knowing about death is not knowing the shape and condition of life, and hence its true reality. It is this that leads to the division of the impulses of the soul, creating unruly tensions within the self. Life as such is only known in light of death, and is only good in view of its completeness.26 In Seneca’s words, ‘oh life, by the favor of death I hold thee dear’.27 Ignorance leads to vices and a flight away from the true self. Seneca approvingly quotes Lucretius saying, ‘Thus ever from himself doth each man flee.’28 It is to counter this forgetfulness of death that Seneca develops many positive metaphorical uses of death. The solution to the ignorance of life’s true reality and the vices that result from it is to study Stoic philosophy, and thereby to overcome the fear of death.29 In fact, it is the only power which ‘can shake off our deep slumber’.30 To Seneca, all true philosophy teaches one how to die.31 It ‘makes us joyful in the very sight of death’.32 Philosophy enables one to enter 20 21

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Tranq. 11.6. Cf. the discussion on passion as a central topos in the Hellenistic ethical discourse. Nussbaum, Therapy; and Richard K. Sorabji, Emotions and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation (London: Oxford University Press, 2000). ‘Show me a man who is not a slave; one is a slave to lust, another to greed, another to ambition, and all men are slaves to fear’, Ep. 47.17. Ep. 59.1. Tranq. 2.15. That Telesphorus of Rhodes refused to take his life in captivity was ‘most unmanly’ (effeminatissimam), Ep. 70.6. ‘consumare vitam ante mortem’, Ep. 32. As emphasized by Foucault, Hermeneutics, 111. Marc. 20.3. Tranq. 2.14. A quote from De Rerum Natura 3.1068. Prov. 2.9–12; Ep. 30.1–3. Ep 53.8. Ep. 49.15.1. He lists Socrates, Carneades, Epicurus, Stoics, Cynics, Zeno, Pythagoras, Democritus, Aristotle, Theophrastus. Moreover, ‘these will open to you the path to immortality’, Ep. 49.15.4 Ep. 30.3.

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into the company of those who have attained to true reality, and therefore offers a kind of timelessness.33 In this sense philosophy, as a practice of dying, enables its practitioners to deliberately become a part of the overarching reality in which his or her own life is couched. This philosophical practice of dying is described as a transformative endeavor. In De Ira Seneca exhorts: ‘Fight against yourself! (Pugna tecum ipse) If you will to conquer anger, it cannot conquer you.’34 To Seneca, the self is in a constant struggle against itself (not unlike the character appearing in Romans 7). Victory is achieved when the rational elements of the soul get an upper hand. This can be achieved through focusing one’s strengths on this task.35 Moreover, it is possible only with the help of God.36 In the end, the singular aspect which enables this victory is death itself, which enables a person to be his or her own master. To Seneca, ‘there is only one chain which binds us to life, and that is the love of life. The chain may not be cast off, but it may be rubbed off (qui ut non est abiciendus, ita minuendus est), so that, when necessity shall demand, nothing may retard or hinder us from being ready to do at once that which at some time we are bound to do’.37 The chain of false judgement cannot be cast off in an instant but only ‘rubbed off ’ through philosophical exercises, for instance the practice of preconceiving evils (preameditatio malorum). To him, ‘if an evil has been pondered beforehand, the blow is gentle when it comes’.38 For instance, when attending to children or friends, one should continually remind oneself that they will in fact soon die.39 Betraying his earlier adherence to Sextian philosophy, Seneca can write, ‘to despise our bodies is sure freedom’.40 The pleasures must be overcome at all costs.41 This transformative practice has a central cognitive element. ‘One who has learned and understood what he should do and avoid, is not a wise man until 33

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‘Of all men they alone are at leisure who take time for philosophy, they alone really live; for they are not content to be good guardians of their lifetime only. They annex every age to their own’, Ep. 49.14.1. Ira 3.13.1. ‘We mortals have been endowed with sufficient strength by nature, if only we use this strength, if only we concentrate our powers and rouse them all to help us or at least not to hinder us’, Ep. 116.8. ‘Indeed no man can be good without the help of god’. Ep. 41.2. ‘to obey God is freedom’, Vit. Beat. 15.7. For a critique of religion, cf. Vit. Beat. 26.7–8. Ep. 26.10. Tranq. 86.34. Ep. 63.15. Ep. 65.22. Cf. likewise: ‘Therefore those who “hearken to their bellies”, should be numbered among the animals’, Ep. 59.4. ‘Of this one thing make sure against your dying day; let your faults die before you die. Away with those disordered pleasures, which must be dearly paid for’, Ep. 27.2.

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his mind is metamorphosed (transfiguratus est) into the shape of that which he has learned.’42 The result of understanding the nature of reality is that one attains to a life of inner harmony. This inner harmony is perceived of as agreeing with the whole of reality.43 Intentionally pursuing the way of life of philosophy is appropriating the ‘good’ in a transformative process.44 Ignorance is a sickness, and the philosopher is a surgeon who heals his followers.45 Seneca can say, ‘What then is good? The knowledge of things (rerum scientia). What then is evil? The lack of knowledge of things.’46 Philosophy enables the person, mind and body, to be changed into the rational nature of all of reality, the logos. Actively entering this process of dying leads to freedom from all the forms of slavery which binds a human person.47 The result is that there will be no undue oppositions within the mind or body.48 The practice of dying is what makes the life of virtue, and therefore happiness, possible. Therefore, the Stoic philosophy of death enables virtues, and through that enables a person to possess his or her own life.49 This further means that the freely acting agent only exists as a function of his or her own death. This proper practice of philosophy is a lifelong practice the outcome of which is made clear for all to behold at the moment of death.50 The successful Stoic practitioner approaches the divine in this freedom.51 In preparing for death the person appropriates the necessity of fate through rationality. In this sense freedom is a creation of the individual, as is exemplified by Cato’s suicide.52 In actively killing himself he completed his ‘noble soul which had been so defiant of all worldly power’.53 The wise man would do well killing himself as an example which frees others from 42

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Ep. 94.47–48. Cf. Rom. 12.1–2. See also Philip F. Esler, ‘Paul and Stoicism: Romans 12 as a Test Case’, NTS 50 (2004): 106–124. Seneca describes this inner order attributable to the logos in his Nat. Quaest. Marc. 20.2. Ep. 52.10. Cf. likewise:  ‘And so I guide you to that in which all who fly from Fortune must take refuge – to philosophical studies. They will heal your wound; they will uproot all your sadness’, Helv. 17.3. Ep. 31.6. ‘Think on death. In saying this, he bids us think on freedom. He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery’, Referring to Epicurus in Ep. 26.10. ‘He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery; he is above any external power, or, at any rate, he is beyond it’, Ep. 26.10. ‘He that owns himself has lost nothing. But how few men are blessed with ownership of self ’, Ep. 42.10. Brev. Vit. 7.3: ‘toto vita discendum est mori’. ‘For this is exactly what philosophy promises to me, that I shall be made equal to God’, Ep. 48.11. ‘Surely the gods looked with pleasure upon their pupil as the made his escape by so glorious and memorable an end! Death consecrates those whose end even those who fear must praise’, Prov. 2.12. Ep. 24.8.

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the fear of death.54 As is well known, Seneca followed his own teaching on this point in that he took his own life when he fell under the disfavor of Nero.55 In this section I  have shown how Seneca uses the metaphor of death in both negative and positive ways. On the one hand, the person who lives a life in pleasures, devoid of philosophical insight, is as good as dead. To Seneca, such a person is passive and effeminate. On the other hand, the person who actively pursues death through the practice of philosophy attains to the timelessness that it carries. This is a process of dying which in fact overcomes itself. In the following I will pursue the same questions with regards to some Pauline texts.

12.3 Paul’s Letter to the Romans In what follows, I will give an overview of negative and positive metaphorical uses made of death in Paul’s letter to the Romans, particularly chapters 6–8.56 Although the imagery of death is used throughout the Pauline literature, it is above all in Romans 6–8 that it is used as an ethical metaphor for the transformed life of the believer.57

12.3.1 Negative Metaphorical Uses of ‘Death’ Although more common in the rest of the Pauline literature, there are some instances of negative metaphorical uses of death in Romans.58 A good example 54

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‘Socrates in prison discoursed, and declined to flee when certain persons gave him the opportunity; he remained there, in order to free mankind from the fear of two most grievous things, death and imprisonment’, Ep. 24.4. ‘Essay, my soul, the task long planned; deliver yourself from human affairs’, Prov. 2.10. The suicide is described in Tacitus Ann. 15.62–64. Cf. James Ker, The Deaths of Seneca (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2009). Cf. Feuillet:  ‘Il nous paraît certain que l’antithèse mortvie constitue le thème capital des chapitres 5–8 de l’Épître aux Romains’. André Feuillet, ‘Les attaches bibliques de antithèses pauliniennes dans la première partie de l’Épître aux Romains (1–8)’, in Mélanges Bibliques (ed. A. Descamps and A. de Halleux; Gembloux: Duculot, 1970), 333. Theobald argues that Paul brings up other themes in order to discuss his main concern, that of death. Michael Theobald, Römerbrief Kapitel 1–11 (Stuttgard: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2002), 161. For this theme, cf. further Clifton C. Black, ‘Pauline Perspectives on Death in Romans 5–8’, JBL 103/3 (1984): 413–433; Joseph R. Dodson, The ‘Powers’ of Personification: Rhetorical Purpose in the ‘Book of Wisdom’ and the Letter to the Romans (BZNW 161; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 123–139. So Aune, Human Nature, 311. In this discussion I have chosen not to focus on Romans 5, as this would take the discussion in the direction of death as an apocalyptic force. A more comprehensive presentation of Paul’s thought on death would of course have to include such aspects. Cf. Col. 2.13; Eph. 2.1–2.

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is Rom 6.13 which calls the Romans to ‘yield yourself to God as men who have been brought from death to life, and you members to God as instruments of righteousness’. Before their present state baptized believers were dead, using their members for unrighteousness. That is, they lived in sin (6.1–2), and are called to leave that state behind. Their previous life is described with the metaphor of death, in contrast to their present ‘newness of life’ (6.3, ἐν καινότητι ζωῆς). Considering what they have now, that which they had before is as if it was death itself.59 In so far as believers continue in their former life, they are clinging to death (or the body of death Rom. 7.24). Several examples are also found in chapter 8. In the middle of a discourse about life in the Spirit, Rom. 8.6 says that those who are not ‘in Christ’ set their mind (φρόνημα) on the flesh – an activity that is described as death. Further, in Rom. 8.10 Paul can say that ‘if Christ is in you, although your bodies are dead because of sin, your spirits are alive because of righteousness’ (δικαιοσύνην). The terminology would not be foreign to Stoics. A life of sin inevitably leads to the death of the body. The language must be metaphorical in some sense, as the believers have not taken their last breath; they are both dead and alive at the same time. Their bodies once partook in death and sin. Now although their bodies are dead in sin, their spirits are alive (8.10). In this sense the image is a metaphor for that mode of life the believers are called to leave behind, they are to treat it as that which in reality is dead.

12.3.2 Positive Metaphorical Uses of ‘Death’ In Romans, the most significant use of metaphors of death appears in transformational ethical discourses. Followers of Jesus deny themselves, and the death of Jesus is a pattern by which to live life as his follower.60 This metaphor is ritualized in baptism which is seen as a participation in Jesus’ death.61 To Paul, baptism implies that ‘we died to sin’ (Rom. 6.2). In this context sin is not equal to death, as in the negative form of the metaphor, but something it is possible to die away from. The image of the cross is used to explain both the 59 60

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A kal wahomer or a fortiori argument. In the Gospels, the readers are called to Jesus’ and daily take up their crosses in a life of self-denial (Mt. 16.25–26; Lk. 9.23). Cf. Larry Hurtado, ‘Jesus’ death as paradigmatic in the New Testament’ SJT 57/4 (2004): 413–433. ‘The ethical implications of this ritual re-enactment of Christ’s death and resurrection were probably a Pauline innovation’, Aune, Human Nature, 311–312.

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foundation for the new life and the mode in which it is lived. Before proceeding, it is necessary to point out what kind of problem death poses for Paul. In Romans death is one of several entities that can result in separation from God (together with sin, angels, principalities, powers, etc. Rom. 8.35, 38–39. Cf. 1 Cor. 15.26 ‘the last enemy’). In this context, ‘death’ connotes both a power and a relational deficit, with life only available in a full relation to God. The believer dies away from death and everything that hinders communion with God. To Paul a major part of this dying is a change from the mind of the flesh to the mind of the Spirit (Rom. 8.5–8; 12.1–2). Although this might be a rabbinically influenced argument based on conflict between the good and evil inclinations inherent in humans (the yetzer harah and yetzer hatov), it does communicate well with Romans with an interest in popular philosophy.62 In Romans the ethical metaphor of dying is developed extensively with the use of cognitive language.63 The practice of dying to the flesh is a process of realizing the true nature of the person as such. The old life of believers is dead already; they just have to realize it. A true understanding of death is emphasized through a wide range of words referring to cognitive processes. This is clear in 6.6 (γινώσκοντες) 6.8–9 (εἰδότες), 6.11 (λογίζεσθε) and 8.5–6 (φρονοῦσιν). Rather than a one-time occurrence, this is envisaged as a process which changes the mind of the believer. To Paul, this is understood as a wholly new situation. The nations set their minds (νοῦς) on futile things (1.28). This appears to be despite their better knowledge; they do know what to do (2.14). Interpreting the ‘I’ of Romans 7 in a general sense, it is here understood as a reference to the inability to fully do that which is good, a problem which Paul seems to ascribe to all unbelievers (cf. especially 7.19). The death and new life of baptism, however, enable believers to start moving away from that impasse. To Paul, the believer is now in the process of changing from the tormented ‘I’ of chapter 7 to the glorified ‘I’ of chapter 8. The believer has been set free from the law of sin and death and is therefore no longer obligated to live according to the flesh. This thought is repeated in the paraenetic section starting in 12.1. The second verse of chapter 12 calls the Romans to ‘be renewed by the 62

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renewal of the mind, that you may know’ (μεταμορφοῦσθε τῆ ἀνακαινώσει τοῦ νοὸς εἰς τὸ δοκιμάζειν), a change which enables them to ‘properly/rationally worship’ God (λογικὴν λατρείαν) through ethical acts.64 Doing this they will know ‘the good’ (τὸ ἀγαθὸν Rom. 12.2), and do what is described in the ethical discourse of chapters 12–15.65 This practice of dying results in the freedom of doing God’s will. Dying to the non-virtuous self, the believer is enabled to live for others. This is the very mind of Christ.66 This new situation, brought about by God, changes the mind or inner man (Rom. 7.23).67 In this sense it is not a question only of a metaphor. The transformational qualities of the Spirit changes the person on two levels: the spiritual inclinations increase, and the fleshly decreases. This is occurring at the same time, and there is no strict mind-body dualism involved. In the end, it appears the body will be completely taken over by the pneuma.68 This is clear especially in Rom 8. In 8.9a the believers are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit of God (pneuma), since it lives in them. This is in fact the Spirit of Christ (8.9b), which is Christ himself (8.10). The result of this indwelling is that the flesh is dying. Not that the Roman church members are all deceased; they are alive in the normal sense of the word. In light of the new reality available in Christ, divine life, the reality of their former lives is re-conceptualized. Their bodies of sin are dying, being replaced by their pneumatic life. Support for such a reading is found in 2 Cor. 4.1–5 which speaks of receiving new clothes through the Spirit. The old clothes, which apparently mean the earthly body, are being swallowed up by the heavenly clothes. Paul’s language of transformation should probably not be read as merely figures. Believers are being conformed to the image of the Son (συμμόρφους τῆς εἰκόνος, 8.29), resulting in their glorification (8.30, ἐδόξασεν). The combination of baptism and Spirit in the context (chs. 6 and 8) suggests that this

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The Stoics had four cardinal virtues:  prudence (φρόνησις - prudentia) moderation/self-control (σωφροσύνε – temperantia), justice (δικαιοσύνε – iustitia), courage (ἀνρεία – fortitudo). See Julia E. Annas, The Morality of Happiness (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 73–84. Φρόνησις and σωφροσνη are used in Rom. 12.3. Cf. Runar M. Thorsteinsson, ‘Stoicism as a Key to Pauline Ethics in Romans’, in Stoicism in Early Christianity (eds. Tuomas Rasimus, Troels EngbergPedersen, and Ismo Dunderberg; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2010), 26. cf. Seneca Ep. 31, 6. See Luke Timothy Johnson, ‘Transformation of the Mind and Moral Discernment in Paul’, in Early Christianity and Classical Culture: Comparative Studies in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (eds. J. T. Fitzgerald, T. H. Olbricht, and L. M. White; NovTSup 110; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 215–236. Cf. Seneca’s argument for the need for God’s help, see Ep. 41.2. As argues Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology and Self in the Apostle Paul (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2010), 51–55.

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is the conclusion to a ‘through death to resurrected life’ motif.69 In light of the ‘redemption of the body’ in 8.23, this is understood as a physical occurrence (reading τὴν ἀπολύτρωσιν τοῦ σώματος as an objective genitive cf. 1 Cor. 15.35–41). To Paul, this transformation of the body starts at baptism with the reception of the life-giving spirit. In this sense the dying from the self is at the same time the reception of a new self. The cognitive language is not separable from God’s transforming power in the new creation. The whole person is being changed, a process which is described simultaneously as death and new life. In 8.11 the mortal bodies receive life through the indwelling Spirit (ζῳοποιήσει καὶ τὰ θνητὰ σώματα ὑμῶνξ διὰ τοῦ ἐνοικοῦντος αὐτοῦ πνεύματος ἐν ὑμῖν). Through baptism (6.3–6) and the indwelling Spirit, even the body will be redeemed (8:23 τῆν ἀπολύτρωσιν τοῦ σώματος cf. 2 Cor. 3.18). In this discussion on Romans 6–8 I have argued that Paul also uses ‘death’ as a negative metaphor of the life of sin the believers used to live before conversion. However, more common is the positive use of death as a metaphor of how the new life of the believers is realized. To Paul, the old life entropies as the new life of the Spirit is made a present reality. In the analysed texts cognitive metaphors are central. In the following I will proceed with a final comparison of the two thinkers.

12.4 Concluding Comparison Seneca shared a strong focus on ethics and death with his fellow Stoics. Paul also engaged these themes in a way that would have communicated to educated Romans. In what follows I  will first point out similarities in Paul and Seneca’s ethical discussion of death, after which I will point out some differences. As in the previous section, I will start by discussing negative metaphorical uses of death, followed by positive uses.

12.4.1 A Comparison of the Negative Metaphorical Uses of Death in Seneca and Paul Both Seneca and Paul to some extent share the negative metaphorical image of death with Platonism. The person who lives in accordance with the passions or desires is as good as dead. 69

Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology, 53.

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In both Seneca and Paul, the agent who passively receives life is described with negative metaphorical images of death. To Seneca, living life merely for the sake of perpetuating it, or for the sake of pleasure, is akin to death itself. For Paul those living life in accordance with self-serving sins are already dead. In contrast, those who actively engage reality can be described with the positive metaphor of ‘dying’. They are being changed in accordance with true reality, turning from one self into another. At the same time this is a paradoxical mode of acting as that which is actively entered into is accepting a reality outside the acting self, acting upon it. Through actively pursuing reality as it is, the individual agent realizes their place in a larger framework. For Seneca, this is the cosmos and its guiding principles; for Paul it is God who is in charge of creation.70 However, this negative use of the metaphor of death is not made to carry a significant part of their ethical programs, for such uses we must turn to the next section.

12.4.2 A Comparison of the Positive Metaphorical Uses of Death in Seneca and Paul When it comes to overcoming death, the most interesting convergence between Seneca and Paul is the positive use of the metaphor of death. For both, death is at times used as an image of the desired way of acting. This is in one sense similar to a Platonic notion of dying away from this world to enter into a better or truer one. Both Seneca and Paul see actively dying as obtaining a reality that would otherwise not be available. However, their focus on the process of dying as a desirable ethical act adds a reflection not too common among Platonists. To the Platonist, dying ideally entails depletion and return to the One. To Paul and Seneca the corporeality of death, and the process of entering into it willingly, is constitutive of the human person and his or her subjectivity. In a general sense, this would suggest that Engberg-Pedersen’s corporeal reading of Paul is preferable to Wasserman’s more idealist one.71 70

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To Seneca God is that which one sees and does not see, everything (NQ 1.13). He is comletely soul and reason (NQ 1.4). This God can be named the ultimate cause (causa causarum), providence, nature, universe (NQ 4.45.2). Humans are part of this God need to align with this reality through reason. For Seneca’s notion of the Cosmos and its relation to selfhood, cf. the discussion in Gareth D. Williams, The Cosmic Viewpoint: A Study of Seneca’s Natural Questions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 17–53. Not thereby arguing that Stoicism is necessarily the best interlocutor for Paul. Engberg-Pedersen, Cosmology; Wassermann, Death of the Soul.

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To both Paul and Seneca, the practice of dying enables a life of virtues. To Seneca, this is accomplished by overcoming the fear of death through the practice of Stoic Philosophy. This is a transformation of the whole being to be in line with reality, meaning a rational life. Paul could be thought to do something similar in his call for a transformation of the mind, leading to a life in which the law of God can be followed. Romans 8 also speaks of fear, which to Seneca was death’s power. 8.15a works very well in a Stoic context: ‘For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear’ (cf. also 1 Cor. 15.55, ‘death where is thy sting’). Similarly, other places Paul can appeal to manliness as a mark of the believer (1 Cor. 16.13, ‘Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be men of courage [ἀνδρίζεσθε], be strong’).72 Both Seneca and Paul call for a complete and intentional transformation of the person, mind and body.73 For both, the unity of the person is expressed in the virtuous life. The ethical life integrates all aspects of reality, including the body and mind. For Seneca, the goal of his moral teaching was to bring all to an ‘all embracing love of the human race as of oneself ’.74 The goal of Romans is to ‘bring about the obedience of faith for the sake of his name among all the nations’ (1.5). This is obedience to a God who works to include all within his sphere of love (cf. for instance 5.12–21; 8.31–39). Paul’s use of dying as a metaphor for the new life of the Christian is in a functional sense comparable to Seneca’s use of death. To Seneca, the philosophical practice of dying frees the person for philosophy and therefore a virtuous life. To Paul, death frees the believer from the old self and the ‘grip of the law’ (Rom. 7.1–6). In both cases death enables the person to leave a wrong notion of the self and undue attachments to ‘this world’ behind. In Christ the believer has already died, and the challenge is to live in that paradoxical reality of being already dead. This is perceived of as a process, the ‘flesh’ and that which pertains to it, must be killed off (Rom. 12.1, ‘offer your bodies as living sacrifices’; cf. Col. 3.5, ‘Put to death that which is earthly in you’). Just as in Seneca, dying is an intentional ongoing transformation. The argument of Romans agrees with the statement in 1 Cor. 15.31 ‘I die daily’ (cf. 2 Cor. 72

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Cf. also 2 Tim. 1.7. On this, cf. Stanley Stowers, ‘Paul and Self-Mastery’, in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook (ed. J. P. Sampley ; Harrisburg: Trinity, 2003), 524–550. ‘Paul also wants his readers to undergo an intellectual metamorphosis, but, precisely as in Seneca, the ultimate purpose is broader:  it is to effect a total moral transformation, physical as well as intellectual, of the body (σῶμα) as well as the “mind” (νoῦς). And to both Paul and Seneca, moral instruction is essential for that purpose.’ Thorsteinsson, Stoicism, 25. Seneca, Clem. 1.11.2.

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4.10–11, ‘always carrying in the body the death of Jesus’). Seneca also has this notion of a process (Ep. 24.19, ‘cotidie morimur’). The integrated thought of Seneca and Paul also means that although the metaphorical use of death removes it from its original setting, it is more than an image. To both Seneca and Paul, humans are in fact dying every day. To both thinkers, dying to one notion of the self is in fact a good thing. Moreover, in so far as they intentionally enter into this death, they are being transformed in a real way. To Paul it is not ‘as if ’ they were dead with Christ; to Seneca it is not ‘as if ’ people are dying every day. Rather, for both, this metaphorical use is realistic, it is speaking of a reality more certain than that for which the word was originally used. On a more abstract level both Seneca and Paul can be thought to overcome the problem of death through an inversion of its meaning in their realistic use of the metaphorical language of life as dying. In this way, the problem of death is drawn into life itself. Both Paul and Seneca propose a detachment from the world through the practice of dying daily. For both authors the practice of dying is a transcendental practice, a going beyond the limit of the self in a death. However, for both authors that transcendent act at the same time establishes subjectivity, the ability to act freely.75 Moving on to differences between the two thinkers, it can be observed that although Paul appears to have had a basic knowledge of Hellenistic moral thought, and did use some of its conceptuality in his letters (for instance Rom. 12.1–3), he recognized that his thought was incompatible with much of GrecoRoman philosophy (cf. ‘foolishness to the Greeks’, 1 Cor. 1.18, 23). There is a sense in which death is not functionally equivalent in the two thinkers. To Paul, death is a result of a broken communion with a personal God; it is a secondary, and chronologically later, result of the foundational problem of ‘sin’. To Seneca the foundational problem is ignorance of the true nature of reality, leading to a life void of virtue. A corollary is that the fear of death is not the basic ethical problem to Paul. This line of thought is evident in Paul’s extensive use of themes from the first part of Genesis, particularly the passages on Adam (5.12–21). It is the fall of man which needs to be overcome.76 To Paul, if this relational problem is solved, the rest of the problems of humanity are solved. In being restored to an ideal relationship to God believers are thought to partake in divine life. 75 76

In Seneca (Prov. 2.12), the discourse on Cato is a good example. Described as a form of death, Gen. 2.17.

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To Paul, death is overcome by an outside power – that is, through the agent of God breaking into the cosmos and reconfiguring it in an apocalyptic event.77 To Seneca, death is overcome through subsuming it into life as lived; to him, death is none other than life itself. In conceptual terms both systems transcend death: Seneca through internalizing it, Paul through externalizing it. The relational categories Paul uses should be understood in a covenantal framework, one that is constitutive of the Judeo-Christian notion of the person.78 To Paul, humans act freely when they have the right relationship to God through participation in Christ (Rom 8.1). To Seneca, humans act freely when they appropriate the rational reality which underlies all of reality. Ideally this is done in a way that betters fate, overcoming it so to say, in dying intentionally. These are two very different modes of construing the human person. To Paul, the person can only be conceived of in relational terms. Redemption, the passage to freedom, is conceived of in narrative sacrificial terms. Educated GrecoRomans would probably assess the ‘new teachings’ of Paul by bringing it into dialogue with philosophical schools (cf. Acts 17.19). This study suggests ways in which Paul could possibly have been understood by Stoic interlocutors. Some of his arguments would appear acceptable, whilst others would be flatly rejected, like this narrative. Paul’s solution to the problem of death is based on a sustained interpersonal relationship with God (8.15b). Seneca can speak of the divine as a Father (Ben. 2.29.4; 3.28.2 etc.) and the help humans receive from god (Ben. 4), but in the end the all-encompassing principle of the universe is impersonal.79 However exalted they might be, even the gods are subject to these rules. Paul’s solution is an example of the Pauline exchange, a notion dissimilar to any found in Stoicism.80 To Paul, God gives a sacrificial gift, stemming from his own person, which needs to be received as a person. To Seneca, the individual 77

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As rightly emphasized John Louis Martyn, ‘The Gospel Invades Philosophy’, in Paul, Philosophy and the Theopolitical Vision (ed. Douglas Harink; Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2010), 13–33. Here I  am thinking of the covenant between God and the people of Israel fulfilled in Jesus Christ. Cf. Climax, 258–267; Wright, Faithfulness, 781–782; 846–851; Jeffrey J. Niehaus, God at Sinai: Covenant and Theophany in the Bible and Ancient Near East (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1995), 333–334; Stanley E Porter and Jacqueline C. R. de Roo, eds., The Concept of Covenant in the Second Temple Period (SJSJ 71; Leiden: Brill, 2003). In Nat. Quaest. 1.13–14 God is wholly soul (animus) and reason (ratio). He even describes God as ‘reason in action’ (ratio faciens Ep. 65.12) and the highest principle conceivable (causa causarum, fatum, naturae, Nat. Quaest. 2.45.2). Rom. 8.17, ‘we suffer with Christ, so that (ἵνα), we may also be glorified with him’. Cf. also 2 Cor. 4.10, ‘carrying around the death of Jesus in the body, so that (ἵνα), the life of Jesus may also be visible in our bodies’. 2 Cor. 4.11, ‘being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that (ἵνα), the life of Jesus may be visible in our mortal flesh’. So also, Phil 3.7–10.

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needs to go beyond human relationships, even the relationship to the gods, to assert his or her subjectivity. In the end this is a subjectivity which is at ease with itself, having been united with the non-personal guiding principles of the universe, the logos. The Stoic would probably argue that the Christian is in fact evading the problem of death by postulating its mythical conquering by an outside agent. The death of the Stoic is his or her own. Moreover, Stoics would see the Christian notion of resurrection as an illusory negation of death. These discussions bring to light another fundamental difference between Paul and Seneca – that of temporality.81 Paul sees himself as part of a story in which agents are given life by God at a distinct point in time. This life-giving event is the cross which paradoxically overcomes death through incorporating believers into the resurrection. For believers, this event lies in the past – it is already accomplished. For Paul, death is a participation of the death of an ‘Other’. For Seneca, the practice of philosophy is an anticipation of death which brings it into the now. Every moment of life is a process of dying. On the cosmological level this process of dying is eternally recurring. The pneuma already present in the world and in humans will consume everything in a conflagration, before the same process starts again. Senecan death is a cessation of time. Paul on his side held to a basically Jewish eschatology. God the creator is responsible for the world and will in the end act to set it straight.82 To conclude, Seneca and Paul both use death as an ethical metaphor. The Stoic philosophical system provides a better fit than Platonism in this context. However, whilst the metaphors Paul and Seneca use are similar, the underlying view of reality makes the function somewhat different.

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So also, Wright, Faithfulness, 1043–1268. Wright, Faithfulness, 1370.

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The Nature of True Worship: Reading Acts 17 with Seneca, Epistle 95 Brian J. Tabb

13.1 Introduction Over forty years ago C. K. Barrett wrote, ‘Few parts of the New Testament have been so fully and so frequently discussed as Luke’s account of Paul’s visit to Athens in Acts 17.15–34.’1 And yet scholars continue to analyse the rhetoric, theology, historicity and philosophical sources of the Areopagus speech. Luke’s reference to Epicureans and Stoics in Acts 17.18 has prompted various proposals for ancient Greek and Roman philosophical parallels including Epimenides, Aratus, Cleanthes, Posidonius, Dio and Seneca. This essay builds on previous scholarly efforts by offering a more focused comparison between the Areopagus speech and an important philosophical work (Ep. 95) written by Lucius Annaeus Seneca, who was easily the most prominent Stoic author from the first century.2 This essay does not attempt to prove that the author of Acts or Paul knew the works of Seneca or other Stoic philosophers.3 Rather, I will carefully read both Acts 17 and Epistle 95 and then reflect on how Paul’s speech engages the thought of his Stoic contemporary on the nature of true worship. 1

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C. K. Barrett, ‘Paul’s Speech on the Areopagus’, in New Testament Christianity for Africa and the World (London: SPCK, 1974), 69. John Sellars, Stoicism (Ancient Philosophies; Chesham:  Acumen, 2006), 12. Scholars who have noted parallels between Acts 17 and Ep. 95 include Richard I. Pervo, Acts:  A  Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress, 2009), 434; Eckhard J. Schnabel, Acts (ZECNT; Grand Rapids, MI:  Zondervan, 2012), 733; Joshua W. Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech of Acts 17:16–34 as Both Critique and Propaganda’, JBL 131, no. 3 (2012): 580. It is noteworthy that Acts 18.12–17 presents Paul appearing before Seneca’s older brother Gallio, who became proconsul of Achaia in CE 55.

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13.2 Seneca’s Epistles to Lucilius Seneca likely composed his famous Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium during retirement in the final years of his life (62–65 CE).4 The 124 surviving epistles offer ‘a gradual introduction to Stoic thought’ and stress that Stoic philosophy entails not merely proper understanding but a comprehensive way of life.5 Though many have treated Seneca’s Epistles as ‘dialogues with an epistolary veneer’,6 Marcus Wilson cogently argues that these texts are best read ‘as epistles, not essays; collectively, not selectively’, though Seneca likely intended their eventual publication.7 Richardson-Hay notes, ‘Each letter is a new and different entity with its own argument and philosophical centre, but also its own inter-epistolary interest and function.’8 Mary Beard’s assessment of Cicero’s letter collections applies also to Seneca’s corpus: ‘[T]he internal ordering of these letter-books deserves to be taken seriously.’9 Seneca’s letters to his friend Lucilius ‘create an atmosphere of interpersonal philosophical exchange’ over time.10 Seneca’s letters frequently highlight Lucilius’s improvement through philosophical study.11 Seneca often highlights his own inadequate moral progress (Ep. 87.4-5) and presents himself not as a physician but a sick man (68.9). He himself is a learner struggling to heed his own exhortations (71.30; cf. 26.7; 27.1). Thus, ‘In the Letters, Seneca and Lucilius make progress together.’12 4

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Brad Inwood, Seneca: Selected Philosophical Letters: Translated with Introduction and Commentary (Clarendon Later Anient Philosphers; Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2007),  xii. This section draws upon Brian J. Tabb, Suffering in Ancient Worldview: Luke, Seneca, and 4 Maccabees in Dialogue (LNTS 569; London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2017), 36–37. Villy Sørensen, Seneca:  The Humanist at the Court of Nero (trans. W. Glyn Jones; Edinburgh: Canongate, 1984), 190. Miriam T. Griffin, Seneca: A Philosopher in Politics (rev. ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1992), 419. Marcus Wilson, ‘Seneca’s Epistles to Lucilius’, in Seneca (ed. John G. Fitch; Oxford Readings in Classical Studies; New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 61, 72. Cf. D. Teichert, ‘Der Philosoph als Briefschreiber – Zur Bedeutung der literarischen Form von Senecas Briefen an Lucilius’, in Literarische Formen der Philosophie (ed. Gottfried Gabriel and Christiane Schildknecht; Stuttgart: Metzler, 1990), 72. Christine Richardson-Hay, First Lessons:  Book 1 of Seneca’s Epistulae Morales – A  Commentary (European University Studies XV/94; Bern: Peter Lang, 2006), 11. Mary Beard, ‘Ciceronian Correspondences:  Making a Book out of Letters’, in Classics in Progress: Essays on Ancient Greece and Rome (ed. T. P. Wiseman; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 120. Inwood, Letters, xii. Griffin, Seneca, 351–352; Inwood, Letters, xv; John Schafer, Ars Didactica:  Seneca’s 94th and 95th Letters, Hypomnemata 181 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 71–74. Cf. Ep. 4.3 (Profice modo); 16.2 (multum te profecisse); 35.1 (profice). Catharine Edwards, ‘Self-Scrutiny and Self-Transformation in Seneca’s Letters’, Greece & Rome 44, no. 1 (1997): 32.

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13.3 Epistle 95 on the Nature of True Worship Epistles 94 and 95 are easily the longest in Seneca’s collection.13 According to Schafer, these two ‘programmatic’ letters ‘are a treatise on moral education and a defense of Seneca’s specific praxis as a moral guide and as a teacher of philosophy’.14 Further, Ep. 95 is ‘the only extended discussion’ of proper religious practice in the philosopher’s 124 surviving letters to Lucilius.15 Thus, it represents arguably the clearest parallel to Acts 17.22–31 in the surviving Senecan corpus.16 Epistles 94 and 95 treat in extended fashion the proper place of ‘precepts’ (praecepta) for attaining wisdom and promoting upright conduct (cf. 95.4– 6). In Ep. 94.2, Seneca criticizes his fellow Stoic Aristo, who claims that precepts are superfluous and that true benefit comes from philosophical dogmas (decreta).17 In Ep. 94.4, the philosopher asks whether philosophical precepts are useful (utilis) and whether they are themselves able to produce a good person (an solus virum bonum possit efficere). Seneca takes up the former question in Ep. 94 and then addresses the latter in Ep. 95. In Ep. 95, Seneca discusses the benefits and limitations of precepts (praecepta) for attaining wisdom and upright conduct (95.4–6), as well as the foundational importance of the philosophical doctrines (decreta philosophiae) on which those precepts depend (95.12). Seneca concedes that precepts alone are insufficient to cure humanity’s mistaken beliefs, but he argues that precepts stir and strengthen the mind to action (95.30). One needs both general philosophical dogmas and particular precepts in order to know what is true and to act accordingly (95.31). Having established the value and usefulness of praecepta in Ep. 94, Seneca then develops the relationship between these practical precepts and the theoretical doctrines that undergird them (95.10, 12). Doctrine – defined as ‘a firm belief which will apply to life as a whole’ – directs one’s acts, thoughts and life (95.44).18

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There are 4164 words in Ep. 94 and 4106 words in Ep. 95; the next longest is Ep. 90 with 2919 words. Schafer, Ars Didactica, 75 n. 24, with reference to the work of I. Lana. Schafer, Ars Didactica, 67. Schafer, Ars Didactica, 103. Scholars have also noted parallels between Acts 17 and Seneca’s lost work On Superstition, as cited by Augustine (Civ. 6.10–11). Schafer discusses the background of this debate within Stoicism in Ars Didactica, 77–83. Unless otherwise noted, citations of Seneca follow the LCL for Latin text and translations.

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Schafer calls Ep. 95.47-55 ‘the most crucial passage of the letter’, in which Seneca shows how ‘philosophical truths produce demands on us as regards gods, human beings, and things respectively’.19 Seneca begins with the subject of proper worship:  ‘Precepts are commonly given as to how the gods should be worshipped’ (95.47). The philosopher corrects popular, superstitious worship patterns by offering five precepts concerning true worship, which are grounded in philosophical doctrines concerning the nature of deity. First, Seneca asserts, ‘Let us forbid lamps to be lighted on the Sabbath, since the gods do not need light, neither do men take pleasure in soot.’20 Seneca grounds his prohibition in the Stoic doctrine that the gods do not need human assistance. Elsewhere he explains, ‘God bestows upon us very many and very great benefits, with no thought of any return, since he has no need of having anything bestowed, nor are we capable of bestowing anything on him’ (Ben. 4.9.1). The philosopher then offers two further precepts criticizing popular Roman religious practices: ‘Let us forbid men to offer morning salutation and to throng the doors of temples. . . . Let us forbid bringing towels and flesh-scrapers to Jupiter, and proffering mirrors to Juno.’ Such superstitious rites may satisfy ‘mortal ambitions’ but do nothing to secure the favour of the deity, since ‘God is worshipped by those who truly know him’, and he ‘seeks no servants. Of course not; he himself does service to mankind, everywhere and to all he is at hand to help’ (95.47).21 In the previous letter Seneca asserts, ‘Pythagoras declares that our souls experience a change when we enter a temple and behold the images of the gods face to face, and await the utterances of an oracle’ (Ep. 94.42). He concludes that such reverence ‘reigns in the soul and checks vice’ and suggests that good precepts and counsel might have much the same effect (§44). In Ep. 95, Seneca contends that people need more than sensible guidelines about 19 20

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Schafer, Ars Didactica, 58. The reference to ‘the Sabbath’ suggests that the philosopher had some level of familiarity with the practices of Jews in Rome. Commenting on Seneca’s lost work On Superstition, Augustine writes, ‘Along with other superstitions of the civil theology Seneca also censures the sacred institutions of the Jews, especially the Sabbath. He declares that their practice is inexpedient, because by introducing one day of rest in every seven they lose in idleness almost a seventh of their life, and by failing to act in times of urgency they often suffer loss’ (Civ. 6.11 LCL). Horace refers to the Jews’ eagerness to proselytize in Sat. 1.4, lines 141–143. Cf. references to Seneca’s views in Augustine, Civ. 6.10; Tertullian, Apol. 12.

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sacrifices or warnings against ‘burdensome superstitions’; to make sufficient ‘progress’ (profectus), human beings must have a ‘a right idea of God – regarding Him as one who possesses all things, and allots all things, and bestows them without price (beneficum gratis)’ (§47). Further, the gods perform good deeds according to their universal nature, and they are incapable of doing harm (§49).22 Seneca follows these three prohibitions with two positive directives concerning proper worship:  ‘The first way to worship the gods is to believe (credere) in the gods; the next to acknowledge (reddere) their majesty, to acknowledge (reddere) their goodness without which there is no majesty’ (§50). Elsewhere, Seneca employs the term reddo for acknowledging or making a return on a benefit (e.g. Ben. 4.10.1, 4). God is the supreme benefactor of all people, who gives and serves by nature (cf. Ben. 1.1.9). He explains, ‘God bestows upon us very many and very great benefits, with no thought of any return, since he has no need of having anything bestowed, nor are we capable of bestowing anything on him’ (Ben. 4.9.1). Seneca concludes, ‘Would you win over the gods? Then be a good man. Whoever imitates them is worshipping them sufficiently’ (§50). Motto explains, ‘The true worship of God, therefore, is not in formal prayer and sacrifice, but in striving to know and imitate his infinite benevolence and wisdom. It is only through one’s own personal effort that he can become more virtuous’.23 For Seneca, it is not the diligent temple patron but the philosopher who demonstrates moral virtue – above all in his noble suffering and death (Ep. 67.12-13; Tranq. 16.1).

13.4 Acts 17 on the Nature of True Worship Acts 16.6–19.20 recounts the advance of the Christian message in Macedonia, Achaia and Asia Minor through Paul and others despite Jewish and Gentile opposition. Following the summary statement in 16.5, Paul receives a vision that directs him and his co-workers to preach the gospel in Macedonia. Paul 22

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Cf. Ira 2.27.1. ‘Göttliche Güte ist ein zentraler Aspekt von Senecas Gottesvorstellung’, according to Susanna E. Fischer, Seneca als Theologe:  Studien zum Verhältnis von Philosophie und Tragödiendichtung (Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 259; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 16. Anna L. Motto, ‘Seneca on Theology’, CJ 50, no. 4 (1955): 182.

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and Silas travel first to Philippi (16.12–40), then to Thessalonica (Acts 17.1– 9) and Berea (17.10–15). From there Paul hastily leaves for Athens, where he waits for Silas and Timothy. Verse 16 introduces Athens as a city ‘full of idols’ (κατείδωλος), which prepares readers for the opening of Paul’s speech in vv. 22–23.24 Luke then presents Paul reasoning in the synagogue and the marketplace and conversing with Epicurean and Stoic philosophers (vv. 17–18).25 Some pejoratively label Paul a ‘scavenger’ (ὁ σπερμολόγος) – ‘a word used to brand opponents as posers, loafers in the agora’ who had picked up a few ‘scraps’ of knowledge but who hardly qualify as true philosophers.26 Others call Paul a ‘preacher of foreign divinities’ (ξένων δαιμονίων . . . καταγγελεύς), which recalls the charge against Socrates, who did not acknowledge the gods of the state but introduced other, new divine beings (ἕτερα . . . δαιμόνια καινά).27 Paul’s activity (διελέγετο), location (ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ) and opening address (ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι) substantiate this association with the most famous philosopher from ‘the “think tank” of Antiquity’.28 In vv. 19–20 Paul is brought before Athens’s governing council, and (like Socrates) he is examined on suspicion of introducing strange deities (Jesus and Resurrection).29 24

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Clare K. Rothschild translates, ‘his spirit was stirred as he observed the city chock-full of monuments’, in Paul in Athens: The Popular Religious Context of Acts 17 (WUNT 341; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 28. This rendering is understated given the negative judgement on idols elsewhere in Acts (7.41; 15.20, 29; 21.25) and throughout the Judeo-Christian scriptures. Thus, ‘Luke is the first Christian to present Paul in a dialogue with the philosophical currents of the day’. C. Kavin Rowe, One True Life: The Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016), 5. Squires writes, ‘By placing Paul in direct dialogue with Stoic and Epicurean philosophers, for whom the matter of providence was hotly debated, Luke directly relates his speech to the broader philosophical debates concerning providence’. John T. Squires, The Plan of God in Luke-Acts (SNTSMS 76; Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1993), 72. C. Kavin Rowe, ‘The Grammar of Life: The Areopagus Speech and Pagan Tradition’, NTS 57, no. 1 (2011): 37. Cf. Plato, Apol. 24c; Xenophon, Mem. 1.1.1; Diogenes Laertius, Lives 2.5; Socrates (40); Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 572. Daniel Marguerat, Paul in Acts and Paul in His Letters (WUNT 310; Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 70; cf. Karl Olav Sandnes, ‘Paul and Socrates: The Aim of Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, JSNT 50 (1993):  21–22. Representative parallels include Plato, Apol. 17c (ἐν ἀγορᾷ); 19c (ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι); 19d (διαλεγομένου, 2x); 33a (διαλέγομαι). Winter notes that the agora (v. 17) was ‘the original gathering place for the Stoics’ and was also the official meeting place for the Areopagus council in the Roman period. Bruce W. Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars: The First Christians’ Responses (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2015), 142–143. Rowe, ‘The Grammar of Life’, 37–38; cf. Timothy D. Barnes, ‘An Apostle on Trial’, JTS 20, no. 2 (1969): 407–419. Winter cautions that ‘it would be misleading to cast Paul in the role of a defendant in a trial in Acts 17, as was the case in Acts 24–26 where he appears before Roman judges’. Bruce W. Winter, ‘On Introducing Gods to Athens: An Alternative Reading of Acts 17:18–20’, TynBul 47, no. 1 (1997): 90.

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Bruce Winter explains that for centuries the council of the Areopagus judged any ‘herald’ who came to promote the worship of a new deity. The ‘herald’ would first furnish proof of the deity’s existence. Next, he would agree to construct a temple to venerate the god or goddess and also to provide for a yearly festival that would be incorporated into the religious calendar of Athens.30 Paul’s speech includes several notable thematic parallels with the GrecoRoman philosophical traditions – particularly Stoicism – such as the unity of humanity, the divine appointment of seasons and boundaries, the ‘divine environment’ in which people live and the ‘natural kinship’ of humanity with God.31 The most explicit contact comes in vv. 27–28, where Paul appeals to the Cretan poet Epimenides (‘In him we live and move and have our being’) and then invokes one of their ‘own poets’, the Stoic Aratus (‘For we are indeed his offspring’).32 I will discuss the Areopagus speech in four parts.33 First, vv. 22–23 introduce the occasion and purpose of the address, to proclaim the unknown God. Paul deftly characterizes the Athenians as δεισιδαιμονεστέρους, a deliberately ambiguous term that may denote religious piety or, negatively, superstition motivated by fear.34 Rothschild translates the term ‘extremely devout in every respect’ given its rhetorical placement in the speech’s captatio benevolentiae.35 However, the narrator references the city’s preponderance of idols (v. 16), the Athenians’ obsession with novelty about religion (v. 21) and their worship in ignorance (v. 23; cf. v. 30), suggesting that Paul casts the Athenians’ zealous religious devotion as fundamentally misguided and thus ‘superstitious’.36 Paul

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Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars, 141. Barrett, ‘Paul’s Speech on the Areopagus’, 72. The source of the second reference is more secure than the first, as it reflects the precise wording of Aratus, Phaen. 5 (τοῦ γάρ καὶ γένος εἰμέν). For careful analysis and history of interpretation of Acts 17.28, see Rothschild, Paul in Athens, 7–24, 67–71; Craig S. Keener, Acts: An Exegetical Commentary, vol. 3: 15:1–23:35 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2014), 2657–2661. This outline is similar to Jipp’s proposal: 1. Superstition or Piety (17:22–23); 2. The Creator of the World Does Not Dwell in Temples (17:24–25); 3. The Unity of Humanity (17:26–27); 4. Humanity – Not Material Objects – Images God (17:28–29); 5. The Resurrected ‘Man’ Is Judge of the World (17:30–31). Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 567–588. Witherington outlines the speech according to forensic rhetoric: 1.  Exordium, including captatio benevolentiae (17:22–23); 2.  propositio (17:23b); 3.  probatio (17:24–29); 4.  peroratio (17:30–31). Ben Witherington, III, The Acts of the Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998), 518. Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 576; C. Kavin Rowe, World Upside Down:  Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 33–35. Rothschild, Paul in Athens, 30. Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 576–577.

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appeals to their altar ‘to an unknown god’ as case in point for his hearers’ ignorance and superstition.37 He then asserts the aim of his address:  ‘So what you worship without knowledge, I proclaim to you’ (v. 23).38 Second, vv. 24–25 present God as Creator, Lord and Benefactor of all. Paul declares, ‘The God who made the world and everything in it, being Lord of heaven and earth, does not dwell in temples made with hands, nor is he served by human hands as though needing anything; he gives to all life and breath and everything.’ Kavin Rowe rightly observes that here ‘Paul does not say anything of which the best pagan philosophy was unaware’.39 At the same time, readers of Acts may detect deep resonances with the biblical depiction of the creator God as supreme and self-sufficient (e.g. Gen. 1.1; Isa. 42.5; 45.12; cf. Acts 14.15), fundamentally different from the lifeless idols ‘made with hands’ that are worshipped in vain (e.g. Isa. 44.9–20; Ps. 115.4–8 [113.12–16 LXX]). Third, vv. 26–29 assert humanity’s common origin and purpose to seek and image God (vv. 26–29). God ‘made from one (ἐξ ἑνός) every nation of human beings to dwell on the whole earth’ (v. 26). Seneca in Ep. 57.10 writes similarly that a slave and his master ‘spring from the same stock’ (ex isdem seminibus). For readers familiar with the biblical story, however, Paul’s assertion recalls the creation of Adam (Gen. 5.1; Lk. 3.38) and God’s design for mankind to be fruitful and fill the earth (Gen. 1.28; 9.1).40 Further, God has providentially established humanity’s appointed times and boundaries ‘that they might seek God and then perhaps grope for him and find him – and yet he is not far from each one of us’ (v. 27). This verse is not particularly optimistic about humanity’s quest to find God even though he is near, since the term ψηλαφάω is regularly used in the LXX for those who ‘grope’ in darkness or blindness.41 Paul’s statement has particular affinities with Wisdom 13.6–10, which describes people who seek (ζητοῦντες) and desire to find (εὑρεῖν) God but are deceived and call the works of human hands ‘gods’.42 Paul’s appeal to their ‘own poets’

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Ibid., 578. See the lengthy discussion and primary sources examined in P. W. van der Horst, ‘The Unknown God (Acts 17:23)’, in Knowledge of God in the Graeco-Roman World (ed. Roelof van den Broek, et al.; Etudes préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain, t. 112; Leiden: Brill, 1988), 19–42. Here and elsewhere, biblical citations are my own translation. Rowe, World, 34. Keener, Acts 15:1–23:35, 2645–2647. Gen. 27.12, 21–22; Deut. 28.29; Judg. 16.26; Job 5.14; 12.25; Isa. 59.10. Pss. 113.15; 134.17 LXX refer to idols who have hands and οὐ ψηλαφήσουσιν. Cf. Keener, Acts 15:1–23:35, 2652.

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in v. 28 provides support (γάρ) for the claim that God is ‘not far’ from humanity. Paul concludes (οὖν) in v. 29 that since human beings are ‘God’s offspring’ – as the Stoic Aratus taught (v. 28) – we should not regard gold, silver, or stone images created by humanity as appropriate depictions of deity. In biblical terms, human beings – not inanimate idols – are made according to the divine likeness (καθ᾿ ὁμοίωσιν, Gen. 1.26 LXX).43 Fourth, vv. 30–31 urge repentance because of coming divine judgement. The one who establishes the ‘appointed times’ and boundaries of humanity (v. 26) chose to overlook the ‘times of ignorance’ (v. 30). Since the supreme Creator made all peoples from one man, he now commands all people everywhere to repent (μετανοεῖν) because he will judge the world in righteousness by one man, whom he raised from the dead (vv. 30–31). Here the speech returns fittingly to Paul’s proclamation of ‘Jesus and the resurrection’, which the Athenians refer to as ‘foreign divinities’, ‘this new teaching’ and ‘strange’ in vv. 18–20. Joshua Jipp notes the irony: ‘The agent of this judgment is precisely the deity whom the Athenians wanted to put on trial.’44 Dibelius quips that vv. 30– 31 contain ‘the only Christian sentence in the Areopagus speech’.45 This claim is misleading, since these verses follow directly from the foundational claims set forth earlier in the speech and from Paul’s preaching in v. 18. Additionally, the thought in these verses closely parallels other Christian preaching in Acts, particularly 10.41–42. The Areopagus council questions Paul as a ‘herald of foreign divinities’, but he makes clear at the outset that the Athenians already acknowledge his God with their shrine to ‘an unknown God’ (17:23). Paul does not need to erect a temple since his deity ‘does not dwell in temples made with hands’ (v. 24). Likewise the council’s requirement that the herald provide an endowment for a feast day does not apply since Paul’s God provides for the Athenians and all human beings ‘life and breath and everything’ (v. 25).46 Paul adroitly appeals to his audience’s own cherished poets, Epimenides and Aratus, to corroborate his claims (v. 28). The council convenes to examine the credibility of Paul’s divinities, ‘Jesus and Resurrection’, but the herald argues that they – and all

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Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 585. Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 587. Martin Dibelius, The Book of Acts (ed. K. C. Hanson; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2004), 113, italics in the original. Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars, 147–148.

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humanity – are in the dock and must repent of their ignorance or answer to the judge of all, the risen Jesus.47 Thus, Acts 17 critiques the superstition and idolatry of Paul’s audience and legitimates the early Christian movement ‘as a superior philosophy in terms of its beliefs and its consistent religious practices’.48 The Areopagus speech casts the Athenians’ religious devotion as ignorant ‘groping’ in the dark. Right understanding of God and true repentance are essential for true worship, and Paul’s hearers lack both. So Paul proclaims the ‘unknown God’ who has in fact made himself known as the sovereign creator, sustainer and judge of all.

13.5 Reading Acts 17 with Epistle 95 Thus far, this essay has summarized the arguments of Seneca’s Ep. 95 and Paul’s Areopagus speech as recorded in Acts 17. The present section explores the following four noteworthy parallels between these two texts. 1. Superstitious religious practices do not reflect genuine knowledge of God or the gods. 2. Contrary to popular opinion, God does not dwell in temples. 3. God is the supreme Lord who rules over his universe. 4. God does not seek servants but by nature serves human beings from his abundance. First, superstitious religious practices do not reflect genuine knowledge of God or the gods. The philosopher characterizes traditional religious practices such as lighting lamps on the Sabbath (for Jews) and bringing towels and fleshscrapers to Jupiter (for Romans) as ‘burdensome superstitions’ (molestis superstitionibus). In his wider corpus, Seneca states that humanity’s most basic problems stem from false thinking or ‘diseases of the mind’ (morbi animi) that pervert their judgment (Ep. 75.11). His prescribed remedy is the study of philosophy, which offers salvation from fear and a path for people to progressively learn virtue and unlearn vice (16.3; 71.35–36; 78.3). Thus, the first step toward proper worship is ‘a right idea of God’ (deum mente), which entails recognizing the deity’s power and nature (95.47, 50). 47 48

Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars, 157. Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 581.

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Paul calls the Athenians δεισιδαιμονεστέρους, an ambiguous expression that likely casts their religious devotion in unfavourable light as ‘superstitious’ (Acts 17.22). Paul highlights the presence of the shrine to an unknown god as ‘Exhibit A’ that their worship rituals do not reflect genuine knowledge of deity, so he proceeds to proclaim to them God’s true nature as Creator, Lord and Benefactor of all (Acts 17.23–26). God overlooked ‘the times of ignorance’, when he permitted all nations to go their own ways (17.30; cf. 14.16). However, according to Acts the most stunning act of ignorance is not carried out by superstitious pagans in Athens but by devout Jews in Jerusalem who did not recognize Jesus to be their promised Messiah and so put him to death (3.17; 13.27). The singular remedy for all people is ‘to repent’ (μετανοεῖν) in view of the coming judgment (17.30), which entails turning from wickedness and to God and receiving baptism in the name of the risen Lord Jesus for the forgiveness of sins (2.38; 8.22; 26.20). Second, contrary to popular opinion, God does not dwell in temples. Seneca forbids offering morning salutations and crowding around the doors of temples (Ep. 95.47). ‘The entire world is the temple of the immortal gods’ (deorum . . . immortalium templum).49 While temples and shrines may be consecrated to the deity, the divine spirit does not dwell there but within human beings. The philosopher explains, ‘We do not need to uplift our hands toward heaven, or to beg the keeper of a temple to let us approach his idol’s ear, as if in this way our prayers were more likely to be heard. God is near you, he is with you, he is within you. This is what I mean, Lucilius: a holy spirit indwells within us.’50 Early Stoicism followed Zeno in opposing the worship of idols and the building of temples, ‘but by the time of Posidonius (c. 135–c. 51 BCE), and certainly by the early Roman Empire, it had accommodated practices of popular piety’.51 According to Augustine, Seneca prefers the sage to exclude the rites of civil theology ‘from his personal worship, but to go through the motions of feigned conformity’ (ut eas in animi religione non habeat, sed inactibus fingat) (Civ. 6.10). Thus, Seneca’s philosophy liberated him from 49

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Ben. 7.7.3, trans. Miriam T. Griffin and Brad Inwood, Seneca, On Benefits (The Complete Works of Lucius Annaeus Seneca; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 172. Cf. Ep. 90.28. Ep. 41.1–2; Seneca cites Virgil’s Aeneid 8.352 in support (‘A god doth dwell, but what god know we not’). Winter, Divine Honours for the Caesars, 150; cf. David L. Balch, ‘The Areopagus Speech: An Appeal to the Stoic Historian Posidonius against Later Stoics and the Epicureans’, in Greeks, Romans, and Christians (ed. Abraham J. Malherbe, et al.; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1990), 71. According to Diogenes Laertius, Stoicism’s founder Zeno ‘prohibits the building of temples, lawcourts and

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religious superstition, but he nevertheless participated in traditional worship as a distinguished senator,52 and in his dramatized suicide he offered a libation to Jupiter.53 Paul states unequivocally that the creator God ‘does not live in temples made by hands’ (οὐκ ἐν χειροποιήτοις ναοῖς κατοικεῖ) (Acts 17.24). For Luke’s readers, this explicitly recalls not only OT critiques of pagan idolatry but also Stephen’s declaration in 7.48, ‘the Most High does not dwell in what is made by hands’ (οὐχ . . . ἐν χειροποιήτοις κατοικεῖ).54 Having established that the Creator is not housed in temples or shrines, Paul reasons that the deity after whom human beings seek ‘is not far from each of us’. Here the so-called ‘herald of foreign divinities’ argues similarly to his famous Stoic contemporary in Ep. 41 and deftly cites well-known lines from the philosophical tradition in support (17.27–28).55 Despite Paul’s sweeping statements about temples, he visits the Jerusalem temple multiple times in the book of Acts and participates in traditional Jewish worship. Paul receives a vision in the Jerusalem temple after his conversion (Acts 22.17). Later, he purifies himself and enters the temple along with four Jewish Christians who were under a vow, at which time the Jewish crowd seizes Paul and nearly kills him (21.26–31). Richard Pervo claims that this picture of Paul purifying himself in the temple ‘is in conflict with that of Acts hitherto’.56 However, Paul draws attention to this event three times in his later defence speeches (24.18; 25.8; 26.21), and he highlights his innocence while casting his opponents in a negative light for ‘preventing him from completing his pious and law-honoring act’.57 Paul’s visits to the Jerusalem temple do not undermine his contention in Athens that the true God does not dwell in temples, a point affirmed in OT texts such as 1 Kgs. 8.27–30 and Isa. 66.1–2. Rather, Paul’s practices in the Jerusalem temple reflect his public piety as a

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gymnasia in cities’ (Lives 7.1, Zeno [33]). Plutarch criticizes later Stoics for affirming this doctrine yet engaging in popular worship (Stoic. rep. 6 [Mor. 1034B]); cf. Pervo, Acts, 435 n. 96. On Seneca’s place as a member of Rome’s cultural elite, see Paul Veyne, Seneca: The Life of a Stoic (New York: Routledge, 2003), 19. Tacitus, Ann. 15.64. In this and other ways Seneca deliberately imitates the death of Socrates, whose last recorded statement was, ‘Crito, we owe a cock to Aesculapius’, the god of medicine (Plato, Phaed. 118a). Walton writes, ‘To listen to Luke’s report of Paul speaking in Athens is to hear much of Stephen’s theology . . . transposed into a pagan key in order to communicate with Paul’s hearers there’; Steve Walton, ‘A Tale of Two Perspectives? The Place of the Temple in Acts’, in Heaven on Earth (ed. T. Desmond Alexander and Simon J. Gathercole; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2004), 143. Rowe also notes the parallel between Acts 17.27 and Seneca, Ep. 41.1 in ‘The Grammar of Life’, 42. Pervo, Acts, 435. Keener, Acts 15:1–23:35, 3143.

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Jewish Christian and ‘his respect for his Jewish heritage and his desire to lay claim to it’.58 Third, God is the supreme Lord who rules over his universe. According to Seneca, proper worship begins with a belief in the gods and acknowledgement of their majesty and goodness. In typical Stoic fashion, Seneca employs various names and titles for the supreme deity that is lord and creator (dominum et artificem) of the universe, including Jupiter, Fate, Providence or even the Universe (Nat. 2.45.1–3).59 In Ep. 95.50 he explains that the gods ‘are supreme commanders in the universe, controlling all things by their power and acting as guardians of the human race, even though they are sometimes unmindful of the individual’.60 As a Stoic, Seneca equates god with the material world’s efficient cause and thus views everything as determined by the divine will. Human beings should therefore willingly embrace the decrees of ‘Fate’ (Prov. 5.8), acknowledge God’s goodness and supremacy and imitate the gods and becoming good (bonus) themselves (Ep. 95.50). Acts 17.24 presents God as the supreme creator ‘who made the world and everything in it’ and thus is ‘Lord of heaven and earth’ (cf. 4.24; 14.15). While Seneca makes similar claims, in Acts Paul’s declaration serves as a signpost to the larger biblical narrative.61 God created the world and the first human being Adam, made a covenant with Abraham, rescued his descendants from slavery and revealed to them his holy Law (7.2–8, 35–38; 13.17). Moreover, Luke stresses that God has fulfilled his ancient promises to Israel by sending Jesus. He suffered and rose again, and God has made him both Lord and Messiah (2.36; 13.23).62 God will restore all things corrupted by sin and will judge the world in righteousness by Jesus, who is Lord of all (3.21; 10.36; 17.31). 58

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Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation, vol. 2: The Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1990), 270. Aldo Setaioli, ‘Seneca and the Divine: Stoic Tradition and Personal Developments’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 13, no. 3 (2007):  348. Cf. Fischer, Seneca als Theologe, 12–13. Diogenes Laertius similarly summarizes Zeno’s view that ‘the deity . . . is called many names according to its various powers’ (Lives 7.1, Zeno [147], LCL). However, two of the best manuscripts (Codices Bambergensis and Argentoratensis) read curiosi, in place of incuriosi. Cf. Fischer, Seneca als Theologe, 18–19. Seneca similarly in Prov. 3.1 asserts that the gods ‘have a greater concern’ (maior . . . cura) for collective humanity than for individuals, though in the same work he depicts God as a Father showing love toward his children (2.6; 4.7). In Cicero’s Nat. d. 2.164, the Stoic Balbus affirms the gods’ care and providence extends to individuals, a position later criticized by the Academic Cotta (3.93). Rowe similarly states that ‘in Luke’s text the pagan philosophical vocabulary has been incorporated into a radically different overall interpretive framework: the biblical story that stretches from Adam to the return of Jesus Christ’. Rowe, ‘The Grammar of Life’, 43. See C. Kavin Rowe, ‘Acts 2.36 and the Continuity of Lukan Christology’, NTS 53, no. 1 (2007): 37–56.

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Fourth, God does not seek servants but by nature serves human beings from his abundance. Seneca asserts, ‘God seeks no servants . . . he himself does service to mankind, everywhere and to all he is at hand to help’ (Ep. 95.47). He criticizes popular religious practices like lighting lamps and offering sacrifices because they seem to assume that the gods require human assistance. But in truth, it is the other way around. God ‘possesses all things, and allots all things, and bestows them without price’. The gods perform such acts of kindness by nature; ‘they cannot receive or inflict injury’ (95.47–49).63 Similarly, Paul asserts that God ‘is not served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he gives to all human beings life and breath and everything’ (Acts 17.25). Since human beings owe their very existence to the creator God (vv. 26, 28), they should not suppose that he dwells in temples (v. 24) or that he depends on humans to supply some lack (v. 25). Paul’s thought here is fully consistent with the portrayal of the Creator’s self-sufficiency and humanity’s total dependence on God in the OT, particularly in Isa. 42.5, ‘Thus says the Lord God, who created heaven and established it, who bolstered the earth and the things that are in it and who gave breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who tread on it’ (NETS).64 As in Isaiah LXX, Acts 17 clearly differentiates God, the creator and sustainer of life, from lifeless idols created by human craftsmanship.65 This fourth point represents perhaps the most explicit formal similarity between Epistle 95 and the Areopagus speech. At the same time, claims about God’s self-sufficiency and service to humankind function as signposts to the authors’ wider theological and ethical systems. The Stoic deity is unflappable and incapable of injury, ‘containing in their nature the essence of goodness’ (Ep. 95.36), and human beings should worship the gods by imitating them (95.50). Thus, it follows for Seneca that ‘no wise man can receive either injury or insult’ (Const. Sap. 2.1; cf. 2.3; 3.2). Indeed, the philosopher goes further and argues that while the gods are extra patientiam malurum and thus free from injury by nature (Prov. 6.6), the wise person achieves such freedom and superiority over injury through ‘pains and study’ (Ep. 124.14) and thus ‘may outstrip God’ (Prov. 6.6).66 63

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For additional references, see Anna L. Motto, Seneca Sourcebook: Guide to the Thought of Lucius Annaeus Seneca in the Extant Prose Works (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1970), 45. Cf. David W. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus (Biblical Studies Library; Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 2002), 194–195; Jipp, ‘Paul’s Areopagus Speech’, 579. Cf. Isa 31.7; 40.19–20; 42.8, 17; 44.9–17; 45.16, 20; 46.6; 48.5; 57.13. Cf. Tabb, Suffering in Ancient Worldview, 52–53, 54–56; Harry M. Hine, ‘Seneca, Stoicism, and the Problem of Moral Evil’, in Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical Essays for Donald Russell on his SeventyFifth Birthday (ed. Harry M. Hine, Doreen Innes and C. B. R. Pelling.; Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1995), 105–106.

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Luke-Acts presents the creator God serving humanity by giving ‘life and breath and everything’ (Acts 17.25) and doing good to people everywhere by sending rain and satisfying their hearts with food (14.17). Seneca would have no objection to these points, but Luke goes much further. Jesus is the Son of God who is among his people as ‘the one who serves’ and who ‘gives’ his own body for his people (Luke 22.19, 27). Paul comes to Athens proclaiming ‘Jesus and the resurrection’ (Acts 17.18) and concludes his speech by referring to God raising Jesus from the dead (v. 31). The resurrection is proof of future divine judgment, but it also necessarily implies that Jesus died before he was raised. As Peter declares, ‘You killed the Author of life, whom God raised from the dead’ (3.15). Lightfoot comments, ‘To the consistent disciple of Zeno the agony of Gethsemane could not have appeared, as to the Christian it ever will appear, the most sublime spectacle of moral sympathy, the proper consummation of a Divine life.’67

13.6 Conclusion This essay has traced the argument of the Areopagus speech and Epistle 95 and has compared and contrasted what these important first-century texts have to say about the nature of true worship. We have seen that Seneca and the Lukan Paul agree on at least four key points. First, they reject superstitious piety because it lacks genuine knowledge of deity. Second, they agree that proper worship recognizes that no temple could ever house or contain God. Rather, third, God is the supreme Lord who rules over his universe and is present in a particular way in and among human beings. Fourth, they both insist that God does not seek human servants to meet some lack; rather, it is God’s very nature to serve human beings out of his abundance. We have considered four significant conceptual parallels between Paul’s Areopagus speech and the writings of his Stoic contemporary. We have also noted that the preceding narrative (vv. 16–22) introduces Paul’s time in Athens in overtly ‘Socratic’ terms. Further, Paul’s speech directly appeals to 67

Joseph B. Lightfoot, ‘St Paul and Seneca’, in Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians (6th ed.; London:  Macmillan, 1913), 297. For further elaboration, see Brian J. Tabb, ‘Paul and Seneca on Suffering’, in Paul and Seneca in Dialogue (ed. Joseph R. Dodson and David E. Briones; APhR 2; Leiden: Brill, 2017), 88–108.

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their ‘own poets’ to support his claims to make known the unknown god. It is thus tempting to conclude that the Areopagus speech skilfully accommodates or translates the Christian message into the contemporary philosophical idiom, demonstrating its coherence or respectability in a Greco-Roman context. However, these parallel statements in Acts 17 and Ep. 95 concerning the nature of true worship also reveal notable divergences when they are situated in the authors’ respective biblical and Stoic traditions. Paul’s speech recalls the biblical account of God’s creation of Adam and anticipates the final judgment executed by Jesus, whom God raised from the dead. As Rowe stresses, ‘It is within this totalizing framework . . . that the appropriation of pagan tradition occurs’.68 Conversely, Seneca’s discussion of proper worship of the gods assumes the Stoic equation of deity with Reason, the first and general cause of the material world (Ep. 65.12; cf. 65.2, 23; 90.29), which awaits a future conflagration by water and fire (Nat. 3.28.7). These differences in theology, protology and eschatology are not merely matters of window dressing but reflect basic underlying differences between Christian and Stoic worldviews and their corresponding ways of life.69 Thus, while Acts 17 affirms elements of Seneca’s teaching in Ep. 95 regarding how the gods should be worshipped, the Areopagus speech also challenges and subverts the Stoic worldview by calling for true knowledge of the Creator and true repentance in view of Jesus’s resurrection and return as judge.

68 69

Rowe, ‘The Grammar of Life’, 44. ‘Paul’s Areopagus speech is not a paean of the Greek intellectual or spiritual achievement. It is instead the presentation of an alternative pattern of life’. Rowe, ‘The Grammar of Life’, 35. See further Rowe, One True Life, passim.

279

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources Hebrew Scriptures Genesis 1 1–2 1.1 1.1–5 1.5 1.6 1.6–25 1.6–31 1.9–10 1.11–13 1.20–23 1.20–25 1.20–26 1.24–25 1.25 1.26–27 1.26–28 1.27 1.28 2 2.6 2.7 2.18 2.21–23 2.22 2.23–25 2.24 4 4.1 5.1 5.3 9.1 12.3

101, 200, 205 9, 199–203, 207, 212, 217 270 202 202 202 204 202, 204 205 203 203 203 101 203 137 206 201, 204, 206– 208, 215–216 201, 204–206, 214 207, 270 200–201, 204–208 205 201, 205–207, 211 229 213 207 234 209 213 119, 213 270 211 270 239

17.5 18 21.10

239 163 241

Exodus 3 12 12.23 14.13 16.4 17 17.1–7 17.5–7 24.16 32 32.6

163 171 170 122 160 162 159 161 240 169 169

Numbers 14 14.22 14.31–32 16.1–30 16.32 20.1–13 21 25

170 168 168 171 171 159 169 169

Deuteronomy 6.4 129–130 10.20 209 32 161 Ruth 2.21 2.23 1 Kings 8.27–30 Nehemiah 9

209 209

Psalms 77.24 94 104.39 104.40 105 115.4–8

160 164, 168 161 160 171 270

Proverbs  11.17 25.21–22

97 97

Job 41.3

140

Isaiah 40.13 42.5 44.9–20 54.1 66.1–2

140 270, 276 270 239 274

Jeremiah 31.31–33

10

Ezekiel 11.19–20

10

Christian Scriptures Matthew 23.14 24.36

110 25

Mark 11.19 12.40

14 110

Luke 2.40 2.52

14 14

274

160

280

280

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources

3.38 7.25 20.47 22.19 22.27

270 14 110 277 277

John 12.43

98

Acts 2.36 2.38 3.15 3.17 3.21 4.24 7.2–8 7.35–38 7.48 8.22 10.36 10.41–42 13.17 13.23 13.27 14.15 14.16 14.17 16.5 16.6–19.20 16.12–40 17

17.1–9 17.10–15 17.15–34 17.16 17.16–22 17.17–18 17.18 17.18–20 17.19 17.19–20 17.21 17.22 17.22–23 17.22–31 17.23

275 273 277 273 275 275 275 275 274 273 275 271 275 275 273 270, 275 273 277 267 267 268 1, 10, 11, 263, 267, 272, 276, 278 268 268 263 269 277 268 263, 277 271 261 268 269 273 268–269 265 269–271

17.23–26 17.24 17.24–25 17.25 17.26 17.26–29 17.27–28 17.28 17.29 17.30 17.30–31 17.31 18  21.26–31 22.17 24.18 25.8 26.20 26.21

273 274–276 270–271 276–277 270–271, 276 270 269 271, 276 271 269, 271, 273 271 275, 277 1 274 274 274 274 273 274

Romans 1–11 1.3 1.5 1.7 1.9 1.10 1.11 1.17 1.18 1.18–2.3 1.19–20 1.20 1.23–25 1.24 1.26 1.28 1.32 2.2–6 2.4 2.11 2.13 2.24 2.29 3.3 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.21–26

151 137 259 137 137 137 160 139 137 52 136 136 136 137 137 137 138 138 139 138 138 138 98 139 139 138 139 139

3.25 3.26 3.29 3.30 4.17 4.20–21 4.24 5 5.5 5.9 5.10 5.12–21 5.15 6 6–8 6.1–2 6.1–22 6.2 6.3 6.3–6 6.5 6.10–20 6.13 6.23 7 7.1–6 7.14 7.23 7.24 8.1–11 8.3 8.8 8.9–10 8.9–11 8.10 8.11 8.14–16 8.15 8.17 8.18–21 8.20 8.21–23 8.23 8.27 8.27–28 8.31–39 8.35 8.38–39

138–139 138 137 137–138 139 138 139 242 138 137 137 50, 259–260 138 114 253, 257 254 51 254 254 257 115 25 25 139 242 259 160 137 254 50 139 139 141 7, 8, 141,  154 254 139, 257 137 261 140 51 52 49 257 138 137 259 255 255

281

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 8.39 9.8 9.9 9.16 9.18 9.22 10.9 10.12 11.22 11.23 11.29 11.32 11.33 11.33–36 11.34 11.36

12.1 12.1–3 12.2 12.3 12.4–5 12.9 12.11 12.17 12.18 12.19 12.20 12.21 12–13 13 13.1 13.1–7 13.2 13.3 13.3–4 13.4 13.5 13.6 13.7 13.10 13.12 13.12–14 13.14

138 137 138 138 138 137, 139 139 137 138, 139 137, 139 139 138 137 74 137, 140 7, 71, 73, 118, 124–125, 129–131, 140, 151 99, 259 260 94, 137, 139 139 69 94, 110 30 110 111 137 97–98 94, 110 6, 98, 100 6, 107, 113 7, 99, 101–102, 140 75, 99, 105 104 75–77, 91– 100, 107, 110 110, 116 98–99, 105, 140 102, 111 140 105 110 25, 53, 114 114 116

14.3 14.10 14.17 15.5 15.13 15.32 16.20

138 138 139 139 138 137 48, 53, 138

1 Corinthians 1-4 194 1.1 137 1.2 139 1.3 137 1.9 137, 139 1.1–9 50 1.17 192 1.18 260 1.20 140, 192 1.21 137, 139, 192 1.23 260 1.24 139, 192 1.25 138 1.26–28 219 1.27 138 1.28 137, 255 1.30 139–140, 192 2.1 192 2.5 192 2.6–16 192 2.7 137, 140 2.10 139 2.10–11 137 2.12 140 2.13 160 2.14 140, 155 2.15 160, 192 2.16 137, 192 3.1 160 3.1–3 192 3.6 138 3.10–23 52 3.19 192 4.1 137 4.5 140 4.8 116, 192, 219 4.9 137 4.10 192 5.1–13 168 5.13 138

6 6.2–3 6.5 6.6 6.8–9 6.9–11 6.11 6.12–20 6.12 6.12–17 6.13 6.14 6.15 6.15-17 6.16 6.16–17 6.17 6.20 7 7.1 7.4 7.17–31 7.19 7.23 7.31 8 8–10 8.1 8.1–13 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.5–6 8.5–8 8.6

8.9 8.10 8.23 8.29 8.30 9.21 9.22–23 9.24–25 9.24–26 10.1 10.1–4

281 212, 214, 256 219 194 255 255 52 139, 255 168–169 183 209 140, 183, 190, 209 139, 209 209 209 209, 219 208 209 138 114, 255 183, 190 218 53 255 138, 256 113 256 210, 212, 214 183, 190 168 140 137, 183, 190 137 255 255 7, 119, 124– 133, 137, 140, 151, 208–210 255 255 257 256 256 139 153 98 166 160, 167, 169 158

282

282 10.4 10.5 10.6 10.7 10.8 10.9 10.10 10.11 10.13 10.14–22 10.15 10.26 10.31–33 10.32 11 11.2–10 11.2–16 11.3 11.3–9 11.3–12 11.4–7 11.4–9 11.7 11.7–9 11.8 11.9 11.10 11.11 11.11–12 11.12 11.13 11.14–15 11.16 11.17 11.22 12 12.1 12.2 12.6 12.1–2 12.12 12.12–26 12.12–31 12.13 12.18 12.24

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 161 138, 164, 168 167, 169, 172 168–169 168 168–169 168, 170 167, 169, 172 139 168 192 210 211 139 208–209, 211–212, 218 214 8, 187–188, 196 212–213 212–213, 217 214 216 216 212, 214, 218 213, 215–216 212–214 212, 214 215–216 213, 215, 216 212–216, 218 126, 208, 213 194 9, 173–197 139, 179 137 139 171, 211, 214, 255 255 255 137 255 69 208 211 115, 162 136 136

12–15 13.11 13.12 14.14 14.20 14.33 14–15 15 15.12 15.12–19 15.24 15.24–28 15.26 15.27–28 15.28 15.31 15.35–41 15.35–42 15.35–49 15.37–41 15.42–49 15.44–49 15.50 15.51–52 15.51–54 15.55 15.58 16.13

256 192 115 137 192 138 115 211–212, 214 183 49 116, 137, 152 48–50 152, 255 137 7, 8, 140, 151–153 259 257 211 211 208 211 208 140 154 48 259 212 259

2 Corinthians 137, 139 137 1.18 139 1.19 137 1.20 138 1.21 137 2.17 137, 139 3.18 137, 257 4.1–5 256 4.2 137 4.4 137 4.6 137 4.7 136–137 4.10–11 259 5  1 5.5 137 5.7 28 5.21 139

6.2 6.7 6.16–18 7.6 8.5 8–9 9.8 10.3–6 10–13  11.19 11.31 12.19 12.21 13.4 13.7 13.11

137 136 137 138 137 71 137 25 2 192 137, 140 137 137 136 137 138

Galatians 1.1 1.3 1.4 1.14–17 1.15 1.16 1.20 2.6 2.20 3.2 3.5 3.17 3.17–18 3.19 3.20 3.21 3.26 3.26–29 3.27 3.27–28 4.1 4.1–3 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5–7 4.6 4.8 4.8–9 4.10 4.14

137 137 137 236 137 137 137 138 137 240 137, 240 139 138 234 137 138 137 237 237 115 236 235–236 236 236 137, 139 137, 236 139, 240 137 136 236 139

283

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 4.21–31 4.23 4.24 4.25 4.26 4.27 4.29 4.31 5 5.4 5.13–26 5.17 5.19–21 5.22–23 5.24 6.15 Philippians 1.2 1.3 1.3–4 1.3–6 1.4 1.5–7 1.6 1.7 1.7–8 1.9–11 1.11 1.12–18 1.12–26 1.19 1.21–23 1.25–28 1.27 1.28 1.29 1.27–30 2.1–4 2.2–5 2.4 2.5–11 2.6 2.11 2.12 2.13 2.14–15 2.15

222 222, 238 238 222, 238 239 222 222, 239, 241 239 221 238 222 241 221, 239 241 222 238

70, 137 74 65–66 74 137 64–66, 72 73 65 65 66, 74 136 67 72 74 67 65–69, 72 24, 73 73–74, 137 27, 73–74 23, 54, 67, 72–74 69, 72 64, 69, 74 68 65, 67 137 70, 137 65–66, 73–74 66, 73–74, 137 66 137

2.16 2.17–18 2.19 2.20–21 2.24 2.25–30 3.1 3.15 3.1–4.1 3.2–19 3.8 3.10 3.12 3.15–19 3.20 3.20–21 4.1 4.2–10 4.6 4.6–7 4.7 4.8 4.9 4.10 4.10–13 4.10–18 4.10–20 4.14–16 4.18–19 4.19 4.19–20 4.20

65 66–67 65, 70 65, 69 65 66 30 140 72 66 67, 70 64, 67 73 64, 74 116 66, 70 65 64, 74 137 65 137–138 71 71 65–68 70 71 72, 74 64, 67–71 66–67, 70 137 71 137

Colossians 3.5 3.11

259 115

1 Thessalonians 1.1 137 1.3 28, 30,  137 1.9 137 1.10 137 2.2 26, 31 2.4 139 2.6 98 2.1–12 5, 21, 22 2.11–12 21, 31 2.13 137

2.14 2.15–16 2.16 3.2–6 3.9 3.10 3.11 3.13 4.1 4.3 4.5 4.9 4.13–16 5.1–11 5.2 5.4 5.6 5.8

283

5.9 5.14 5.15 5.18 5.23

139 138 137 29 137 137 137 137 138 137 136 138 48 49, 52 25 53 25 25, 27,  30–32 137 30, 31 31 137 50, 138

Philemon 3

137

Hebrews 2.4 3–4 3.7–11 3.16–19 4.7 4.11 3.9 3.16–19 4.11 10.26–29

162 8 168 168 169 168 167 168 167–168 162

James 3.1

110

Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Sirach 16.2 43.27–28

209 153

284

284 Wisdom of Solomon 1.1 10-19 10.1–14 10.15–19.22 10.18–19 10.19 10.20 11.4 11.4–14 11.5 11.6 11.10–11 11.14 12.1 12.9 13.6–10 13.10–15.17 16.1–4 16.2 16.5–6 16.10 16.19–21 16.26 18.7 18.20–21 18.25 19.22 2 Esdras 19

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources

165 165 166 166 159 159 164 159 159 159 159 165 164 153 164 270 169 160 170 165,  170 170 160 160 159 165, 170 170 166

160

Greek and Latin Sources Aeschylus Agamemnon 483–487 178 Alexander of Aphrodisias De fato 27–28 165 De mixtione 224.14–16 163 225.1–2 142 Aratus Phaenomena 5  269

Aristophanes Acharnenses 308 Equites 580 Aristotle Ethica eudemia 7 7.12.2 7.12.3 7.1236A.20–39 7.1236B.1–19 7.1239A.20–39 7.1240B.1 7.1241B.1–19 7.1243B.1–19 7.2.13 7.2.16 7.2.38 7.3.2–3

8.3.3 8.3.6 28

174

28, 80 55 63 62 79 79 79 79 79 80 58 57,  62 58 63

Ethica nicomachea 6, 55, 56, 64, 177 1.13.20 61 2.1.1–2 61 2.1.3 61 2.1.4 61 2.4.3 61, 62 4.4.3–4 72 4.4.15 72 4.4.17 72 5.3.7 72 6.13.6 61 6.14.6 62 7.1.2 62 8–9 57, 62 8.1.1 57 8.12.1 61, 64 8.12.5 63 8.14.4 62, 63 8.2.1 58 8.2.3 57 8.2.3–5 57, 59, 60 8.3 58 8.3.1 58 8.3.2 58

8.3.7 8.3.8 8.4.1 8.4.2 8.5.5 8.7.3–5 8.8.4 8.8.6 9.1.1 9.1.7 9.3.3 9.4 9.4.1 9.4.2 9.4.5 9.8 9.8.2 9.8.7 9.9.1 10.8.5–7 10.8.7

58 58, 59, 61 59 62 58, 59 58, 59 62 62 72 58 64 63 62 60 60 60 61 60 60,  61 60 61 62 63, 74

De generatione animalium 782a 174 Magna moralia 1212b39–1213a4 

63

Metaphysica 5.2

121

Metaphysica II 7, 198b1

63

Physica 2.3

121

Politica 1252b 1254b 

178 235

Rhetorica  1.5.16 1.9.22  1.9.26 1.10.3 1.13.1–2

80 57, 62 178 174 177 177

285

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 1.13.2 1.15.25 1.15.6 2.4 Arrian Anabasis 4.21.7–8

177 177 177 57

28

Augustine De civitate Dei 6.10 266, 273 6.11  266 Confessionum libri XIII 1.9 235 Augustus Res gestae 3 Cicero De amicitia  De finibus 1.29–30 3.6  3.16–21 3.16 5.18–19  5.24–26 5.33 De legibus 1.23

7.85–86 7.87–89 7.87 10.129 10.150 10.151

179 177, 180 227 225, 226 110 109

De oratore 2.255

191

Diomedes Ars grammatica

237

De republica 3.11.18–19

177

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates romanae 2.75.3 2.9.1–3 2.9.1 2.9.2 2.9.3 6.78.4 11.49.4 405

78 28 78 79 79 79 28 28 28

Demosthenes Peri syntaxeōs  13.12–13 18.54 18.55 36

80 80 80 80 187

Dio Chrysostom Ad Alexandrinos  5

180

De natura deorum 1.14.36 178 1.39 180 2.164  275 3.93 275 De officiis 2.15 2.15.52–54 2.15.52 2.15.54 2.15.55 2.16.55 2.17.60 2.18.62 3.23–26

12.16.56

178, 180 178 178 177, 178, 179 85

3.27 3.30  3.31 3.69

112

55 223 225 246 179 226 179 179 179

84 83 83, 84, 91 84 83, 84, 85 84, 91 84, 85, 91 84, 91 85 180

285

De regno i (Or.1) 1.23 1.24

85 85

De regno ii (Or.2) 2.26

85

Orationes 31.22 32.1–2  32.11 32.99–101  35.11–12

85 22 22 22 174

Diodorus Siculus Bibliotheca 4.46.4 18.5.3 20.89.5

28 28 28

Diogenes Laertius Vitae philosophorum 2.5 7.1 7.122 7.134 7.147 7.53

225 268 274, 275 116 142 180 180

Epictetus Diatribai (Dissertationes) 1.1.8 1.1.10 1.1.12 1.1.13 1.2.19–24 1.3.1 1.3.2 1.3.3 1.4.15  1.4.32 1.6.3–7 1.6.19 1.6.24 1.6.37 1.6.40 1.9.1 1.9.4 1.9.4–5 1.9.6–7 1.9.7 1.9.11 1.9.13 1.9.16 1.9.22–25

107 149 149 148 149 108 148 148 149 24 148 147 148 147 148 148, 149 149 147 149 148 147 149 147, 149 147 149

286

286 1.9.25 1.12.1–3 1.12.6 1.12.8 1.12.25–26 1.12.32 1.13.3 1.13.5 1.14 1.14.1  1.14.6 1.14.9 1.14.9–10 1.14.10 1.14.11 1.14.12 1.14.13–14 1.14.15 1.14.16 1.15 1.16 1.16.6 1.16.7 1.16.9–14 1.16.14 1.16.15–21 1.16.17 1.17.27 1.18.15 1.19.8–10 1.19.9 1.19.11 1.19.12 1.19.13 1.19.25 1.22.15 1.24.1 1.25.3 1.25.4 1.25.5 1.26.2 1.29.4 1.29.13 1.29.14–15 1.29.16 1.29.17 1.29.19–20 1.29.19

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 149 147 147, 148 149 147 148 148, 150 147, 148 26 148 74, 148 148 148 147 149 147 148 149 149 26 26 148 148 181 148 149 149 148, 149 147 107 147 147 148 147 148 149 149 148 148 148 177 149 7, 102, 105, 147 106 106 149 106 147

1.29.29 1.29.47 1.30.1 1.30.2–5 1.30.5 2.1.39 2.5.22 2.5.26 2.6.9 2.7.3 2.7.11 2.7.14 2.8.1 2.8.2  2.8.10–11 2.8.11 2.8.11–14 2.8.13–14 2.8.14 2.8.19 2.8.20–22 2.8.23 2.8.26 2.8.28 2.10.3 2.14.11 2.14.13 2.16.13 2.16.13–14 2.16.42 2.16.42–43 2.16.44 2.16.46 2.17.22 2.17.23 2.17.25 2.17.29 2.17.33 2.18.13 2.18.19 2.18.29 2.19.26 2.19.27 2.19.29 2.20.9 2.23.5 2.23.6 2.23.23 2.23.42 3.1.14

147 147, 149 150 149 149 149 147 147 147 148 148 147 149 150 147 147, 155 148 147 148 148 147 149 150 147 177, 180 147 149 147, 149 149 149, 150 148 147 147, 149 147 148 147 150 149 147 147 148, 149 149 147 149 147 148 147 148 147 180

3.1.19 3.1.24–45 3.1.36 3.1.37 3.1.39 3.3.10 3.5.8 3.5.8–10 3.7.26 3.8.6 3.10.8 3.11.6 3.13.4 3.13.6–7 3.13.12 3.13.13–14 3.13.14 3.13.15 3.17.1 3.21.12 3.21.14 3.21.18 3.22.10 3.22.13 3.22.23 3.22.46 3.22.48 3.22.53 3.22.56 3.22.59 3.22.69 3.22.82 3.22.95 3.24.2 3.24.3 3.24.11 3.24.15–16 3.24.15 3.24.19 3.24.21 3.24.24 3.24.42 3.24.58 3.24.60 3.24.65 3.24.95 3.24.96–102 3.24.96 3.24.97 3.24.98

147 180 147 148, 149 149 149 149 148 147 147 149 148 147 150 149 149 149 147 149 148 149 147 180 149 148 148 149 149 148, 149 149 149 148, 149 149 149 148, 149 149 148 148 148 147 147 147 149 147 149 149 148 149 149 149

287

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 3.24.99  3.24.101 3.24.112 3.24.113–114 3.24.113 3.24.114 3.26.28 3.26.29 3.26.29–30 3.26.30 3.26.31 3.26.37 3.31 3.32  3.35 3.36 4.1.82 4.1.89–90 4.1.99 4.1.100 4.1.101 4.1.103 4.1.103–104 4.1.104 4.1.105 4.1.107 4.1.108–109 4.1.131 4.1.154 4.1.172 4.3.12 4.4.29 4.4.30 4.4.34 4.4.39 4.4.47 4.4.48 4.5.21 4.5.34 4.5.35 4.7 4.7.6 4.7.7 4.7.9 4.7.11 4.7.16–17 4.7.17 4.7.20 4.7.35 4.8–31

24 148 149 149 148, 149 149 148 149 149 148 147 148 29 24 29 29 147 149 149 149 147 149 149 148 148 148, 149 149 149 147 149 147 149 149 149 147 149 150 149 149 148 107 107, 147 149 148 149 107 147 149 149 148

4.8.32 4.9 4.10.14 4.10.16 4.11.3 4.12.11 4.15

149 26 148, 149 148, 149 147 149 26

Enchiridion 11 22  31.1 31.5 53

149 147 147 147 149

Fragments 23 24

149 149

Epicurus Letter to Menoeceus225 Principal Doctrines 34–35 109 Eusebius Praeparatio evangelica 9.7–8 157 Gaius Institutiones 1.1

178

Heraclitus Fragments 1.8 1.9

177 177

Herodotus Historiae 1.82 1.82.7 5.72 Hesiod Opera et dies 210–211  216–218  275–278 275–279

Theogonia 901–903

103 103 103 177

177

Hippolytus Refutatio omnium haeresium 21.2 165 Homer Ilias 2.472 2.542

174 174

Horace Satirae 1.4 

266

Josephus Antiquitates judaicae 2.201 30 19.248 30 Bellum judaicum 3.1113 5.367–369 5.372–373 5.378–379 6.81

30 104 112 104 25

Juvenal Satirae 2.96

174

Lucian Dialogi meretricii 5.3 174 Patriae laudatio 4

174 174 174

287

Lucretius De rerum natura 2.1–61 5.330–331 5.1022–1023 5.1150 5.1151–1160 5.1173–1174

177

179 114 112 114 109, 110 114

288

288 Marcus Aurelius Meditationes 5.27 4.23

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources

74 124,  151

Musonius Rufus Diatribai 21.1–7

180

Petronius Satyricon 119

174

Philo De Abrahamo 4 133–41 143 

206 180 123

De aeternitate mundi 69  203 De agricultura 128–129  De cherubim 77  123 124–130 125–26  127 128–130

122

119,  120 151 130 122

De vita contemplativa 233 59 180 De decalogo 69 

123

Quod deterius potiori insidari soleat 77  203 86–87 206 Quod Deus sit imm utabilis 80  123 108 121 In Flaccum 89

199

De fuga et inventione 12 121 63 206 66  123 84 122 177  123 198  123 Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 36  123 172  123 231 206 Hypothetica 11.2  11.14  11.17 Legum allegoriae 1.41 1.44 1.5  1.56–59 1.105–106 2.3 2.71  2.83  2.86 2.9 2.9–11  3.139  3.29 3.78  3.96

233 233 232

122 153 123 204 246 123 230 123 161,  203 224,  229 230 221 119 121 206

Legatio ad Gaium 319–320 200 De vita Mosis 2.48–52 2.100  2.211 3.2–3

180 123 180 157

De mutatione nominum 46 121 77–78  204 148–150  204

De opificio mundi

8–9 16 21  25 36  39  40–44  45–61  55  62–63  64  65–66 65–68 65  66  67  69–88 69 71  73–74 73 74  76  82 83–88  84–85  134 135 136–138  136  137  139 140 142 143  144 146 148 150  151–152 151 152 153  160–161  160  161–162 

9, 200, 217, 221, 223, 227 121, 123 203 121 206 202 205 203 202 202 203 203 206, 207 203 204 203 203 202, 204, 205 204, 205, 206 206 204, 205 204, 205, 206 206 204 202, 204, 205, 206 206 207 207 74, 207 205 228 206 206, 228 207, 228 206, 228 228 206, 228 206 206, 207, 228 206 228, 229 206, 207 223, 224 207 239 230 230

289

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 161 165–166

223, 224,  229 224, 229

De posteritate Caini 14  123 De providentia 1.23 120 Quaestiones et solutiones in Exodum 1.23 123 2.46 227, 240 Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesin 1.26–27 207 1.26 199 1.58 120 2.62 206 3.48  232 4.42  123 De somniis 1.76  123 1.249  123 2.28 123 De specialibus legibus 1.8–10 231 1.208  151 3.37–41 180 3.169–171 199 4.187  123 De virtutibus 204–205 206

Phaedo 64a  83d  118a 

246 249 274

Phaedrus 

55

Respublica 1.331 3.33

177 180

Respublica 338c 343b–c 377d–380c 378e 379a 453b–455d Symposium Timaeus 29e 41e–42a 90a 90e

103 103 166 165 166 178 55, 228, 240 121, 240 121 178 143 178

Plautus Amphitruo 648–53

25

Aulularia 448

87

Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia 29.8 87 Pliny the Younger Epistulae 1.20  187

Plato Apologia 24c 32 

268 246

Gorgias 483d–e

103

Leges 7.808D–E  7.808E  Lysis 

234 235 236 55

Plutarch Agesilaus 11.1

28

Alexander 1.13

28

De fraterno amore 11 28

289

Marius 43.5

28

Moralia 267b 1044f–1045a 1128C

174 180 109

Pseudo-Aristotle De mundo 6

151

Pseudo-Cicero Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.16.23  178 Pseudo-Socrates Epistulae 6–7 6 7–8 39 Seneca Apocolocyntosis De beneficiis 1.1.8–10 1.1.9 1.1.11 1.4.5 1.6.2 1.11.4–6 1.11.6 1.12.1–3 2.1.4 2.7.2 2.16.2 2.17.2 2.17.3–5 2.18.6 2.21.3 2.28.1 2.28.2 2.29.1 2.29.3 2.29.4 2.29.6 2.34.5 2.35.2

177 177 177 177

43 82, 83,  91 146, 267 141 83 146 81, 83, 91 83 82, 91 146 82, 91 141 81, 83,  91 82 83 83 83 141 141 144, 146 143, 261 144 82 82, 91

290

290 3.1.1 3.15.4 3.17.3 3.28.2 3.36–37 3.36 3.37.1–4 3.38 4  4.3.2 4.4.2 4.5.1 4.6.1–4 4.6.5–6 4.6.6 4.7.1 4.7.2  4.8.1 4.8.2 4.8.3 4.9.1 4.10.1  4.10.4  4.17.3 4.19.1 4.25.1 4.28.1 4.28.2–6 4.28.3 4.32.2–4 5.2.2 5.6.3 5.17.7 5.25.4 6.3.2  6.23.1–2 6.23.3 6.23.5–6 6.23.7  6.30.1  6.31.6 7.3.3  7.7.3 7.31.2 7.31.4 7.31.5

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 83 141 144 141, 261 81 81 81 81 261 146 146 144 142 143 141 142, 143,  146 142 143 142 142 144, 266, 267 267 267 141 144 141 146 83, 85 144 145 141 141 146 146 145 146 45, 146 141 145 145 141 145 144, 273 146 146 146

De brevitate vitae 248 2.1 141 7.3  252

11  12.1  12.2–5  12.6  12.9  13.4  14.1  15.4  17.4  20.1 

248 248 248 248 248 248 248 248 248 248

De clementia 1.1.1 1.7.1 1.11.2 1.19.1–2 1.19.3 1.19.8

141 141 259 141 145 146

De constantia sapientis 1.1 178 2.1 141, 276 2.3  276 3.2  276 8.2 144 8.3 145 14.1 178 19.3 141 Dialogi 1.2 1.3 2.2 2.16 7.7 7.15

26 26 26 26 26 26

Epistulae morales 3.6 4.3  6  8.3 8.4 9.12–13 9.15  9.16 9.21 10.4–5 10.4 10.5 12.2 12.9 

55, 264 145 264 256 145 145 141 141 45, 52 145 144 146 143, 144 141 141

12.10 14 14.3 14.5–6 14.7–8 14.14 16.7–8 16.2  16.3  16.5 17.6 18.6 18.8 18.10 18.13 19.6 20.8 22.12 22.15 24 24.4  24.8 24.9 24.10 24.19  25.4  26.6  26.7  26.10 27.1  27.2 30.1–3  30.3 30.11 31 31.6  31.8 31.9 31.10 31.11 32  35.1 36.6 36.10 41  41.1–2 41.1 41.2 41.3

144 111 108 108 109 109 51 264 272 142 144 145 141 145 141 141 144 144,  146 145 26 253 252 26 26 260 145 248 264 251, 252 264 251 250 250 42, 141 256 252 142 141 143, 145 143, 145 250 264 141 42, 45,  52 274 155, 273 143 143, 144, 251, 256 143

291

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 41.4 42.10  44.1 45.9 47.1 47.17  48.2  48.7 48.11 49.14.1  49.15.1  49.15.4  51.9 52.10  53.8  53.11 54.4–5  57.7–9  57.10 58.27 59  59.1  59.4 60.1 62.12 63.10 63.15  65.2 65.4 65.7–10 65.8  65.12 65.22  65.23 65.24 66.1 66.3 66.6 66.7 66.8  66.12 67.11 67.12–13  68.9  70.6  70.13 71.4 71.13 71.14 71.16 71.27 71.30 

141 252 141 143 141 250 249 146 144, 252 251 250 250 141 252 250 144 42 42 270 144 248 250 249, 251 146 74 145 251 141, 278 141 141 151 142, 278 251 142, 278 143 141 141 143 141 145 143 144 267 264 250 141 141 141 52, 142 141 143 264

71.34 71.35–36  72.5 73.14 73.15 73.16 74.8 74.14 74.16 74.19–20 75.11  75.17–18 76.23 76.30 77.12 78.3  78.7 78.17 81  82.1 83.1 85.20 87.4–5  87.21 90 90.3  90.4 90.5 90.28 90.29  90.34 90.37 92.1–2 92.3 92.27 92.29  92.30 92.31 93.1 93.2 93.4 93.9 93.10 94  94.2  94.4  94.7 94.18 94.42  94.44  94.47–48  94.49 

141 272 141 141 145, 146 143, 155 141 141 141 141 272 144 146 145 42 272 144 178 249 145 143 141 264 143 265 141 104 115 146, 273 278 141 141 141 145 145 145 142, 143 145 141 143 141 144 141 265 265 265 42 141 266 266 252 267

94.50  94.56 94.68  95

95.2 95.4–6  95.10  95.12  95.30  95.31  95.36  95.44  95.47–49  95.47–55  95.47 95.48 95.49 95.50 95.52 96.2 96.4 98.2–3 102.2  102.18  102.21 102.25 107.8 107.9 107.11–12 107.12 108.8 109.1  110.1 110.2 110.10 113.16 115.5 116.3 116.8  117.6 118.4 119.15 120.4 120.13 120.14 121.2 121.6–15 121.11

291 267 144 144 10, 11, 263, 265, 266, 272, 276, 277 141 265 265 265 265 265 276 265 276 266 266, 267, 272, 273, 276 144, 146 146 146, 272, 275, 276 144, 249 146 146 141 42 144 144 141 141 26, 143 141 26 141 143 141 146 143 142 146 141 251 141 141 141 141 141 143 141 179 141

292

292

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources

121.24 122.5 122.7 123.16 124.7 124.14 124.21 124.23

141 141 141 42, 141 141 144, 276 144 141

Ad Helviam 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 6.8 8.3 8.5  10.11  15.1 15.2 15.4 16.6 17.3  18.1 18.3  18.6 

145 141, 145 145 141 141 141 145 145 178 145 141 141 252 141 145 145

Hercules Oetaeus 1102–1117 45, 50 De ira  2.16.2 2.27.1 2.27.2 2.28.4 2.30.1 2.30.2 3.13.1 

1 146 146, 267 141 146 178 141 251

Ad Marciam de consolatione 35, 38 1.1 178 1.5 178 6–10 48 6.2 38 7.1 141 7.3 141 9.1 141 10.4 38, 50 10.6 39, 141

11.1–2 12.4  12.6 15.1 15.4 16.5 17.1 17.6 17.7 18.1 18.2–8 18.8 19–25 19 19.1 19.4 19.5 19.6 20.1 20.2  20.3  21.6 22–26 22.2 22.3 23.1–2 25–26 25.1 25.2 26.1 26.2 26.4 26.5 26.6 26.7

40 145 145 141 38 39 39 145 39 146 39 39 49 49 39 40, 52 39, 141 40 39, 141 252 250 144 49 40 144 40 49, 53 40, 48 41, 141 41, 141 39 41 41 41 41, 141

Naturales quaestiones Pref.3.1.2 44 1.Pref.2 144,  145 1.Pref.3 141 1.Pref.6 142 1.Pref.7 141 1.Pref.13–14 142 1.Pref.13 142 1.4  258 1.13–14  261 1.13  258 1.17.1  145 2.37.2 146 2.45.1–3 146, 275

2.45.2 2.45.3 2.59.2 3 3.16.4 3.27–30 3.27.2 3.27.3 3.27.4 3.27.10 3.27.11 3.27.13 3.28.4 3.28.7 3.29–30 3.29.2–3 3.29.5 3.29.6–9 3.29.6 3.29.8 3.29.9  3.30.1–2 3.30.1 3.30.4–5 3.30.5 3.30.7 3.30.8 4.45.2 6.32.12 7.30.4 

261 142 141 35 141 51, 52 44,  114 44 44 44 44 45 45 45, 114, 278 48, 51, 52 45 45 45 44 45 114 45, 53 44 44 114 52 45, 46 258 42 145

De otio 5.1 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.8

141 141 145 143 143, 145

Ad Polybium de consolatione 35, 41 1.1–3 42, 50, 51 1.1 141 1.3 141 1.4 42, 48 2.7 145 3.3 145 4.1–3 42, 48 4.1 42 5.3–4 43 9 49

293

Index of Biblical and Ancient Sources 9.1–9 9.3–8 9.3–4 9.3 9.4 9.7 9.8–9 9.9 10.5 11.1 11.3 12–14 12.3–4 12.4–5 13.1   13.3 13.4 14.1–2 14.1   14.2 15.1 15.3 16.4 16.5–6 16.5 17.1 17.2

50 48 43, 53 42, 51 43 43 43 43 141 141 42 48 43 44 44 43 145 43 44 145 145 141 42, 145 42 42, 145 141 43, 178

De providentia 1.1 143 1.5–6 144 1.5 143, 144,  146 2.6 144, 275 2.7 144 2.9–12 248, 250 2.9 141 2.10  253 2.11 145, 146 2.12 252, 260 3.1 146, 275 3.4 141 3.9 141 4.3 27 4.4 27 4.5 144, 145, 146

4.6 4.7–8 4.7 4.11–12 4.12 5.1–2 5.6–8 5.8  6.1 6.3–9 6.6

27, 146 144 144,  275 144 141 143 141 275 141 145 141, 276

De tranquillitate animi 248 2.14  250 2.15  250 8.5 145,  146 10.2–3 141 11.1 144 11.6  250 16.1  267 16.2 178 86.34  251 De vita beata 3.3 8.1 8.2 8.4 11.3 15.4 15.5 15.7 19–20  19.3  20.5–6 20.5  26.6 26.7–8 

141 141 145 142 141 143 143 143,  251 249 249 141 249 141 251

Sextus Empiricus Adversus mathematicos 11.140 177 96 231

293

Pyrrhoniae hypotyposes 3.247–248 180 Tacitus Agricola 2 6

108 108

Annales 15.62–64 15.64 

253 274

Tertullian Apologeticus 12

266

De praescriptione haereticorum 7  14 Thucydides 5.104–105 5.111 5.89 5.91 5.99 

103,  112 104 112 104 111 111

Virgil Aeneid 4.569–570 6.853 8.352

178 112 273

Xenophon Anabasis 1.2.26 1.6.3

28 28

Cyropaedia 7.1.44

28

Memorabilia 1.1.1

268

Oeconomicus 7.22–31

199

294

Index of Modern Authors Abernathy, D. 94 Abush, R. 201 Adams, E. 4, 33, 41, 49–51, 183 Adna, J. 77 Ajluni, B. 6, 11, 75–100 Algra, K. 141, 146 Allen, D. M. 164 Anderson, C. A. 121 Annas, J. 60, 256 Aquilina, M. 14 Arnold, B. 72 Arnold, E. V. 26 Ashton, J. 13 Atherton, C. 235, 237 Attridge, H. W. 34 Aubenque, P. 62 Aune, D. E. 33, 246, 253–255 Baer, R. A. 200, 204 Bahktin, M. 53 Balch, D. L. 173 Barclay, J. M. G. 4, 33, 70, 73, 82, 122, 162, 169, 218 Barnes, T. D. 268 Barrett, C. K. 174, 216, 263, 269 Barth, K. 126 Bauckham, R. 129–130 Baynes, L. 200 Beard, M. 264 Benedum, J. 86–87, 92 Betz, H. D. 2 Beulter, J. 21 Bird, J. G. 76 Bird, M. 1 Bird, P. 215 Black, C. C. 253 Black, D. A. 68 Blackwell, B. 33 Blumenfeld, B. 76 Bobzein, S. 149 Bockmuehl, M. 70, 72 Bonhöffer, A. F. 1

Borgen, P. 207 Boulanger, A. 82 Boyarin, D. 201 Bradshaw, D. 121 Brenk, F. E. 208, 219 Briggs, R. S. 161, 164 Briones, D. E. 1, 5, 6, 49, 55–75,  277 Brookins, T. 8–9, 11, 53, 173–197 Bruce, F. F. 94, 174 Brunschwig, J. 225 Bryan, C. 76 Buch-Hansen, G. 9, 221–243 Bultmann, R. 1 Burke, K. 184–189 Calabi, F. 123 Calme, C. 36 Campbell, C. R. 64 Campbell, D. A. 27 Capes, D. B. 161 Carr, A. 14–16 Case, S. J. 2 Chaniotis, A. 135 Chen, C. 203 Cheon, S. 167 Ciampa R. E. 175 Clark, E. A. 229, 242 Colish, M. L. 150, 245 Collins, J. J. 33, 36, 45, 52, 54 Collins, R. F. 24, 26, 164, 216 Conway, C. 200 Conzelmann, H. 152, 163, 174 Cooper, J. 57–58 Corcoran, T. H. 45 Corner, S. 199 Covfefe, H. A. 12, 134, 198, 220, 244 Cox, R. R. 118–119, 126, 210 Crane, G. 111–112 Cranfield, C. E. B. 94 Croix, G. E. M. 208

295

Index of Modern Authors Damschen, G. 37–38 D’Angelo, M. R. 199–207 Danker, F. W. 86, 88–90 Davidson, J. 199 Davies, W. D. 3, 13, 255 Dawson, J. D. 162 Derrida, J. 191 Deissmann, A. 75 deSilva, D. A. 4, 54, 184 Dibelius, M. 271 Diels, H. 210 Dillon, J. 117, 210 Dodson, J. R. 1, 4–5, 11, 33–55, 70, 74, 95, 159, 170, 253, 277 Donaldson, A. M. 56 Donfried, K. P. 21, 23, 26 Downing, F. G. 16–17, 34, 45, 49, 52–53, 114, 116 Downs, D. J. 27 Dunbabin, K. M. D. 209 Dunderberg, I. 34 Dunn, J. D. G. 13, 98, 125, 151, 154–155, 210 Ebner, M. 56 Edmonds, H. 23 Edmondson, J. 222 Edwards, C. 264 Engberg-Pedersen, T. 4, 13, 16, 34, 37, 42, 49–53, 68, 72, 114, 127, 136, 154, 163, 182, 256–258 Enns, P. 161–162 Esler, P. F. 252 Estes, D. 193 Falcon, A. 202 Fatum, L. 214–215 Fee, G. D. 22, 72, 127, 163, 175, 179, 210, 214–215 Feuillet, A. 215, 253 Fiorenza, E. S. 208, 215 Fischer, S. E. 267, 275 Fitzgerald, J. T. 56, 74 Fitzmyer, J. A. 162, 168, 173, 175, 182, 209 Fortenbaugh, W. W. 59 Foucault, M. 245, 250 Fowl, S. 65, 72 Frankfurther, D. 36 Frede, D. 149 Friedrich, J. 94

Gagnon, R. A. J. 174, 182 Garland, D. E. 118, 175 Gathercole, S. J. 274 Gauly, B. M. 36–38, 45, 51–52 Gaventa, B. 22 Geoffrion, T. C. 23–24, 28 George, M. 236 Gerber, C. 25 Gerson, L. P. 194 Gilbert, M. 159 Gilhuly, K. 199 Gill, C. 60, 245 Glad, C. E. 255 Glancy, J. 222 Goff, M. 48 Goodrich, J. 33 Gormon, M. J. 28 Granger, H. 202 Grant, R. M. 117, 125 Griffin, M. T. 264, 273 Griffith-Jones, R. 22 Grosheide, F. 174 Gummere, R. M. 38, 146 Gundry-Volf, J. M. 201, 213, 216 Gunkel, H. 36, 45 Gupta, N. 5, 11, 13–32 Hadot, P. 245 Hahm, D. E. 34 Hankinson, R. J. 121 Hansen, W. 56;, 69 Hanson, A. 229, 232 Harrill, J. A. 34, 49, 53 Harris, M. J. 130–133 Harrison, J. R. 77, 94 Harrison, N. 201 Harrison, V. E. F. 201 Hart, M. D. V. 162 Hays, R. B. 27, 163, 183, 246 Heckel, W. 30 Heil, A. 37–38 Heinonen, S. 114 Hengel, M. 13, 169 Héring, J. 52 Hester, J. D. 197 Heuchan, V. 201 Hill, W. A. 128–131, 163 Hine, H. 1, 276 Hollander, H. 178 Holmes, P. 14

295

296

296

Index of Modern Authors

Holowchak, M. A. 37, 41 Höffe, O. 63 Hogan, K. M. 50 Holladay, C. R. 157 Holtz, T. 32 Hooker, M. 212–215 Horrell, D. 183 Horsley, G. H. R. 76 Horsley, R. A. 152, 175 Hossenfelder, M. 245 Hoven, R. 40, 42, 46 Hsieh, L. C. 71 Hultgren, A. J. 126 Hurtado, L. W. 125, 129–130, 210, 254 Huttunen, N. 4, 6, 101–117 Inwood, B. 34, 38–39, 42, 44, 194, 264, 273 Jaquette, J. 56 Jastram, D. N. 203–204 Jaubert, A. 215 Jewett, R. 22–23, 30, 76, 114, 155 Jipp, J. W. 263, 269, 271–272 Johnson, A. 28 Johnson, L. T. 16, 65, 256 Johnson, M. 24 Jones, H. S. 105 Joubert, S. 78, 83 Judge, E. A. 76 Kaimio, M. 219 Kallas, J. 94 Käsemann, E. 54, 94, 126 Keck, L. E. 77 Keener, C. S. 269–270, 274 Kenney, A. 55 Ker, J. 253 Kerst, R. 210 Kistemaker, S. J. 174 Koester, C. 164 Konstan, D. 55, 60 Kittay, E. 24 Klauck, H. J. 2 Krauter, S. 102 Kremer, J. 174, 182 Kruse, C. G. 76 Laclau, E. 191 Lakey, M. 125, 128, 174

Lakoff, G. 24 Lane, W. L. 164 Lang, F. 174 Laqueur, T. W. 229 Lendon, J. E. 25 Levison, J. R. 160, 204 Liddell, H. G. 105 Lightfoot, J. B. 184, 277 Lindemann, A. 174 Lindsay, D. R. 27 Linebaugh, J. 4, 167 Loader, W. 218, 231–232 Löhr, H. 169 Long, A. A. 34, 45, 51, 105, 107, 148, 165, 180, 246 Longenecker, R. 30 Lutz, E. 219 Magde, K. 76 Malherbe, A. 3, 5, 16–17, 20–22, 31, 35, 183 Malitz, J. 108 Mann, W. E. 123 Mansfeld, J. 45 Marchal, J. 64 Marcus, R. 207 Marguerat, D. 268 Marquis, T. 191 Marshall, I. H. 22 Marshall, J. 81 Martin, D. 211 Martyn, J. L. 15–16, 261 Maston, J. 33 Matlock, R. B. 37 Mattila, S. L. 200–201, 204 McGinn, S. E. 213, 215 McGlynn, M. 159 McGrath, J. F. 129 McFarland, O. 7, 11, 117–133 Meeks, W. 3, 76 Meggitt, J. J. 75–76 Metzner, R. 56 Michel, C. 92 Michel, O. 94 Mitchell, M. M. 2, 209 Moffatt, J. 182 Montague, G. T. 174 Moo, D. J. 126 Moo, J. 51–52

297

Index of Modern Authors Morgan, T. 27–29, 113 Motto, A. L. 38, 45, 52, 267, 276 Munro, W. 94 Murphy-O’Conner, J. 128, 210, 215 Neschke, A. 177 Neyrey, J. H. 199 Niehaus, J. J. 261 Nikiprowetzky, V. 201, 204 Norden, E. 124–126, 151 Nuefeld, T. R. 25, 29 Nussbaum, M. C. 208, 245, 250 Nygaard, M. 10, 245–262 O’Brien, P. T. 72 Oegema, G. S. 201 Ogereau, J. M. 63–64 Okland, J. 199, 208, 214, 218 Olbrechts-Tyteca, L. 184 Olofsson, S. 161 O’Neil, J. C. 94 Orr, W. F. 175, 179 Osborne, G. R. 77 Padgett, A. 173, 175, 216 Pagels, E. 242 Paige, T. 183 Pakaluk, M. 55–57, 59, 62–63 Pangle, L. S. 55–60, 62 Pao, D. W. 276 Payne, P. B. 216 Peerbolte, L. 211 Penner, T. 211 Perelman, C. 184, 186–187, 190, 193 Pervo, R. I. 263, 274 Pessin, S. 206 Pfitzner, V. 26 Pierce, M. N. 8, 157–172 Pitts, A. W. 6, 11, 23, 75–100 Plummer, A. 154, 173 Pobee, J. S. 26 Pöhlmann, W. 94 Portier-Young, A. 33 Porter, S. E. 14, 30, 34, 95, 98, 261 Preuss, A. 229 Rabens, V. 160, 163 Rackham, H. 79 Radice, R. 201

297

Rasimus, T. 4, 34 Reese, J. M. 160 Reydams-Schils, G. 219 Reynolds, B. F. 33, 36, 48, 50, 52 Richardson, N. 127, 129 Richardson, P. 201 Richardson-Hay, C. 264 Ricoeur, P. 24 Robertson, A. 154, 173 Rodriguez, R. 76 Romm, J. 38, 41, 43 Rosner, B. S. 175 Rothschild, C. K. 268–269 Rowe, C. K. 5, 54, 127, 268–270, 274–275, 278 Rowland, C. 36 Royse, J. R. 201 Runciman, S. 124 Runia, D. T. 118, 120–122, 203–205, 228 Russel, D. C. 248 Sacchi, P. 51 Sailors, T. B. 56 Saller, R. P. 82, 199 Sampley, J. P. 14 Sanders, E. P. 13 Sandnes, K. O. 268 Sauer, J. 38, 41, 43 Schafer, J. 264–266 Schenk, W. 70 Schiemann, G. 177 Schmithals, W. 94 Schnabel, E. J. 263 Schoedel, W. R. 178 Schrage, W. 174, 182, 212–213, 216 Schreiner, T. R. 94, 215 Schroeder, F. 57 Schweitzer, A. 2, 125, 151 Scott, R. 105 Scroggs, R. 212 Sedley, D. N. 180 Seeley, D. 26 Segal, A. F. 34 Segovia, F. F. 30 Sellars, J. 34, 38, 50–51, 263 Setaioli, A. 37, 44, 275 Sevenster, J. N. 3, 34–35, 38, 41, 45, 49–50, 246 Silva, M. 68, 72

298

298

Index of Modern Authors

Skemp, J. B. 75 Skinner, M. L. 27 Sly, D. 199–200 Smith, A. 22 Smith, J. Z. 35–36 Smith, R. S. 38 Smyth, H. W. 122 Sommer, B. D. 163 Sorabji, R. K. 250 Sorensen, V. 264 Spicq, C. 30 Starr, C. G. 107 Stein, R. 94 Sterling, G. 3, 17, 118–132, 201, 209–10 Stewart, E. C. 199 Stichele, C. V. 211 Strom, M. 76 Stowers, S. 17–18, 74, 183, 259 Stuckenbruck, L. T. 36, 48, 50, 52, 213 Stuhlmacher, P. 94 Surgirtharajah, R. S. 30 Svebakken, H. 203 Szensat, H. 199 Tabb, B. 10–11, 263– Tabor, J. 34 Tannehill, R. C. 275 Taylor, J. E. 200–201 Teichert, D. 264 Thate, M. J. 64 Theiler, W. 117 Theobald, M. 253 Thiessen, M. 162 Thiselton, A. C. 76, 164, 173, 179, 210–213, 218 Thom, J. C. 146 Thompson, C. L. 174 Thorsteinsson, R. M. 4, 7, 11, 111, 135–156, 256, 259 Tilling, C. 129 Tobin, T. H. 117, 203, 205–206 Towner, P. H. 76

van den Hoek, A. 206 van der Horst, P. W. 270 Vanhoozer, K. J. 64 van Kooten, G. H. 4, 17–19, 201 Varela, J. E. G. 203 Vogel, M. 246 von Albrecht, M. 38 von Harnack, A. 23 Waaler, E. 129 Walker, W. 183 Wallace, D. R. 77 Walther, J. A. 175, 179 Walton, S. 274 Ware, J. 42 Wassermann, E. 246, 258 Watson, F. 158, 171, 208, 211–215, 218 Wedderburn, A. J. M. 204 Weima, J. A. D. 30 Weiss, H. 121 Weiss, J. 180, 184, 210 White, L. M. 56 Whittaker, J. 210 Whybray, R. N. 98 Williams, G. D. 44, 258 Williams, T. B. 77 Wilson, M. 264 Wilson, R. M. 114 Winston, D. 123, 166, 201, 209 Winter, B. 3–4, 6, 75–100, 209, 268–273 Wischmeyer, O. 18–19, 31 Witherington, B. 25, 68, 76–77, 210, 269 Wolff, C. 175, 210 Wolfson, H. A. 201 Worthington, J. 9, 11, 199–219 Wright, N. T. 13, 18–20, 28, 31, 37, 50, 52– 53, 76, 129, 210, 247, 261–262 Wuellner, W. 193 Yeo, K. K. 30 Zuiderhoek, A. 82

299

Index of Ancient Figures Abraham 239, 241 Adam 205–207, 211–212, 215–216, 233 Adeimantus 165 Agathocles 89–90 Alexander of Aphrodisias 142, 165 Anaxippos 87–88 Antigonus 81 Aratus 263, 269, 271 Aristo 265 Aristobulus 157 Aristophanes 228 Aristotle 6, 55–75, 78–80, 91, 118, 178, 184, 235 Augustine 235, 242–243, 273 Augustus 112

Galen 224, 229 Gallio 1 Genaeus Pompeius 26

Burrus 77

Lucilius 264 Lucretius 109–110, 112, 114 Luke 1, 3, 10, 239, 263, 268, 274–275, 277

Callicles 103, 105 Cato 252 Chrysippus 34, 116, 165 Cicero 55, 78, 84–86, 90–91, 98–99, 223, 225–226 Claudius 43–44, 46 Cleanthes 34, 263 Cremutius Cordus 40–41 Ctesiphon 80

Helvidius Priscus 108, 111 Heracles 116 Hesiod 103, 105 Hippocrates 229 Horace 226 Josephus 19, 25, 104, 112 Juno 266 Jupiter (see Zeus) Kraton 88

Manlius 81 Marcia 38–41 Marcus Aurelius 34, 124–126, 151 Metilius 38–41 Moses 121–122, 157, 160–161, 171, 240 Musonius Rufus 22, 208 Nero 108

Demosthenes 78, 80, 187 Dio Chrysostom 5, 21–23, 263 Diogenes Laertius 116, 225–227 Diomedes 237 Dionysius 28, 78–79, 90 Dionysos 88 Epaphroditus 66 Epictetus 4, 6, 8, 23–24, 29, 34, 102, 105–108, 111, 116, 147–151, 181 Epicurus 109–110, 225–226 Epimenides 263, 269, 271 Eve 205–207, 233

Pausanias 240 Philistos 86–88 Philo 4, 7, 9–10, 19, 118–123, 131–133, 153, 161, 199–219, 223–224, 227–233, 239–240, 242, 246 Plato 55, 103, 105, 157, 165–166, 178, 228, 234–236, 240 Pliny 187 Plutarch 2, 208 Polybius 41–44 Posidonius 104, 115, 263 Pythagoras 23, 157–158, 266

300

300

Index of Ancient Figures

Romulus 78–79, 90 Scipio 26 Seneca 1, 5, 8, 10–11, 24, 26–27, 33–55, 77–78, 81–86, 90–91, 98–99, 104, 108–109, 114, 141–146, 150–151, 155, 178, 245–253, 257–267, 270, 272–278 Silas 268 Socrates 2, 23–24, 103, 106, 116, 165, 268 Soranus 224, 229

Tacitus 108 Tertullian 14, 146 Thrasea Paetus 108 Thrasymachus 103, 105, 113 Thucydides 103–104, 111 Timothy 29, 268 Vespasian 108 Virgil 112 Zeno 34, 116, 165, 273 Zeus 103, 107, 142, 147–150, 177, 266, 275, 277