Religion and Belief : A Moral Landscape [1 ed.] 9781443860062, 9781443856539

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Religion and Belief

Religion and Belief: A Moral Landscape

Edited by

Malcolm Heath, Christopher T Green and Fabio Serranito

Religion and Belief: A Moral Landscape, Edited by Malcolm Heath, Christopher T Green and Fabio Serranito This book first published 2014 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2014 by Malcolm Heath, Christopher T Green, Fabio Serranito and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5653-3, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5653-9

“It is our duty to … select the best and most dependable theory that human intelligence can supply, and use it as a raft to ride the seas of life.” —Plato, Phaedo 85d

TABLE OF CONTENTS List of Illustrations ..................................................................................... ix Acknowledgements ..................................................................................... x Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Fabio Serranito and Christopher T Green Abbreviations .............................................................................................. 3 Chapter One ................................................................................................. 4 Eccumenical Paradoxes Malcolm Heath Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 19 The Origins of Religion Tony Pacyna Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 29 Gods Old and New Fabio Serranito Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 57 Is Platonic Rebirth Pointless? Christopher T Green Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 76 A Commentary on the Orphic Argonautica Jo Norton-Curry Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 94 Origins of the Aquila Ben Greet Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 111 The Lemuria Rachel Meadows

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Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 129 Personal Belief and Social Practice Caterina Agostini Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 140 Abraham’s Striving With God Mateusz Boniecki Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 154 What To Wear For The Afterlife Judith Simpson Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 177 Conclusion Christopher T Green Appendix A ............................................................................................. 180 Images Contributors ............................................................................................. 185

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Fig.6.1: Aes Signatum Fig.6.2: Aes Signatum Fig.6.3: Narrative Frieze of Jupiter and Aeneas Fig.6.4: Warrior Fig.6.5: The Faravahar

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Our sincere thanks to the members of academic and administrative staff in the Classics Department at The University of Leeds for their help and continual advice. This book owes much to the Postgraduate community in the Classics Department also, without which the conference and this book would not have been possible. We are very happy to have international participation in this book. It is our inspiration to bring together outstanding junior researchers not only from Classics departments, but also from research fields which share an interest on the subject. We need to thank all the contributors for their professionalism and for sharing our enthusiasm. The Editors: Malcolm Heath Christopher T Green Fabio Serranito

INTRODUCTION FABIO SERRANITO AND CHRISTOPHER T GREEN

Heraclitus, Aristotle tells us, was heating himself by the oven, when visitors appeared.1 Embarrassed, the visitors hesitated, but they were encouraged by the philosopher to come in, since “here too there are gods”. Aristotle uses this anecdote to illustrate how in even the smallest and apparently most insignificant things one can find wonder and beauty. It is unclear what the hermetic Heraclitus meant by his strange utterance, but it is possible that he was echoing a belief eloquently expressed by the famous dictum attributed by Aristotle to the first known philosopher, Thales: “everything is full of gods”.2 Regardless of the interpretative minutiae, the idea that there is a spark of the divine in every being, that there is something divine in everything, seems to be at the heart of the Ancient civilizations of which we are the inheritors: Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome. But the idea of a world full of gods, where the divine is present in each and every being, from the greatest and most magnificent to the smallest and most insignificant, seems very far from describing the secular societies that constitute contemporary Western civilization. Our world is not full of gods. This is not just the result of the transition from polytheism to monotheism: the emergence of the major Western monotheistic religion, Christianity, put God and the relationship with God at the forefront of all human concerns, and made religion the most defining cultural factor. The fact is that, for a significant portion of the population in the Western World, God or gods and religious belief seem to play a secondary role, if any at all. This is the result of a centuries-long process of progressive secularisation, spurred and motivated to a large extent by a reaction to the bloody religious conflicts that scarred Europe in the Modern Age. However, this process has not destroyed religion, nor has it cancelled its fundamental role in defining personal identity and in shaping private lives. It has rather led to the construction of secularized 1

Aristotle De Partibus Animalium, ǹ 5. 645a 17. Or according to some critics, on the toilet. See Adomenas (1999), 105-107. (See Chapter Three bibliography). 2 Aristotle De Anima, 411a7. (See Chapter Three bibliography).

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Introduction

public spaces and institutions, where freedom of religion is recognised as a fundamental right, but that are nonetheless free from religious bias or favouritism. However, the contact with cultures and civilizations where religion still plays the fundamental role in determining and defining the way people live has created the potential for clashes, conflicts and misunderstandings, and has brought religion into the forefront of our concerns. The movement towards secularisation, with the increment in atheism, agnosticism, and general indifference towards religion has been accompanied by a renewed interest in religion, not only by the faithful, but also by those unbelievers that are eager to understand such an important cultural phenomenon. Religion and belief have therefore become important subjects of discussion and renewed interest also in academic contexts. It was with the purpose of discussing the nature of religion and the role religious belief plays in society that the Fourth Annual Interdisciplinary Postgraduate Research Conference met on the 5th June 2013, under the title “Religion and Belief: a Moral Landscape”. The Annual Interdisciplinary Postgraduate Conference is an annual interdisciplinary conference aimed at the postgraduate community and organized by the postgraduate students of the Department of Classics at the University of Leeds. It is now in its fifth year and has included participants from all over the UK, and abroad. Every year the organizers select a different theme that might encourage participation from a wide range of disciplines, with the purpose of giving postgraduate students in different areas the opportunity to share their research and share ideas. It is an occasion for dialogue between researchers in different areas and with different approaches. For the first time, the versions of the majority of the papers presented at one of the annual conferences will be published. This interdisciplinary gathering produced papers covering subjects that ranged from Classics to Cultural Studies, and included Philosophy and Religious Studies. The collection of essays that comprise this edited volume are a selection of the high quality papers delivered to the Fourth Annual Interdisciplinary Postgraduate Research Conference. The aim of this book, and why these essays have been compiled, is to show how diverse religion in the ancient world was, be it Platonic religious belief or the Roman Eagle Standard.

ABBREVIATIONS Ap.Rhod.Arg. Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius AO Orphic Argonautica DK Diels-Kranz Phd. Phaedo Phdr. Phaedrus Rep. Republic Smp. Symposium

CHAPTER ONE ECUMENICAL PARADOXES MALCOLM HEATH

Moral landscapes are hard to navigate. They are full of pot-holes and quagmires, and the map-readers frequently disagree with each other. Since the choice of a moral direction may be both perplexingly complex and profoundly important, those disagreements often become passionately divisive. When religion is involved, the divisions tend to be multiplied, the passions heightened. Religious believers have a remarkable track-record of coming into moral conflict with each other, and with non-believers. Non-believers can, in their turn, be stridently anti-religious, as the “New Atheist” phenomenon shows. In view of the undeniable tendency of religion to turn problematic moral landscapes into battlefields, the New Atheist protest would merit a more sympathetic response if its stridency and its combination of intellectual self-confidence and shoddiness were not so off-putting.1 But, that aside, where does the protest lead? The Call for Papers for the conference which lies behind this collection singled out the New Atheists for mention, speaking of them as “wishing firmly to separate the moral landscape from religious institutions”. But that, surely, can only be part of the truth. The insertion of religiously informed morality into the moral landscape by religious individuals must also be unwelcome to New Atheists (as to many old ones). Yet separation of the moral landscape from religion at the individual level is deeply problematic. To ensure that religious individuals do not try to shape the moral landscape of society in the light of their religious beliefs, it would be necessary either to persuade them to act against their moral convictions, 1

See Eagleton 2009. Eagleton has the advantage over his New Atheist targets of being theologically better informed, as well as more stylish and witty. He also has an advantage over other critics of the New Atheists in that he is not an apologist for religion (xi: “Religion has wrought untold misery in human affairs. For the most part, it has been a squalid tale of bigotry, superstition, wishful thinking, and oppressive ideology”).

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or else to coerce them into doing so. So which would you prefer: a society that encourages moral hypocrisy, or one that violates the right to religious freedom? If you do not find either option acceptable, you must resign yourself to coping with the problem of accommodating religiouslygrounded morality in a community which to a greater or lesser extent has abandoned inherited religious beliefs and the moral convictions they generate. The question of how we are, collectively, to live with the pervasive tensions arising from the co-existence of (multiple) religious and secular moralities constitutes an important, even urgent, problem for society. Society has not, so far, found a good way of resolving that tension. Can ecumenism provide a model? The word “ecumenism” comes from the ancient Greek oikoumenƝ, meaning the inhabited world—though in practice its application in antiquity was most often limited to those parts of the inhabited world within the Roman Empire and its sphere of influence. From the fourth century AD onwards, Christians distinguished assemblies with the authority to regulate local or regional church affairs from those whose decisions were normative for Christians everywhere. The Council of Nicaea in 325 was the first of the councils recognised as “ecumenical” in this sense. In modern usage, “ecumenism” is generally applied to the quest for unity between different Christian denominations: or, if not formal unity, then cooperation, or at least constructive dialogue; or, at the very least, refraining where possible from burning each other at the stake. It is sometimes extended to include efforts to secure cooperation, dialogue and the avoidance of lethal conflict between different religions, though these are more commonly designated by expressions such as “interfaith dialogue”. Since this kind of engagement is evidently preferable to the confrontational tendencies from which we started, the thought of extending the ecumenical spirit still further seems attractive. Could we solve the problem by extending the ecumenical spirit to the whole inhabited world, and include within its scope not only religious people of different denominations and faiths, but also non-religious and antireligious people? Could we engage them all in cooperation, dialogue and not killing each other? If the history of Christian ecumenical councils is our precedent, the prospects are not encouraging. The distinction between locally and ecumenically normative decisions intersects with a distinction between decisions that are normatively valid and those that are not. To recognise a council as ecumenical is not simply to agree with its conclusions: it concedes a claim to authority. Such claims can be used to delegitimise

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Chapter One

dissidents and to license coercive measures against them. Moreover, since recognising a council as ecumenical means recognising it as universally normative, agreement about which councils are ecumenical requires (as a necessary, though not a sufficient, condition) agreement on which councils have reached the right conclusions. But there has never been universal consensus on that. In the absence of disagreement, ecumenical councils would never have been necessary; the disagreement that necessitates them make it unlikely that they will ever succeed in eliminating it. The (Roman) Catholic2 church recognises twenty-one councils as ecumenical (down to Vatican II, 1962-5); the (Eastern) Orthodox churches recognise only seven (down to Nicaea II, in 784); the (Oriental) Orthodox churches only three (down to Ephesus, in 431);3 some Protestants recognise none, either because they do not concede normative authority to conciliar decisions, even if they agree with those decisions, or (in some cases) because they do not agree with those decision.4 The fractured and fractious history of relations between Christians constitutes one of the many respects in which the history of the Christian churches has from the very beginning been a history of sustained failure. Consequently, the starting-point for modern ecumenical dialogue between Christian churches is a messy and unsatisfactory one. On the other hand, ecumenism with an expanded horizon must also begin from a messy and unsatisfactory starting-point: if that were not so, the co-existence of multiple religious and secular moralities would not be such an intractable problem. It is therefore a promising sign that Christian ecumenism has, despite its unpromising starting-point, made some progress. One crucial factor underpinning the possibility of that progress has been the determination of participants to maintain their own integrity, combined with a respect for the corresponding determination of other participants to maintain theirs. Assent without conviction would be at best the substitution of one kind of theological error for another, since a dishonest theology is ipso facto an erroneous theology; so there is no point in either offering such assent or expecting it to be offered. Theological integrity requires all parties to be willing to surrender or modify inherited beliefstructures and traditions of practice, liturgical and ethical, if they are 2

“Catholic” derives from the Greek word katholikos, meaning “universal”—which stands in some tension with the conventional local qualifier. Because the selfdesignations of different churches embody conflicting claims to legitimacy, it is not easy to refer to them in terms that are uncontentious and unambiguous. 3 In other words, rejecting the two-natures Christology of Chalcedon in 451. Parry 2007 provides a guide to “Eastern” and “Oriental” Orthodoxies. 4 Unitarians, for example, do not accept the Trinitarian theology of Nicaea I.

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persuaded that this would improve their belief or practice—but not otherwise. One aim of ecumenical dialogue, therefore, is agreement, when that can be achieved without loss of integrity; when it cannot, there remains the search for the closest convergence and cooperation consistent with maintaining one’s own, and respecting each other’s, integrity. One might wonder whether Christianity’s history of failure in this respect is fully representative. Monotheistic religions are likely to have a greater tendency to exclusivism, and therefore to divisiveness, than polytheisms, and strongly creedal religions than those that are weakly creedal. If so, Christianity (and some cognate religious traditions) faces a particular challenge in maintaining unity, and in repairing breaches of unity. By contrast, we would expect classical polytheistic religions to have found it easier to recognise parallels between their own religious beliefs and practices and those of other peoples, to make inter-religious identifications, and to absorb elements from other traditions without loss of integrity. Consider, for example, the essay on images of the gods by Maximus of Tyre, a popularising Platonist philosopher who wrote short essays on philosophical topics around the late second century AD. Greek intellectuals of this period tended to disapprove of the ways in which non-Greeks represented gods visually. Egyptian images of gods in animal form, for example, were thought to be degrading; the Greek practice of representing gods in human form was regarded as more suitable, because of its associations with purposeful agency and rational intelligence. Maximus’ Oration 2 represents one of the variants possible within that broad consensus.5 He begins by drawing attention to the diversity of divine images between cultures, and poses the question whether we could do without any images at all. His answer is that, though images are of no use to the gods, they are indispensible to their human worshippers: few individual humans, if any, and no human community as a whole can do without external support to the recollection of the divine. Having made that point, Maximus returns to the diversity of images. The superiority of Greek anthropomorphic images is affirmed: “if the human soul is very close to god and bears most resemblance to him, then surely it is not reasonable to clothe what is most similar to it, god, in an utterly unsuitable outward form” (Or. 2.3). The catalogue of non-Greek customs that follows begins with examples that are explicitly, or by clear implication, presented as unsuitable: Persian worship of fire (a destructive element); Egyptian 5

The translations below are my own. See Trapp 1997 for a complete translation. I have discussed Maximus’ oration in its intellectual context background briefly in Heath 2013, 127-34.

Chapter One

8

worship of animals; Indian worship of snakes. But as the examples accumulate, the evaluative slant drops out; Maximus’ attention focuses instead on the universality to which this accumulation attests, which he takes as confirmation of the indispensability of images. He concedes that natural images might be more appropriate in principle than artificial images. Perhaps, if one were starting from a blank slate, with people newly sprung from the earth, it would be best to recommend the sun, moon and heavenly bodies, and the four elements. But that is not our starting-point. We have instead a plurality of peoples, each with their own established traditions. Since divine transcendence is beyond the reach of any image, natural or artificial, all images are a concession to human weakness. The important question, then, is not adequacy, but effectiveness, which is in part a function of familiarity. The practices which have been made familiar by each community’s traditions should therefore not be disturbed. In the light of this relativisation of all images, even the criticism of Persian and Egyptian religious practices is effectively revoked in the essay’s conclusion (2.10): Let men know the race of gods—let them only know it! If Greeks are aroused to the memory of God by Pheidias’ art, and Egyptians by the honour paid to animals, and a river or fire arouses others, I have no objection to that diversity. Let them only know God, let them only love him, let them recollect him!

How should we categorise Maximus’ position? In modern religious studies and theology of religions, a common taxonomy of ways of conceiving other religions distinguishes exclusivist, inclusivist and pluralist positions.6 So, for example, an exclusivist religion might maintain that its truthclaims are uniquely true and that it provides the only way to salvation; an inclusivist religion might acknowledge that other religions provide ways to salvation, while maintaining that this possibility is explained by its own truth-claims, which are uniquely true; pluralism would maintain that many (or even all) religions provide ways to salvation and truth. As a classificatory scheme this is not very satisfactory: religions differ in too many independently varying dimensions to be effectively subsumed under three headings. But, for the present, let us see how far it gets us. At the level of religious practice, Maximus’ view is pluralist. It is true that he makes a claim for the superiority of Greek practice, but this is heavily qualified: the inadequacy of all attempts to represent the divine in visible images (or, indeed, in words or concepts) makes the differences 6

See e.g. Markham 2004.

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between religions trivial. The overridingly important point is that all religions provide a way to god. However, this pluralism rests on a metareligious theory that is inclusivist, rather than pluralist. Maximus’ background assumptions include the belief, widely shared by Greek philosophers of this period, that there is a single universal human wisdom underlying cultural diversity, including the diversity of religious belief and practice.7 The existence of this universal wisdom was explained by a common origin and/or by a common cognitive basis, though the various philosophical schools disagreed about the content of that universal wisdom, and also about its cognitive basis: different epistemological theories yielded different accounts of how we have access to that universal wisdom. Maximus is a Platonist, and works with a Platonist epistemology. All souls have, in a discarnate state, had direct acquaintance with Reality; this knowledge is latent in the embodied soul, but can (under favourable conditions) be elicited by the soul’s encounter with that Reality’s instantiations in the empirical world.8 Hence, when he talks of images as an aid to recollection of the divine, he is not thinking only of aids to empirical mindfulness, which might help to guard against negligence of religious observance, but also intends the deeper sense that recollection has in Platonic epistemology. In this light, Maximus’ seemingly attractive affirmation of the value of all religious practices perhaps reveals a weakness: it is inclusive by assimilation. Everyone is right, because, deep down, they all agree with us. Maximus can take a tolerant view of the distinctive truth-claims and practical commitments of diverse religious traditions because he has, in effect, declared them irrelevant except insofar as they approximate the truth-claims and practical commitments of his own philosophy. Would everyone on whose religious practice Maximus bestows this kind of approval have accepted subordination to a sophisticated meta-religious theory contentedly?9 The irrelevance of that question from Maximus’ perspective reveals the extent to which his position depends on higherorder religious truth-claims that are potentially divisive. 7

Heath 2013, 122-5, 149-50. See Plato Meno 80d-86b; Phaedo 72e-8b; Phaedrus 246a-250c. Maximus addresses the topic of recollection directly in Or. 10. 9 Markham 2004, 416 notes that “inclusivism is not popular in Interfaith circles”, quoting Sambur 1999, who says of the Catholic theologian Karl Rahner’s concept of “anonymous Christians”: “This concept does not have any contribution to interfaith relations, because ... that concept includes the disrespectful approach to human freedom and humiliates the religion of the other” (30). On Rahner’s “anonymous Christians” see Kilby 2004, 115-26; Fletcher 2005. 8

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Chapter One

If the conflicting truth-claims of different religions are an obstacle to ecumenical convergence, would it not be better to set them to one side, and ... and what? The proposal tacitly assumes that those truth-claims are not fundamental to the religions that make them. In the case of some religions, that may be right; but clearly not in all cases. Where distinctively religious truth-claims do play a fundamental role, what are the consequences of them putting into suspense? Though their truth is treated as indifferent, the claims themselves remain, and the likelihood is that they will undergo an instrumentalist reduction: never mind whether it is true or not—just look what it can do for us! It may seem unlikely that any believer would take so crass a view: so let us consider an example. “The Moral Maze” is a BBC radio programme in which a panel of opinionated personalities engage in “combative, provocative and engaging debate” with expert witnesses and with each other. The episode in question carried the title “The Ring of Gyges”, alluding to a thoughtexperiment proposed by one of Socrates’ interlocutors in Plato’s Republic: what effect would a ring which conferred invisibility have on the morality of someone who gained possession of it (2, 359b-60d)? The question addressed by the panellists was: would an intelligent person be just and moral if he were not compelled to be so? One of them, Melanie Phillips (a well-known newspaper columnist), contributed these thoughts to the closing discussion:10 Conscience is the essence of morality. Conscience is what you freely choose to do in a kind of inner directed sense to follow a set of rules that you think are important. And I think that ... this is where God comes in. Whether or not one believes in God, the point is that God is so useful when it comes to morality. In my view it is indispensible—because the idea that God sees everything is the stimulus, because it is what stops us feeling we can get away with it.

Charity demands that we pass over the shallowness of a conception of morality as “a set of rules”, and the incoherence of an inner directed sense which only works if there is an external monitor. So let us focus on the 10

The episode was first broadcast on Wednesday 6 March 2013. The quotation is transcribed from the podcast: (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01r0yt8, accessed 26 August 2013), and has been lightly edited to remove distracting features of impromptu speech. Another panellist, Michael Portillo (a former Conservative Cabinet Minister) agrees on the instrumental value of God, though from a different perspective: “I entirely accept the utilitarian argument for God. God is very useful, makes a society work very well ... I just can’t believe in it myself.”

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real problem: “whether or not one believes in God, the point is that God is so useful when it comes to morality.” That is how easy it is for a religious believer to treat God as a convenience—and the double meaning is deliberate: for if God exists, such an attitude to God is profoundly disrespectful. Or, to use more technical language, it is blasphemous. Atheists, insulting a god they do not believe in, are mere amateurs; it takes a religious believer to do the job properly, and insult a god they think is real. The reduction of God to a socially convenient instrumentality is shocking. But it is not in the least surprising, if one views it from the perspective of a religious tradition which sees humanity as sharing, not (with Maximus) a universal wisdom, but a universal corruption: humanity is sinful. From this perspective, since religion is a human activity, and therefore an activity of fallen humanity, the one thing that is guaranteed to be common to all religions is the inevitability of defacing God’s image in word and deed. The human mind, according to Calvin, is a non-stop idolfactory.11 Martin Luther maintained that “the piety of man is sheer blasphemy of God and the greatest sin a man commits. Thus the ways now current in the world—the ways which the world regards as worship of God and as piety—are worse in the eyes of God than any other sin.”12 Karl Barth, in his commentary on Romans, described religion as “that human necessity in which the power exercised over men by sin is clearly demonstrated”.13 When Barth returned to the problem of religion in §17 of his Church Dogmatics (“The revelation of God as the sublimation [Aufhebung] of religion”),14 he declared: “religion is faithlessness; religion is a concern—one must say, in fact, the concern—of godless men” (55 = 299-300/327). That declaration is open to various misunderstandings, which Barth attempted to pre-empt. To guard against the assumption of a tacit Christian exceptionalism, he immediately adds that this proposition “is aimed not only at various others with their religion, but rather first of all at ourselves as members of the Christian religion”. To avoid another 11

Calvin 1960, 108: “man’s nature [ingenium], so to speak, is a perpetual factory of idols [perpetuam ... idolorum fabricam].” 12 Luther 1967, 37 (= 1891, 292). 13 Barth 1933, 253 (= 1922, 236). 14 “Gottes Offenbarung als Aufhebung der Religion”, in Barth 1938, 304-97. English translation by G. Green: Barth 2006. Green’s translation supersedes the standard version by G.T. Thompson and H. Knight in Barth 1956, 280-361, which is often misleading (not least in its translation of Aufhebung as “abolition”: see n.16 below). In what follows I give page references in the text in the form: “Green = Thompson-Knight/German original”. Green additionally provides a helpful introduction to Barth as a theorist of religion; see also di Noia 2000.

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Chapter One

possible misunderstanding, he insists that this is a theological thesis: “because it is intended only to express the judgement of God, it expresses no human disparagement of human values” (56 = 300/327). Barth’s theological critique of religion has what are at first sight surprising points of similarity to New Atheist assessments of religion.15 It is, in fact, more radical, in that it purports to express a divine judgement; it also shows greater humility, since the critique is inclusive of Christianity and not simply a polemical foray against others; and it is less one-sided, since it is capable of recognising things that are (in human terms) good in religion, as well as what is terrible. It resembles Maximus’ inclusivism, in that it interprets all religions in terms of its own truth-claims. From his inclusivist perspective, Maximus reaches the pluralist conclusion that all religions are ways to God. For Barth, by contrast, no religion (not even Christianity) is a way to God: all religions are (so far as they concern the position of humanity before God) faithlessness and sin. That may seem an unattractively pessimistic view, by comparison with Maximus’ optimistic pluralism. Alternatively, human religion might seem too fragile to sustain any realistic optimism: Barth’s theology escapes pessimism by locating the ground of hope in the transformative power of God’s grace—which is a pretty solid ground of hope, if God exists. With the mention of God’s grace, however, we move from the negative to the positive aspect of the Aufhebung16 of religion. Does Barth succeed in the delicate and risky task of holding both aspects together? Or is the preceding analysis of religion as faithlessness simply abandoned when he goes on to talk of “true religion” (85 = 325/356)? More specifically, is the reflexivity of that analysis abandoned when he declares that “we must not hesitate to say that the Christian religion is the true religion” (85 = 326/357)? Barth is clearly aware of the risks. He is careful still to insist that “religion is never and nowhere true as such and in itself”. It remains his “sure conviction” that Christianity is “equally affected” by everything said in the analysis of religion as faithlessness. He firmly denies that the preceding analysis of religion as faithlessness was a polemic against non15

E.g. Hitchens 2007, 10: “Thus the mildest criticism of religion is also the most radical and the most devastating one. Religion is man-made.” 16 Barth uses Aufhebung, if not in a fully Hegelian sense, at least with an awareness of the double meaning which Hegel exploited (English translators usually render it as “sublation” in Hegel). See Hegel 2010, 81-2: “‘aufheben’ ... has a twofold meaning in the language: it equally means ‘to keep,’ ‘to “preserve”,’ and ‘to cause to cease,’ ‘to put an end to’” (“Aufheben hat in der Sprache den gedoppelten Sinn, daß es soviel als aufbewahren, erhalten bedeutet und zugleich soviel als aufhören lassen, ein Ende machen”).

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Christian religions preparing the way for an attempt “to show that the Christian religion, in contrast to the non-Christian ones, is not guilty of idolatry and works-righteousness, hence is not faithlessness, and hence the true religion—or to show (what comes to the same thing in the end) that the Christian religion is not a religion at all but rather that, in contrast to all religions ... it is in itself the correct and holy, thus the irreproachable and indisputable, form of communion between God and man” (86 = 326/357). What he is trying not to do is therefore stated with clarity and emphasis.17 How, then, does he reach (or fail to reach) his positive goal of maintaining that Christianity is, like all religions, faithlessness, and yet also “true religion”? Barth’s key move is to invoke the Reformation’s understanding of what it is to be a justified sinner: a person who is, in his or her own right, simply a sinner, and whose justification before God is due wholly and exclusively to God’s acceptance, which is an act of unmerited grace: If the concept of a “true religion” is supposed to mean a truth belonging to one religion as such and in itself, it is as incapable of being realized as the concept of a “good man”, if his goodness is supposed to signify something of which he is capable out of his own ability ... A religion can only become true ... in precisely the same way that man is justified: only from without ... Like the justified man, the true religion is a creature of grace. (85 = 3256/356)

It is, for Barth, only on such terms that it is possible to speak of Christianity as true religion. So when we consider Christianity as it is in its own right, it is (as he has previously stated) faithlessness: It remains the case that the knowledge of the truth of the Christian religion begins with the acknowledgement that it too stands under the judgment that religion is faithlessness, and that it was acquitted of this judgment not by its own inner worthiness but only by God’s grace. (87 = 327/358)

Just as the description that religion as faithlessness did not express “human disparagement of human values”, so the description of Christianity as “true religion” does not express a claim to superiority in human terms over other religions. When Barth describes Christianity as “true” religion, 17

Or so one might think. But it is necessary to underline the fact that the preceding quotation is Barth’s statement of what he is not attempting to show, since he is widely reported as having maintained precisely the thesis that he repudiates: e.g. Gill 2004, 8 (“Some, following Karl Barth, would reject it on the grounds that Christianity is not ‘a religion’”); Wolterstorff 2010, 205 (Barth “insisted that Christianity is not a religion”).

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therefore, this is not a claim about the historical, empirical reality of the Christian churches.18 It is a theological claim about an act of God—an act to which Christian religion is a flawed and faithless response, since human religiosity is always and everywhere faithless. It is not because Christianity has succeeded in avoiding the faithlessness of human religiosity as such that it is possible to speak of it as “true” religion: it is only because the events to which it is a flawed and faithless response are truly the decisive act in God’s dealings with humanity. This fact about Christian religion19 is, of course, not to be understood as a consequence of, or a positive reflection on, any qualities intrinsic to Christians, any more than the justification of the sinner before God is a consequence of, or a positive reflection on, any qualities intrinsic to the sinner. Like the crater left by an explosion, Christianity is shaped by the events which brought it

18

On the contrary: “all this activity of faith ... is not what it intends and pretends to be, a work of faith and therefore of obedience to God’s revelation; rather, what we have here ... is human faithlessness, i.e., opposition to God’s revelation and therefore idolatry and works-righteousness both in intent and in action” (87 = 327/358-9); “what is visible historically is the attempt undertaken by the Christian, in ever-changing ways, to regard and to validate his religion as a proper and holy work in itself” (98 = 337/369); “what does become visible is ... a part of humanity that contradicts the grace, and thereby the revelation, of God no less because it claims them to be its special and most holy possessions” (99 = 337/369-70); “we cannot expect that the Christian, notwithstanding all his scruples to the contrary, will not again and again prove himself to be an enemy of grace” (99 = 338/370). It is significant that Barth’s contribution to an exchange “Atheism, for and against” (Barth 1971, 40-7) is (predictably?) sterile until he turns his attention to his Christian readers: “The atheism that is the real enemy is the “Christianity” that professes faith in God very much as a matter of course, perhaps with great emphasis ... while in its practical thinking and behaviour it carries on exactly as if there were no God ... Who can acquit himself of this third kind of atheism? ... The atheists of the other kind live on the fact that we are not better Christians” (46-7). 19 Is that a fact? Obviously, it is contestable. But Barth is not writing apologetics (that is, he is not trying to convince non-Christians that what Christians believe is true), but Christian theology. Barth believes it to be a fundamental premise of Christian theology that Christ is the decisive act of God towards humanity. As a Christian theologian, his task is not to argue for the truth of this premise, but to demonstrate that it is a premise and to articulate its implications for Christian faith and practice. That endeavour is (inter alia) a precondition for meaningful interfaith dialogue: a dialogue in which the participants do not understand the implications of their own positions would be pointless.

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into being, and so bears witness to them, despite its being, in itself, empty.20 Consider, in this light, a criticism of Barth made in the course of Keith Ward’s development of a different Christian theology of revelation:21 Indeed, one can very easily turn the tables on Barth and insist (as it seems very plausible to do) that the belief that everyone else’s revelation is incorrect and only one’s own is true, is a particularly clear example of human pride and self-interest. Of course one has an interest in thinking one’s own religion is the only true one; it enables one to dismiss the others as of no account and so bask in the superiority of one’s own possession of truth. One may claim that this possession is by the grace of God alone but this only makes the element of human pride more pronounced, since one is now asserting that grace is only truly possessed by oneself. One can hardly get more proud, more self-righteous, and more short-sighted than that.

An analogy may help to assess the plausibility of this as a riposte to Barth. It has become a journalistic cliché to speak of homicide victims being “in the wrong place at the wrong time”: that is, they were not targeted because of who or what they were, and did not contribute to their death by (for example) recklessly exposing themselves to danger; in sum, they bear no responsibility for their death at all. What, then, should we expect of a group of people who, being in the right place at the right time, become (as it seems to them) the recipients of an unmerited act of generosity? They could maintain an ungrateful silence; or they could say, dishonestly, that it was what they deserved; or they could say, honestly, that the generosity was unmerited. Characterising the last as the ultimate in pride and self-righteousness is, to say the least, strange. The strangeness of treating acknowledgement of unmerited grace as pride and selfrighteousness is blurred in Ward’s formulation by the word “possession”. But the infiltration of that term into a criticism of Barth’s theology is not in the least “plausible”: it is hard to think of anything more thoroughly inconsistent with Barth’s understanding of the sovereign freedom of God’s grace than a self-congratulatory human claim to ownership of that grace.22 20

Barth applies this image to the Christian community in his commentary on Romans (1933, 36 = 1922, 12: ‘nur Einschlagstrichter ... nur Hohlraüme’). Though it lacks nuance, it memorably encapsulates a key point. 21 Ward 1994, 17. This is not Ward’s only argument against Barth. 22 Note that in the quotations in n.18 “possession” appears only in a description of the contradiction of grace (99 = 337/369-70). Cf. e.g.: “the religion of revelation is indeed bound to God’s revelation; but God’s revelation is not bound to the religion of revelation” (89 = 329/360); “God’s grace, which alone is decisive and bound to no human, not even Christian, possession” (112 = 350/384).

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Let us return to the comparison of Maximus and Barth. Maximus moves from a sharp critique of the practices of other religions to a recognition of the limits of his own, and from there to an affirmation of the value of all. The reflexive critique, which acknowledges the limitation of his own religion, is not unreserved, since he continues to affirm the superiority of his own religion’s practice; but this reservation has no significance with respect to the point of decisive importance, since it remains true that all religions provide an effective way to achieve the same goal. His view of religious practice (and, by implication, of the beliefs associated with it, insofar as they fail to articulate the latent universal knowledge of God) is instrumentalist, but it is theocentrically instrumentalist: God is not a convenience, but the goal. Since Maximus’ understanding of that goal, and his explanation of the capacity of all religions to lead us to it, are explained in terms of his own Platonic theology, his pluralism has inclusivist foundations. Barth’s formulation of a Christian theology of religions radicalises the inadequacy of all religions: no religion provides a way to God. This critique is reflexive: it applies equally to Christianity as to all other religions. Christianity is distinguished only in the uniqueness of the divine act which left Christianity in its wake. Christianity is not a way to God, but testimony to God’s way to humanity. Instrumentalism is given up entirely, since what is achieved is achieved by the grace of God—and this grace is not a primordial endowment (of the kind envisaged in Maximus’ Platonist epistemology), but an eschatological hope prefigured in the current paradoxical state of the justified sinner. What conclusions, if any, can we draw from this comparison about how religious believers could best help resolve the problem of accommodating religiously-grounded morality in a largely non-religious community? We may conclude, first of all, that generalisation about religious believers is not possible: different religions, and different positions within each religion, have different sets of commitments. Those commitments cannot be subordinated to a meta-theory without loss of integrity. The same is true, of course, of the commitments (themselves diverse) of potential non- and anti-religious partners in any enlarged ecumenism. There cannot, therefore, be any uniform prescription: so the initial problem remains unsolved. From the progress of Christian ecumenism we drew the conclusion that maintaining one’s integrity, and recognising the right of others to their own integrity, are essential. From Barth’s reflexive critique of Christianity one might perhaps draw a further observation: it is possible for people to hold confidently to their own position while at the same time acknowledging their human fragility and

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(in consequence) the extent to which they have compromised, and will probably continue to compromise, that position in what they say and do. Dialogue is more likely to be fruitful if it is entered into in a spirit of humility and repentance.

Bibliography Barth, K. 1922. Der Römerbrief (ed. 2). Munich: C. Kaiser. —. 1933. The Epistle to the Romans. Translated by E.C. Hoskyns. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —. 1938. Die Kirkliche Dogmatik I/2. Zürich: EVZ. —. 1956. Church Dogmatics I/2. Translated by G.T. Thompson and H. Knight. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. —. 1971Fragments Grave and Gay. London: Fontana. —. 2006. On Religion: The Revelation of God as the Sublimation of Religion. Translated by G. Green. London: T&T Clark. Calvin, J. 1960. Institutes of the Christian Religion. Translated by F.L. Battles. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. di Noia, J.A. —. 2000. “Religion and the religions.” In The Cambridge Companion to Karl Barth, edited by J. Webster, 243-57. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eagleton, T. 2009. Reason, Faith, and Revolution: Reflections on the God Debate. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fletcher, J.H. 2005. “Rahner and religious diversity.” In The Cambridge Companion to Karl Rahner, edited by D. Marmion and M.E. Hines, 235-48. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gill, R. 2004. “The practice of faith.” In The Blackwell Companion to Modern Theology, edited by G. Jones, 3-17. Malden MA: Blackwell. Heath, M. 2013. Ancient Philosophical Poetics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hegel, G.W.F. 2010. The Science of Logic. Translated by G. di Giovanni. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hitchens, C. 2007. God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. New York: Twelve. Kilby, K. 2004. Karl Rahner: Theology and Philosophy. London: Taylor and Francis. Luther, M. 1891. D. Martin Luthers Werke vol. 12. Weimar: Böhlau. —. 1967. Luther’s Works vol. 30: The Catholic Epistles, edited by J. Pelikan. St Louis: Concordia.

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Markham, I. 2004. “Christianity and other religions.” In The Blackwell Companion to Modern Theology, edited by G. Jones, 405-17. Malden MA: Blackwell. Parry, K., ed. 2007. The Blackwell Companion to Eastern Christianity. Malden MA: Blackwell. Sambur, B. 1999. “Is interfaith prayer possible? A Muslim view.” World Faiths Encounter 23 (July 1999): 25-31. Trapp, M. 1997. Maximus of Tyre. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ward, K. 1994. Religion and Revelation: A Theology of Revelation in the World’s Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press Wolterstorff, N. 2010. “The Reformed tradition.” In A Companion to Philosophy of Religion (ed. 2), edited by C. Taliaferro, P. Draper, and P.L. Quinn (ed.), 204-9. Malden MA: Blackwell.

CHAPTER TWO THE ORIGINS OF RELIGION: A FUNDAMENTAL EPISTEMOLOGICAL REFERENCE SYSTEM TONY PACYNA

Most of the naturalist approaches to the origins of religion claim that religion is a by-product of human evolution. No religious spots, God genes or modules have been found. In his book God Delusion, the biologist Richard Dawkins concluded that religion is dangerous because of the irrationality of faith. Thus, religion is a product of, or supported by, an ordinary cognitive mechanism. In Dawkins’ point of view, these ordinary cognitive mechanisms are the “tendency to believe whatever their parents or tribal elders tell them” (Dawkins 2006, 205). In other words: a believer did not use her mind to pass judgement on an occasion. Instead, she believes in judgements made by her parents or tribal elders, who perhaps have got their knowledge from their parents or tribal elders a long time ago. But how is an extension of knowledge possible, if every human ancestor received her knowledge for judgement by her parents or tribal elders? Dawkins probably would answer that the individual who extended her knowledge became an atheist because she used her mind. The New Atheists’ claim contains the approach that belief of every description is dangerous because of faith, which in itself lacks empirical evidence. The inversion of this argument is that sciences, respectively physics and biology, have the ability to explain every human phenomenon. That is why religion for Daniel Dennett is a natural phenomenon, and Richard Dawkins looks for ultimate Darwinian explanations. Let us sum up that most of the naturalistic explanations of religion seem to be a project of atheism, and as such lead to atheism.1 This idea is called functional decomposition and has been vindicated by Daniel 1

S.a. Aku Visala 2011, 153.

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Dennett:2 “Functional decomposition breaks a function into smaller subfunctions until a level is reached where functions are relatively simple and can be instantiated by some physical system” (Visala 2011, 132). But where did the crusade end? It was Albert Einstein who in 1905 wrote that the existence of atoms could be demonstrated theoretically. It was Ernest Rutherford in 1909 who concluded that most of the nuclear mass is concentrated in the much smaller core of an atom. Since the 1960’s, elementary particles like quarks have been investigated, and at the end of the current year the computation of the Higgs-Boson will be completed. Let’s have a look at what all this will come to. My point is that as long as humanity has existed, we have been searching for something that I call knowledge: knowledge about the world, the meaning of life and instructions. What might sound superficial here is the core assumption of the New Atheists about the origins of religion. The New Atheists claim that:3 1. 2.

Morality does not require belief in God, and Humans would behave much better without faith in God.

In Breaking the Spell, Daniel Dennett bases the support of morality by doing a good deed on the presupposition of an infinite reward in heaven or the infinite punishment in hell. The absence of God as a moral guard would then result in Hedonism. Consequently, Dennett finds two sufficient reasons why the assumption would not work (Dennett 2006, 279): i. ii.

It does not seem to be true It poses a demeaning view of human nature.

These results come as no surprise. Dennett and Dawkins try to show, however, that morality is in the same way examinable as genes are. It is Dawkins’ theory of memes, which he developed in the 1970’s.4 Accordingly, genes as true replicators are pieces of information that generate copies of themselves. In this very same way memes function as cultural replicators. Ideas, beliefs and wishes are – in short – cultural memes that are inherited in a quasi-biological way. Dawkins concluded that, seen from this perspective, religion has developed teleologically in the way it did due to natural selection. In a first step, as a kind of preorganised religion, some convictions have survived because of the ordinary cognitive mechanism in believing one’s parents or tribal elders. 2

Daniel Dennett 1991. John Haught 2008, 66. 4 Richard Dawkins 1976. 3

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Thus, religion can be understood as a by-product of the human mind. In a second step, religion developed into an organisation that demarcated from other religions and social groups. This development included an intentional manipulation of priests and others.

Religion and Violence The intentional manipulation and the ordinary cognitive mechanism to believe shall not include that religion can go wrong. The New Atheists seem to approach religion as something that is wrong.5 The New Atheists criticise religion as intrinsically violent. It seems to be obvious to me that Dawkins and Dennett conclude that morality cannot be deduced from religious writings like the Bible. Unsurprisingly, four days after 9/11 Dawkins wrote in The Guardian: To fill a world with religion, or religions of the Abrahamic kind, is like littering the streets with loaded guns. Do not be surprised if they are used.6

Dawkins announces unmistakably that religions are the roots of all evil. He also warns people to be aware of religious beings, because they may kill you. Furthermore, Dawkins appeals to outlaw believers because of their innate danger in believing, and hence he suggests a possibility to defend oneself in case of coming across any sort of believers. The question arises: Who is going to be the root of all evil? What Dawkins is doing, is to absolutise his point of view: Science, i.e. Darwinian biology, alone can make the world a better place. As the theologian Alister McGrath points out, “religious belief of any kind does not appear to be either a necessary or sufficient condition to create suicide bombers” (McGrath 2011, 47). Instead the fundamental motivation seems to be political. The suicide bombers Dawkins is referring to wish the foreign troops occupying their land to withdraw. This has nothing to do with believing in an irrational God. In fact, Dawkins exercises theoretical violence onto religious people.

Religion and Science Several secular world-views like the so called quasi-religion in the former Soviet Union as well as atheist violence against religion as found in Northern Ireland are practical examples for Dawkins’ absolutism against theism. Let’s sum up that religions as well as secular world-views 5 6

Alister McGrath 2011, 43. Cited by Alister McGrath 2011, vii-viii.

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can go wrong and “can spawn monsters” (McGrath 2011, 55). This, however, is just as little as it would be necessary for criticism of religion to become the annihilation of religion. The strict naturalism the New Atheists want us to follow, claims that (Visala 2011, 110): 1. Sciences are the best source of knowledge. That’s why other academic disciplines, e.g. humanities should be adapted more to the sciences; and 2. If scientists’ explanations make use of causal relationships, consequentially, all intentional explanations that are to be used have to be reduced to physical interactions. The philosopher Aku Visala calls this commitment explanatory fundamentalism, because “it leads to physicalist constraint for theory development at all levels of science: theories and assumptions of special sciences need to map onto physical science or face elimination” (Visala 2011, 110). Visala points out that if “these claims are combined as a philosophical programme and taken as constitutive for a science of religion” the result would be a methodological atheist science of religion (Visala 2011, 110). As a consequence, every claim of reality is committed to the truth of physicalism and will hence reject each and any religious claim that it is in conflict with. Accordingly, Dawkins asserts religious faith as one kind of reality that is “simple and necessarily a revolt against reason and evidence” (McGrath 2011, 58). Faith, Dawkins continues, is “the great excuse to evade the need to think and evaluate evidence.” (Dawkins cited by McGrath 2011, 58). Hence, faith is “belief in spite of”, “the lack of evidence” and “not allowed to justify itself by argument” (ibid.). Some years before 9/11, in 1990, Alvin Plantinga reasoned in his book God and other Minds7 about the aforementioned claim with reference to the perennial philosophical problem of “other minds”. The core of Plantinga’s approach is that I have a direct knowledge of having a mind, but I cannot absolutely prove that you have a mind either, or that others would. Alister McGrath concluded that “nobody’s unduly bothered about this. It’s a safe assumption for us to make and chimes in with the way things seem to be” (McGrath 2011, 60). Before the question arises why no one is bothered about this, let us bring Plantinga’s claim to a conclusion: Plantinga argues for an analogy between proving the existence of other minds and proving the existence of God. Alister McGrath points out that New Atheism as well as any 7

Alvin Plantinga 1990.

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religious belief rests upon convictions: “Both are based on what they know cannot be proved, yet nevertheless hold to be trustworthy” (McGrath 2011, 60). But the New Atheist and deceased journalist Christopher Hitchens asserts that “Our belief is not a belief”.8 Alister McGrath, however, also shows that Hitchens’ anti-theism rests on certain moral values such as “God is not good” that Hitchens is unable to demonstrate by reason. In the same way in which I cannot be sure that you have minds like me, Hitchens “assumes that his moral values are shared by his sympathetic readers” (McGrath 2011, 60). McGrath concludes that Hitchens’ beliefs are beliefs, “even if he prefers not to concede this decisive point” (McGrath 2011, 61). This leads to the question what belief is? I comprehend faith in a fundamental way of “enactive” knowledge. Established by the biologist Humberto Maturana and the neuroscientist Francisco Varela9 enactive knowledge in short comes through action of interactive systems such as humans and humans, or humans and environment. Faith, understood in this way, is the facility to recognise oneself in the timeless and endless depth of being (Haught 2008, 54). I can transcendent myself, and can recognise that others have desires, too, or are afraid of such things as me. The world gains meaning, goodness, truth and beauty (Haught 2008, 54). “It doesn’t contradict reason but transcendents it” (McGrath 2011, 61).

Reference Systems What might sound spiritual and esoterically, is an alternative philosophical approach. Maurice Merleau-Ponty explains it: As a transcendental philosophy, which places in abeyance the assertion arising out of the natural attitude, the better to understand them; but it is also a philosophy for which the world is always ‘already there’ before reflection begins – as an inalienable presence.10

Well, this is the moment to come back to the question that arises at the discourse of Alvin Plantinga and Alister McGrath, why no one is bothered with the unreliability of having knowledge about the others’ minds. In the abovementioned quotation, Merleau-Ponty rebukes to the unalienable presence of one’s body. You and I must have an outer appearance for 8

Christopher Hitchens 2007, 5. Humberto Maturana & Francisco Varela 1987, S.a. Francisco Varela / Evan Thompson / Eleanor Rosch 1991. 10 Maurice Merleau-Ponty 1962, vii. 9

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making my view of others and theirs’ of me possible: “I must be the exterior that I present to others, and the body of the other must be the other himself” (Merleau-Ponty 1962, xiii). The primordial knowledge of the others as beings leads me to the experience of my existence. In a first step, we as humans living in a society transform our behaviour through our interaction with other humans and/or the environment. We don’t bother because these pre-reflexive interactions are basal and constitutive for human societies. Your behaviour is however the benchmark for my re-action to you. But, in order to create a complex human society, something is missing as yet. We need some fundamental rules that are unquestionable to base ourselves on. But, in an everchanging world in which we live in, a world that becomes more and more complex, non-semantic communication is no longer sufficient. The flexible morphology of our brain, which has emerged throughout a long evolutionary process, enables humans to question everything, including themselves. Therein lies the ambiguity of human life: on the one hand, the gradual transformation of reflexion is the Conditio Humana. Of course, animals have language and reflexion as well. But they do not have it in the way that humans do. On the other hand, human behaviour is contingent. The interactions between individuals imply contingency in their behaviour. Words are interpreted by experience. Thus, the reaction will be also. Every reflection takes place within language, “which is our distinctive way of being human and being humanly active” (Maturana, Varela 1987, 26). There is circularity between action and experience. Maturana and Varela sum that up in the aphorism: “All doing is knowing and all knowing is doing” (Maturana, Varela 1987, 27). This means that in a second step, humans create their world by signifying the behaviour of themselves and of others while using the words they already know. This process acts as an orientational guide through life for each of us. But what has this to do with religion? Let’s remember Dawkins and Dennett who wanted to annihilate religion in general, because of the irrationality of faith and the hence dangerous essence of religion. It was the aim of the aforementioned comments to point out that the New Atheists have a naturalistic approach to religion. Everything that is not explainable in a Darwinian manner is wrong. Alvin Plantinga demonstrated that our argumentation relies on assumptions we cannot explain. Even the New Atheists cannot explain why they believe in causal relations. Humberto Maturana’s and Francisco Varela’s analysis of the reciprocity of human action and knowledge results in the fact that there is no dualistic differentiation between humans and their environment. Instead, we have a permanent interrelation that generates knowledge as an orientation.

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Even the Cognitive Sciences of Religion (CSR) have the same naturalistic approach as the New Atheists. Both claim that religion is a byproduct of evolution. The CSR, however, reveals the naturalness of religion and hence the empirical evidence for producing correct beliefs and intuitions by our cognitive system, within our normal human environment (Visala 2011, 186). Accordingly, Pascal Boyer contrasts two models of belief acquisition (Visala 2011, 188f.): the cognitive model is an unconscious one that enables the epistemic subject to acquire processes and information. This is my aforementioned first step of interaction between humans or humans and their environment. The second model is called the epistemic model: here, belief acquisition is a kind of judicial process. After collecting information, the human forms a belief or a system of beliefs. This requires conscious analysis of evidence and coherence and, of course, language. Boyer implies that the individual human consciousness is a benchmark for accepted or discarded beliefs. But the aforementioned analysis indicated that re-actions of other humans make my action contingent. What’s wrong with the benchmark? The New Atheists were looking for an ultimate Darwinian explanation of religion. In other words, they are convinced that there is one explanation for all. If so, why is the world not already explained in full? What would then happen as a consequence? What then would an academic scholar be like? Ludwig Wittgenstein claims a difference between religious faith and empirical sciences. To ask for the existence of God is similar to the question for the existence of objects. In order that the sentence “Objects exist.” stands to reason, we need to explain what it means to be without objects. In other words, sentences like “God exists.” and “Objects exists.” are not empirical or ontological claims. God is no invisible entity. I cannot be wrong about it, because the contrary is logically excluded. Thus “God exists.” is not empirical, but grammatical nonsense. Wittgenstein concludes that the essence of the language game cannot be a claim or hypothesis, because it is empirical, not refutable. Hence, the grammar or the essence of the language game makes possible decisions between “true” and “false”, “possible” and “impossible”. Thus, the belief in God is a decision for a reference system. Well, religious faith for Wittgenstein is much more than opinion. Opinions like for example the one that “it will rain tomorrow” can be verified or falsified through experience. The existence of God cannot. A reference system represents a certain “Lebensform” (life form), which is the interweavement of culture,

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worldview and language. Linguistic, as well as non-linguistic, activities must be comprehended in the context of a reference system.

Morality Concerning morality, Dawkins concludes that the Bible could not be the source of human morality. If so, we should stone every bride to death, if her husband is unsatisfied with her. Dawkins’ empirical investigations have shown, however, that the origins of morality lie in universal social phenomena. Theists as well as atheists make the same decision about the same occasions. These evidences result in Dawkins’ assumption that religion is not the source of morality. Morality and ethics did not last as an absolute value. It seems to be obvious that Dawkins is right. Morality and ethical judgement should never be determined for eternity. What happens if the world changes? Either moral standards survive or are adapted. To adapt the world, in its changes, to moral standards will be much more complicated as we could ever imagine. Well, it seems to be that moral standards should not be fixed but should be flexible. However, Dawkins inferred that the judgement of what is “good” and “bad” is an evolutionary emergence. The decision between “good” and “bad” is in the genes. As we could see above, human behaviour divides into an unconscious and a conscious part. I would agree with Dawkins that the unconscious part has its origins in the human genes selected by evolution. It is a skill to survive. But I definitely would not agree that we have any genes for fixed concepts of “good” or “bad”. My experiences as well as my behaviour in my environment lead me to reflections based on language about occurrences in my everyday life. My aforementioned analysis should have shown that neither a religion as a reference system nor science as a reference system could prevent people from violence against others. Neither could it from theoretical violence. Morality understood in this way is one (among others, like rituals) reflected framework of a reference system. Thus, we have several spellings and language games of moral standards that differ gradually from others. For example, everyone follows the traffic regulations. But if someone drives through a red light, another one crosses the street against the red light. The reason is that human cognition is not unilateral and static. By perceiving my environment, I notice several different dynamic situations in which I play an active role and I always change my own location as a point of reference. Secondly, cognition is basically an interaction of different modalities of the senses. And last but not least, cognition is

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equally to exfiltrate some extraneous aspects of my environment, in order to react in an appropriate time (Huemer 2011, 6).

Conclusion Social cognition contains both the epistemic aspects as well as the phenomenological aspects. For creating cultural phenomena like religions, it won’t suffice to perceive the objects of your environment. To assign value to certain objects and occasions, we need language. A sophisticated language enables human beings to incorporate and exfiltrate aspects of their life and environment. That does not mean that we find concepts and terms in cognition, or that they are in the world. But humans living in a society share certain aspects of their common environment. Language plays a central role in the process of cognition. Reference systems can be found as a whole society such as the affiliation to Europe as well as the affiliation to your band or sports club. It is a question of time if you can change your affiliation by consciousness or not. For example, to be born in Germany as an atheistic child, is nothing I could have decided by consciousness. But being here as a philosopher, talking to my scientific community has been decided by consciousness.

Bibliography Dawkins, R. 1976. The Selfish Gene. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —. 1976. God Delusion. New York: Bantam. Dennett, D. 1991. Consciousness Explained. Boston: Little, Brown & Co. —. 2006. Breaking the Spell. Religion as a Natural Phenomenon. New York: Viking. Haught, J. 2008. God and the New Atheism. London, Louisville, Westminster: John Knox Press. Hitchens, C. 2007. God is not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything. New York: Twelve. Huemer, W. 2011. Die Struktur des Wahrnehmungserlebnisses im Spannungsfeld zwischen phänomenologischen und epistemischen Aspekten. Lecture held on the XXII. German Conference of Philosophy at the University of Munich, September 11th – 15th 2011. (http://epub.ub.uni-muenchen.de/12563/; last cue: September 30th 2013) Maturana, H. & Varela, F. 1987. The Tree of Knowledge. Biological Basis of Human Understanding. Boston: Shambala.

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McGrath, A. 2011. Why God won’t go away. London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. Plantinga, A. 1990. God and other Minds: A Study of the Rational Justification of Belief in God. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Varela, F., Thompson, E. & Rosch, E. 1991. The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science and Human Experience. Cambridge: MIT Press. Visala, A. 2011. Naturalism, Theism and the Cognitive Study of Religion. London: Ashgate.

CHAPTER THREE GODS OLD AND NEW: ECHOES OF A NEW “THEOLOGY” IN PLATO'S PHAEDRUS FABIO SERRANITO

If I were an Ancient Athenian, or if our civilisation still kept their old gods, I would, without hesitation, start this paper by invoking the gods and praying for their favour. This would be a natural thing to do in a culture that recognised that the world is full of gods and that we humans are subjected to their power. For us, however, such a thought sounds strange and out of place. Sitting here reading a conference paper, on a subject like this, is a situation that can hardly awaken the interest of most human beings, let alone the gods. And yet, in order to understand the points I will be trying to make during this paper, we will have to make the great effort of putting ourselves in the shoes, or better yet, in the sandals of a people for whom the gods were always present and for whom religion was not a matter of personal salvation in the afterlife, but rather of personal survival here and now. The scope of this paper is modest enough. In fact, we will be dealing with a single sentence within a single platonic dialogue, the Phaedrus–İੁ į’ ਩ıIJȚȞ, ੮ıʌİȡ Ƞ੣Ȟ ਩ıIJȚ, șİઁȢ ਵ IJȚ șİ૙ȠȞ ੒ ਯȡȦȢ, Ƞ੝į੻Ȟ ਗȞ țĮțઁȞ İ੅Ș (442e2-3)1–or even less than that. By “even less than that” I mean that more important than the sentence is the silence that follows it. In a way, the object of our investigation will be just that: a silence. But before we can start considering the meaning, relevance and justification of this silence, some context is needed. The setup of the Phaedrus seems simple, almost naïve: Socrates bumps into his friend Phaedrus, who is out for his daily stroll (227a1), and then follows him out of the city, into the countryside, where they stop and lie 1 Hackforth 1952, 51: “If Love is, as he indeed is, a god or a divine being, he cannot be an evil thing”.

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down on the grass by the river bank, under the shadow of a plane tree (230b-d). Phaedrus has just spent the whole morning listening to Lysias (227a2-4). Now what you must understand is that Lysias is not an ordinary man: he is a celebrity, a fantastic writer, the best of his generation (Nails 2002, 191-194; Yunis 2011, 8). He makes a living writing law court speeches and, to advertise his skill, also writes speeches on seemingly silly and ridiculous subjects, defending odd and counterintuitive theses. This activity is called epideictic rhetoric, which is to say it is a form of showmanship, showing-off, a way of displaying one’s rhetorical skills. I will spare you the details concerning this literary genre. For the purposes of this paper it suffices to say that this is something a cultured Athenian of this time would be familiar with.2 Now there is something important you need to know about Phaedrus: he is absolutely obsessed with speeches (Hackforth 1952, 13; Griswold 1986, 18ff.; Ferrari 1987, 4ff.). He loves them, he adores them, he cannot resist speeches and speech-making and most things related to that. He is Lysias’ greatest fan. Having spent the whole morning listening to the master himself, Phaedrus is now eager to share with Socrates the fruits of Lysias’ work. The subject was love, ਩ȡȦȢ; to be more specific, pederastic ਩ȡȦȢ, and the thesis was something that has always struck readers as very odd, albeit perhaps not always for the correct reasons. Lysias states in his astounding speech that a young man pursued by a variety of suitors should prefer the one who is not in love with him to the one who is (227c8-9). To put it in simple terms: do not use love as a criterion in your choice of lover. What makes this odd is not necessarily the fact that ਩ȡȦȢ is portrayed in a negative light—that is, after all, a relatively common perspective in Ancient Greek culture (Carson 1986; Thornton 1997)—but rather the fact that the speech uses IJȩʌȠȚ and arguments one would normally expect in a pederastic courtship speech,3 which, for obvious reasons, usually present ਩ȡȦȢ in a very positive light, and twists them almost completely. Lysias picks up the traditional idea that ਩ȡȦȢ is a form of madness, ȝĮȞȓĮ, and shows how this is incompatible with the claims of wisdom and lucidity that are at the heart of ancient pederasty’s self-justifying discourse. What Lysias ends up proposing can be described as “pederasty without ਩ȡȦȢ”, a relationship that keeps all the external attributes of a pederastic relationship, namely sex, the pedagogical component and the idea of friendship and mutual support, without the madness that characterises being in love. 2

On the tradition of epideictic rhetoric in Ancient Greece, see Burgess 1902; Pease 1926; Buchheit 1960; Chase 1961; Kennedy 1963, 152-203, especially 167-173. 3 On ancient pederasty and the ਥȡȦIJȚțȠ੿ ȜȩȖȠȚ: Lasserre 1944. On the use of homoerotic IJȩʌȠȚ in Lysias speech and Socrates’ first speech: Ruiz Yamuza 1998.

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Now we should once again remember that Phaedrus is completely obsessed with speeches. He cannot get enough. For that reason, Phaedrus insists that Socrates, who has made the mistake of being critical of the rhetorical quality of Lysias’ latest work, makes a better speech on the same subject. Socrates is forced to do it, after the usual protestations of lack of rhetorical ability (236a-e). And the result by far surpasses Lysias’ speech. For the purposes of this paper, the arguments produced by Socrates are of little importance. It is enough to say that his speech keeps the basic assumption that the lover is not in his right mind, and takes it to the extreme, making him a very undesirable character (237a-241d). Having discharged his unpleasant duty, Socrates is prepared to cross the river and leave, but is suddenly stopped by his divine sign (Cf. Apology, 31 c-d; see Burkert 1985, 181; Rowe 1986, ad locum; Nicholson 1992, 126-127; Reeve 2000, 31-35; Vlastos et al. 2000; Corey 2005). He now fully realises what before had only been a faint intimation: that the speeches uttered so far were blasphemous, that Lysias, Phaedrus and himself were partners in blasphemy (242a-d). This now brings to the forefront what had up to this point only been a part of the background, of the cultural and actual landscape of the dialogue: the gods.4 It is true that the gods had been mentioned several times before in the course of the dialogue, and that myth and cult had been alluded to and even briefly discussed before (see Bodéüs 1992; Nicholson 1992, 135-137). But it is only now that the gods appear as relevant players, and in such a way that they change the course of the dialogue completely. Not only is Socrates stopped from leaving by a “divine sign”, but it is also because the gods are now a subject of concern that he is forced to retract from his previous speech and produce another one, as a form of purification (242e-243a; 243d; see Yunis 2011, ad locum). And now we finally reach the point of this paper: the sentence and the silence. Socrates explains to Phaedrus the magnitude of their blasphemy by, for the first time in the dialogue, mentioning something that would have been obvious from the start, that Aphrodite and ਩ȡȦȢ are gods (242d8).5 By 4

See Nicholson 1992, 126: “Therefore, I think the theme of inspiration and the divinities does not enter into the Phaedrus when Socrates begins his first speech. It enters first when he ends the speech, at 241d. The present juncture is the point of turning in the dialogue, a conversion from frivolity to what is serious, and from impiety to what is divine. The exchanges after Socrates breaks off his speech are laced with the language of religion, inspiration, and divinity”. 5 See Hackforth 1952, 54-55; De Vries 1969, ad locum; Rowe 1986, ad locum. On the tradition of ascribing divinity to ਯȡȦȢ, see Nicholson 1992, 128; Lesky 1976. Phaedrus’ reply—ȁȑȖİIJĮȓ Ȗİ į੽—is considered “lukewarm” by Yunis 2011, ad

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recalling the divine nature of love, Socrates insists on the blasphemous character of the speeches that portrayed ਩ȡȦȢ in such a negative way. But he goes even further than that: he states that ਩ȡȦȢ, being a god or something divine, cannot be in any way bad (242e2-3). This is presented without argument; it is presented as an axiom. In the context, this seems to mean that all the negative traits and blameworthy actions attributed by Lysias and Socrates himself in his first speech to the lover cannot be the effect of a harmful intervention by the god ਯȡȦȢ. The god ਯȡȦȢ, as a god, will only be the cause of what is good.6 ਯȡȦȢ the god, according to the axiom, cannot be responsible for the harmful results of any kind of erotic attachment. ਯȡȦȢ the god cannot be the cause of the derangement that makes Lysias’ non-lover behave foolishly and irresponsibly, or for the disease that turns Socrates’ non-lover into a destructive and disgusting companion. In this context, then, the axiom that denies that a god can be bad suggests not only that gods will not behave wantonly and cruelly, but also that they are not the cause of any wanton and cruel behaviour in mortals. Phaedrus does not even remark on the strangeness of what Socrates has just said about the gods. But the truth is Socrates’ assertion goes against a significant part of ancient Greek cultural tradition, which often portrayed gods as being the cause of significant harm to mortals. In a context like this Socrates’ statement would deserve more than mere quiet acquiescence. As it stands, this is a problematic assertion put forward as an axiom. It is

locum, and might indicate some reservation in admitting the divinity of Eros. This, together with the apparent inconsistency with the notion of Eros presented in Symposium, where he is explicitly stated as not being a god (202b-c), has led to considerable discussion on how the doctrine of the Symposium might be alluded to in this passage. The idea that there is such an allusion is reinforced by the introduction of the apparently restrictive clause ਵ IJȚ șİ૙ȠȞ. De Vries 1969, ad locum, goes as far as to state that the apparent discrepancy between this passage of the Phaedrus and the Symposium “might explain Phaedrus’ half-hearted assent in d10”. See also: Camp and Canart 1956, 102. I believe Phaedrus’ less than enthusiastic reply highlights the distance between the beliefs of the intellectually sophisticated Phaedrus and traditional religious beliefs, as well as the contradiction between the traditional portrayal of ਩ȡȦȢ as a destructive phenomenon and the more “modern” conception of the gods as entirely benign. 6 It is interesting, however, that this does not translate into an outright denial of the negative attributes of lovers, but rather into a distinction between two kinds of ਩ȡȦȢ: a “divine” kind of ਩ȡȦȢ, proper of noble and gentle men, and a lower kind of ਩ȡȦȢ, which Socrates suggests is typical of sailors, i.e., of ignorant people of low extraction (243c1-d1).

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Phaedrus’ silence regarding the assertion that the gods cannot be bad that is the main object on our enquiry. There are two possible explanations for Phaedrus’ silence regarding this assertion. The first one has to do with the dramatic composition and the characterisation of Phaedrus as a character of this dialogue. He is passionate about speeches, he loves reading them, listening to them, and making others compose them. This is one of his fundamental traits as a character, visible not only in the dialogue named after him, but also in the other dialogues where he is an interlocutor or a background character, namely the Symposium and the Protagoras. In the Symposium, he is one of the main speakers: he is the author of the first speech praising ਩ȡȦȢ, but, most importantly, he is also the one who came up with the idea of spending time uttering praises of that so far never praised ਩ȡȦȢ (177a3c5). In the Protagoras, he is one of the characters present at Callias’ house, where the famous sophist Protagoras was staying. He is in very prestigious company, since, besides Protagoras, other famous sophists are present, namely Hippias and Prodicus, as well as all the speakers from the Symposium, with the exception of Aristophanes (315c8-a5). In both these appearances, Phaedrus is shown in the company of the intellectual elite, in situations where the production of speeches is certain, and, in the case of the Symposium, actively encouraged by him. It is also clear, especially from the Phaedrus, that Phaedrus is not that interested in intellectual and philosophical discussion as such. He likes hearing speeches, but he is not very keen on analysing and debating them (Griswold 1986, 22). For these reasons, it is perfectly natural that Phaedrus, in his excitement at the prospect of hearing yet another speech, is not very concerned with the factual accuracy or the problematic character of Socrates’ assertion. He does not care, as long as he gets his fill. This is the most obvious explanation, and is most likely correct. But, as often is the case with Plato, another explanation is possible, which may not exclude the first one, but rather complement and deepen it. In order to present a clearer picture of what this explanation might be, we will first make a very short incursion into Republic II, where a similar statement is made. In 378e6ff., Socrates and Adeimantus are discussing poetry and myth-making within the ideal city. To be accepted in the ideal city, poets have to follow specific guidelines. The first guidelines concern șİȠȜȠȖȓĮ, i.e. what to say about the gods (379a5-6).7 The very first and most general guideline is that the god has to be presented in poetry as he is (379a7-9). Socrates elaborates further: the god is good, and, as such, is not the cause 7 On the notion of șİȠȜȠȖȓĮ, see Jaeger 1947, 4-5. Cf. Vlastos 1952, 101ff, especially 102 n.22.

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of anything harmful, but only of what is good (379b1-c7).8 This is quite similar to Socrates’ statement in the Phaedrus. But, in this case, the statement is made in a context where there is an explicit criticism of the poetic tradition, with particular attention paid to Homer and Aeschylus.9 This explicit opposition to the poetic tradition makes it clear that the thesis Socrates presents as an axiom is, to a certain extent, an innovation. In a culture where poetry was the main vehicle of intergenerational cultural transmission, to criticise the great poets was to criticise the spokespeople of your own culture. That this is presented as an axiom, with little or no debate is odd and seems to invite further investigation into the origins and development of such a strange idea.10 As we shall see, this is not a Platonic or Socratic innovation, but the result of a long tradition of debate and controversy on the nature of the gods and their relationship to mortals. What seems to be at stake in these passages is a dialogue with tradition, an implicit dialogue, which is presupposed, and hinted at in the Phaedrus, but never actually explicitly and thematically exposed. It is this implicit dialogue that makes Socrates’ statement acceptable to someone who, like Phaedrus, lives in the company of intellectuals. In this light, Phaedrus’ silence is easy to understand. However, there is another silence at stake in this passage: the silence of modern critics. In all my research on this passage, I have yet to find any 8

On the use of the singular instead of the plural, see Else 1949; Nicholson 1992, 139ff. Parallel passage in the corpus platonicum: Timaeus 29e-30a. Euthyphro 14e-15a states that all that is good comes from the gods. Though the formulation does not explicitly exclude the possibility of the gods being the causes of evil, this is strongly suggested. Democritus (DK 175B) expresses a similar thought: all that the gods give to mortals is good; mortals are responsible for everything bad that occurs to them. On Democritus, see McGibbon 1965. 9 The context of Phaedrus 242e also includes references to the poetic tradition, mentioning Homer and Stesichorus (243a-b). However, the connection between the axiom of the goodness of gods and the reference to these poets is less direct than in Republic II, which is the beginning of a long and swooping criticism of poetic tradition. In the Phaedrus, the criticism seems more limited and episodic. Socrates tells the story of how both Homer and Stesichorus became blind as a punishment for defaming Helen. But, while Homer remained oblivious to the cause of his blindness, Stesichorus composed his palinode, retracting his accusations against Helen, thereby recovering his sight. This is what gives Socrates the idea to compose his own palinode. Ascribing any negative attribute to a god is blasphemous. Defaming Helen, in this passage considered, as per Spartan tradition, a goddess, is an instance of blasphemy. This suggests a wider criticism of a poetic tradition that ascribes negative traits to gods, but Socrates never explicitly states such a general criticism in the Phaedrus. 10 On the axiomatic character of this thesis in Republic II, see Solmsen 1942, 68.

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note, comment or even passing remark about this specific passage, apart from the ones relating it to the already mentioned passage in Republic II and a passage of the Timaeus (29e-30a) stating the same axiom.11 Apart from these cross references, modern critics and commentators, in all their fastidiousness, have strangely overlooked what is probably one of the crucial dramatic moments in the Phaedrus, the argument or pretext used by Socrates to justify the need for his palinode. This might be partly motivated by the fact that the characters themselves do not address the issue and that this problem is never the object of thematic treatment in the dialogue.12 But neither is it in any of the parallel passages elsewhere in the corpus platonicum. Both in Republic and Timaeus, the absolutely benign character of the gods is simply treated as an axiom, without any kind of argument supporting it. However, if this specific passage in the Phaedrus has not been the object of scholarly attention, the passage in Republic has. And a lot of that attention has been directed towards the axiomatic character of the thesis. Critics such as Vlastos (1991, 163-173) and McPherran (2006, 89) have stated that this thesis is grounded on the idea that gods are wise, and, therefore, must be good. This does not solve the problem. At no point does Socrates explicitly make this connection. And even if we were to accept this solution, the result would be another axiom, i.e., that the gods are wise (Gocer 2000, 119). In the end, we would have no recourse than to appeal to tradition and convention to account for this thesis. This implicit appeal to tradition is especially troublesome since Vlastos especially has strongly argued that Socrates was a religious innovator and that his most important innovation was his moralizing conception of the gods, expressed in the thesis presented in Republic II.13 Vlastos states that the notion that the gods are absolutely good has devastating effects on a religious tradition that sustained the view that gods can indeed be evil and harmful. In this respect, according to Vlastos, Socrates was a revolutionary: to argue that the gods cannot be anything but good is tantamount to destroying the old gods. It is against the idea 11 Yunis 2011, ad locum; Griswold 1986, 71. But even Griswold emphasizes the other part of this sentence, which has received quite a bit of critical attention: the seemingly restrictive ਵ IJȚ șİ૙ȠȞ. On this see Hackforth 1952, 54-55; De Vries 1969, ad locum; Rowe 1986, ad locum. 12 The same thesis is somewhat restated in 246e1, though the exact formulation varies. In 246e1, Socrates is describing IJઁ șİ૙ȠȞ by using positive attributes. Rather than saying that it is not țĮțȩȞ, he says IJઁ șİ૙ȠȞ is, amongst other predicates, ਕȖĮșȩȞ. On the meaning of IJઁ șİ૙ȠȞ, see Jaeger 1947, 203-206; Else 1949. 13 Brickhouse and Smith 1994, 182, reject Vlastos’ thesis that Socrates is, in this respect, a religious innovator. See also Gocer 2000, 118.

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that the thesis of the absolute goodness of the gods is a revolutionary Socratic (or, for that matter, even Platonic)14 innovation that I am going to argue in the next few pages. What I will try to show is that the ancient Greek “theological” landscape is much more complex than what Vlastos suggests and that the thesis presented in Phaedrus 242e and Republic 379a has important cultural antecedents, which can at least partly explain its axiomatic character. The first interlocutor in Plato’s implicit dialogue with tradition is Homer, and it is with the Homeric gods that we will start. The Homeric gods are immortal and very powerful beings set high above mankind, exercising their rule over the world and the lives of mortals. They are anthropomorphic, meaning that they look like human beings—although they surpass humans in size and strength. But they are also anthropomorphic in a different way. They have desires, whims, they laugh and cry, they fight and quarrel, and they can show affection and hostility towards mortals. In this sense, they are very human;15 they do not display any kind of superhuman propensity for acting in a benign way. Their superhuman powers give them an extraordinary ability to do good, but also to do evil (Greene 1935, 4; Calhoun 1937, 16-17; Canter 1937, 131; Nilsson 1949, 152; Grube 1951, 62ff.; Rose et al. 1954, 48-49). These gods are far from the axiom of Republic II: they are not entirely good, nor are they portrayed in the Iliad and Odyssey as being the cause only of what is good. As incredibly powerful beings, they do not seem to be subjected to the same rules mortals are. As one critic once put it (Grube 1951, 67): They [i.e. the gods] do not seem to conform to any code of morality that any self-respecting human being, Homeric, classical, or modern, could accept as his own; and that is also true of their behaviour towards men. Viewed morally, the motivation of their actions is not only selfish, it is often vicious.

The gods do as they will, and sometimes what they will is to harm mortals, either as a punishment for a perceived or apparent offense, or for no understandable reason whatever. The ill-will gods might feel towards 14

For the possible distinction between Socratic and Platonic, see Vlastos 1991, 4181. I do not make use of this distinction in this paper. Not only is the distinction prone to serious criticism, but it is also irrelevant in a paper that does not aim to find what theses and ideas present in the corpus platonicum might be ascribed to the historical Socrates and which ones to Plato himself. For criticism of Vlastos’ distinction see Nails 1993. 15 Rose et al. 1954, 60: “les divinités agissent et se conduissent comme des hommes”.

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mortals, in Greek, ijșȩȞȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ șİ૵Ȟ, is a considerable source of fear and anxiety for mortals.16 Justice and morality seem to play little or no part in the relationship between these gods and mortals. Evil deeds often go unpunished, and it is often the case that gods discharge their wrath against seemingly innocent human beings. The relationship between gods and mortals seems to be based rather on IJȚȝȒ, on the honour due to them by mortals. The fact that they are so high above mortals means that more and more IJȚȝȒ is due to them. In their immense superiority, the gods demand incessant veneration and are very sensitive to any minor slight (Adkins 1960, 62-63; cf. Lloyd-Jones 1983, 109). Before these mighty and capricious beings, unbound by justice and morality, mortals have little choice but to try to please them, appease them and, in the end, submit to their will. But this is only part of the picture. In conjunction with this portrayal of the gods as potentially hostile, demanding superiors, we can find an understanding of the role of the gods, especially Zeus, as the protectors of beggars and suppliants, or as the punishers of oath-breakers (Adkins 1960, 65-66).17 This introduces, already in the Iliad, and especially the Odyssey, a degree of complexity in the relationship between gods and morality and justice that critics such as Vlastos seem to ignore. However complex the relationship between the Homeric gods and morality and justice might be, the truth is the prevailing opinion, even amongst ancient Greeks, was that the gods portrayed in the Homeric epic poems were cruel and immoral. The most vocal early critic of this portrayal of the gods was Xenophanes. He raged against the absurdities of physical anthropomorphism, stating, for example, that if cows had hands, they would depict gods to be cow-like (DK 15B, 16B). For Xenophanes, the idea that the gods resembled human beings was preposterous. But his criticism of the supposed resemblance between gods and mortals went beyond mere physical depiction. He ferociously protested against the Homeric portrayal of the gods as capable of committing such immoralities as theft and sexual misdemeanours (DK 11B; see Jaeger 1947, 42ff.; Rose et al. 1954, 142-144; Robinson 2008, 488). Significantly enough, the criterion Xenophanes uses to judge the actions of the gods is a human criterion. The actions attributed to them by Homer (and also Hesiod) are shameful and blameworthy ʌĮȡ’ ਕȞșȡȫʌȠȚıȚȞ, amongst human beings. These two little words highlight, in my opinion, a momentous shift in the understanding of the relationship between the gods and mortals. The 16

On the subject of ijșȩȞȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ șİ૵Ȟ, see: Canter 1937; Nilsson 1948, 57-58; Dodds 1951, 29. Cf. the connection between ijșȩȞȠȢ IJ૵Ȟ șİ૵Ȟ and justice: LloydJones 1983, 69-70. 17 On the complex issue of justice in the Iliad, see Lloyd-Jones 1983, 1-27.

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Homeric gods, despite their frequent interactions with mortals, remain distant and aloof. They live far beyond the reach of any mortal and their actions cannot be judged by mortal standards. But here we have a puny mortal, Xenophanes of Colophon, explicitly using human standards of what is shameful and unacceptable to assess the actions of the gods. Of course, this is only possible because the Homeric gods are, after all, a literary creation. Xenophanes is not railing against the gods, he is railing against Homer and all those who, according to him, portray the gods wrongly. But to state that to imagine the gods acting in ways that do not conform to human standards of acceptable behaviour is wrong, is to implicitly state that a god has somehow to conform to those standards. A god who would behave in such a way is no true god. In his criticism of the portrayal of gods as immoral, Xenophanes includes Hesiod. This is an understandable position, considering that his poems, especially the Theogony, are full of stories of gods quarrelling and doing harm to each other. This aspect of Hesiod’s account of the gods seems to have dominated ancient reception of his work. Together with Homer, he was the poet who was most influential in determining the religious views of his culture. For that reason, he was also a preferential target of criticism. But, in spite of the sometimes shocking stories of divine misbehaviour, Hesiod is notorious for his concern with justice or lack thereof. This is especially salient in Works and Days, but is also visible in the Theogony. As a modern critic stated it, Hesiod’s Theogony understands the victory of Zeus “als als einen Sieg der gerechten Ordnung über die wüste Unordnung der Vorzeit” (Rose et al. 1954, 34).18 But in the Works and Days, a lot of emphasis is put on justice and, which is especially relevant for our purposes, how Zeus is the chief enforcer of justice, the punisher of ੢ȕȡȚȢ (238ff.; Lloyd-Jones 1983, 57-58). That this punishment can sometimes fall upon whole cities on account of one wicked man does not seem to bother Hesiod’s sense of justice: it rather emphasises the power of Zeus and his supreme role in keeping the world working according to justice. Hesiod seems to inaugurate a literary tradition that looks up to the gods to put aright what is wrong in human society. It expects the gods to use their power to punish the wicked and reward the just. The fact that this does not happen, that sometimes the gods let the wicked prosper and allow the just to suffer creates a tension between reality and expectation that will have important “theological” consequences. The connection between Zeus and justice can be expressed as a perplexed complaint (Festugière 1950, 29-31). A poet like Theognis, for 18

“as a victory of the rightful order over the wild disorder of the past”.

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example, can express amazement at what amounts to a form of moral indifference from the gods, who look upon the righteous and the wicked in the same way, neither punishing nor rewarding mortals according to their deserts (373ff., also: 731ff.). This is tantamount to an ancient Greek version of the problem of evil (see Greene 1935, 1-2; Solmsen 1942, 2324). But this “problem of evil” is not set in metaphysical terms. Mortals do not cry out in anguish about the fact that there is suffering in the world. They are rather amazed at the fact that the same powerful entities that are expected to enforce Justice are so often the ones who break it or, at the very least, consent to the fact that so many mortals go against it and prosper. This is an ethical problem. It is interesting to note that what seems to be at stake in this perplexity is not an idea of the gods as morally perfect, all-knowing and all-powerful, and the contradiction between a god with such attributes and the presence of evil in the world. This is not the God of Abraham, who is so far beyond what is humanly conceivable that it becomes absurd to question him. The Greek gods seem to keep their “anthropomorphic” features even when thought of as moral agents. Faced with malign gods, or, at least, gods that are indifferent to injustice, mortals are not paralyzed in awe of the omnipotent, omniscient and entirely benevolent God and his mysterious ways, but are rather impelled to criticism and condemnation. In that sense, gods remain all too human, and, as with humans, they can be the object of reproach for their moral failings. This, of course, assumes that the standards of morality are independent from and more important than the gods themselves. It also assumes that these standards apply universally, not only amongst humans, but also to the gods. This implies some form of moral community between mortals and gods. Mortals and gods are supposed to be all in this together, in moral terms, and the suspicion that that might not be the case is a source of anxiety. The conviction that the gods, and especially Zeus, are just and the enforcers of justice is an important element in the extant tragedies of Aeschylus (McPherran 2006, 98). In this respect, a certain continuity can be noticed between Aeschylus’ and Hesiod’s conception of the role of the gods (Lloyd-Jones 1983, 57-58, 86). But, as a tragedian, Aeschylus seems to have been particularly sensitive to the fundamental paradox at the heart of the Greek conception of the gods: on the one hand, the demand and expectation that they act according to justice; on the other hand, all the evils and pains that just and righteous men have to endure through life. Aeschylus gives life to this paradox in his tragedies and tries to achieve a theological conception that can integrate both aspects of the gods. The Aeschylian Zeus is awesome in his might and unsurpassed in his wisdom.

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He is the protector of the weak, and the bane of the wicked. But this does not mean that Aeschylus’ Zeus is just a tame version of his former self, a nice and pleasant Zeus, who, as a well-meaning father or grandfather, protects mortals and makes their life pleasant. On the contrary, Aeschylus does not shirk away from the violence and cruelty, from the arbitrariness and capriciousness that characterise a certain conception of the gods, including Zeus. What Aeschylus does is much more interesting than just denying an aspect of divinity in order to emphasize the other. He highlights the paradox, but somewhat resolves it by introducing the notion that the nature of the gods evolved. This is an element already present in Hesiod’s Theogony. The fight between the different generations of gods is understood as part of a struggle towards order, away from a past dominated by dreadful and chaotic beings. In spite of the violence and cruelty, the ascension of Zeus to supreme power represents the triumph of a more ordained and just world (see Rose et al. 1954, 186-187). But the traditional portrayal of the gods as cruel, vindictive and arbitrary is still there, as the chaos that has to be ordered, as the evil impulses that are, not entirely destroyed and eliminated, but rather integrated and controlled within the newly established order. The Aeschylian gods are not good in the sense that Plato’s axiom seems to demand, but they are in the process of becoming somewhat good, or, at least, better than they were. The idea of an evolving moral and theological order does not seem to be present in the extant tragedies of Sophocles. Sophocles’ gods do not seem to have a history, but they share with the Aeschylian gods an important trait. They represent a transcendent universal order, or, in the words of a modern critic, “an unchanging framework of Law” (Rose et al. 1954, 188). They still interfere and intervene in human life, especially through oracles, but they are much more distant from human affairs than the gods of Homer. It has been observed that, in the case of Sophocles especially, it would be possible to account for the events of the tragedies through human actions only. The gods are still there and intervene, in one way or another, but it seems that life would run its course even without them. The Sophoclean gods do not usually act visibly, in all pomp, but rather through the normal mechanisms of nature and human motivation. In this sense, the gods are the background of everything that happens to mortals, and their power is expressed and manifests itself in life itself, not as what we would understand as supernatural intervention. One of the consequences of this portrayal is that the gods appear, at the same time, closer and more distant. Closer, because they are more and more identified with the order of the world, more distant, because they become, in fact, less and less humanized, becoming more similar to invisible forces than to

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anthropomorphic deities, acting like humans. In both Aeschylus and Sophocles the tendency seems to be to make the gods become more and more abstract. It becomes less important if they are portrayed looking like humans, since they no longer behave like humans: they behave like awesome forces ruling the universe according to arcane rules. As the framework of law that regulates the world, the gods may not necessarily apply justice as human beings understand it, but the fact that there are gods becomes equivalent to the idea that the universe is ruled justly, even if that means some humans have to suffer for it. The tendency towards a more abstract view of the gods, however, is not exclusive to the tragedians. It is even more noticeable in the extant fragments of the so-called Presocratic philosophers. It would perhaps be reckless to speculate on matters of mutual influence, and it is far from certain that poets like Aeschylus and Sophocles were in fact influenced by the new and radical ideas coming from Ionia and Magna Graecia. Poets and philosophers seem to not only approach the problems at hand in a different way, but they also differ quite a lot in their purposes. The philosopher looks at the world and sees an amazing enigma that needs to be explained. The poet looks at the world and sees an awesome reality that needs to be expressed. That this expression implies and puts forward a perspective on reality might be more than a coincidence. That the explanations put forward by the Presocratic philosophers in most cases made use of poetic, mythological and religious language is almost certainly due to their culture: it was the language available to them and it takes a long time for a new way of looking at reality, philosophy, to develop what can amount to a somewhat autonomous language. But the fact that they use poetic language also suggests that the reality they were trying to describe and explain is so complex and bewildering that language itself can hardly cope. At any rate, the gods of the Presocratic philosophers, or at least some of them, seem to stretch the notion of god to incredible lengths. Be it Anaximander’s ਙʌİȚȡȠȞ or Anaximenes’ air, or even Anaxagoras’ ȞȠ૨Ȣ, the conceptions of the gods go further and further away from the anthropomorphic gods of Homer, and towards anonymous and abstract forces ruling the universe (see Jaeger 1947, 31ff; 161-162; Robinson 2008, 487). The gods or god become impersonal; their way of acting becomes embedded into the fabric and order of the universe. This move towards impersonal gods might sometimes verge on the impious. We know, for example, that Anaxagoras was accused of impiety by the Athenians, though possibly more for political than religious reasons (Decharmes 1905, 157ff.). And philosophers like the already mentioned Xenophanes and Heraclitus criticised and even mocked traditional

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religious beliefs that they considered to be absurd and irrational. And yet, to state that philosophy, at its very beginning, is opposed to religion would be a mistake. The sense of awe and wonder that is always present in the thoughts of these philosophers show that their more abstract views of gods, in some cases almost indistinguishable from nature, does not create a godless world, quite the opposite. These impersonal gods are everywhere and in everything; everything is godly and sacred, because everything is but a part of the magnificent and mysterious whole that is the universe (see Jaeger 1947, 172ff.). By fusing together the idea of world order, of unity and divinity together, the Presocratic philosophers present a picture of the universe regulated by laws, even by justice. But this is a justice that is impersonal. Human beings are part of a larger whole and their relationship with the divine is now one of submission and contemplation, not one mediated by sacrifices and cult which might appease and bring favour from the gods. If the influence of contemporary philosophical ideas on Aeschylus and Sophocles is just a hypothesis, it is a certainty in what regards the third great tragedian: Euripides. No other poet known to us seems to have reflected as much the debates engaged in by his contemporaries (Rose et al. 1954, 209-211; McPherran 2006, 87). And Euripides’s contemporaries, who were also Socrates’ and then Plato’s contemporaries, brought with them something new: an attempt to explain religion and the perspectives people have on the nature and role of the gods in what we could denominate “secular” terms. This goes beyond other revisions of the nature and role of the gods. Before this moment, no matter how abstractly the god, gods or divine were portrayed, a sense of awe and religious veneration subsisted. In fact, the less personal and more abstract the god, the less the tendency to complain about perceived evils and injustices. To demand justice and morality in human terms of Anaximander’s ਙʌİȚȡȠȞ would be an utter absurdity. But the new intellectuals, the so-called sophists, now dedicate their attention to examining myths and beliefs and rituals—and find them somewhat absurd, or, at least, in need of rational explanation and justification (Jaeger 1947, 174; Humphreys 2004, 56ff.). A celebrity like Protagoras, for example, does not seem to present an articulated view of the divine: he simply states, with momentous consequence, that the gods are beyond human comprehension—and this includes their very existence. To entertain even the mere possibility of there being no gods at all was shocking and revolutionary, though, in modern terms, Protagoras can be more accurately described as an agnostic than as an atheist (Burkert 1985, 305ff.). But even those who do not seem to entertain this possibility explicitly investigate the nature of religion in

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such a way as to make it an almost entirely secular affair. Prodicus, for example, presents a “naturalistic” account of the beginning of humankind’s belief in the gods. The first men, in awe of the fruits of nature that sustained them and on which their survival depended, started to venerate them as gods. This tendency to divinise whatever guaranteed or facilitated their survival was then extended to the inventors of all the arts and techniques that make human life easier. At no point does he say outright that there is no such thing as gods. In fact, one could argue that Prodicus is just explaining how mankind came to be aware of the existence of the gods, who really exist and are the givers of all those blessings, but the strong suggestion is that gods are mere fictions, human inventions to account for those same blessings (Heinrichs 1975, 109ff.; Solmsen 1942, 33-35). The rationalisation of myths and religious beliefs seems to have been a general trend amongst the intellectual elite in Classical Athens. This trend also emerges in Euripides’ writings, though it would be a mistake to attribute impious views to Euripides himself. He was, after all, a playwright and it is always problematic to assign to the author the views expressed by his characters, especially in those cases when we lack the context of the whole play. Also, an incredible variety of different views and perspectives regarding religion are portrayed in Euripides’ tragedies, plenty of them perfectly attuned with common notions of piety, and not all that different, for example, from the demands of justice expressed by the other two tragedians and other poets (Solmsen 1942, 41; Rose et al. 1954, 207). But Euripides seems to have been particularly sensitive to the effects not only of the abstract gods of the Presocratic philosophers, but also of the secularisation of myths and beliefs engaged in by the sophists. Probably the best example of this is the so-called “Sisyphus fragment” (DK 88B). This fragment was previously attributed to Critias, probably the most infamous member of the Thirty that ruthlessly ruled Athens for a short period after the city’s final defeat in the Peloponnesian War, but is now widely believed to have been part of a lost Euripides’ tragedy. In this extraordinary fragment, a character, probably Sisyphus himself, explains the origin of the belief in the gods. The gods, according to the character, were created by men to compensate for a flaw in human laws. Laws can only deter unrighteous behaviour insofar as that behaviour is known. Unlawful behaviour can only be punished if it is found out. The gods, however, can see all, and will punish even secret misbehaviour (Kahn 1997). It is interesting that this “impious” account of the gods as mere inventions of mankind for social purposes is heavily dependent on the idea that the gods are the enforcers of justice. This idea, which we previously saw in uncomfortable connection with the primitive view of the gods as

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cruel and arbitrary, comes now to the forefront in such a way as to become the principal and even exclusive trait of the gods. Failure to enforce justice is the cause of many complaints by Euripides’ characters. They cry out in anguish when they see the unjust suffering of the innocent and the triumph of the unrighteous. They cry even more when the perpetrators of their suffering are the gods themselves (Solmsen 1942, 20ff; Rose et al. 1954, 212ff.). This criticism of the immorality of the gods is not usually interpreted as being directed towards the gods themselves, but in line with the old habits of Xenophanes, towards the more “traditional” Homeric portrayal of their behaviour. In no way do the characters go as far as to deny the gods their rightful worship or their divinity—with one known exception: the Bellerophon fragment (286 N2). In this famous fragment, the character Bellerophon, disturbed by all the injustices he has been a victim of, goes to the extreme of denying the existence of the gods. He does not do that out of rationalistic fervour. His atheism is very different from modern atheism: it is an atheism based on disappointment. The gods should enforce justice, but injustice rules the world. Therefore, there are no gods.19 The idea of goodness becomes so intrinsic to the idea of god, that a being that does not behave according to justice cannot in any way be considered a god. Bellerephon says as much in a later fragment (292 N2): if gods do something shameful, they are not gods (Riedweg 1990). Of course, we know that later on in the tragedy he finds out there are gods in the most conspicuous way: by being punished for his impiety. It is rather ironical that Bellerophon comes to know that the gods actually enforce justice by being punished for his impiety. But other characters seem to express similar views, without, however, denying the existence of the gods or their godly nature: for these characters, an evil or unjust god is an absurdity (see, e.g., Iphigenia Taurica, 391; Electra, 583-584; see Solmsen 1942, 41). The gods, as presented in some of Euripides’ works, are therefore entirely good, complying with the axiom we have found in the Phaedrus and in Republic II. But Euripides is not the only author besides Plato that goes as far as to explicitly articulate this axiom. The philosopher Democritus, for example, says exactly the same, sc., that the gods are not the cause of anything evil (DK 175B; see McGibbon 1965, 365ff.); and 19

Another interpretation is possible, however. The verb İੁȝȓ, can have an existential meaning (“they do not exist”), or function as a copula (“they are not gods”). Both interpretations are grammatically acceptable and the ambiguity is probably intentional. Regardless of which interpretation is correct, the fact remains that goodness is affirmed as an essential component of divinity: if they are not good, the gods either do not exist, or they cannot be gods.

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the poet Pindar states that a man should not say of the gods anything but beautiful things, in a formulation that echoes in Republic II (Ol. I. 35). There are plenty of antecedents for this thought, which seems to have developed gradually throughout the Archaic and Classical eras. The tension between the idea that gods are just and the “traditional” portrayal of the gods as cruel and arbitrary can be found at least as early as Hesiod. As the gods become less and less personal, and more and more abstract, they become more and more associated with justice, with the regular functioning of the world, and with the enforcing of just dealings amongst mortals. The thesis that gods can only be good solves the tension by denying the validity of the “traditional” portrayal of the gods as cruel and arbitrary. Goodness becomes the gods’ essential trait and maintaining and enforcing justice their fundamental role. A god that does not fit with this description is no god at all. Now we can see that Vlastos’ position is fundamentally flawed. The “moral” gods of Socrates or Plato are not a religious innovation, but rather a relatively familiar version of the gods, already somewhat anticipated by other changes in “theological” thought. Ultimately, Vlastos’ main mistake was to ignore that Greek religion is a very complex phenomenon. Greek religion is not a dogmatic religion. More important than the theses regarding the nature and role of the gods, are rituals and, in general, how human beings should behave towards those mighty beings. Greek religion is a patchwork of different beliefs, myths and rituals. To state that a specific “theological” position goes against religious tradition is very problematic. It implies there is such a thing as a fixed and easily identifiable body of beliefs that can be opposed or adhered to. In reality, there is no such thing in the Hellenic religion. What can be identified is a religious tradition in another sense: as a set of conflicting and sometimes even contradictory stories, beliefs and understandings regarding the power or powers that control the universe and human life and the relationship between these powers and mortals, unified by a sense of shared heritage and belonging. This tradition suffers modifications and alterations as different communities, generations and individuals contribute to them. It is, in this sense, culture: an organic reality that grows and changes with time and, as society changes, receives, absorbs and digests new ways of thinking and imagining the gods. The result of this continuous process is not a tidy and coherent set of theses, but rather a body of beliefs and practices that show the dazzling variety and irreducible complexity that characterises everything that is living. In this sense, the Greek religious tradition cannot be found in Homer or Hesiod or any other author alone; they are merely contributors to this complex organism. Socrates and Plato

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are heirs to this tradition and also contribute to them. But this contribution is not revolutionary in the sense of being entirely new; it owes a debt to the changes and evolutions we have identified so far. The thesis that gods are absolutely good is not, therefore, incompatible with Greek religious tradition. Not only can this thesis be accommodated by tradition, but it is also, to a certain extent, the result of an evolution in religious understanding born from a fundamental tension between the understanding that the gods are our masters and the all-too-human demand for justice. Phaedrus is a co-heir of this tradition, and, on top of that, an intimate of the sophisticated intellectual elite. He would therefore be familiar with these problems, debates, and modulations in religious tradition, and, for that reason, more likely to silently acquiesce to Socrates’ statement. He would have heard the same thesis, or something not very unlike it, elsewhere. It would not be entirely new to him. This, together with the unexpected prospect of being feasted with yet another speech, explains why Phaedrus does not even consider Socrates’ strange thesis worth debating. Ultimately, we should not forget that the Phaedrus is a work of literature. The characters, albeit inspired by historical personalities, are fictional in their presentation within the dialogue, and they will do and say what the author wants them to say and do. Phaedrus’ silence is noteworthy not on itself, but because it serves a specific purpose within the economy of the dialogue. The idea that the gods are absolutely good will play an important role in Socrates’ palinode. The ostensive aim of the palinode is to retract the blasphemous statements about ਯȡȦȢ pronounced by Lysias and Socrates and enthusiastically accepted by Phaedrus. The basis of Lysias’ and Socrates’ speeches against ਩ȡȦȢ was that it consisted in a form of madness, ȝĮȞȓĮ. The easiest way of making a retraction would be to simply deny that ਩ȡȦȢ is a form of ȝĮȞȓĮ. But Socrates does not choose this easier path: he keeps the basic hypothesis that ਩ȡȦȢ is ȝĮȞȓĮ, but introduces a degree of complexity in the notion of ȝĮȞȓĮ. ȂĮȞȓĮ is not an entirely negative notion; there are forms of ȝĮȞȓĮ that are not only good, but superlatively good. The greatest blessings, says Socrates, come from a ȝĮȞȓĮ given by the gods (see Harris 2006, 394ff.). It is not difficult to see how this articulates with the notion that the gods are good. The idea that ȝĮȞȓĮ is caused by the gods is an ancient one, well ingrained in ancient Greek culture. It is however, more often seen as a curse or a punishment than a blessing.20 But what Socrates does here is to relate it with his thesis that gods are absolutely good. This is a clever rhetorical ploy: he uses different .

20 On exogenous madness as curse and punishment from the gods see: Vaughn 1919, 19-20; O’Brien-Moore 1924, 11ff.; Rosen 1968; Dover 1996.

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aspects of the varied and multifaceted religious tradition in a novel way that will allow him to fulfil his rhetorical objective, the praise of ਩ȡȦȢ. A madness that comes from absolutely benign gods has to be superlatively good. In order to make this more acceptable, Socrates produces a series of examples of forms of ȝĮȞȓĮ that were already traditionally regarded in a positive light. These three types of beneficial ȝĮȞȓĮ, prophetic, the obscure type commonly known as telestic, and poetic, seem to have been all relatively familiar cultural institutions.21 They would have been recognised as both beneficial and divine in origin. But something unexpected happens when it comes the time to present the fourth kind of beneficial ȝĮȞȓĮ, erotic ȝĮȞȓĮ, the ostensive object of the palinode. Erotic ȝĮȞȓĮ is not presented as an established and widely acceptable institution. In order to explain how erotic ȝĮȞȓĮ can be superlatively good, Socrates has to address such seemingly esoteric subjects as the nature of the soul, the structure of the cosmos, the nature of being and reality—and all this in the form of a long and complex myth. A complete and detailed analysis of this part of the palinode would far exceed the scope and extent of this paper. But some cursory remarks are nonetheless necessary for us to understand the role that the thesis on the absolute benign character of the gods plays in the economy of the palinode. The palinode is full of gods. And these gods are apparently the Homeric and Hesiodic gods, or a variation thereof. Several of the Homeric and Hesiodic gods are mentioned by name in the section of the palinode dedicated to erotic ȝĮȞȓĮ, namely Zeus, Hera, Hestia and Ares. But these seemingly Homeric gods are very different from the anthropomorphic deities of the Iliad and Odyssey—or, for that matter, any other comprehension of the gods in tradition (see Vilatte 1999, 54). The gods are now placed in the sky, leading the procession towards another level of reality: the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, the place beyond the sky. The simple fact that the myth introduces a level above the dwelling of the gods already suggests, symbolically, that this level will be of higher importance and dignity. By placing the gods in the intermediate level, between the earth and the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, Socrates implicitly suggests that whatever is found in the top level will take precedence over them. The gods are, therefore, displaced from their traditional position as supreme beings. But they are also described in a way very different from the traditional conception—to the point of becoming almost unrecognizable. They are described as ȥȣȤĮȓ (246a-b). The first implication of this is that they do not possess a body (246c-d). These bodiless gods are considered to 21

See Verdenius 1962; Dodds 1951, 64-101; Seeskin 1956; Serranito 2013. On the difficult subject of “telestic madness”, see Linforth 1946.

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be immortal, or, better yet, eternal, but this feature does not distinguish them from the other, non-divine, ȥȣȤĮȓ—since every ȥȣȤȒ shares this characteristic (245c). They are distinguished from the non-divine ȥȣȤĮȓ in a single aspect: every soul, be it divine or not, is said to be, in explicitly allegorical terms, a composite made of a chariot with its charioteer and horses. This composite has wings, which allow the souls to remain in the sky and to fly upwards towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ.22 The divine souls possess an unspecified number of horses; the non-divine souls possess two horses. The divine souls’ horses are all said to be of good and obedient nature. This is not the case of the non-divine souls: one of their horses is good and obedient; the other has the opposite nature (246a-b). In this scheme, the fundamental difference is not between gods and mortals, since all the souls are equally immortal, or, to be more precise, eternal, but rather between entirely good and faulty souls. The non-divine souls are affected by a constitutive defect from which the divine souls are free. This constitutive defect is the condition that creates the possibility of what is commonly understood as mortals: human beings with body and soul, doomed to die. In other words: us. Whereas the gods’ journey towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ is easy, the non-divine souls follow the divine souls to the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, but struggle to reach it and, in some cases fail to reach it and thereby lose their wings and fall from the sky. Mortals are the result of this fall. They are mutilated souls, exiled from their natural home, imprisoned in a body, prevented from reaching the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ (246c-d). But even in this condition the connection with the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ remains, mainly through ਕȞȐȝȞȘıȚȢ, remembrance. The importance of reaching the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ resides in the fact that it is the seat of the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ (247c-248a), which we will translate, following Rowe, as “being that really is” (Rowe 1986, 63; see Sinaiko 1965, 62ff.; Nicholson 1992, 176ff.). This is a very emphatic and seemingly redundant formulation, which immediately establishes a contrast with what is outside the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ. The “੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ” bit not only stresses the reality and ontic consistency of the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ found in the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, but it relegates the Ƞ੝ıȓĮȚ found elsewhere to a lower degree of reality. What is found in the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ is not some kind of hyperbeing or hyperreality; it is rather the real, true being, the real, true reality. This means that what is found elsewhere will have an inferior degree of being or reality. The standard is not set by what we usually see as beings, in relation to which the beings found in the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ are excessive. The beings found elsewhere are rather 22

On the significance of the wings and flight towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, see Carvalho 2013.

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the ones who are ontologically deficient in relation to the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. The oddity of this fact is compounded by the way this Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is described by Socrates. The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is colourless, ਕȤȡȫȝĮIJȠȢ, shapeless, ਕıȤȘȝȐıIJȚıIJȠȢ, intangible, ਕȞĮijȒȢ (2247c). This is a being that is completely inaccessible to the senses yet is said to be that which really is.23 The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ disturbs the normal understanding of the nature of the divine in a very fundamental way. The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is not just another kind of being to which we can attribute the character of divine. By revealing to us the existence of the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ, Socrates is not just letting us know that there is another divinity about town. The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is not merely a new god or a previously unknown nymph frolicking in the meadows. The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is not only more divine than even the gods themselves, but it is also what we could describe as the archetype of divinity. The gods are gods because they partake in divinity, and Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is divinity itself (249c; Rose et al. 1954, 244). The gods are gods because they are able to reach and contemplate the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. To be more precise: the gods are characterized, in contrast with the non-divine souls, by their unrestrained and unhindered ability to access the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ and contemplate the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ—and this is what makes them gods. This is a substantial change from the conception of the gods hinted at before this section of the palinode. The axiom of 242e seemed to apply to the gods more or less as commonly understood: as exceedingly powerful immortal beings who hold power over the world and the lives of mortals. But at this point in the Phaedrus Socrates introduces something that is not only above the gods, but also of which the gods are dependent. The Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ does not rule the gods, but the life of the gods is completely centred on it. The life of the gods is occupied entirely with a cyclical journey to and from the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ; the meaning of their lives is to contemplate the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. At first reading, it becomes clear that we are before at least two different levels of godliness in the palinode: the modified “traditional” gods, i.e., a heavily altered version of the “Olympian gods”, and, above them, the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. The heavily altered “Olympian gods” already stretch the conception of “god” quite far. The immortal, anthropomorphic beings that control the world and sometimes interfere in the lives of mortals now become something different. They are now more than immortal: they are eternal. But if immortality was the trait that most emphatically showed the abyss between gods and men, eternity is a characteristic both the divine and non-divine souls share. The gods of the 23

Compare Empedocles, DK 133B.

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palinode are no longer anthropomorphic in the traditional sense, since they have no body. But this is a characteristic shared with the non-divine souls whilst they are part of the chorus of souls in the sky. Humans only become embodied as a result of the soul’s failure to reach the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ. The gods of the palinode relate to humans in a very different way from what we have seen in most of the poetic tradition. This is in part due to the different understanding of the human condition expressed in the palinode, but also due to the nature of the gods themselves. While in their winged state, the non-divine souls are guided up towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ by the gods. This is as far as the gods interfere in human life in its nonembodied condition. The gods fly towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ and the non-divine souls follow. Once fallen, the relationship changes, since the condition of the soul is changed, but, in essence, remains the same. In the limited scope of what is described, viz. the phenomenon of passionate love, the gods carry on playing the same role of guides towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, though now as a distant memory awakened by the vision of the beloved (see Telo 2013, 150ff.). What stands out is that the distance, the abyss between mortals and gods, is also fundamentally changed. Most of that distance is the result of the fall of the non-divine soul. While winged, the non-divine soul will remain close to the gods, resembling them in almost everything. The distance between divine souls and non-divine souls is small, to the point that non-divine souls almost seem like second rate gods.24 But the introduction of a higher level of divinity changes the conception of the gods even more. If the gods are now somewhat closer to men, they are also put at some distance from the seat of true divinity. The divine character of the gods is not understood as substantial: divine is not what belongs to the gods, but rather what makes the gods be gods. This suggests a priority of IJઁ șİ૙ȠȞ, the divine, the godly, over the notion of șİȩȢ, god. This priority is not necessarily a Platonic innovation. As we have seen above, something similar seems to be prevalent in at least some Presocratic theological thinking: a move from the concreteness of personalised gods to a more abstract conception of the divine. This move does not stretch the concept of god beyond recognition, however. ĬİȩȢ, in Wilamowitz-Moellendorf’s happy formulation, is a

24

Cf. șİ૵Ȟ IJİ țĮ੿ įĮȚȝȩȞȦȞ in 246e. The identity of the įĮȓȝȠȞİȢ is unclear. De Vries 1969, ad locum, explains that these are “all the non-divine souls”, which will include the future human beings; Rowe 1986, ad locum, understands įĮȓȝȠȞİȢ as a synonym of șİȠȓ. I am inclined to agree with Rowe, although De Vries’ interpretation has some merit. This might also be an allusion to Empedocles’ įĮȓȝȦȞ (DK 115B).

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“Prädikatsbegriff” (Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1931, 18-19).25 The palinode is a perfect example of the versatility of the term șİȩȢ, and how the divine can be attributed to a variety of beings without making too much violence to the meaning of the term. Verdenius goes as far as to read the palinode as establishing a scale of divinity (Rose et al. 1954, 254ff.). The organising principle of this scale is the proximity to the pinnacle of divinity, the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. The “traditional” gods are gods as they have perfect and easy access to what is superlatively divine. But the nondivine souls themselves are, by the same token, somewhat divine, insofar as they have some kind of access to the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. And even after the fall and loss of wings, the non-divine, now embodied souls, still retain a weak link to the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ through ਕȞȐȝȞȘıȚȢ. Even after the fall, something godly remains in us. But what consequences does this have in our understanding of the axiom of goodness? Let us try to answer this question by imaging what an evil god, a țĮțઁȢ șİȩȢ would be. Before the changes introduced by the palinode, we would most likely understand a țĮțઁȢ șİȩȢ as being cruel, vindictive and arbitrary. In other words: an immortal powerful being capable and willing of doing harm to mankind. An ਕȖĮșઁȢ șİȩȢ, on the contrary, abstains from such actions and, whenever he intervenes in human life, does it through blessings. He will most likely be understood as the enforcer and upholder of justice, meaning that he might punish wrongdoers and reward those who act justly. But, in the palinode, what would a țĮțઁȢ șİȩȢ be? Considering that the role of the gods is just to fly to and from the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, contemplating the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ, the interaction between them and other non-divine airborne souls is simply as guides. The other souls follow them. A țĮțઁȢ șİȩȢ, in the sense of evil, mean, resentful, would guide the other souls away from the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ. But, in the terms of the palinode, that would not make sense. For the gods, flying towards the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ and contemplating the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ is the whole point of their existence. This is not only what makes them gods, but it seems to be the only course of action ascribed to them. They do not quarrel with each other; they do not interfere in any way in the lives of the non-divine souls except as guides. Since the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ is everything for them, there is no room for resentfulness or ill will. Nor is there any room for showering mortals with great blessings. They seem, in a way, to be indifferent to the non-divine 25

Or, in Verdenius’ even happier formulation: “Der griechische Gott ist nicht göttlich, weil er Gott ist, sondern er is Gott, weil er etwas Göttliches ist” (“The Greek god is not godly because he is god, he is rather god because he is something godly”) (Rose et al. 1954, 244; see also: Camp and Canart 1956, 110-115).

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souls and, to the fallen souls that are the mortals, little more than a faded memory. We should not, however, dismiss their role as guides as insignificant. By guiding the other souls to the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, they are, in fact, helping them attain the highest possible aim: the contact with perfection. And they are, in a way, perfect themselves. They might be subordinate in divinity to the Ƞ੝ıȓĮ ੕ȞIJȦȢ Ƞ੣ıĮ, but they are composed in such a way that it makes the access to it easy and unfailing. Since the nondivine souls share the same goal as the gods, viz. reaching the ਫ਼ʌİȡȠȣȡȐȞȚȠȢ IJȩʌȠȢ, their slight but significant defect in composition becomes even more dramatic in its consequences. The gods provide the model for the ideal existence; the non-divine souls are almost there, but can never attain such an existence, due to their constitutive flaw. It is that constitutive flaw that causes the fall of the soul, and results in us having to inhabit the earth, where we are subjected to all sorts of pains and evils— many of those evils of our own authorship. But as the contact with the utmost divinity is never truly severed, there is always something godly even within mortals. But that godliness is mingled with ignorance and evil. In a way, we are the țĮțȠ੿ șİȠȓ, divine beings that have lost their way, exiled in a foreign land, and almost completely forgotten of that perfection the attainment of which should be our greatest desire. We shall end as we began, by remembering how, for the Greeks, the world was full of gods. I think we are now a bit closer to understanding this, as gods were not only the anthropomorphic beings set well above mortals, nor just any kind of abstract force ruling the universe. The gods were all around us, even within us. It is this truth that Lysias and Socrates and Phaedrus forgot, and it is this fault that Socrates tried to expiate. This is a fault we have also committed at the beginning, when we failed to invoke the gods, even as we prepared to talk about them. But now, probably more than at the beginning, we are a bit more capable of understanding the complexity and profound mystery of the Hellenic gods, of how they changed and evolved and were the object of anxious debate, and how Plato picked up this tradition and gave it new aspects and meanings—to understand this at least in the Phaedrus. We are now, I think able to utter the strangest of all prayers in Greek tradition, the prayer uttered by Hecuba, when, after the fall of Troy, she sees Helen being led among the captives, which, in a few lines, expresses the fantastic wonder and mystery of the gods of the Greeks: ੯ ȖોȢ ੕ȤȘȝĮ țਕʌ੿ ȖોȢ ਩ȤȦȞ ਪįȡĮȞ, ੖ıIJȚȢ ʌȠIJ’ İੇ ıȪ, įȣıIJȩʌĮıIJȠȢ İੁįȑȞĮȚ, ǽİȪȢ, İ੅IJ’ ਕȞȐȖțȘ ijȪıİȠȢ İ੅IJİ ȞȠ૨Ȣ ȕȡȠIJ૵Ȟ, ʌȡȠıȘȣȟȐȝȘȞ ıİ· ʌȐȞIJĮ Ȗ੹ȡ įȚ’ ਕȥȩijȠȣ

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ȕĮȓȞȦȞ țİȜİȪșȠȣ țĮIJ੹ įȓțȘȞ IJ੹ șȞȒIJ’ ਙȖİȚȢ. —Euripides, Trojan Women, 804-808

Bibliography Adkins, A. 1960. Merit and Responsibility. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Adomenas, M. 1999. “Heraclitus on Religion.” Phronesis 44: 87-113. Bodéüs R. 1992. “La philosophie et les dieux du Phèdre.” In Understanding the Phaedrus: Proceedings of the II Symposium Platonicum, edited by L, Rossetti, 246-248. Sankt-Augustin, Academia-Verlag. Brickhouse, T. and Smith, N. 1994. Plato’s Socrates. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Buchheit, V. 1960. Untersuchungen zur Theorie des Genos Epideiktikon von Gorgias bis Aristoteles. München: Hueber. Burgess, T. 1902. Epideictic Literature. Chicago (Il.): The University of Chicago Press. Burkert, W. 1985. Greek Religion, archaic and classical. Oxford: Blackwell. Calhoun, G. 1937. “Homer’s Gods: Prolegomena.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 68: 11-25. Canter, H. 1937. “Ill Will of the Gods in Greek and Latin Poetry.” Classical Philology 32: 131-143. Carson, A. 1986. Eros the Bittersweet. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Carvalho, M. J. 2013. “ਯȡȦȢ and ȆIJȑȡȦȢ.” In In the Mirror of the Phaedrus, edited by M. J. Carvalho, A. Caeiro, H. Telo, 167-243. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag. Chase, J. 1961. “The classical conception of epideictic.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 47: 293-300 Corey, D. 2005. “Socratic Citizenship: Delphic Oracle and Divine Sign.” Review of Politics 67: 201-228. Decharme, P. 1904. La Critique des Traditions Religieuses chez les Grecques. Paris: A. Picard. Des Places, E. 1969. La religion grecque: dieux, cultes, rites, et sentiments religieux dans la Grèce antique. Paris: Picard et Cie. De Vries, G. 1969. A Commentary of the Phaedrus of Plato. Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert. Dodds, E. 1951. The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley: University of California Press. Dover, K. 1996. “Classical Greek Attitudes to Illness.” Vesalius 2: 34–38.

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Else, G. 1949. “God and Gods in Early Greek Thought.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 80: 24-36. Ferrari, G. 1987. Listening to the Cicadas–A Study of Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Festugiere, A. 1950. L’Enfant d’Agrigente. Paris: Iles d’or. Gocer, A. 2000. “A New Assessment of Socratic Philosophy of Religion.” In Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy, edited by N. Smith, and P. Woodruff, 115-129. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Greene, W. C. 1935. “Fate, Good, and Evil, in Early Greek Poetry.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 46: 1-36. Griswold, C. 1986. Self-knowledge in Plato’s Phaedrus. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University, Grube, G. 1951. “The Gods of Homer.” Phoenix 5: 62-78. Hackforth, R. 1952, Plato’s Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Heinrichs, A. 1975. “Two Doxographical Notes: Democritus and Prodicus on Religion.” Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 79: 93-123. Humphreys, S. 2004. The Strangeness of Gods: historical perspectives on the interpretation of Athenian religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jaeger, W. 1947. The Theology of the Early Greek Philosophers. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kahn, C. 1997. “Greek Religion and Philosophy in the Sisyphus Fragment.” Phronesis 42: 247-262. Kennedy, G. 1963. The Art of Persuasion in Greece. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lasserre, F. 1944. “ਫȡȦIJȚțȠ੿ ȜȩȖȠȚ.” Museum Helveticum 1: 169-178. Lesky, A. 1976. Vom Eros der Hellenen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Linforth, I. M. 1946. “Telestic Madness in Plato, Phaedrus 244de.” University of California Publications in Classical Philology 13: 163172. Lloyd-Jones, H. 1983. The Justice of Zeus. 2nd edition. Berkeley: University of California Press. McGibbon, D. 1965. “The Religious Thought of Democritus.” Hermes 93: 385-397. McPherran, M. 2006. “The Gods and Piety in Plato's Republic.” In The Blackwell Guide to Plato's Republic, edited by G. Santas, 84-103. Oxford: Blackwell. Nails, D. 1993. “Problems with Vlastos’ Platonic Developmentalism.” Ancient Philosophy 13: 273-291.

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—. 2002. The People of Plato: a prosopography of Plato and other Socratics. Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Nicholson, G. 1992. Plato’s Phaedrus: The Philosophy of Love. West Lafayette, Indiana: Purdue University Press. Nilsson, M. 1949. A History of Greek Religion. 2nd edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1948. Greek Piety. Oxford: Clarendon Press. O’Brien-Moore, A. 1924. Madness in Ancient Literature. Weimar: Wagner. Pease, A. S. 1926. “Things Without Honor.” Classical Philology 21: 2742. Pucci, P. 1994. “Gods’ Intervention and Epiphany in Sophocles.” The American Journal of Philology 115: 15-46. Reeve, C. 2000. “Socrates the Apollonian?” In Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy. N. Smith, and P. Woodruff, 24-39. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Riedweg, C. 1990. “The ‘atheistic’ fragment from Euripides ‘Bellerophon’.” Illinois Classical Studies 15: 39-53. Robin, L. 1933. Platon: oeuvres completes, vol. IV, part 3. Phèdre. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Robinson, T. 2008. “Presocratic Theology.” In The Oxford Handbook of Presocratic Philosophy, edited by P. Curd, D. Graham, 485-498. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rose, H., Chantraine, P., Snell, B., Gigon, O., Kitto, H., Chapouthier, F., Verdenius, W. 1954. Entretiens sur L’Antiquité Classique I, 8-13 September 1952, Genève. Genève: Fondation Hardt Vandoeuvres. Rosen, G. 1968. “Greece and Rome.” In Madness in Society: Chapters in the Historical Sociology of Mental Illness. IDEM, 71-136. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Ruiz Yamuza, E. 1998. “Los dos primeros discursos del Fedro de Platón: topoi homoeróticos.” In Corolla Complutensis in memoriam Josephi S. Lasso de la Vega. L. Gil, M. Pastor, R. Aguilar, 447-457. Madrid: Ed. de la Universidad Complutense. Scott, J. 1915. “Envy of the Gods in the ‘Odyssey’.” The Classical Journal 10: 271-272. Seesskin, K.R. 1976. “Platonism, Mysticism, and Madness.” Monist 59: 574-586. Serranito, F. 2013. “A Somewhat Unconvincing Start: The First Three Kinds of Beneficial ȂĮȞȓĮ in the Palinode.” In In the Mirror of the Phaedrus, edited by M.J. Carvalho, A. Caeiro, H. Telo, 76-110. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag.

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Sinaiko, H. 1965. Love, Knowledge, and Discourse in Plato. Dialogue and Dialectic in Phaedrus, Republic, Parmenides. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Solmsen, F. 1942. Plato’s Theology. Ithaca, N.Y., Cornell University Press. Telo, H. 2013. “Recalling the Godly Rhythm of Yore.” In In the Mirror of the Phaedrus, edited by M.J. Carvalho, A. Caeiro, H. Telo, 111-166. Sankt Augustin: Academia Verlag. Thornton, S. 1997. Eros. The Myth of Ancient Greek Sexuality. Boulder (Col.): Westview Press. Van Camp, J., Canart, P. 1956. Le sens du mot ĬǼǿȅȈ chez Platon. Louvain: Biblioteque de L’Université. Vaughn, A. 1919. Madness in Greek Thought and Costum. Baltimore: J.H. Furst Company. Verdenius, W. J. 1962. “Der Begriff der Mania in Platons Phaidros.” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 44: 34-44. Vlastos, G. 1991. Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1952. “Theology and Philosophy in Early Greek Thought.” The Philosophical Quarterly 2: 97-123. —. Brickhouse, T., McPherran, M., Smith, N. 2000. “Socrates and His Daimonion: Correspondence among the Authors.” In Reason and Religion in Socratic Philosophy, edited by N. Smith, and P. Woodruff, 176-204. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vilatte, S. 1999. “Une mutation religieuse au IVe siècle: les dieux du « Phèdre » de Platon: entre la nature et le lieu hyperouranien des essences.” Révue Belge de Philologie et Histoire 77: 53-75. Warden, J. 1971. “The Mind of Zeus.” Journal of the History of Ideas 32: 3-14. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, U. 1931. Der Glaube der Hellenen. Berlin: Weidmann. Yunis, H. 2011. Plato, Phaedrus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER FOUR IS PLATONIC REBIRTH POINTLESS? CHRISTOPHER T GREEN

My aim in this chapter is to analyse the subject matter of Plato’s Myth of Er. I will use Plato’s Phaedo myth to draw direct comparisons and show that a dialogue exists between both myths. I am not attempting “to assimilate myths that look superficially alike” (Annas 1982, 120). But I will show analytically how, through their myths, two Platonic dialogues work together in showing an afterlife that is not pointless, therefore, arguing against Annas’ claim that “My being just … is cosmically pointless” (1982, 135). My argument stems from a combined reading of ascent in Plato’s Republic and Phaedo. Approaching the Myth of Er and Phaedo in this way leads to a greater understanding of Plato’s metaphysics. This dual approach is far greater than a simple and singular reading of a myth in isolation. That being said, the two dialogues are separate books, with separate agendas, so the dialogues will need different myths with contradictions and unrelated tangents. But there is also overlap and expansion. I will show that Phaedo compares to Republic in five aspects: 1) the soul’s journey to the afterlife; 2) the fundamental notion of rebirth and its importance in relation to the movement of the souls; 3) the choices souls must make regarding their new lives; 4) how the “here and now” is presented against a back-drop of cosmic choice; and 5) the different degrees of reality resulting in the upward ascent of the soul.

Republic and Judgement Julia Annas in her article “Plato’s Myths of Judgement” compares Republic’s myth with those of Phaedo and Gorgias (1982, 119).1 Annas’ conclusion that “the three myths are distinctively different” and that the 1 It is unfortunate that due to word limitation I cannot compare the Gorgias myth as well.

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myths “give us very different pictures of what judgement after death brings” is unsatisfactory (1982, 138; 122). Each myth concludes a distinct dialogue, therefore, differences are evident on a simple contextual level. However, the similarities between the myths are more important than the differences born from diverse dramatic contexts. I will show how the metaphysics of the Phaedo myth is far from “distinctively different” from the Myth of Er, since both share common concepts of the soul after death. Moreover, taken together, Phaedo and Republic enhance one’s understanding of Plato’s myths. Republic ends with the Myth of Er. It is the ambiguous and climactic end to Plato’s dialogue. It is not a detachment or diversion from Plato’s ethical thinking. It presents the judgement and life choice that immortal souls must go through after death, if Er’s tale is to be believed. Socrates recounts a story that sees the souls of dead men externally judged and sent either to the “road in the sky” or the underworld according to their external judgement (Rep. 614c-616a). However, external judgement is only one section of the myth.2 Furthermore, Socrates does not introduce the Myth of Er as a final judgement of the dead (Rep. 614a-b). Socrates interjects Er’s story to make a clear and decisive break in the narrative (Rep. 616a): These, then are the punishments and penalties and the corresponding rewards of the other world.

At this point Socrates concludes all he has to say on external judgement and any rewards or punishments for the souls. The rest of the myth (616b-621d) has no concept of judgement from a third party or the cosmos itself. Consequently, the Myth of Er for Annas “is a painful shock” (1981, 349). According to Annas the myth cannot be interpreted as a “Christian Last Judgement at all” (1981, 351). Instead, Annas believes the Myth of Er is more suggestive of the deterministic “Hindu fatalism” (1981, 351). This is because “no individual life makes any lasting impact” (1982, 135), and therefore, “getting off the wheel of rebirths … is totally absent” (1982, 136). I challenge Annas’ portrayal of “fatalism” and the need for external final judgement. Instead, I emphasise a soul’s own decision-making. The power shifts from the universe to the individual soul. More significantly it depicts the importance of not only acting justly, but cultivating the correct order of one’s soul and a just character in this life now. This opens up the possibility of personal change, cultivating a

2

Only 614c-616a out of 614a-621d.

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better human character, becoming not merely superficially just (rewards) but inherently just within one’s soul (choice). The Myth of Er is not a simple judgement myth, it is far more complex, and anyone who goes searching for such a definitive judgement of a soul by the universe or divine judges will indeed be unpleasantly shocked, as Annas notes. In what follows I shall depict how the soul has a choice to make in this life and after death. Furthermore, through a dialogue between Republic and Phaedo I will show how re-embodiment is not a pointless or “fatalistic” theory, but that it provides the soul with a crucial opportunity to change.

Journey Reading the Myth of Er in isolation from the rest of Republic and from other myths, one could interpret the journey of the soul as merely an endless “conveyer-belt” of birth, death, rebirth, with no final cessation. Indeed, an endless “conveyer-belt” would be Annas’ “Hindu fatalism”. However, the journey when combined with Phaedo and earlier sections of Republic presents a picture where an escape is possible.3 Plato describes how Er’s soul left his body and travelled in the company of many other souls (Rep. 614c). The actual process of leaving the body behind and travelling to the afterlife is not covered in any depth. Plato does not allude to any difficulty or complexity within the journey of the soul to the other world. Plato is simply silent on the issue in the Myth of Er. However, in the myth of Phaedo there is an allotted spirit that has been present through life and this spirit “proceeds to bring him to a certain place” after death (Phd. 107d). The well-ordered soul will follow their guide to the allotted place. However, the soul that still desires the body will not leave without “much resistance and suffering” (Phd. 108b). The soul is “at last forcibly led away by its appointed guardian spirit” (Phd. 108b).4 Therefore, upon physical death the souls engage in the challenge of letting go of bodily desire and their previous life. A great deal of stress is placed on the soul’s ability and ease in leaving the body behind (Annas 1982, 126). This compares with Republic even though the desire to remain in one’s body is not explicitly stated in the myth. Throughout Republic one encounters tests and challenges of renouncing earthly rewards and temptations. The owner of Gyges’ ring must not relinquish justice simply 3

It is only natural to use Republic as a whole as evidence. One cannot fully extract the myth from the preceding dialogue. 4 One cannot help comparing this to Republic’s simile of the Cave 515e: “And if … he were forcibly dragged up the steep and rugged ascent”.

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because they are free from social punishment (Rep. 359d-560d). Souls must not be tempted by the choices of famous lives or riches when confronted with the ability to choose their next life (Rep. 619a), or in the here and now (Rep. 621c). After successfully leaving the body the souls await judgement on past deeds.5 There are “two gaping chasms in the earth, and opposite and above them two other chasms in the sky” (Rep. 614c). There is symmetry to the picture Socrates depicts of the sky above and the earth below, with Judges in between the two. Symmetry is extremely important, especially, when there is a sudden lack there of. The just are ordered to take the “right-hand road that led up through the sky”. However, Plato hides the beauty of rewards behind the veil of the chasm (Ferrari 2009, 127). In contrast, the unjust took the “left-hand road that led downwards” (Rep. 614d). There is a contrast between Republic’s and Phaedo’s account of the roads in the afterlife. In Republic the roads in the afterlife seem singular and straightforward. The soul either enters the chasm in the sky or the earth, traveling for a thousand years, until it returns through the other respective chasm in the sky or earth. However, within Phaedo the road “seems to be neither simple or single” (Phd. 108a). For if it were simple there would be no need for guides. Instead there are many “forkings and branches” (Phd. 108a). The unjust soul “wanders by itself in a state of utter confusion,” whilst the just soul “finds gods for travelling companions and guides”. The roads described in Phaedo are not inconsistent with the heavenly or earthly spheres during Republic’s thousand year journey. As the souls being judged entered their respective chasm, so too were souls returning “by the other two chasms.” The contrast between the returning earthly souls “stained with the dust of travel” and the heavenly souls returning “pure and clean” is apparent for all to observe (Rep. 614e). The souls return from their thousand year journey, either filled with “sorrow and tears” or the “delights of heaven” (Rep. 615a). In comparison, souls in Phaedo travel to Hades to experience what they must and stay “as long as is required” which is “vast periods of time” (Phd. 107e). Indeed, Phaedo has “many long cycles of time” (107e). Time in Republic and Phaedo is a key factor.

Rebirth Republic is almost mute on escaping the cycle of rebirth, reducing it apparently to a “fatalist” cycle. Indeed, Annas believes that “in Republic, 5

Phaedo also asserts that souls “must submit to judgement” (107d).

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strikingly, this idea [of escape] is totally absent” (1982, 136). Rebirth is, therefore, a punishment in itself (1982, 126). And a punishment that has no escape, even for the good person (Annas 1981, 352). But, Republic as a whole is not silent on the issue of escape. Furthermore, the Phaedo myth enhances the notion of a final break from the cycle. In Republic the mouth of the earthly chasm can refuse to let souls pass through to the meadow. One soul states that Ardiaeus the Great “has not come, and never will” (Rep. 615d).6 This happened for “anyone incurably wicked” (Rep. 615d-e). Fierce men seized the incurable souls and led them away “to be flung into Tartarus” (Rep. 615e-616a). In Phaedo a comparative picture is presented by Socrates (Phd. 113d-e): All who are found to be incurable because of the magnitude of their offences, through having committed many grave acts of sacrilege … are hurled by the appropriate destiny into Tartarus, whence they nevermore emerge.

In both Republic and Phaedo Socrates offers examples of incurably wicked souls being flung into Tartarus never to return to the cycle of rebirth (Rep. 615d; Phd. 113e). The important point is that some souls are so inherently wicked that all the punishments in this world and the next are not enough to cure their wickedness. They are destined to suffer endlessly —even after judgement—and seemingly never change. Annas asserts that in Republic “getting off the wheel of rebirths … is totally absent” (Annas 1982, 136).7 But, I have shown that incurably wicked souls in the Myth of Er do “get off” the cycle of rebirth (Rep. 615d). Specifically, Annas states that there is no escape from the “wheel of fate” for the good person in Republic (1981, 352). Indeed, if the good souls all had to start again a fresh then, in life and after death, there is only so far one can get when striving for Justice before a new rebirth. Subsequently, rebirth holds real risks (Ferrari 2009, 130/1). Even a philosopher must start all over again (Halliwell 1988, 22). Due to this Annas proposes Plato is “not seriously suggesting that we have lived other lives” (1981, 351). Within Republic it is suggested that the incurably wicked will not be released for a new embodied life (Rep. 615d). In Phaedo Socrates explicitly says that those “judged to be incurable” will be “hurled … into Tartarus, from whence they emerge no more” (Phd. 113e). It is strange that the “incurably wicked” are mentioned yet there is no account in 6 7

My own emphasis. Annas was referring to “progress” and “reward” (1982, 136).

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Republic’s myth of the “pure” soul that the “mouth of heaven” does not receive back for rebirth like the “mouth of the earth”. There is such symmetry within the Myth of Er that the blatant lack of symmetry here sits uneasily. If we follow this argument logically one can understand better. The chasms of earth and heaven are symmetrical, mirror opposites of each other. They are separated only by the meadow that exists in between the two. If the underworld earth has incurably wicked souls that are in need of further punishment—Ardiaeus “never will” return (Rep. 614d)—then it suggests that heaven must also have “pure” just souls. These souls, perhaps philosophers, cannot regress so have no need for continued embodiment. This is exactly what one sees in Phaedo (114b-c): But those who are judged to have lived a life of surpassing holiness – these are they who are released and set free from imprisonment in these regions of the earth … And of these such as have purified themselves sufficiently by philosophy live thereafter altogether without bodies, and reach habitations even more beautiful.8

Phaedo’s philosophically “pure” souls are “released” and “set free” from the cycle of embodiment, able to live “altogether without bodies”. Within a symmetrical image this is what one would logically expect in Republic. Since the cycle can be broken for the wicked, in Phaedo and Republic, it is logical that the just soul can also break the cycle in Republic, as they do in Phaedo. Furthermore, if the cycle has an ultimate end, then the wicked in Tartarus are punished further because they are no longer on the cycle, so cannot achieve this goal. Subsequently, rebirth is not a punishment as Annas suggests (1982, 126), but an opportunity. Is there any mention within Republic as a whole that correlates to Phaedo’s philosophically pure souls “set free” from embodiment? Socrates does allude to a release in passing, almost as a throw away comment, but with great significance nonetheless: the rulers of Callipolis “will depart to the islands of the blest” once they are dead (Rep. 540b). The Myth of Er does not mention the “islands of the blest”, nor does it necessarily mean that they are merely the upper road to heaven (619e). Those souls that go to the “islands of the blest” are philosopher kings, exactly the type of soul one would expect to be “purified … sufficiently by philosophy” in Phaedo 114c. Through the dual interpretation of Phaedo and Republic, one can postulate that Socrates is aware of a mirror opposite to Tartarus in Republic, where the philosophically “pure” depart after death to live

8

My own emphasis.

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“altogether without bodies” (Phd. 114c).9 But, crucially, Plato withholds said information. The Phaedo myth has a direct dialogue concerning the issue of ascent/escape in Republic. Although the Phaedo myth does not explicitly state the afterlife process of Republic, it is hinted at (107d-e): When they have been sorted out by a process of judgement, they must set out for the next world … When they have there undergone the necessary experiences and remained as long as is required, another guide brings them back again after many vast periods of time.

The dialectical argument agrees that “the living have come from the dead no less than the dead from the living” (Phd. 72a). Indeed, the myth also suggests that souls “are sent forth again to be born as living creatures” (Phd. 113a). Furthermore, Phaedo expands on information withheld from Republic. The cycle of earthly embodiment and judgement after death is only one aspect of the universe. The “adequately purified” philosopher transcends this cycle of embodiment and they “live bodiless for the whole of time to come” (114c). Furthermore, even then the soul does not become static or stagnated. It has a new journey that it must strive to complete for it could “attain to dwelling places fairer even than these” (114c). Within the context of endless time a singular life on earth is transitory, but if used correctly, provides the soul with the tools to escape embodiment and continue on its upward journey. One can hope for future salvation (Stewart 1905, 75). An escape is possible if one strives and achieves a better life each time. On this dual reading of Er and Phaedo rebirth is a necessary step on the ascent to an ultimate disembodied end. Indeed, Halliwell believes it is the Myth of Er’s fundamental theme (2007, 468). As long as the soul is moving, not stagnated and stuck in Tartarus, then it has the opportunity to better itself. Therefore, rebirth is not a “crackpot personal belief”, as Annas suggests that it is (1982, 127). Instead, rebirth is part of a logical teleological approach, since it provides another chance for the soul to strive towards philosophy. The cycle of re-embodiment can only be broken if a soul is incurably wicked in Phaedo and Republic, or philosophically pure explicitly in Phaedo, and implicitly in Republic. The wicked soul is static for all time while the ideal philosophically pure soul

9

It makes sense to draw the Myth of Er back to the preceding dialogue, as Annas herself states that one must “attempt to relate the content of each myth to the argument of the dialogue in which it occurs” (1982, 119).

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is free from embodiment and is released to continue an upward journey towards “habitations even more beautiful” (Phd. 109b; 114c).

Choice The judgement of the souls in Phaedo and Republic are not final judgements, but simply the judgement of one previous embodied existence.10 The souls “must begin another round of mortal life whose end is death” (Rep. 617d). I have suggested that there is an escape from the cycle of re-embodiment, even in Republic. It is now up to the soul to choose its new rebirth in Republic (617d-e). But are the souls free to change even when souls “followed the habits of their former life” (Rep. 620a), and “are attached to the same sort of character or nature which they have developed during life” (Phd. 81e)? Annas believes “no individual life makes any lasting impact” where an individual becomes “cosmically pointless” and lacking “moral rectification” (1982, 135). I will consider the deterministic “pointless” argument that a soul cannot change, and then I claim that a soul can change even if the majority do not.

A soul cannot change? In Republic the first soul “chose the greatest tyranny” out of “folly and greed” forgetting all he had been told by Lachesis, and he blamed “fate and heaven and anything but himself” (Rep. 619b-c). The soul chose first, so only had the goodness of his own character to save him from making a bad choice. As Phaedo states, souls come with only their “education and nurture” to save or condemn them (107d). The shock comes when the reader learns that this soul came from heaven, having previously lived in a “well-governed state” (Rep. 619c). Annas believes that the soul regressed so badly that it seems no individual life makes a lasting positive impact (1982, 135), for, in Republic, the souls “followed the habits of their former life” when choosing a new bodily existence (620a). This prenatal choice determines an entire life at a point where the soul is still influenced by its previous life (Halliwell 2007, 468). This suggests that the souls failed to change because they were unable to see past, and were conditioned by, their former life. Importantly, the first soul’s goodness came from “habit and

10

Except for incurably wicked souls, but, these souls are only 1/5 of the types of souls presented in Phaedo: “neutral life”, “incurable”, “curable”, “surpassing holiness” and “philosophically pure” (113d-114c).

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custom and not philosophy” (Rep. 619c). Therefore, the soul lacked the wisdom to discern a good life from that of a bad life. Plato uses the mythical heroes that are present in Odysseus’ katabasis to represent how some souls fail to change. Due to the habits and experiences of their former lives heroes like Ajax and Agamemnon chose not to remain human (620a-d). Agamemnon, Ajax, and the other heroes were not able to overcome the desires of their previous embodied existence. All seven named souls have a “particular element of desire held over from the previous life” (Moors 1988, 58): Orpheus “hated all women” (620a); Ajax was disillusioned “because it remembered the judgement of the arms” (620b); Agamemnon hated humanity “because of his sufferings” (620b); and Atalanta could not resist “great honours” (620b). A “man’s conduct in one phase of existence has a determined effect on his destiny in some future phase” (Nettleship 1963, 364). Furthermore, Halliwell is unsure whether an animal’s life will impede or enhance one’s moral progress (2007, 468). But, one must remember that an animal is not capable of philosophy. The heroes in Republic desired to live in a certain way. The soul “seeks to be in a body” (Broadie 2001, 304). Indeed, a life as an animal correlates to a soul’s desire (Phd. 82a): So it is easy to imagine into what sort of animals all the other kinds of soul will go, in accordance with their conduct during life.

The soul “desires to live in a way which it only can if it has a body” (Broadie 2001, 304). But, that life will not advance reason. Surprisingly, Phaedo states that the “happiest people” will be the “ordinary citizen” who acquired goodness “by habit and practice, without the help of philosophy and reason” (82b). Indeed, Socrates states that these “happiest people” will become “disciplined creatures like bees, wasps and ants” (82b). The irony is palpable once compared with Republic, where the soul who “owed his goodness to habit and custom and not to philosophy” “chose the greatest tyranny” (619b-c). In this regard, a human life is the desired life because only then can one philosophise. One must “look after your own selves” (Phd. 115b), and “be unmoved there [Hades] by the temptation of wealth or other evils” (Rep. 619a).

A soul can change If a soul cannot change, then Annas’ deterministic “fatalism” is true. But, there is a different between souls that can change, but do not. In the previous section I showed that souls that had the opportunity to change did not. I will now show how souls do change. Lachesis, the Fate of things

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past, makes it explicitly clear that “you shall choose your own” life (Rep. 617d-e). She continues to state how the “fault lies not with God, but with the soul that makes each choice” (Rep. 617e). It is no use blaming fate or the will of the gods for things that happen in one’s life. This is an optimistic deduction from Plato. No matter what has happened so far in one’s life, you hold the power to change. The point is that there is a choice to make (Lieb 1962, 281). The souls have “every conceivable kind” of life to choose from (Rep. 618a). Souls have the power to “choose your own” life by remembering the “fault lies not with God” (Rep. 617e). One must cultivate virtue with wisdom, “remember how the soul is constituted”, and have the “ability to tell a good life from a bad one” (Rep. 618c-e). Socrates states that the choice is “both for living and dead … in this life and the next” (Rep. 618e-619a). The Phaedo, with some understatement, says it will take “several journeys” to order the soul correctly and escape the cycle (115a). Therefore, we must philosophise now. There is a clear need for suffering, both in this life and the hereafter. Unlike the other heroes mentioned, Odysseus’ “memory of his former sufferings had cured him of all ambition” (Rep. 620c). This compares to how the first soul “came from heaven without the discipline of suffering”, and chose terribly. Yet, those that came from the earth had “suffered themselves and seen others suffer” leading them not to be “hasty in their choice” (Rep. 619d). Halliwell believes everyone would therefore benefit from some degree of suffering in the world beyond (2007, 452). Suffering breeds reflection and it is only with reflection that one can make a better choice next time (O’Connor 2007, 77). But how would one explain suffering in a “heavenly state”? Indeed, there are other ways of reflecting. Odysseus “looked round for a long time to find the uneventful life of an ordinary man”, he found it “lying neglected by the others” and he “chose it with joy” (Rep. 620c).11 Odysseus proclaimed that even if “his lot [had] fallen first he would have made the same choice” (Rep. 620d). Therefore, Odysseus’ soul learnt to use his sufferings wisely and with reason. So a soul can change and that change shows in the choice of life the soul chooses.

Luck of the draw The positive view that life is not ethically predestined concludes that moral agency must be practiced at every moment (Halliwell 2007, 464). Annas agrees that the whole landscape of the afterlife dramatises the 11

Compare to Rep. 591e; 592a.

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choices “now” (1981, 351). Socrates interrupts his own story adeptly saying that “everything is at stake” now (Rep. 618c): Abandon all other forms of knowledge, and seek and study that which will show us how to perceive and find the man who will give us the knowledge and ability to tell a good life from a bad one and always choose the better course so far as we can.12

The words “so far as we can” create a scale of achievement. Due to outside and inside influence it may not always be possible to aim for the highest level of goodness, or the Good. To know the Good would take many years or lifetimes of skilled training, a training that the majority simply will not be afforded. Everyone cannot be a philosopher-king. The outside influence in the myth is the luck of the draw (Rep. 617e-618a). The outside influence of the “here-and-now” is life itself and chance. Circumstances affect choices, being rich or poor, old or young, having external pressure placed on you to make a certain choice. With regard to the lot of choosing a new life Lachesis states (Rep. 619b): Let him who chooses first look to his choice, and him who chooses last not despair.

The man who chooses first is free from the constraints of the specific pressure of the luck of the draw. He must therefore, choose wisely because he has the opportunity to attain the highest good available. The failure to achieve this falls on no one but himself. However, the man who chooses last can only choose within the constraints of what is left. Therefore, one is not always fully responsible, as one can only choose within one’s circumstances. Nevertheless, one can still choose relatively positively, as Odysseus shows.

Here and Now The Myth of Er works as an allegory for one’s life now.13 Every choice is ethically important (Rep. 615a-b). One must always be aware of “choosing between good and evil” (Halliwell 2007, 469-70). Individual choice is placed against a cosmic backdrop because Platonic method uses the large to explain the small. In the Myth of Er Socrates deals with “when we enter the other world”, and the choices that have to be made. One must be “unmoved there by the temptation of wealth or other evils” (Rep. 619a). 12 13

My own emphasis. Although, that is not the myths only function.

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I maintain that the “other world” that Socrates mentions and the temptations that exist there are not solely the temptation of choosing one’s next life. Paradoxically, Socrates’ “other world” is this world now; the unseen ethical landscape. The myth is to help souls remain ordered in their daily lives (Lieb 1962, 276-7). The temptation of political power and the wealth and prestige that comes with such power is hugely motivating.14 Socrates, who is no longer merely retelling what Er had told him, explicitly states that “the sum of it is this” (Rep. 615a-b): For every wrong he has done to anyone a man must pay the penalty in turn, ten times for each.

Individual acts are to be punished tenfold. Every choice one makes is now ten times more important, and the worse the offence the more suffering it will entail. Correspondingly, the just deeds are “rewarded in the same proportion” (Rep. 615b-c). Again symmetry is evident. At this stage in Socrates’ narrative Plato is addressing his readers directly regarding how just action is intrinsically in their interest. The key is in the individual choice of every action. The harmony of a soul cannot be “bought from a shelf” it must be slowly built up from an accumulation of smaller choices (Ferrari 2009, 132). One must seek justice at every turn if one is to avoid cosmic retribution in the hereafter, or gain the ability to make correct decisions consistently. A soul’s salvation is “found in its capacity to determine its own ethical self by choosing between good and evil” (Halliwell 2007, 469-70). To conclude the section on Choice, “The myth … is both an account … of what awaits us after death, and an allegory of life as we live it now” (Rowe 2007, 107). Why does Plato subtly embed the “here and now” into a cosmic backdrop in this way? The answer lies in it being near impossible for an individual to weigh up the importance of every individual decision they have ever made and clearly see what effect that decision had on the outcome of their life. One problem is the immeasurable number of choices in a life-time and the infinite reactions that may reverberate from even one choice. There are “great decisions [that] have to be made in life, which, once made, are irrevocable, and dominate the man’s whole career and conduct afterwards” (Stewart 1905, 172). One limitation of the human race is our inability to truly see the consequences of our actions. Another is not realising at any given point which action is “actually” in one’s best interest over a prolonged period of time.15 To truly understand that a 14 15

See Rep. 591e & 592a for political life. Plato in Phaedo and Republic is concerned with the soul over all time.

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seemingly individual and personal choice will still impinge on any number of lives is rather overwhelming. In this way the human race is connected in a manner people often fail to comprehend. No individual exists independently of another human being (Rep. 369b). There is a causal connectedness of the world we live in.

The Degrees of Reality Both Republic and Phaedo offer their own accounts of the concept of different degrees of reality. Additionally, a dialogue exists between both versions. This dialogue is mainly seen between the Cave and the Fish simile. But Glaucus the sea-god exists in both texts as well. It could become daunting or pointless when humanity is placed within the context of the entire cosmos. However, one must positively strive towards ascension and the final break that is possible. The Phaedo myth places human existence within the larger framework of the cosmic backdrop (Rowe 1993, 266).16 Plato states how the Greek world was just one of many civilisations of the vast earth, “living around the sea like ants or frogs around a marsh” (Phd. 109b). Indeed, we “are unaware that we live in its hollows, and think we live above the earth” (Phd. 109c). Immediately the connection with the Cave is evident. Plato in both circumstances states how we mistake our little hollow or cave for the upper world or the “real” world. There are clear degrees of reality— water/air, cave/outside—one must become aware of, and strive towards the higher degree of reality: fish to upper air; prisoner to free-man. Socrates in Phaedo states how we are like a fish in the sea unaware of the world of air that lies above our heads because of our “weakness and slowness” (109e). The key, however, is that we could break the surface of the sea “just as the fishes of the sea stick their heads up and see … that this is the true heaven, the genuine light, and the true earth” (109e-110a).17 A further throwaway line compares with Republic (Phd. 109e):18 If his nature were able to bear the vision.

The nature of the soul appears tripartite and if ruled by reason the soul’s nature becomes superior. The embodied soul is distorted and 16

Human society rather than the individual. A Phaedrus comparison: a fish could only momentarily view the upper world, just as souls in the Phaedrus only view the true reality of the universe briefly (247c-248a). 18 444d & Sun, Line, & Cave. 17

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deformed but does that mean the soul’s inherent nature has changed? The soul is still from the divine world, imprisoned within the body.19 Therefore, the soul does not change in one respect; the soul is always divine and eternal. Nevertheless, once embodied it has other characteristics that change the way we order our soul. Spirit and appetite are human bodily characteristics enforced onto the soul whilst embodied. We can order our soul to have the greatest effect, with reason leading spirit and appetite. However, the soul may only become purely rational once divested of the body (Rowe 1993, 9). The divine element of the soul always remains divine. One should also remember Plato’s previous statement in Phaedo regarding the “skill of Glaucus” (Phd. 108d). Within Republic Glaucus is the sea-god who after long immersion in the sea is “covered with shells and seaweed and rock, till he looked more like a monster than what he really was” (Rep. 611d). Glaucus was a god that looked like a monster through a prolonged submersion in sea water. The soul is a divine entity that has become deformed through prolonged embodiment. Appetite and spirit are effects of the body on the soul, just like the affect the sea has on Glaucus the sea-god. Indeed, this is the “sort of state we see the soul reduced to by countless evils” (Rep. 611d). Therefore, the nature of the soul we recognise in embodiment is not the true nature of the soul at all. In the sea or body “practically nothing is perfect” (Phd. 110a). Just as the world we live in is only a lesser degree of “true” reality, the soul that inhabits our body is only a lesser degree of its ultimate divine reality. It is only through changing our nature through our choices that we can strive for a greater degree of truth and set the soul free to ascend to the divine realm. The name Glaucus is supposed to conjure specific reactions within the reader’s mind between Phaedo and Republic. Both passages are closely connected (Clay 1985, 234). Clay believes there was a familiar specific “art” of Glaucus, a transformation from mortal to divine, that has not survived down the centuries (1985, 231). Unlike Clay, I am less concerned with a specific “art” and more concerned with the internal comparison between the dialogues themselves. Within the Republic Glaucus is the seagod whose “original nature is difficult to see” due to its “long immersion” in sea water, until “he looked more like a monster than what he really was” (Rep. 611d). Glaucus really is a divine god. But such is the nature of his environment that “shells and seaweed and rock” attach themselves to him, and the water “had broken and worn away and deformed his limbs” (Rep. 611d). In the Phaedo a similar picture of soul has been presented. The body is the soul’s environment and “every pleasure or pain has a sort 19

See Phd. 66e-67b; 79c; 80a; 80b; 82d-e.

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of rivet with which it fastens the soul to the body and makes it corporeal” (83d). This process makes the corporeal “ingrained in its very nature through constant association” (81c). Through constant association with the sea and the things that live there, the sea-god Glaucus is transformed into a sea-monster. The soul experiences much the same process, but the “sea” for a soul is human existence and embodiment. The Phaedo also presents a metaphor of submersion in the sea, and the need for a soul to somehow rise above, as Socrates asks his interlocutors to “[i]magine someone living in the depths of the sea” (109c): 20 Now we are in just the same position … we are too feeble and sluggish to make our way out to the upper limit of the air. If someone could reach to the summit, or grow wings and fly aloft, when he put up his head he would see the world above, just as fishes see our world when they put up their heads out of the sea … For this earth and its stones and all the regions in which we live are marred and corroded, just as in the sea everything is corroded by the brine, and there is nothing worth mentioning that grows there, and scarcely any degree of perfect formation, but only eroded rocks and sand and measureless mud.

The soul’s journey is compared to a fish attempting to see the world above its own existence within the desolate sea. Just as the sea-god Glaucus of Republic, so too the souls of Phaedo exist below the surface of the true existence. At this juncture it is possible to bring a third comparative dialogue into this study. The Phaedrus presents in a thorough way the concept of reaching “the summit, or grow[ing] wings and fly[ing] aloft” (Phdr. 247b). In the Phaedrus Plato describes the souls’ attempted journey to “travel to the summit of the arch of heaven” (Phdr. 247b). It is the “harshest toil and struggle”. It is “the wing which lifts up the soul” (Phdr. 248c). However, there is the possibility that the soul “loses its wings and falls to earth” (Phdr. 248c). Many “souls are maimed, and many have their wings broken” (Phdr. 248b). This might explain why the soul has the possibility to “grow wings and fly aloft” in the Phaedo (109e). If a soul is able to break the surface of the water after making an ascent, then it is not guaranteed that the soul will gaze on the true heaven; it would only happen if the soul’s “nature were strong enough to keep looking” (109e). This relates to the struggle of the souls’ ascent in the Phaedrus but also the nature of true heaven. The soul may “gaze on the things outside the heavens” on what “really is” but only for a finite time, i.e. “until the 20

Socrates mentioned Glaucus just prior formulating the image of the sea-god from the Republic (Rep. 611d).

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revolution brings it around in a circle to the same point”. After which point the soul “descends back” to where it came from (Phdr. 247e).21 There is an upward ascent of purification and a descent once more. Only the “strong” will succeed; most “scarcely catching sight” or failing all together (Phdr. 248a). The message is that through philosophy an individual soul can transcend its environment and attain to a purer, heavenly world above. The Phaedo’s Hollows of the Earth is exactly to do with the flight of the soul upwards. It has similarities with the simile of the Cave. The three levels used at Phaedo 109c3-d5 are a counterpart to the image of the Cave (Clay 1985, 235). The Cave is also about progressing on an upwards path. Both Republic and Phaedo have the concept of breaking through bonds in the process (Rep. 514a & c; Phd. 67d). I now wish to examine the Cave simile and present how the same ascent imagery is used throughout the Phaedo. The Cave is an “underground chamber” that has a “long entrance open to the daylight” (Rep. 514a). Indeed, there are “many hollow places all round the earth … [b]ut the earth’s true surface is as pure as the starry heaven” (Phd. 109b). Within this “chamber are men who have been prisoners there since they were children, their legs and necks being so fastened that they can only look straight ahead” (Rep. 514a-b). The prisoners “do not realize that [they] are living in its [earth’s] hollows” (Phd. 109c). In fact, the prisoners mistake for true reality the “shadows thrown by the fire on the wall of the cave opposite them” (Rep. 515a), since they “assume that the shadows they saw were real things” (Rep. 515b). In Phaedo the “soul is a helpless prisoner, chained hand and foot in the body, compelled to view reality not directly but only through its prison bars, and wallowing in utter ignorance” (82e). As the prisoner in the cave views his immediate environment and assumes it to be real; so too does the soul through its imprisonment of the body. The soul must be “freed from the chains of the body” (Phd. 67d), as the prisoner must be “released from their bonds and cured of their delusions” in the Cave (Rep. 515c). How do the prisoners become free? Socrates in Phaedo suggests that “philosophy takes over the soul in this condition and by gentle persuasion tries to set it free” (83a). However, the prisoner in the Cave must be “forcibly dragged up the steep and rugged ascent and not let go till he had been dragged out into the sunlight”. Such a process “would be a painful one” to which the prisoner “would much object” (Rep. 515e-516a). It appears the Republic’s painful process is much more realistic than the Phaedo’s “gentle persuasion”. It would be extremely hard to gently persuade somebody that what they have believed to be reality since their 21

It is important to note that this quotation does not explicitly refer to embodiment.

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imprisonment, since birth and childhood, is devoid of ultimate reality. Indeed, one should not believe that gentle persuasion would be enough to make a soul leave the corporeal world behind. Even after the death of the body and the supposed separation of the soul from the body, a soul can be extremely attached to its former reality in the corporeal world. The soul that enters the other world “deeply attached to the body–after a long infatuation with it and with the visible world” is “only after much resistance and suffering at last forcibly led away by its appointed guardian spirit” (Phd. 108b). Therefore, the process of separation before and after death can be an extremely painful and harrowing experience for a soul. Importantly, both Republic and Phaedo require force; to be led from the Cave in the former, and by a “guardian spirit” in the latter. The ascent to purity is compared to the process of sight. This is particularly the case relating to the philosophical training of the soul. When Socrates attempts to gaze upon true knowledge and reality in the Phaedo, Plato uses strikingly similar language to Republic’s concept of the sun as the Good (99d-e): I must guard against the same sort of risk which people run when they watch and study an eclipse of the sun; some of them injure their eyes, unless they study its reflection in water or some other medium … I was afraid that by observing objects with my eyes and trying to comprehend them with each of my other senses I might blind my soul altogether.

In Republic the sun represents ultimate reality (Rep. 509a). It was into the sunlight that the prisoner was forcibly dragged; and “his eyes could be so dazzled by the glare of [the sun] that he wouldn’t be able to see a single one of the things he was now told were real” (Rep. 516a). Therefore, there is a “need to grow accustomed to the light before he could see things in the upper world outside the cave” (Rep. 516a). Much like Socrates in the Phaedo, the prisoner would have to use other mediums like “shadows, next the reflections in water, and later the objects themselves” (Rep. 516a). There is a clear progression up to the thing he “would be able to do last” which is “look directly at the sun itself, and gaze at it without using reflections in water or any other medium” (Rep. 516b). This final quotation from Republic (516b) is almost exactly the same phrasing as found in the Phaedo 99d-e. The concept is more sustained in the Republic itself. Indeed, the “eyes may be unsighted in two ways, by a transition either from light to darkness or from darkness to light … the same thing applies to the mind” (Rep. 518a). The nature of the upward ascent of the soul is clearly expressed. The embodied soul is as the sea-god Glaucus or the prisoner in the Cave. At a

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basic level there are two distinct paths that a soul can travel on after death. This black and white judgment is directly linked to the cycle of embodiment. The dramatic use of such an afterlife is to shock Plato’s readers into philosophical action. For it is only by philosophical training that a soul can transcend the cycle of embodiment and progress on the upward ascent of the soul towards ultimate reality. In Phaedo’s “hollows of the earth” and Republic’s Cave Plato makes clear how the pure soul can ascend. The upward ascent of the soul is in direct contrast with the cyclical journey of embodiment. How confident one should be about death depends on which of the two journeys one’s soul is on. The Myth of Er ends with Socrates’ final interruption: “my advice” is this (Rep. 621c): We should believe the soul to be immortal, capable of enduring all evil and all good, and always keep our feet on the upward way and pursue justice with wisdom.

The “upward way” compares to how in 533c-d dialectic leads the soul upwards (O’Connor 2007, 75). It is this upward journey that the virtuous soul is on. If we “pursue justice with wisdom” in our lives we will be on the “upward” heavenly way (Rep. 592b). A soul does this by cultivating a just character through choosing just action. There is an ultimate goal and the possibility of positive change. This is Platonic optimism subtly embedded within a seemingly pessimistic “Hindu fatalism” where the good change for evil.

Conclusion In this paper I have shown how a dialogue exists between Republic and Phaedo and argued that their myths are mutually supporting on the question of the ascent of the soul in the afterlife. Using the two texts together I have shown that one of the goals the soul can strive for is a philosophically pure ascent towards dis-embodiment. This requires the body and its characteristics to be left behind. A person achieves this by cultivating a just character through choice and action now. Plato uses the familiar to explain the exceptional. This is why Plato harnesses mythology as an educational tool. And at the same time Plato uses the larger cosmic backdrop to magnify the importance of individual choices here and now. The journey of the soul includes a type of rebirth that is not pointless, in the manner suggested by Annas in her phrase “Hindu fatalism“, but is a necessary part of an upward ascent towards an ultimate cessation of embodiment. Rebirth provides the opportunity for

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positive change; unfortunately a soul can regress as well. Ultimately Republic and Phaedo work together depicting how one human life is one of many and that this earth is only one hollow or cave in the teleological cosmos. Yet each soul can positively strive to transcend their circumstances.

Bibliography Annas, J. 1981. An Introduction to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 1982. “Plato’s Myths of Judgement.” Phronesis 27:119-43. Broadie, S. 2001. “Soul and Body in Plato and Descartes.” Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 101:295-308. Ferrari, G. R. F. 2009. “Glaucon’s Rewards, Philosophy’s Debt: the Myth of Er.” In Plato’s Myths, edited by C, Partenie, 116-133. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gallop, D. 1993. Plato Phaedo. Oxford: Oxford University Press . Halliwell, S. 1988 Plato: Republic 10. Warminster: Aris & Phillips. —. 2007. “The Life-and-Death Journey of the Soul: Interpreting the Myth of Er.” In The Cambridge Companion to Plato’s Republic, edited by G. R. F. Ferrari, 445-473. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lee, D. 1955. Plato: The Republic. London & New York: Penenguin Group. Lieb, I. C. 1962. “Philosophy as Spiritual Formation: Plato’s Myth of Er.” International Philosophical Quarterly 3:271-285. Moors, K. 1988. “Named Life Selections in Plato’s Myth of Er.” Classica et Medievalia 39:55-61. Nettleship, R. L. 1963. Lectures on the Republic of Plato. London: Macmillan. O’Connor, D. 2007. “Rewriting the Poets in Plato’s Characters.” In The Cambridge Companion to Plato’s Republic, edited by G. R. F. Ferrari, 55-89. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Partenie, C. 2009. Plato’s Myths. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rowe, C. J. 1988. Plato: Phaedrus. Oxford: Aris & Phillips. —. 1993. Plato Phaedo. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 2007. Plato and the Art of Philosophical Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stewart, J. A. 1905. The Myths of Plato. London: Macmillan. Tarrant, H. & Tredennick, H. 2003. Plato: The Last Days of Socrates. London & New York: Penguin Group. White, N. A. 1979. Companion to Plato’s Republic. Oxford: Blackwell.

CHAPTER FIVE A COMMENTARY ON THE ORPHIC ARGONAUTICA, LINES 950-987 JO NORTON-CURRY Orpheus and the Argo The first extant depiction of Orpheus occurs not in literature but in art. On a 6th century BCE metope from a frieze found in a treasury at Delphi a lute-player is pictured next to a ship along with two horsemen, suggested by Robbins (1982, 5) to be the twins Castor and Pollux. The identification of this lute-player as Orpheus is beyond doubt, as his name is carved above his head. The ship is surely the Argo. The story of the voyage of the Argonauts to obtain the golden fleece would certainly have been familiar to artists of the 6th century BCE. Indeed, it was probably popular as far back as the time of Homer (8th or 9th century BCE), as evidenced by Circe’s description of the Argo as “famous” in Homer’s Odyssey. ਝȡȖઅ ʌ઼ıȚ ȝȑȜȠȣıĮ (Odyssey 12.70). Pindar, writing in the 5th century BCE, mentions the Argo and lists Orpheus, Castor and Pollux as being amongst its crew (Pythian 4.171-177). Simonides (556-468 BCE) describes birds flying overhead and fish leaping out of the sea to Orpheus’ song (PMG 567), which is certainly suggestive of Orpheus’ participation in a sea voyage. A fuller, and probably the most well-known, version of the story dates to the 3rd century BCE, the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, abbreviated hereafter to Ap.Rhod.Arg. In Apollonius’ narrative poem, Orpheus is listed first in the catalogue of the Argo’s crew (1.23). He is not the main character, but certainly an important character and actively involved in certain episodes in facilitating the progression of the Argonaut’s quest. For example, Orpheus achieves safe passage for the crew past the Sirens, by surpassing the beauty of their song with his own sublime minstrelsy (4.903-909). In the 1st century CE, the story was treated again by the Latin poet Valerius Flaccus. Flaccus’ Argonautica has survived, although with

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several corruptions. Flaccus’ debt to Apollonius is evident. However, there are differences between the two versions, particularly as regards the characterisation of Jason and Medea.1 This paper is concerned with an alternative adaptation of the story, one much more obscure and very little studied, a version in which Orpheus is the lead character and intrinsic to the plot.

The Orphic Argonautica The authorship of the Orphic Argonautica, henceforward referred to as the AO, is unknown, but it purports to be the work of Orpheus himself. It consists of 1,376 lines of hexameter verse and is a first person narrative in which Orpheus tells the tale of the Argo’s voyage from his perspective, explaining at every stage his instrumentality in ensuring the success of the mission. It is now widely agreed to have been written in the 4th or 5th century CE. This was not always the case. In the Byzantine period it was attributed to the 6th century BCE writer Orpheus of Croton (Suda, s.v. Orpheus, omicron 657). However, no mention of the AO appears in any of the scholia on Ap.Rhod.Arg. of the Alexandrian period. Mention would surely have been made if the AO pre-dated Apollonius’ version and had influenced his work. In the Victorian period the AO attracted the stigma of being counterfeit and unworthy of scholarly interest,2 a stigma from which is has never fully recovered. Consequently, it has received very little academic attention. It has never been professionally translated into English. Colavito (2011) recently produced a translation, but he himself admits to its amateur nature and that he translated from Gesner’s 1764 Latin edition rather than from the Greek original. Speculation reigns as to whether the AO was adapted from the versions of Apollonius Rhodius and Valerius Flaccus or from an earlier version no longer extant.3 In short, it is my belief that the AO’s author would certainly have been familiar with Apollonius’ work, as, plot similarities aside, Ap.Rhod.Arg was undoubtedly a popular and influential poem in antiquity. I have already mentioned its influence upon Flaccus. A Latin translation was also produced by Varro Atacinus in the 1st century BCE. The extent to which Virgil’s Aeneid was influenced by Apollonius is discussed by Mori (2008, 224ff). 1

For more information see Mozley 1934, Introduction, xii-xv. See Colavito 2011, Introduction, ix. 3 See Colavito 2011, Introduction, xii-xx. 2

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Aim It is my aim to write a commentary, the first in English, on lines 951987 of the AO. I have chosen to devote my research to these particular lines, which describe Orpheus undertaking a necromantic rite, as it is in this episode that Orpheus most prominently usurps the roles traditionally occupied by Jason and Medea and is himself instrumental in obtaining the golden fleece.4

The Story So Far The basic storyline of the AO is largely identical to that of Ap.Rhod.Arg. It is my intention to briefly summarise here only the episodes leading up to Orpheus’ performance of the necromantic rite in which, diverging from Apollonius’ plot, Orpheus is a key character. Orpheus’ fundamentality to the completion of the undertaking is established from the start. Jason beseeches Orpheus to join his crew, as he claims that the other Argonauts are unwilling to sail without him (77-95). Orpheus then facilitates the launch of the Argo by inspiring the crew with his music and exhorting them to drag the ship out to sea from where it has become stuck on the beach (248-265). This is a divergence from the Apollonian plot, in which a fight breaks out amongst the crew prior to the ship’s launch and angry feelings are only quelled by the intervention of Orpheus and his lyre (1.492-495). The first port of call on the AO journey is the mountain of Pelion and specifically the cave of the centaur Chiron. There Peleus is reunited with his son Achilles, Chiron’s charge. Interestingly, this episode is absent from Ap.Rhod.Arg. Its inclusion by the AO author accentuates music as a heroic pastime, as well as providing Orpheus with another opportunity to demonstrate his musical prowess. Achilles, the famous hero of the Iliad, is here depicted in his childhood as a proficient player of the lyre. A song contest follows between Chiron and Orpheus. Chiron sings of the battle of the Centaurs and Lapiths, but Orpheus upstages him with a song about the creation of the world and of the Orphic theogony. His song is so beautiful that it entrances the birds and animals of the mountain (431-441). The initial stop in Ap.Rhod.Arg is the island of Lemnos. In both versions, the crew make love to the Lemnian women and Jason seduces their leader Hypsipyle. However, whereas Heracles instigates the return of 4

I have found Vian’s article and commentary on this episode invaluable (1982, 1987). I am also indebted to Ogden for his exploration, albeit brief, of this passage and his thorough work on necromancy in general (2009, 91-93 & 2001).

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the crew to the ship in Ap.Rhod.Arg, by reminding them of the importance of their mission (1.865-874), it is Orpheus who urges them to return in the AO and uses his music to calm their ardour (480-483). The navigator skills of Tiphys are insufficient to lead the Argo safely past the Clashing Rocks in the AO. Orpheus is also needed to charm the rocks with his music and entreat them to recede to let the ship pass (704705). In the AO, the golden fleece is located within an enclosure, draped over the branch of a sacred oak tree and guarded by an enormous serpent. The enclosure has high walls and three bronze gates. Atop one of the gates is a statue of the goddess Artemis. Mopsus the seer recognises that Artemis must be placated in order for the gates to the enclosure to be opened. The Argonauts ask Orpheus to undertake this task (941-944). Orpheus’ involvement in the procurement of the fleece is absent from Ap.Rhod.Arg, where instead Medea offers to obtain the fleece for them by using drugs and witchcraft to send the guardian serpent to sleep (4.86-87).

A Synopsis of Lines 951-987 Upon arriving at the gates to the sacred enclosure, Orpheus digs a three-sided pit. He builds a pyre and throws images fashioned from barleymeal onto it. He kills three black puppies and mixes their blood with magic herbs. He fills the stomachs of the puppies with the blood and herb mixture and then roasts them on top of the pyre. The bowels of the puppies are mixed with water and poured in a circle around the pit. Orpheus then dresses in a black robe, sounds a bronze cymbal and prays to the Furies. The Furies rise from the pit, followed by Pandora and Hecate. Pandora has an iron body and Hecate has three animal heads. They all circle the pit until the statue of Artemis on the enclosure’s gatepost drops its torches and looks upward. The gates to the enclosure then open. A similar rite is performed in Ap.Rhod.Arg by Jason. He digs a pit and summons Hecate in order to activate the invincibility ointment which Medea has given to him to smear upon his body (3.1207-1224). Immediately striking about this episode is the gruesome nature of the rite and the incongruity of Orpheus, famous for his vegetarianism and abhorrence of animal sacrifice (Guthrie 1935, 196), killing and gutting puppies. Did the author intend to shock his readers with this incongruity? Elsewhere in the AO, Orpheus is a gentle character who uses calming music and melodious songs to achieve his ends. In contrast, in lines 951987, Orpheus is depicted as a practitioner of sinister magic. Garbed in black, a colour associated with death and the underworld, and aided by

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Medea, renowned from Ap.Rhod.Arg. for her knowledge of witchcraft and her devotion to Hecate, Orpheus performs a grisly nekuomanteia. Perhaps the author was hoping to appeal to readers with a taste for the grotesque. Some evidence for the popularity of this type of literature exists. Achilles Tatius, writing in the 2nd century CE, describes the ghastly sacrifice of a young woman by bandits. The woman’s entrails are removed, cooked and eaten by the band of brigands (3.15). As previously mentioned, I chose this passage on which to concentrate my research, as it is in these lines that Orpheus notably takes on functions fulfilled by Jason and Medea in Ap.Rhod.Arg. I was also drawn to it on account of the detailed description of the rite itself. Elsewhere in the AO, the author superficially and cursorily sketches places, people and events. However, in these lines, all of minutiae of the nekuomanteia are treated in depth. The author demonstrates both his knowledge of magical practice and his descriptive skill. I also feel that it is the only place in the AO where the author goes beyond simply recounting what happens and successfully creates an atmosphere. How the author goes about doing this will be discussed in more detail in the following commentary. The commentary is not exhaustive, but simply examines a few aspects of the rite which I find to be particularly striking.

Commentary Line 951 ȕȩșȡȠȞ IJȡȓıIJȠȚȤȠȞ—The pit which Orpheus digs is three-sided, triangular. Ogden notes that this is a “novelty” (2002, 91). Jason is instructed by Medea to dig a round pit when summoning Hecate ȕȩșȡȠȞ ... ʌİȡȚȘȖȑĮ (Ap.Rhod.Arg, 3.1032) and the pit which Odysseus digs when seeking to consult the ghost of Teiresias appears to be rectangular ȕȩșȡȠȞ ੕ȡȣȟૃ ੖ııȠȞ IJİ ʌȣȖȠȪıȚȠȞ ਩ȞșĮ țĮ੿ ਩ȞșĮ (Homer Odyssey, 11.25). The shape is definitely significant. A possible explanation lies in the connection between Orpheus and Egyptian mysticism. In the opening section of the AO, Orpheus makes a number of references to secret knowledge he acquired whilst in Egypt. He mentions sacred libations in honour of Osiris ǵıȓȡȚįȠȢ ࡒȚİȡ੹ ȤȪIJȜĮ (32) and having visited Memphis and Apis (44-45). Perhaps the ȕȩșȡȠȞ has three sides, because Orpheus is well-versed in Egyptian mysteries and the number three was considered to be sacred by the people of Egypt? The number three appears in the instructions accompanying several recitations in Egyptian magical papyri

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(Griffiths 1996, 16-19).5 The Greeks also gave special significance to the number three. For example, there were three fates, three graces and three furies. The number three features in the directions to Greek, as well as Egyptian, magical incantations. For example, PGM. III.467-478, is a memory spell in which the person who wishes to improve his memory is instructed to prostrate himself three times. I believe that the triangular pit fulfils the narrative function of establishing that the rite Orpheus is going to perform to placate Artemis is going to be of a magical rather than a religious nature. The reader should expect supernatural and mystical events to follow. Vian speculates that the ȕȩșȡȠȞ’s shape honours triple-Hecate (1987, 143). I also find this explanation very appealing, as it links directly to the ȕȩșȡȠȞ’s use in this particular situation. Ogden comments that pits should be viewed as inverted altars for the underworld deities (2001, 168), so I believe it is appropriate for Hecate’s inverted altar to be triangular. Hecate’s triplicity is well-documented in ancient literature and art and will be covered later in this commentary in relation to the AO’s depiction of Hecate as having three heads.6

Line 952 ࡓĮȡțİ઄șȠȚȠ—The Ȑ ࡓ ȡțİȣșȠȢ tree is the juniper or Phoenician cedar. Theophrastus describes this wood’s durability and resistance to decay (Enquiry into Plants, 5.7.6), but, more notably in the given context, it is mentioned by Pliny as having an odour when burnt which deters the approach of serpents (Natural History, 24.36). In Ap.Rhod.Arg, Medea also makes uses of juniper to cause the serpent to slumber (4.156). ࡓĮȗĮȜȑȘȢ ... țȑįȡȠȣ—Like the Ȑ ࡓ ȡțİȣșȠȢ, the țȑįȡȠȢ (cedar) has natural resistance to decay (Theophrastus Enquiry into Plants, 5.4.2). Pliny mentions that the extract of the țȑįȡȠȢ is used as an embalming agent and that its sawdust will repel serpents (Natural History, 24.11). Presumably Orpheus chose dry “ĮȗĮȜȑȘȢ” wood rather than wet, as dry wood burns more easily. I believe it is probable that Orpheus chose to burn Ȑ ࡓ ȡțİȣșȠȢ and țȑįȡȠȢ on his pyre to ward off the serpent guarding the golden fleece, 5

In mentioning this, Griffiths, however, points out that the number three appears far less frequently than the numbers four and seven. He also explains that three, rather than two, was used by the Egyptians to denote plurality and, therefore, might not have had any magical or sacred significance whatsoever (1996, 16-19). 6 A more tenuous explanation could be that the three sides of the pit relate to the three gates of the enclosure to which Orpheus is attempting to gain entrance.

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perhaps even to make it lethargic and sleepy, and to protect himself and his comrades should it choose to attack them upon seeing the gates to the enclosure open. By focussing on these minutiae of the rite, the AO author not only demonstrates his knowledge of botany, but also furnishes his readers with the details necessary to fully visualise the scene, making them feel that they too are being initiated into the secrets of Orphism. Using woods with magical associations adds to the air of enchantment and builds upon the mysterious atmosphere created by the aforementioned triangular pit.

Line 953 ૧ȐȞȠȣ ...ࡓ ȠȟȣIJȑȡȠȚȠ—The ૧ȐȞȠȢ is the boxthorn or lyceum europaeum. Pliny talks only of the tree’s healing properties (Natural History, 24.77). Theophrastus explains that the ૧ȐȞȠȢ is suitable for use as the stationary piece (the piece of wood which is bored) when making a fire, as it is a dry wood, without sap, and conducive to friction (Enquiry into Plants, 5.9.7). It is evident that Orpheus picked the ૧ȐȞȠȢ for its utility in creating a fire, rather than for any magical associations. ʌȠȜȣțȜĮ઄IJȦȞ ... ĮࡓȚȖİȓȡȦȞ—The ĮࡓȓȖİȚȡȠȢ is the black poplar. Probably portrayed by the AO author as much-lamenting or weeping “ʌȠȜ૨țȜĮȣIJȠȢ” because it is a damp wood, which normally grows in marshy ground (Theophrastus, Enquiry into Plants, 5.9.4) and because the tree’s resin was used as an emollient to treat warts and pimples (Natural History, 24.32). In Homer’s Odyssey, Persephone’s grove is described as containing Į੅ȖİȚȡȠȚ (10.510). Pausanias describes a painting in which Orpheus is pictured in the grove of Persephone (10.3.6). The black colour of the wood and its association with Persephone conjure up images in the mind of the reader of the darkness of the underworld and help to create a necromantic atmosphere.

Line 957 Ƞ੝ȜȠʌȜȐıȝĮșࡓ—The manuscript is corrupt at this point leading to speculation as to what this word might mean. ȅ੣ȜȠȢ means “barley” or “corn” and a ʌȜȐıȝĮ is “anything which is formed or moulded, or an image or a figure” (LSJ s.v. ʌȜȐıȝĮ, 1996, 1412). It was customary when soliciting counsel from the dead to proffer libations of milk, honey and barley-meal, offerings identical to those which might be left beside the tomb of a deceased loved one or an ancestor. It was generally thought that the dead required sustenance. Homer provides an example of the first of

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these practices. Odysseus seeks advice from the prophet Teirisias and beckons him from the underworld by performing a rite very similar to the one conducted by Orpheus in the AO. He pours milk, honey and barleymeal into his ȕȩșȡȠȞ (Odyssey, 11.26-28). Heubeck and Hoekstra comment that Odysseus’ sacrifice is redolent of purification and atonement ceremonies performed by the Greeks at times when they felt themselves in close proximity to the world of the dead (1989, 76). The possibility of Orpheus’ rite having a purificatory function is discussed in my comments on line 959. If Orpheus’ Ƞ੝ȜȠʌȜȐıȝĮșࡓ are barley-meal cakes, then it would make sense for them to be thrown into the pit as nourishment for the dead. The Derveni papyrus, a 4th century BCE fragment of a commentary on an Orphic poem, supports this theory, as it mentions the use of many-bossed cakes in a ritual to propitiate souls and the Eumenides (col 6). While it is not my purpose here to assert a direct correlation between Orphic rituals and the rite described in this passage, it is evident that, if not an Orphic himself, the writer of the AO certainly had a familiarity with the mysteries of Orphism. At several junctures the Orphic version of creation is outlined (12-20 & 421-431) and at the very start of the poem Orpheus speaks of the knowledge he has revealed to initiates (11). If the described rite is intended to resemble an actual Orphic ritual, then the deposition of cakes fashioned from barley-meal into the ȕȩșȡȠȞ would accord with this. Alternatively, the barley-meal cakes could be an offering to Hecate.7 Whether the offering is for Hecate or for the dead, the hypothesis of Ƞ੝ȜȠʌȜȐıȝĮșࡓ being barley-meal cakes or loaves falls somewhat short of the mark when the common use of ʌȜȐıȝĮ to refer to an image or effigy is considered. Ogden suggests an alternative interpretation, that dough dolls are formed (2001, 185). There is a precedent for the use of such an effigy in a necromantic rite. Heliodorus (3rd century CE) describes how an old woman moulds dough made from wheat flour to resemble a man and then throws it into her ȕȩșȡȠȞ as part of a practice intended to bring her dead son back to life (6.14.26-28). Interestingly, this old woman is from Bessa in Egypt, which again links to the idea that the AO author is demonstrating his knowledge of Egyptian magic and attempting to create a mood of exoticism and mystery. Faraone describes wax figurines used in Egyptian execration ceremonies (1993, 62), the Assyrian use of clay figurines to banish appearing ghosts (1991, 178) and the Hittite use of clay, wax, tallow, dough and wooden effigies to restrain and injure adversaries (1991, 7

Rabinowitz claims that the wealthy used to leave out a loaf of wheat bread for Hecate (1998, 68). He bases this on Aristophanes, Plutus, 594-97. However, the word used by Aristophanes is simply įİ૙ʌȞȠȞ, which means “meal”.

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179). Such dolls were called țȠȜȠııȠȓ. Metal examples of țȠȜȠııȠȓ survive to this day, but it is clear that woollen and wax versions were also used for necromantic and magical purposes. Theocritus’ (3rd century BCE) Simaetha and Thestylis melt a wax puppet when summoning Hecate to aid them in their erotic magic (Idylls, 2.28). The Roman lyricist Horace (1st century BCE) tells how two old witches, Canidia and Sagana, throw two țȠȜȠııȠȓ into their pit, one made from wool and one made from wax, as they attempt to summon ghosts from the underworld “lanea et effigies erat altera cerea” (Satires, 1.8.30). The adjective Ƞ੣ȜȠȢ,-Ș,-ȠȞ means “woolly”, so it is conceivable that Orpheus makes woollen dolls. A drawback to this theory is that Orphics ascribed negative connotations to wool. Herodotus explains that Orphics, as well as Egyptians, considered it impious to be buried in garments made from wool (2.81). In the 1st century BCE the people of Syedra (in what is now Southern Turkey) bound an image of the god Ares to ward off pirate attacks (Faraone 1991, 168).8 Faraone attests that the Greeks also used binding magic to control inimical gods and demons. Orphic initiators were certainly associated with this type of practice. Plato describes how ਕȖȪȡIJĮȚ and ȝȐȞIJİȚȢ are such powerful magicians that they can constrain the gods to do their will. It is safe to assume that Plato equates these beggar-priests and prophets with Orphic initiators, as he goes on to refer to them as providing books by Musaeus and Orpheus (Plato Republic, 364b-e). If the AO author had binding magic in mind, it is probable that he intended for his readers to envisage Orpheus as a masterful sorcerer in control of the underworld deities he has summoned through the use of the țȠȜȠııȠȓ he has made.

Line 959 ıțȪȝȞȠȣȢ ʌĮȝȝȑȜĮȞĮȢ ıțȣȜȐțȦȞ IJȡȚıȠઃȢ ੂİȡİȪıĮȢ—The use of the verb ੂİȡİȪİȚȞ is unusual here, as it was originally and generally employed in connection with Olympian sacrifice (Harrison 1903, 55). However, Orpheus’ sacrifice is definitely to the underworld deities as evidenced by the colour of the puppies. Black animals were only ever used in chthonic sacrifice; white animals were preferred for Olympian sacrifice (Green 2008, 47-48). Also, canines were considered to be unclean and, therefore, unworthy of sacrifice to the heavenly gods and goddesses (Collins 1990, 225). Harrison points out that post-classical writers were often less careful 8

It is unknown whether they did this because the pirates were devotees of Ares, or because Ares was associated with warfare and they either wished to avoid a conflict with the pirates or desired Ares to fight off the pirates on their behalf.

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in their use of the appropriate words for sacrifice (1903, 55). It is my opinion that the AO author has either been careless in his choice of verb, or, more likely, specifically chose ੂİȡİȪİȚȞ to give the sacrifice a more Homeric feel, in keeping with his mimicry of Homeric dialect and use of hexameter verse. ੊İȡİȪİȚȞ is an Ionic verb and was frequently used by Homer (LSJ, s.v. ੂİȡİȪİȚȞ, 1996, 82). It is my opinion that the author chose to use archaizing language to add a semblance of authenticity to the poem’s claim to be the work of Orpheus himself. He might also have desired to appeal to a learned audience, who would have been familiar with the Homeric epics, by lending his own narrative poem a degree of familiarity. Puppies were used more frequently than adult dogs in sacrifice. Collins believes that, being untrained, they would have been of less value (1990, 211). This may have been true in Hittite culture, however, in Greece and Rome puppies were considered to be a delicacy (Pliny Natural History, 29.14) It is, therefore, conceivable that puppies were sacrificed because their meat was more succulent and tender than that of full-grown dogs and would, consequently, have been a more fitting meal-offering for a deity. I believe that the AO author, by sacrificing weak, defenceless puppies as opposed to strapping, adult dogs, intended to amplify the macabre nature of Orpheus’ nekuomanteia and make the story more chilling for his readers. Orpheus’ association with Hecate is well-documented. Pausanias recounts how Orpheus founded teletai to Hecate on Aegina which lasted until the 4th century CE (2.30.2). There is also an Orphic hymn to Hecate (author unknown) in which Hecate is referred to as ʌĮȞIJઁȢ țȩıȝȠȣ țȜȘȚįȠ૨ȤȠȞ ਙȞĮııĮȞ (line 7).9 It makes sense in the context that the puppies are used by Orpheus as an offering to Hecate to persuade her to open the gates to the enclosure. Dogs were Hecate’s traditional sacrificial animal. Ovid mentions dog offerings to triple Diana (Fasti, 1.389-90), whom Keightley identifies with Hecate (1848, 141). Lycophron speaks of the cave of Zerynthos which was sacred to the goddess to whom dogs are slain (Alexandra, 77),10 and Mair claims that this unnamed goddess is Hecate (1921, 500). In fragment 4A of Sophron, the sacrifice of a dog to the goddess of the crossroads is mentioned. Dover believes this goddess is

9

She is also named on a 6th century BCE inscription in the temple of Apollo Delphinius in Miletus as “a guardian of entrances” (Marquardt 1981, 251) and Theokritos depicts her as opening the gates of hell (2.33-36). 10 See also Suda, s.v. Samothrace, sigma 79.

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Hecate (1971, 102).11 In addition, Plutarch testifies to the fact that dogs were sacrificed to Hecate by the Greeks (Quaestiones Romanae, 52). Dogs were also often depicted as Hecate’s companions. Hellenistic hekataia, for example, show her with her dogs (Rabinowitz 1998, 69) and Nonnus describes her as the divine friend of dogs (Dionysiaca, 3.74-76). The purpose of Orpheus’ offering in the AO is unclear. To my mind, three possibilities exist: Œ

Œ

Œ

11

Either, the puppies are being offered to summon Hecate in the hope of gaining her aid in opening the gates to the enclosure. Hesiod mentions that Hecate responds favourably to participants in correct sacrifice (Theogony, 416-420). It is possible that, as the correct form of sacrifice to Hecate is that of dogs or puppies, Orpheus has no choice but to set aside his personal distaste for animal sacrifice and conform to the correct procedure for soliciting Hecate’s help. Also, if we accept Rabinowitz’s argument for an Anatolian origin for the goddess (1998, 17-18),12 it is worth noting that the Hittites used to sacrifice puppies to their deities when asking for help and protection against evil (Collins 1990, 213). Or, the puppies are being used preventatively to maintain the spiritual boundary between the upper and lower worlds. Hecate has access to the underworld, the mortal world and heaven. Maybe the puppies are sacrificed to ensure that the spirits of the deceased do not enter the mortal world with her. Pliny mentions that dog’s blood was used to keep away spirits (Natural History, 3.82). Or alternatively, the puppies are performing some cleansing function. Puppies were frequently used in Hittite rites of purification and, significantly here, often in combination with a gate. Following the sacrifice, the offerant would pass through the gate so that their impurities might be extracted (Collins 1990, 212, 219).

Two possible readings of this fragment exist. In the reading favoured by Dover, the dog is white (ȜİȣțȩȞ) (1971, 102), whereas Hordern favours ȜİʌIJઁȞ (2004, 443). As previously stated, my research shows that black animals were traditionally sacrificed to the nether powers. Therefore, I am in agreement with Hordern’s reading. 12 See Berg (1974) for a counter-argument.

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The sacrifice of the puppies and their disembowelment is the most horrible and appalling aspect of this rite. As I mentioned earlier, it is at odds with the general picture we have of Orphic practice from elsewhere. That being said, I have found mention of one Orphic ritual which did involve animal sacrifice and even the eating of raw animal flesh. Harrison describes the Orphic Omophagia, in which initiates ate the raw flesh of a sacrificed bull to represent the devouring of Zagreus by the Titans (1903, 483-489). However, the incongruity of the gentle Orpheus, beloved of nature, making a sacrifice of puppies is so striking that it suggests to me that this nekuomanteia is not intended to resemble an actual Orphic ceremony. Its ghastly character implies that it was the author’s intention to create a supernatural and shocking scene, rather than a religious and devotional one. This is backed up by the fact that magical herbs are inserted into the puppies’ bodies before they are roasted on the pyre, a procedure reverberating with associations of witchcraft. For example, Lucan (1st century CE) describes a reanimation rite, performed by the Thessalian witch Erictho, in which she inserts a variety of magical ingredients into the corpse of the dead soldier whom she has been asked to revive (Pharsalia, 667). The association of witches with dogs would also have been in the reader’s mind. Apuleius (2nd century CE) describes a witch transforming herself into a dog (The Golden Ass, 2.22) and Ovid (1st century BCE-1st century CE) likens the incantations of witches to the howling of dogs (Metamorphoses, 14.405). Dogs were also known to haunt crossroads, the traditional meeting place of witches (Burris 1935, 39). The use of the mystical number three has already been discussed in relation to the three-sided pit. By sacrificing three puppies, the AO author is again ensuring that his audience is aware that witchcraft and sorcery is taking place.

Line 965 ਕʌȘȤȑĮ ȤĮȜțઁȞ—Vian suggests that Orpheus sounds a bronze cymbal to greet and facilitate the epiphany of Hecate (1987, 144). Theocritus seems to have something similar in mind in one of his idylls. A young woman called Simaetha performs a love-spell with the aid of her maid Thestylis. They beat a bronze object at the crossroads as the goddess Hecate arrives. Her coming is heralded by the barking of the dogs in the town. ĬİıIJȣȜȓ, IJĮ੿ țȪȞİȢ ਙȝȝȚȞ ਕȞ੹ ʌIJȩȜȚȞ ੩ȡȪȠȞIJĮȚ. ਖ șİઁȢ ਥȞ IJȡȚȩįȠȚıȚ: IJઁ ȤĮȜțȓȠȞ ੪Ȣ IJȐȤȠȢ ਙȤİȚ. (2.35-36). Commenting on this passage, Gow claims that Simaetha and Thestylis are not welcoming the goddess or expediting her arrival, but, having heard the dogs, are clashing the bronze

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object to avert the evil powers which they have summoned. He claims that Orpheus does the same at line 965 of the AO (1952, 43). I agree with Gow that Theocritus’ women could be attempting to obviate the transference of any evil from the underworld to the upper world, as the clashing of metal was thought to have an apotropaic function, but more usually in connection with ghosts than with deities. For example, Lucian (2nd century CE) refers to ghosts being frightened away by the clash of bronze or iron (Philopseudes, 15). However, I disagree that a correlation can be made between the actions of Theocritus’ women and those of Orpheus in the AO. Orpheus sounds the bronze cymbal before receiving any warning of Hecate’s arrival, suggesting that he is using the bronze to summon the goddess and to ease her passage from the lower to the upper world. The clashing of the bronze cymbal also adds to the ceremonial atmosphere.

Line 975 ਺ ȝ੻Ȟ Ȗ੹ȡ įȑȝĮȢ İੇȤİ ıȚįȒȡİȠȞ, ਴Ȟ țĮȜȑȠȣıȚ ȆĮȞįȫȡȘȞ ȤșȩȞȚȠȚ—An iron-bodied Pandora rising from the earth does not accord with Hesiod’s description of the beautiful woman whom Hephaestus made by order of Zeus as a punishment for mankind (Theogony, 570ff and Works & Days, 69ff), although it perhaps does with the portrayal of her as a “beautiful evil” țĮȜઁȞ țĮțઁȞ (Theogony, 585). It is plausible that another Pandora was known to the AO author, a Pandora whom Harrison claims was originally a form of the Earth-goddess (1903, 281). Harrison hypothesises that Hesiod modified Pandora as part of a misogynistic tradition to reflect the shift from a matriarchal form of worship to patriarchal following the Aryan invasion (1903, 285). There are still a few traces of a Pandora associated with fecundity and fertility in literature. Hesychius writes ʌĮȞįȫȡĮ· ਲ Ȗો, ੖IJȚ IJ੹ ʌȡઁȢ IJઁ ȗોȞ ʌȐȞIJĮ įȦȡİ૙IJĮȚ. ਕij’ Ƞ੤ țĮ੿ ȗİȓįȦȡȠȢ țĮ੿ ਕȞȘıȚįȫȡĮ (vol 3, 334) and the writer of a scholia to Aristophanes (Birds, 971) says ʌȡ૵IJȠȞ ȆĮȞįȫȡ઺ ș૨ıĮȚ ȜİȣțȩIJȡȚȤĮ țȡȚȩȞ· Pandora was also associated with the Thargelia, an agricultural festival (Harrison 1903, 283). The chthonic quality essential to an Earth-goddess is exemplified in the AO by her ascent from the underworld in the company of Hecate. There are also examples in art of Pandora rising from the ground, which possibly suggest a chthonic connection.13 Pandora’s iron body is the most intriguing aspect here. To my knowledge, there are no other extant references in literature or in art to an 13

Alternatively, the ground might simply represent the earth from which Hesiod says she was made (Theogony, 571 & Works & Days, 70).

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iron-bodied Pandora. Perhaps this novelty was an innovation of the AO author and, if so, what might his purpose have been? One possibility is that the AO author is making a learned reference and that the iron of Pandora’s body represents the iron age of men to whom Hesiod refers (Works & Days, 174-180). He claims that this race of men never rest from labour and sorrow. In relation to Pandora, he says that she brought sorrow to mankind and that, up until her creation, men lived free from all ills, hard toil and sickness (Works & Days, 90-95). Another possibility is that Pandora is depicted as having a body of iron to represent her strength and to make her appear more otherworldly and, consequently, more alarming. The giant Talos, who features in Ap.Rhod.Arg. (4.1635-1690) and in the AO at line 1351, is made from bronze. He is so formidable in Ap.Rhod.Arg. that only Medea’s magic can defeat him. Pandora’s iron body likewise accentuates her ferocity and invincibility and adds to the unsettling nature of the scene.

Lines 976 ȉȡȚııȠțȑijĮȜȠȢ—Hecate’s trimorphism seems to date to the 5th century BCE. Pausanias describes how the sculptor Alcamenes created the first statue of triple-Hecate for the Athenian acropolis (2.30.2). Aristophanes (446-386 BCE) claims that a hekataion once stood before every house in Athens (Wasps, 804). These hekataia consisted of a pillar from which three bloodcurdling masks were hung, intended to ward off malevolent influences. Prior to this time, Hecate was a monomorphic deity. There is certainly no evidence of her triplicity in Hesiod (Theogony, 411-52), her first appearance in literature. However, there is mention of her dominion over earth, sea and sky (Theogony, 412-415), suggesting, if not a triple form, certainly triple power. The Orphic hymn to Hecate talks of her as Ƞ੝ȡĮȞȓĮȞ ȤșȠȞȓĮȞ IJİ țĮ੿ İੁȞĮȜȓĮȞ (line 2). Hecate’s polycephaly might suggest an amplification of her power. It definitely makes her more terrifying in the AO. It is thought that Hecate absorbed features of the Thessalian goddess Enodia during the 5th century BCE (Rabinowitz 1998, 36-39). Enodia was a goddess of the crossroads associated with agriculture, hunting and witchcraft. If she was conflated with Hecate at this time, this would explain why Hecate’s first association with witchcraft also dates to this period (Euripides Medea, 395-397). She is referred to as ǼੁȞȠįȓȘȞ ਬțȐIJȘȞ in line 1 of the aforementioned Orphic hymn. The text is corrupt at this point, so, though it is clear that Hecate has three animal heads, it cannot be confidently ascertained which three

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animals are represented. Ogden’s reading is that she appears with the heads of a horse, a dog and a snake (2009, 91). Vian agrees (1987, 145). The dog and the snake certainly make sense. Her association with dogs has already been discussed in relation to line 959. Hecate was also linked with snakes, possibly because snakes were connected with the underworld. The Minoan snake goddess, for example, was thought to rule over the underworld (Nilsson 1952, 13). Lucian (Philopseudes, 22) describes Hecate as an anguiped. As well as snakes for feet, she has writhing snakes for hair and is accompanied by large dogs. It is not my intention to speculate further as to the significance of the individual animals, but rather the general impression given by Hecate’s zoomorphic depiction. By giving Hecate the heads of animals, the AO author makes her appear more supernatural, inhuman and unearthly. Her combative force is increased and she appears more terrible and frightening. The reader imagines the hissing of the serpent, the barking of the dog and the neighing of the horse: a blood-chilling, inhuman cacophony.

Bibliography Primary Sources Apollonius Rhodius, ed. Hunter, R.L. 1989. Argonautica book III. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Callimachus & Lycophron, ed. Mair, A.W. 1921. Callimachus and Lycophron with an English translation. London: Heinemann. Collected Fragments, ed. Kern, O. 1922. Orphicorum fragmenta. Berolini: apud Weidmannos. Collected Fragments, ed. Kock, T. 1880-1888. Comicorum Atticorum fragmenta. Leipzig: Teubner. Eunapius & Philostratus, ed. Wright, W.C. 1922. The lives of the sophists with an English translation. London: Heinemann. Flaccus, ed. Mozley, J.H. 1934. Argonautica/Valerius Flaccus with an English translation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Heliodorus, ed. Bekkero, I. 1855. Heliodori Aethiopicorum libri decem. Lipsiae: Teubneri. Homer, ed. Heubeck, A, A. Hoekstra. 1989. A commentary on Homer’s Odyssey volume II books IX-XVI. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ovid, ed. Keightley, T. 1848. Ovid’s Fasti with introduction, notes and excursus. London: Whittaker & Co. Nonnos, ed. Rouse, W.H.D, H.J. Rose, L.R. Lind. 1940. Dionysiaca with an English translation. London: Heinemann.

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Pliny, ed. Bostock, J, H.T. Riley. 1855-1857. The natural history of Pliny translated, with copious notes and illustrations. London: Bohn. Sophron, ed. Hordern, J.H. 2004. Sophron’s mimes: text, translation and commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Theocritus, ed. Dover, 1971. Theocritus: select poems edited with introduction and commentary. London: Macmillan —. ed. Gow, A.S.F. 1952. Theocritus edited with a translation and commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. ed. Hort, A. 1916-1926. Enquiry into plants and minor works on odours and weather signs with an English translation. London: Heinemann; Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Unknown, ed. Abel, E. 1885. Orphica. Lipsiae: G. Freytag. —. ed. Betz, H.D. 1986. The Greek magical papyri in translation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —. ed. Quandt, G. 1955. Orphei hymni. Berolini: Weidmann. —. ed. Vian, F. 1987. Les Argonautiques Orphiques. Paris: Belles Lettres.

Secondary Sources Alderink, L.J. 1981. Creation and salvation in ancient Orphism. Chicago: American Philological Association. Berg, W. 1974. “Hecate: Greek or ‘Anatolian’?” Numen 21(2): 128-140. Boedeker, D. 1974. “Hecate: A transfunctional goddess in the Theogony?” Transactions of the American Philological Association 113(1983): 7993. Burkert, W. 1983. Homo necans: the anthropology of ancient Greek sacrificial ritual and myth. Berkeley; London: University of California Press. Burris, E.E. 1935. “The place of the dog in superstition as revealed in Latin literature.” Classical Philology 30(1): 32-42 Colavito, J. 2011. The Orphic Argonatica: an English translation. New York: Colavito. Collins, B.J. 1990. “The puppy in Hittite ritual.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 42(2): 211-226. Faraone, C.A. 1991(1). “Binding and burying the forces of evil: the defensive use of ‘voodoo dolls’ in ancient Greece.” Classical Antiquity 10(2): 165-205, 207-220. —. 1993. “Molten wax, spilt wine and mutilated animals: sympathetic magic in near eastern and early Greek oath ceremonies.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 113, 60-80.

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Faraone, C.A, & D. Obbink. 1991(2). Magika hiera: ancient Greek magic and religion. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Graf, F. 2007. Ritual texts for the afterlife: Orpheus and the Bacchic gold tablets. London: Routledge. Green, S.J. 2008. “Save our cows? Augustan discourse and animal sacrifice in Ovid’s Fasti.” Greece & Rome 55(1): 39-54. Griffiths, J.G. 1996. Triads and trinity. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Guthrie, W.K.C. 1935. Orpheus & Greek religion: a study of the Orphic movement. London: Methuen. Harrison, J.E. 1903. Prolegomena to the study of Greek religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Liddell, H.G, & R. Scott. 1996. Greek-English lexicon: with a revised supplement. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Marquardt, P.A. 1981. “A portrait of Hecate.” The American Journal of Philology 102(3): 243-260. Mirecki, P, M. Meyer. 2002. Magic and ritual in the ancient world. Leiden; Boston: Brill. Morand, A. 2001. Études sur les hymnes orphiques. Leiden: Brill. Mori, Anatole. 2008. The politics of Apollonius Rhodius’ “Argonautica”. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nilsson, M.P. 1952. A history of Greek religion/translated from the Swedish by F.J. Fielden. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Nock, A.D. 1926. “Notes on beliefs and myths.” The Journal of Hellenic Studies 46(1): 50-53. Nock, A.D. 1972. Essays on religion and the ancient world. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ogden, D. 2001. Greek and Roman necromancy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. —. 2009. Magic, witchcraft, and ghosts in the Greek and Roman worlds: a sourcebook. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press. Parker, R. 1983. Miasma: pollution and purification in early Greek religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rabinowitz, J. 1998. The rotting goddess: the origin of the witch in classical antiquity’s demonization of fertility religion. New York: Autonomedia. Reardon, B.P. 1989. Collected ancient Greek novels. Berkeley; London: University of California Press. Robbins, E. 1982. “Famous Orpheus”. In Orpheus: the metamorphoses of a myth, edited by J. Warden, 3-23. Toronto; London: University of Toronto Press.

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Vian, F. 1982. “La conquête de la Toison d’or dans les Argonautiques Orphiques.” In L’épopée posthomérique: recueil d’études/Francis Vian, edited by D. Accorinti, 315-334. Alessandria: Hellenica. Warden, J. 1982. Orpheus: the metamorphoses of a myth. Toronto; London: University of Toronto Press. Williams, M.E. 1942. “Hecate in Egypt.” Folklore 53(2): 112-113.

Websites Suda Online [Accessed 07/08/2013] http://www.stoa.org/sol/

CHAPTER SIX ORIGINS OF THE AQUILA BEN GREET

The eagle-standard or aquila is one of the most recognisable symbols of the Roman legion. However, an aspect of the aquila which is less known is its important religious function with the legion. All sacrifices performed within the legion would be made to the aquila,1 with a special sacrifice being made specifically to the eagle on its “birthday”.2 The tent the aquila was placed in when the legion was in camp was essentially a portable temple, to the extent that it became a place of sanctuary for any who wished it.3 The sources, and modern scholarship, seem to gloss over where these religious associations, or even the aquila itself comes from. This paper hopes to provide several possibilities for the origin of the aquila and through these possibilities of where its religious associations developed from. Searching for the origin of any given institution may seem misguided; certainly this is what Beard thinks. She states that the quest to identify the origin of an institution rather begs the question and that many institutions are in a constant state of change over time and so attempting to identify a particular “origin” is all but impossible.4 However, in the case of the aquila it is quite clear that there must have been a distinct and definable origin point. Although it may have developed or been influenced by a myriad of other traditions, there was a point in history where the legion adopted the use of this specific standard. In the case of the aquila, 1

Joseph. BJ: 6.316; Plut. Marc., 22; Sue. Claud., 13; CIL 13.7754; RIB 1270; Hoey 1937, 17-18; 20; Hanel 2007, 403-405; Hekster 2007, 352; Stoll 2007, 455; 457. 2 Also the ‘birthday’ of the legion; CIL 13.6679; ILS 2293; 9125; 9126; 9127; Ando 2000, 261; Stoll 2007, 457-458. 3 Liv. 26.48.12; Plin. HN., 13.23; Tac. Ann., 1.39; Ando 2000, 260; Hekster 2007, 339. 4 She is writing specifically about the triumph; Beard 2007, 312-313.

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identifying this origin point impacts how we view the standards, and its religious connotations, in later Roman history. Was it the ancient institution the Romans believed it to be, or was it a later Republican invention? The sources for early Roman history, which is mostly what is dealt with in this paper, are notoriously difficult and the scholarship dealing with it ranges from the unbelievable optimism of Carandini5 to the (at least in my opinion) overly sceptical Wiseman.6 Without going into a long discussion about the reliability of particular sources or even the general outline of early Roman history, it serves better to simply outline my position. To me the most important factor of Roman history is that it is at all points a realm of possibilities rather than certainties. Although Wiseman criticises the fact that just as much importance (if not more) is placed on those wishing to deny a fact in early Roman scholarship as it is to confirm it,7 I think this is how the field should be approached. No matter how possibly unreliable, these sources are the only evidence we have for the study of this period. However, this does not mean stretching the evidence to fit implausible hypotheses or wishful notions of confirming mythology, but instead identifying in the evidence possibilities of the confirmation, rejection or re-interpretation of the Roman historical tradition. This approach may lead to multiple answers to a single question, as it does in this paper, but the nature of the evidence leaves each answer as a viable possibility. All that remains after these possibilities have been identified is to find the evidence that proves beyond doubt their impossibility. Nothing short of that will reject them as an idea. The aquila8 is a prime example of these problems in early Roman history, as we have already stated that the reliability of the sources is sometimes suspect and so to trace the origin of the aquila we must trace it back through the sources from a point where its existence can be confirmed by contemporary evidence. This is only possible for the Marian army as this is the point where the aquila appears contemporaneously with the authors.9 This particular question has never been broached by scholars before and has particular ramifications for the thought about the aquila in later Roman history as it presents the possibility, and a strong one based on the nature of the evidence, that the aquila was introduced by Marius in 5

Carandini 1997, 2000; 2003. Wiseman 2008b. 7 Wiseman 2008b, 312. 8 I will refer to the eagle standard as the aquila to avoid confusion between it and other eagle references. 9 Cic. Cat., 1.9.24 onwards. 6

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107 BCE and despite the insistence of the later sources was not an ancient Roman institution. However, this is not the only possibility. By tracing the references to the aquila we can identify others. Before Marius, however, tracing the standard becomes more difficult. Pliny states that before the Marian reforms the aquila was one among five standards, the other four representing a wild boar, horse, wolf and Minotaur.10 He continues that the aquila had become the premier standard by the time of Marius’ reforms but that prior to this point each standard had preceded a particular division of the legion (ordines).11 However, Pliny is the only source to ever mention the existence of these other standards which never appear in those sources dealing with the earlier history of the Roman military.12 The antiquarian tradition is just as reliable or unreliable as the annalistic tradition and the encyclopaedic nature of Pliny’s work may make it plausible that he included this information whereas other authors thought it unnecessary.13 So, although the other sources’ silence is not grounds enough to dismiss Pliny’s statement, the fact that only he mentions it leaves it as only a possibility and not a certainty. However, whereas Polybius states that the standards were used in the organisation of the army in the second century, he paints a significantly different picture than the five standards of Pliny. His first mention of standards is that two standard-bearers were appointed to each maniple in the legion, which resulted in a total of 60 standards per legion, two for each of the 10 maniples of hastati, principes and triarii.14 First, this is a huge amount of standards and, secondly, not only does the passage of Pliny imply the existence of only one of each standard, but this amount matches instead the standards that accompany each of the cohorts rather than the aquila, one of which accompanied each legion. However, in the passage of Pliny it is stated that they accompany each ordines which is more literally translated as “order” or “arrangement” and fits better as “line of battle”.15 This fits slightly more with the Polybian legion as the hastati, principes and triarii can be viewed as “lines of battle,” but this 10

The strangeness of this last choice will be dealt with more below. Plin. HN., 10.5. 12 Mainly Livy and Dionysius. McCartney 1912, 77 mentions that Festus made the same assertion. However, he does not give the reference and I have been fruitless in my efforts to locate the passage. Despite this, since Festus is a later source than Pliny, it seems likely that Pliny is where he obtained his information. 13 Cornell 1995, 23-24; Carey 2003, 17. 14 Polyb. 6.21.6-10; 6.24. 15 App. Mith., 10; Lewis & Short 1879, 1277. 11

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only creates three ordines rather than five. Even if they are split by centuriae into prior and posterior ordines16 it creates six rather than five ordines.17 The only way possible to reconcile the passages in Pliny and Polybius is to assume that although the hastati and principes were divided into two ordines, the triarii, because their maniples contained half the number of men to the hastati and principes,18 were arranged in one line rather than two. This would give the right amount of lines for each to contain one standard and if so, the aquila could be placed at the front as it was, as Pliny states, prima.19 However, this interpretation has one vital flaw,20 Polybius never mentioned these standards. He only ever referred to the standards once more,21 to state that when making camp the Romans chose a standard and built their camp around it. This could be interpreted to mean that they chose a standard that is connected to the whole legion but could just as easily be one of the standards in a maniple. It could be argued that as Polybius was presenting his work for a Greek audience he focused the study of the army on units rather than as an organisational whole, as this is how the Greek phalanx functioned,22 or that since the Greeks did not use military standards, Polybius thought it unnecessary to describe them or did not fully understand their use. This argument is weak, though, as the Greeks obviously understood what a military standard was, even if they did not use them, as Xenophon mentions the Persian standard 200 years

16

Based on the prior and posterior centurions. Liv. 42.34; Sumner 1979, 68. This was the reason each maniple had two centurions, optiones and standardbearers. However, Polybius states that the reason for this was to replace the commanders if one died (6.24.6-7), noting nothing about splitting each maniple into different ordines. Sumner 1970, 68 would disagree with this interpretation as he believes that the centuriae are just fossils from the previous military system, which seems correct, and that the prior and posterior centurions have no relation to actual places within the organisation of the manipular army. But he can no more prove this to be the case than disprove that they were split on the basis of their names. 18 Polyb. 6.21.8-10. 19 Plin. HN., 10.5 20 It also has others, as to map the standard onto the Polybian legion requires a lot of conjecture. 21 Polyb. 6.27. 22 This is doubtful; the Greeks certainly understood the concept of army organisation. 17

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previously.23 Polybius provides no confirmation of the existence of the aquila but also, once again, his silence does not exclude the possibility. There are, however, a few references in the annalists to the aquila and standards in the Punic Wars. Livy says that the legionary swore to the standards and the aquila in 210 BCE and it features prominently in Silius Italicus.24 It is more than possible that both authors were only using the standards and aquila because these images were familiar military images of their respective periods, creating a more relatable narrative for their readers.25 However, Livy was certainly aware that the Roman army was organised differently before Marius’ reforms.26 Why would he present these differences to his readers in some places, but then elsewhere include the aquila to make it easier for them to relate? Also, although Silius was writing an epic poem, he relied heavily on historians for the basis of his narrative and seems to have copied much more than he invented.27 Lastly, and most importantly, the history of the Punic Wars in the annalistic tradition is based on historians (such as Fabius Pictor) who were either present at, or could have interviewed those present at, the events described. This allows for the possibility that these mentions of the aquila and standards are a reflection of historical truth. Yet again, then, the evidence points to the possibility of the aquila and Pliny’s other standards existing in the manipular army of the Punic Wars but this evidence is far from undisputed. There is some circumstantial evidence from before the Punic Wars which adds to the possibility. Rome’s first currency, the aes signatum, produced c.280 BCE includes the image of an eagle (Fig. 6.1).28 Another aes signatum shows the image of a boar (Fig. 6.2) and leads to the possible interpretation that these images are representing two of the standards mentioned in Pliny.29 The fact that these aes signatum would have been used to pay the military and include other war imagery (swords, scabbards, 23

Xen. Ana., 1.10.12; Cyr., 7.1.4, however, Polybius still may not have grasped the importance individual standards may have had in the legion and thus neglected their inclusion. 24 Liv. 26.48.12; Sil. 5.333-343; 427-431; 6.14-40; 7.740-743; 8.635-637; 10.390392. 25 Wilson 1993. The mentions in Livy are also placed in his notoriously unreliable battle scenes. 26 Liv. 8.8.3 27 Steele 1922; Nicol 1936. Although it is quite possible they may be copied from other epic poems also. 28 Wiseman 2008a, 99. 29 Plin. HN., 10.5; Nenci 1955, 391-404, this interpretation is rejected by Crawford 1979, 718 n.3 for being “too imperfect”.

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shields, and spears)30 adds further plausibility to this interpretation. However, other interpretations of this imagery are far more convincing. Crawford thinks the eagle here is instead representing Jupiter, along with the Pegasus that adorns the reverse of the aes signatum as both creatures served as Jupiter’s lightning bearers.31 The boar he links to the tactic the Romans used to defeat Pyrrhus’ elephants in the Pyrrhic war, using boars to induce panic.32 Even more convincing is the interpretation that all of the coinage links to the Pyrrhic War. The war imagery would fit perfectly with the depicting of Rome’s victorious tactic during the war33 and even the Eagle/Pegasus aes signatum can be seen as connected to the Pyrrhic War rather than Jupiter. Plutarch and other sources remark that Pyrrhus’ nickname was “The Eagle” and here the Romans could be using the eagle to represent Pyrrhus and the Pegasus to represent Rome.34 This would also explain why the Pegasus is the only image of the aes signatum to be joined by the word ROMANOM, the connection between the Pegasus and Rome being so uncommon that they must literally spell it out. Thus, despite there being a possibility that this image relates to the aquila standard, we must rely on evidence from even earlier. There is another piece of evidence which points to the existence of the aquila even further back than the Punic Wars. A cista from the second half of the fourth century shows Aeneas holding what Wiseman calls a “sceptre” but can be interpreted quite easily as the aquila standard (Fig. 6.3).35 Aeneas, now in his old age, seems to be appearing as the victorious general carrying his standard. And the pointed end of the staff seems to imply it could be stuck into the ground like a military standard. The large size also points more to a standard than a sceptre. Again this creates the possibility of the aquila’s existence in the manipular army. But both pieces of evidence only allow for the possibility and do not confirm its existence, but the Aeneas cista seems to be the most convincing piece of evidence for its existence pre-Marius. What is certain, however, is that the

30

Crawford 1979, 718. Hes. Theog., 285-6; Crawford 1974, 716. 32 Ael. NA., 1.38; Horapollo 85; 86; Nenci 1955, 391-404; Crawford 1974, 718. 33 Crawford 1974, 718, believes these images to be arbitrary, but it would be strange for Romans to use some images that were arbitrary and then assign meaning to others. 34 Ael. NA., 7.45; Dio Chrys. Or., 64.22; Plut. Mor., 184D; 975A-975B; Pyrrh. 10.1; Nenci 1955, 391-404. 35 Wiseman 2008a, 112. 31

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manipular army did use military standards36 and this allows at least for the possibility of the aquila and Pliny’s four standards. It is quite possible that the standards were introduced with the manipular reforms. There is a debate about when these were introduced and with current evidence nothing can be said for certain. In my opinion the few details preserved in the annalistic tradition would place this change in c.407 BCE alongside payment of the legions and an increase in manpower.37 There is some evidence that the standards could have been introduced at this point. The etymology of the word manipulus is sometimes read as “handfuls of hay”38 and a passage of Plutarch39 which credits Romulus with creating the original standards has them coincidently as handfuls of hay on poles,40 hence a connection can be made between the name maniple and these supposed early standards.41 The standard also lends itself to the organisation of the manipular legion rather than the hoplite legion as the maniples are far more flexible and would require more logistical organisation, which was enabled by the use of standards.42 Additionally, Plutarch seemed to credit the use, and adoration, of standards to a peculiarity of Italian military systems.43 And even if the manipular system is not borrowed from the Samnites or a product of the Ineditum Vaticanum44 it is certainly an indigenous Italian system.45 However, there is a possibility that the standard can be traced back further than the manipular reforms. The term manipulus can also just mean “handful”46 and so could simply be a term for a “handful of men” and have

36

The contemporary evidence of Polybius provides this. Diod. 14.16.5; Liv. 4.59.11; 8.8; Ogilvie 1976, 151-153; Cornell 1995, 188. 38 Juv. 8.153; Lewis & Short 1966, 1109. 39 Plut. Rom., 8; McCartney 1912, 77. 40 It is quite possible that in the c.100 years between these reforms in the Aeneas cista that the standards had developed from “hay on poles” into the depiction seen on the cista. 41 Etymology is not a solid base for any argument but modern Latin etymologies agree with this connection. 42 Cic. Sull., 34; Liv. 3.27.8; 4.47.2; 6.8.1; 39.31.9; Plut. Mar., 23.5. 43 Plut. Aem., 20.1. 44 This is the Roman tradition of “borrowing” military systems seen in the sources, i.e. they took the hoplites from the Etruscans, the maniples and scutum from the Samnites, the Gladius from the Spaniards etc. Diod. 23.2. 45 Diod. 23.2; Sumner 1970, 68-69, believes they were borrowed from the Samnites whereas Salmon 1967, does not. 46 Plin. HN., 18.28.67; Varr. Rust., 1.49; Lewis & Short 1966, 1109. 37

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nothing to do with the standard.47 It is also possible that the term pre-dated the reforms themselves as no evidence suggests it was or was not in use before maniples were used. The sources also speak of the standards prior to these reforms; they appear in the sources relating to the pre-manipular legion frequently.48 In fact, Dionysius makes specific reference to the aquila in a speech given by Dentatus in 453 BCE,49 long before the reform. This reference suffers from the same problems stated about Livy above, even more so due to it being within a speech. He may also be trying to make the material more understandable for his Greek audience. However, the Greek tradition was aware that the Romans had once had a hoplite legion50 so it is possible that this information is from a legitimate source and not an annalistic invention. In any case, this one reference is not enough. What creates a more plausible possibility is that Sumner points out that the binary system of the Polybian maniples, i.e. two centurions, two optiones and two standard-bearers, serves no function other than an administrative one in the manipular legion, relating more to the centuriae than the maniples. Thus this system, and the standards that accompany it, are a remnant of the previous centuriate system used to organise the hoplite legion.51 This hypothesis along with the annalistic reference creates the possibility that the standards, even the aquila, existed before the manipular reforms. If this is the case it presents the problem of fitting a military standard into the military organisation of a hoplite legion. Since the hoplite legion was based on the centuriate organisation, then the number of standards would essentially remain the same: 60 standards, one for each centuria.52 This is still far too many for them all to be aquila standards or Pliny’s other standards, but the possibility still remains from the manipular legion that they may have been attached to the lines of battle, or the legion as a whole. In fact, arguing that the names of each of the manipular units must pre-date their use in this formation, i.e. that the principes must have at one point been the front line, the hastati must have carried hasta etc.,53 Sumner has shown that these units must precede the manipular legion. This would 47

Plutarch may have been attempting etymology himself to discover what Romulus’ early standards would have looked like. 48 Dion. Hal. 10.36.3-6; Flor. 1.5.2; Frontin. 2.8.2; 3; 8; Liv. 2.59.9-10; 3.27.8; 70.10; 4.29.3; 47.2. 49 Dion. Hal. 10.36.3-6. 50 Diod. 23.2. 51 Sumner 1970, 67-70. 52 Sumner 1970, 70. 53 Sumner 1970, 68; 70.

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mean that the argument made for the different ordines would still apply for the hoplite legion. The second problem is more difficult. The majority of evidence for how the hoplite phalanx works comes from the Greeks,54 and they never used military standards. So it needs to be determined whether a hoplite phalanx could even accommodate a military standard without a detrimental effect. The Greek phalanx did include the use of the salpinx, a musical instrument which it used to order charging or retreat during the heat of battle.55 This means that certain individuals in a phalanx would have been carrying it, and it is a long instrument (Fig. 6.4) so they could only carry either their shield or spear with it and not compromise the phalanx. If this was the case the phalanx could easily accommodate a military standard in its formation.56 However, the images show them using it holding a spear and not their shield, which would completely compromise the phalanx, which relies on the connection of shields to shields. Despite this the evidence does show that a hoplite phalanx could easily accommodate a military standard. This would bring back the origin of the standard to the introduction of the centuriate hoplite legion. The tradition places the centuriate reforms in the reign of Servius Tullius. It is not that necessary in this argument to delve into the debate on whether or not Servius was a historical figure that introduced these reforms57 but instead to decide whether the reforms themselves could be credible. They seem to have been focused on the reorganisation of the state and, although the details of the tradition are dubious at best, the idea of a change from the original three tribe system of organisation to the new tribal system would make sense for a community that may have grown significantly in manpower since the introduction of that old system.58 The end of the sixth century also makes sense as a date for this reform as it is at this point that Rome had the resources and spare manpower to build a monument such as the Capitoline Temple.59 There is only one piece of literary evidence which points to the existence of the military standards before the reign of Servius Tullius and 54 It does not seem like the Roman system, at least from the evidence we have, differed much from the Greek system on a basic level. Snodgrass 1965. 55 Diod. 11.22.2; 15.55.3; 85.3; 17.11.3; Eur. Heracl., 831-2; Phoen., 1103; Rhes., 988-9; Plut. Tim., 27.10; Thuc. 6.69.1; Xen. Ana., 1.2.17; 3.4.4; 4.2.1; 8-9; 5.2.14; 6.5.27; 7.4.16; Krentz 1991. 56 Van Wees 2004, 169, shows the formation could have accommodated it. 57 Thomsen 1980; Cornell 1995, 121-127. 58 Snodgrass 1965, 119-120; Thomsen 1980, 143; Cornell 1995, 176-195. 59 The dating of its construction has not been doubted, just the historical figures associated with it.

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that is the mention of Servius himself using them in youth during the wars of Tarquinius Priscus.60 This source suffers from serious problems, such as being almost seven centuries removed, relying on a trope of battle scenes61 and being the only reference to this event. These problems immediately remove it as a viable source. Despite this, the idea that the standards existed prior to these reforms is plausible. As stated, these reforms seem to have been organisational in principle, thus the basic panoply of the legions was not dramatically affected. The notion that the reforms introduced hoplite tactics at Rome has long since been disproved.62 Since this is the case, the basic panoply of the Roman hoplite legion, including the possibility of military standards, may have existed prior to the reforms. Once again the existence of the standards in the pre-centuriate legions cannot be confirmed but is certainly a possibility. This would place the standards origin alongside the introduction of hoplite tactics to Rome. But how was a non-Greek practice introduced to a Greek military system?63 One possibility is that the standard comes from other eastern influences beyond the Greeks. The Persian military standard has already been mentioned, so the practice was certainly used in the east. In fact, Xenophon states that they carried an eagle standard into battle with them,64 which would be a tempting connection. Many scholars, however, believe that the Greek sources have misinterpreted the symbol of the Persian titular god Ahura-Mazda as an eagle,65 which from Fig. 6.5 is an easy mistake to make. This might not be correct, however, as the Persian royal tradition contains many references to the eagle. The Bible is one of the main sources for details about the Persian Empire and the eagle is often used as a royal symbol within it.66 Also, Persian tradition has Achaemenes raised by eagles, again connecting the eagle to Persian royalty.67 However, it would be difficult to assess how the standard made its way from Persia to Rome. It may have made its way from other eastern influences, such as the Phoenicians, but the standard does not seem

60

Frontin. 2.8.1. Liv. 3.70.10; 4.29.3; 6.8.1; 10.36.10; 25.14.6-8; 26.5.15-17; 27.14.7-10; 34.46.12; 41.4.1; Plut. Aem., 20.1; Val. Max. 3.2.19. 62 Snodgrass 1965, 119-120; Sumner 1970, 69-70; Cornell 1995, 176-195. 63 Snodgrass 1965, shows that the Roman hoplite legion had no significant differences. 64 Xen. Ana., 1.10.12; Cyr., 7.1.4. 65 Head 1992, 9. 66 Ezek. 17:3-7; Dan. 4:33; Ackroyd 1988. 67 Ael. NA., 12.21. 61

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prominent in their military system.68 Another possibility is Egyptian influence. Their worship of animals is well known and a passage from Diodorus creates the possibility that they also used animals as standards in their military.69 However, yet again it is problematic to link these traditions to Rome. Another possibility is that the military standard is an Italian invention. The reference in Plutarch to the adoration of the standard, and its use, being an Italian concern gives some slight credence to this possibility.70 There may also be evidence for the idea that a military standard could be spontaneously invented without any outside influence. Charlevoix in his journey through the areas of America known as “New France” in A.D. 1721 found a Native American tribe who carved animals into bits of bark, attached them to poles and carried them into battle.71 This is unmistakably a military standard and if they can appear in the isolated communities of North America without outside influence,72 there is no reason the same cannot have happened in prehistoric Italy. If they are a native Italian invention this would discount the idea of any outside influence on their origin and therefore open the possibility of tracing their origin even further back than the adoption of hoplite tactics at Rome. This leads to the problem of how the idea of carrying a standard into battle developed spontaneously in the Italic communities and Rome. To solve this, the Native American standards seen in Charlevoix need to be examined more closely. It seems they have attached carvings of the particular animals they find sacred and so represent their community, their “totem”.73 It would seem then that the establishment of the military standard is connected to the idea of “totemism” popular at the turn of the century. Interestingly, since it concerns the worship and use of animals, it may directly relate to the aquila and could create the possibility of tracing their origin to the invention of the concept of a military standard. 68 Moscati 1988; McCartney 1912, 77-78, makes some enigmatic references to a historian named Dennis who cited a passage from Dionysius, which stated that the standards had been brought to Rome from Etruria and had ultimately derived from Lydian or Persian monarchs. However, since McCartney gives no references, both the historian and the reference are hidden. 69 Diod. 1.86.4; McCartney 1912, 78. 70 Plut. Aem., 20.1. 71 Charlevoix 1744, 328-329; Durkheim 1915, 114. 72 It could be possible that these tribes were influenced by European colonists but would seem strange to adopt only a single part of their military system, and place their totem on the pole rather than copying European standards entirely with a flag. 73 Charlevoix 1744, 328-329.

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Established by Frazer,74 the theory of totemism was examined closely by Durkheim,75 who used sources from Australasia and America and concluded that their worship of animals, totemism, was a way of society worshipping itself; i.e. they placed societal norms onto the animal kingdom and, through the totem animal representing their identity, worshipped their own society.76 However, after the attack on the theory of universal totemism by Levi-Strauss in the 1960’s, wherein through the use of Structural semiotics he de-constructed the idea of universal totemism, the term and the ideas associated with it has been discredited and abandoned.77 So much so that Dumezil calls the idea of totemism complete fantasy.78 But it should not be so readily discarded. In fact, Levi-Strauss’ criticism leads to essentially the same conclusion as Durkheim:79 that these animals represent the reflection of the social system in which the culture participates and that they are chosen because they are “good to think,” i.e. they lend themselves to society thinking about and representing themselves. In fact, although Levi-Strauss discredited the idea of a universal totemism, the later examinations of totemic animals in individual cultures also used many of Durkheim’s ideas.80 This idea is also supported by the prominence of animals as defining symbols of culture worldwide. With the idea of totemism re-established it may be possible to trace the origin of the standards to a specific point in Roman prehistory. Durkheim’s examination of totemism states that the totemic animal is used mostly to define a group bound by kinship and so develops in a society at a relatively early stage in their growth.81 For Rome this would be in the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age, as this is the period where small settlements on the hilltops of Rome began to develop their own individual culture.82 The interpretations of the evidence differ but most agree that the Palatine became inhabited at this point, and possibly the Capitol and Quirinal.83 It may be at this point, where communities are beginning to establish their own local identities that a totem animal is introduced and, 74

Frazer 2010. Durkheim 1915. 76 Durkheim 1915; Douglas 1990, 26; 33. This is a process also seen in Arist. His. An. where animals are given human characteristics and interactions; Lloyd 1983, 54. 77 Levi-Strauss 1962. 78 Dumezil 1966, 18. 79 Poole 1969, 21. 80 Poole 1969; Tambiah 1977; Lloyd 1983, 7-9. 81 Durkheim 1915, 102. 82 Peroni 1969; Pallottino 1972, 202; Cornell 1995, 53-55; Smith 1996; 2000. 83 Peroni 1969; Holloway 1994; Cornell 1995, 74; Smith 2000, 18-21. 75

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although pure conjecture, the five animals we have mentioned from Pliny may represent the totem animals of the early communities of Rome, as the most important aspect of self-representation is to an outside community, most notably in war.84 Despite the obvious problems of conjecture, the Minotaur does not seem to fit with the idea of a totemic animal. However, Durkheim states that the totem can sometimes be a mixture between man and animal.85 The idea of totemism would also help to explain adoration of the standard repeated throughout the sources from its earliest mention as the totemic animals always had a degree of religiosity.86 There is, however, no material evidence that would link these animals with these Early Iron Age cultures; in fact the grave goods do not provide any depictions of animals at all.87 This could be explained by some of the evidence for totemic animals in Durkheim, as in every example these totems are made from wood and if the same material was used in a Roman context, none would survive. It would be worth identifying the earliest examples of these animals to at least trace their use in Roman art. The horse and surprisingly the Minotaur can be traced back to the sixth century with their frequent occurrence on the terracotta friezes.88 The earliest trace of the eagle89 and wild boar is c.290 BCE.90 But silence is not damning, and the possibility of their existence prior to the coins is not farfetched, especially considering the survival rate of archaic imagery. The evidence is, yet again, far from conclusive. But it is also far from impossible. It leaves open the possibility that the aquila and Pliny’s four other standards were created as totemic standards to represent the Early Iron Age communities in the area of Rome. In conclusion, the origin of the aquila cannot be traced conclusively to any point in Roman history. Instead the sources provide four possible origin points for the introduction of the military standard to the Roman military system, which may have included the aquila, and one last point where the aquila only may have been introduced. Each of these possibilities has its own ramifications on the religious nature of the aquila. 84

Pretzler 2003, 150. Durkheim 1915, 103-104. 86 Durkheim 1915, 119-122. 87 Funerary evidence has its problems: how can we expect to reconstruct a complete society from how they bury their dead? Smith 2000, 20. 88 Holloway 1994, 62. 89 Although there is the fourth century cista, this is the first time the eagle is seen on its own. 90 See above p. 85

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Firstly, it may be that the military standard developed from the small Early Iron Age settlements in the area of Rome from a possible “totemic” animal they chose to represent their community, c.1000-830 BCE. The religious connotations of this origin are fairly obvious. Secondly, the standard may have been introduced at the same point as the hoplite reforms around the seventh century, but from non-Greek eastern customs.91 In this case the aquila’s religious nature may be connected to eastern religion or possibly eastern royal worship. Thirdly, they may have been introduced alongside the centuriate organisation supposedly established by Servius in the late sixth century. This may explain the religious nature by a connection to the Roman kings and the pontifex maximus, but it could also indicate that the standard was introduced with no religious aspects at all and that these qualities developed later. Fourthly, the standard may have been introduced with the manipular reforms at some point between the centuriate reforms and the late fourth century. This possibility seems to have only been practical with the standards possessing no religious connotations at their point of introduction. What is certain, however, is that they existed in the manipular legions. This cannot be stated conclusively for the aquila though, as no contemporary sources mention its existence in the manipular legion. Therefore it is possible that it was introduced as the legion’s standard by Marius in 107 BCE. If this is the case the aquila is connected more to the rise (and possible worship) of the individual in the late Republic.

Bibliography Ancient Texts Aelian. De Natura Animalium. Tr. Scholfield, A. 1958. Appian. The Mithridatic Wars. Tr. White, H. 1899. Aristotle. Historia Animalium. Tr. Balme, D. 1991. Cicero. In Catilinum. Tr. Bohn, H., London, B. & Yonge, C. 1856. —. Pro Sulla. Tr. Lord, L. 1937. Dio Chrysostom. Orationes. Cohoon, J. W. 1932. Diodorus Siculus. Library. Tr. Oldfather, C. 1989. Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Antiquitates Romanae. Tr. Cary, E. 1939. Euripides. Heraclidae. Tr. Coleridge, E. 1938. —. Phoenissae. Tr. Coleridge, E. 1938. —. Rhesus. Tr. Coleridge, E. 1891. 91

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Florus. Epitome. Tr. Forster, E. 1929. Frontinus. Strategemata. Tr. Bennett, C. 1925. Hesiod. Theogony. Tr. Evelyn-White, H. 1914. Horapollo. Hieroglyphica. Tr. Boas, G. 1950. Josephus. Bellum Judaicum. Tr. Whiston, W. 1895. Juvenal. Satires. Tr. Ramsay, G. 1918. Livy. Ab Urba Condita. Tr. Roberts, C. 1912. Pliny. Historia Naturalis. Tr. Bostock, J. 1855. Plutarch. Moralia. Tr. Perrin, B. 1960. —. Vita Aemilius Paulus. Tr. Perrin, B. 1918. —. Vita Marcellus. Tr. Perrin, B. 1917. —. Vita Pyrrhus. Tr. Perrin, B. 1920. —. Vita Romulus. Tr. Perrin, B. 1914. —. Vita Timoleon. Tr. Perrin, B. 1961. Polybius. The Histories. Tr. Shuckburgh, E. 1889. Silius Italicus. Punica. Tr. Duff, J. 1934. Suetonius. Divus Claudius. Tr. Reed, E. 1889. Tacitus. Annales. Tr. Brodribb, W. & Church, A. 1942. Thucydides. The History of the Peloponnesian War. Tr. Dent, J. 1910. Valerius Maximus. Factorum ac Dictorum Memorabilium Libri. Tr. Bailey, S. 2000. Varro. De Re Rustica. Tr. Hooper, W. 1934. Xenophon. Anabasis. Tr. Brownson, C. 1922. —. Cyropaedia. Tr. Miller, W. 1914.

Modern Works Ackroyd, P. 1988. “Problems in the Handling of Biblical and Related Sources in the Achaemenid Period.” In Achaemenid History III: Method and Theory, edited by A. Kuhrt, and H. Sancisi-Weerdenberg, 33-54. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Ando, C. 2000. Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire. Los Angeles: University of California Press. Beard, M. 2007. The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Carandini, A. 1997. La Nascita di Roma: Dei, Lari, Eroi e Uomini All’alba di Una Civilta. Turin: Einaudi. —. 2000. Giornale di Scavo: Pensieri Sparsi di un Archeologo. Turin: Einaudi.

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—. 2003. “Il Mito Romuleo e le Origini di Roma.” In Memoria e Identita: La Cultura Romana Costruisce la sua Imagine, edited by M. Citroni, 3-19. Florence: Universita degli Studi di Firenze. Carey, C. 1981. A Commentary on Five Odes of Pindar: Pythian 2, Pythian 9, Nemean 1, Nemean 7, Isthmian 8. New York: Arno Press. Charlevoix, P.-F.-X. de. 1744. Histoire et Description Generale de la Nouvelle France. Paris: Chez Rollins Fils. Cornell, T. J. 1995. The Beginning’s of Rome: Italy and Rome From the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000-264 B.C.). London: Routledge. Crawford, M. H. 1974. Roman Republican Coinage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Douglas, M. 1990. “The Pangolin Revisited: A New Approach to Animal Symbolism.” In Signifying Animals, edited by R. Willis, 25-36. London: Unwin Hyman Ltd. Dumezil, G. 1966. Archaic Roman Religion, Volume 1. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Durkheim, E. 1915. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. London: Unwin Brothers Ltd. Frazer, J. G. 1910. Totemism and Exogamy, Volume 1. London: Macmillan and Co. Hanel, N. 2007. “Military Camps, Canabae, and Vici: The Archaeological Evidence.” In A Companion to the Roman Army, edited by P. A. Erdkamp, 395-416. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Head, D. 1992. The Achaemenid Persian Army. Stockport: Montvert. Hekster, O. 2007. “The Roman Army and Propaganda.” In A Companion to the Roman Army, edited by P. A. Erdkamp, 339-358. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Hoey, A. 1937. “Rosaliae Sigorum.” Harvard Theological Review. 30: 1535. Holloway, R. R. 1994. The Archaeology of Early Rome and Latium. London: Routledge. Krentz, P. 1991. “The Salpinx in Greek Warfare.” In Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience, edited by V. D. Hanson, 110-120. London: Routledge. Levi-Strauss, C. 1962. Totemism. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Lewis, C. T. & C. Short. 1879. A Latin Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lloyd, G. E. R. 1983. Science, Folklore and Ideology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McCartney, E. S. 1912. “The Genesis of Rome’s Military Equipment.” Classical Weekly, 6(10): 74-79.

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Moscati, S. 1988. The Phoenicians. Milan: Bompiani. Nenci, G. 1955. “Un Prodigio Dei Signi nella Battaglia di Ausculum e le Origini di un Topos Fisiologico.” Rivista di Filologica. 33(1): 391-404. Nicol, J. 1936. The Historical and Geographical Sources Used by Silius Italicus. Oxford: Blackwell. Pallottino, M. 1972. “The Origins of Rome: A Survey of Recent Discoveries and Discussions.” In Italy Before the Romans, edited by D. Ridgeway, and F. Ridgeway, 197-222. 1979. London: Academic Press. Peroni, R. 1969. “From Bronze Age to Iron Age: Economic, Historical and Social Considerations.” In Italy Before the Romans, edited by D. Ridgeway, and F. Ridgeway, 7-30. 1979. London: Academic Press. Poole, R. C. 1969. “Introduction.” In Totemism. C, Levi-Strauss, 1-68. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Pretzler, M. 2003. “City Devices and City Identities: The Development of Symbols to Represent Community Identity.” In Inhabiting Symbols: Symbol and Image in the Ancient Mediterranean, edited by E. Herring, and J. Wilkins. London: Accordia Research Institute. Smith, C. J. 1996. Early Rome and Latium. Oxford: Clarendon Press. —. 2000. “Early and Archaic Rome.” In Ancient Rome, edited by J. Coulston, and H. Dodge. Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology. Snodgrass, A. M. 1965. “The Hoplite Reform and History.” JRS, 85: 110122. Stoll, O. 2007. “The Religions of the Armies.” In A Companion to the Roman Army, edited by P. A. Erdkamp, 451-476. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Steele, R. B. 1922. “The Method of Silius Italicus.” Classical Philology, 17(4): 319-333. Sumner, G. V. 1970. “The Legion and Centuriate Organisation.” JRS, 60: 67-78. Tambiah, S. J. 1977. “The Galactic Polity.” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 293: 73. Thomsen, R. 1980. King Servius Tullius. Copenhagen: Gyndendal. Van Wees, H. 2004. Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities. London: Duckworth. Wilson, M. 1993. “Flavian Variant: History. Silius’ Punica.” In Roman Epic, edited by A. J. Boyle, 218-236. London: Routledge. Wiseman, T. P. 2008a. The Myths of Rome. Oakville: David Brown Book Company. —. 2008b. Unwritten Rome. Exeter: University of Exeter Press.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE LEMURIA: STATE LEVEL “MAGIC” IN THE FIRST CENTURY AD? RACHEL MEADOWS

As in many cultures across the world, the correct treatment of the dead was of the utmost importance in Rome. Rituals which took place immediately after the death were controlled by the state, and families were expected to give offerings to the dead in both public and private rituals annually.1 The Roman calendars which date from the Augustan period mark two annual public festivals which are dedicated to the dead: the Parentalia and the Lemuria.2 This is unusual compared to the other public festivals celebrated in Rome; none of the other entities worshipped have two celebrations dedicated to them. The Lemuria and the Parentalia do not seem to have a great deal in common, beyond the fact that they are both concerned with the dead. Whilst the Parentalia seems to conform to the type of celebrations that we might see in other religious festivals in Rome, with public celebrations during the day, and prayers and offerings made to the recipients of the festival, the Lemuria does not. In fact, many of the elements of the rites seem to have their origins in magical traditions, an idea which will be explored in this paper, along with why the festival had to contain these elements. In order to properly answer the question, I will first explore what “magic” seems to have meant to the Romans, before looking at the ways in which the festival rites seem to display magical properties, and indeed why such a seemingly magical festival was still being celebrated in Rome at state level. 1

Felton 1999, 12; Davies 1999, 147. The oldest surviving calendar from the Republic, the Fasti Antiates Maiores, advertises the Lemuria as one of the yearly festivals, thus dating the Lemuria at least back to a point between 84-46 BC, though it is possible that the festival is much older than this. [Scullard 1981, 47].

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Magic seems to have been regarded as a perverted form of religion. It was a mixture of medicine, religion and astrology used to discover what the future held and to try to control the will of the gods and to meet the desire for human health and well-being.3 Religious practises, on the other hand, sought the approval of the gods, and offerings were made in order to try to gain the deities’ favour. However, the gods were free to ignore these entreaties. In the Aeneid, Aeneas sacrifices a white sow and thirty suckling pigs to Juno upon their arrival in Italy, after Tiberinus advises Aeneas to pray to her in order to “overcome her angry threats with vows and supplications”.4 Juno chooses to ignore Aeneas’ entreaties and continues to wage war against him. This is an example of proper religious practise; Aeneas can only hope to gain the goddess’ favour, but he cannot control her. Magic was about having another being in your power and bent to your will—and this seems to fit in with the concept of the Lemuria—the purpose of which seems to be an exorcism of ghosts from the house. The concluding formula, “Manes exite paterni”-“Ghosts of my fathers, go forth”, is an imperative command; the celebrant is vocally exorcising the ghosts from his house.5 It is thus an attempt to bend the ghost to the human’s will, and this is how the Romans seemed to have defined magic. Unlike the Parentalia festival, there seems to be no public celebration during the Lemuria, which makes the festival stand out against the others.6 At once, the Lemuria becomes a lot more subversive and mysterious, pushing the festival closer to being magical. That the festival was celebrated by one individual behind closed doors made it seem as if there was something to hide, that the festival was shameful—an implication, perhaps that it included elements which contradicted the state religion. In Augustan Rome, magic was regarded as a foreign concept, an invasive presence in Roman religion from the east; Persia, specifically, via Egypt and Greece. It was considered barbaric and often associated with human sacrifice. As such, magic was frowned upon in Roman society, and there were frequent expulsions of magicians and astrologers from Rome in the first century AD, and it was an insult to refer to someone as a magician for the first three centuries.7 It seems unusual, then, especially in the Augustan period when religious practises were being restructured and the foundation cult of Rome was being emphasised, that a festival so inundated with seemingly 3

Pliny. H.N., 30.1-18. Virgil Aeneid, 8.44-62. 5 Ovid Fasti, 5.443. 6 Warde Fowler 1899, 106-7. 7 Valerius Maximus.1.3.2; N. Janowitz 2001, 1. 4

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magical customs would have been allowed to continue if it was a quite recent introduction to the festival calendars.8 Indeed, even as an ancient tradition, it seems unusual that the concept of magic might be allowed to be practised and celebrated at a state level. Magic was often used for protection against unwanted forces of nature, everything from protection from weather for the crops, and especially against spirits.9 This is just another reason why it is fitting that the Lemuria was viewed, even by the Romans, as a magical festival, and still celebrated on a state level. Our knowledge about the Lemuria festival is very limited. It seems to be an exorcism of sorts, an expulsion of ghosts from the house. The majority of information about the festival comes from Ovid’s Fasti, an elegiac poem which was published in AD 8. In the poem, Ovid explains the rituals and some possible reasons behind the rites for each festival in the first six months of the Roman calendar. He seems to have adopted the persona of a researcher into Roman religion, and he often questions informants, both deities and humans, about the rituals. But these in themselves were fiction, contrivances to give his views authority. It is largely agreed that Ovid’s information came from Varro, and so the modern scholar must be wary of Ovid’s opinions, especially concerning the origins of the festivals, as they might be mistaken interpretations of Varro’s views, presented as fact in the Fasti.10 If the origins of many festivals had been long forgotten, it is likely that somebody—perhaps not Ovid himself; he could perhaps be the victim of misleading beliefs too— simply invented an origin.11 The only other information we have comes from inscriptions of state calendars, where the Lemuria is listed, as Ovid confirms, as taking place over three days in May, and is marked as “N”, a “dies Nefasti”, which prohibited marriage on this day and meant that temples and law courts were closed, and that the Senate were not to assemble.12 However, our lack of solid knowledge has led to a problem when dealing with the Lemuria festival; a great deal of our scholarship is based on supposition and so this paper will only be able to suggest where the elements of the Lemuria rite might have come from and why they were still in use. Ovid says that the purpose of the Lemuria festival is to celebrate the shade of Remus and that it was originally named the “Remuria”.13 8

Livy. 5.52.2; M. Beard, J. North and S. Price 1998,168. Bailey 1932, 19. 10 Rose 1941, 89. 11 Frankel 1945, 144. 12 Ovid Fasti, 5.491-2; Wissowa 1925, 1931-33. 13 Ovid Fasti, 5; Porphyrio on Epistle 2. 9

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However, Ovid is well known for his word play; the similarity of the words might have attracted him to the idea that the festival was linked to Remus. Ovid had the freedom to indulge in such fancies, especially if, as he points out, the origins of the festival had been forgotten.14 As well as this, Ovid, when writing the Fasti, was trying to gain the approval of Augustus. Ovid mirrors Augustan propaganda about the prominence of the foundation myth and the importance to pay tithes to those who were killed prematurely for the good of Rome.15 But this origin cannot be verified; Porhyrio agrees with Ovid, but he might have been influenced by Ovid’s propaganda. The ritual, as we will see, is a show of hostility to ghosts, rather than trying to placate them, and thus does not seem to be particularly fitting to honour a fallen shade, as Augustus was trying to do. The Lemuria festival seemed to centre on the physical presence of a ghost; another difference between the Parentalia and the May festival.16 There was a vast terminology for “spirits” which seem to be general terms for ghosts, and Ovid uses these terms, especially “umbra” and “anima” in his description of the Feralia and the Lemuria. But the different terminology for the dead seems to be interchangeable in Rome; indeed, there is a great deal of debate by modern scholars as to how far we can assess the differences between the apparent categories.17 It is argued that the dead who received proper burial were numbered among the gods; they were known as the “Di Manes”; DM–“dis manibus”, a dedication to the “divine manes”, was etched on top of most tombstones from the beginning of the first century AD.18 They were prayed to, and worshipped in much the same way as the gods, and the living seemed to engage with the manes when addressing problems in their lives.19 They seem to be connected to the family private cult of the dead, which was well established in Rome.20 Latin writers use it to denote dead family members. Livy, for example, writes “Verginiae manes”, and Suetonius refers to Nero’s mother as a “manes” too.21 During his description of the Feralia, Ovid refers to the ghosts as “manes” twice, indicating the personal nature of the festival.22 14

McKeown 1984, 182. Littlewood 2001, 916. 16 The Parentalia saw families leaving offerings for the spirits of the dead, but there was no communication between the parties and Ovid gives no indication in his description of the Feralia that the spirit was physically present. 17 For more information, see Knight 1970, 108 and Dumezil 1970, 367-9. 18 Davies 1999, 147 and King 2009, 95. 19 King 2009, 97. 20 Dumezil 1970, 367. 21 Livy 3.58.11; Suetonius Nero, 34. 22 As “manes”: Ovid Fasti, 2.535; 2.570. 15

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However, if the categories were strictly upheld, and words such as “anima” and “umbra” denoted the nameless dead, a silent mass, in contrast to the familial Manes, Ovid’s use of the first two terms somewhat remove the personal nature which the Feralia seemed to hold in Ovid’s description. But we cannot take Ovid’s choice of vocabulary as a strict truth; he is more than happy to adapt his vocabulary to fit in with his strict elegiac meter.23 But he does use the word “manes” twice, highlighting the familial nature of the festival, and the relationship between the worshippers and the dead. “Lemures” is another term for the dead. It is thought to denote a “terrifying and malicious” ghost. It does not often occur in high poetry or in epitaphs, possibly indicating that it was a taboo term in Rome.24 The first recording of the term “Lemures” comes in Horace’s Epistle 2.2.209. Here, the Lemures are listed alongside “the terrors of magic miracles” and witches. This indicates that they are to be feared, and that they were considered part of the magical taboo. The ghost is a physical incarnation of the soul, and was able to “recall the past, perceive the present and foretell the future”, an indication that the soul was thought to be mystical, as this familiarity of time was seen as a sign of what magic tried to control.25 It was a trope in classical literature that ghosts could be used to divine the future.26 To complete their association with magic, both the magical arts and ghosts share a patron goddess: Hecate. It is thus appropriate that their expulsion is through a rite filled with magical elements. Etymology itself dictates that the Lemuria festival and the Lemures are related to one another; one is clearly derived from the other. But Ovid only uses the term “Lemures” once during his description of the Lemuria festival: “mox etiam lemures animas dixere silentum”.27 This fits in with the idea of the Lemuria as a magical festival; the subject’s expulsion, if they are evil and the consort of witches and magicians, as other writers declare, is fitting that they are expelled by magical means. In contrast, the term is not mentioned by Ovid in his description of the Feralia, indicating the festival’s more benign nature. However, in the most important part of the rite, the expulsion of the ghost from the house, Ovid says the formula is “Manes exite paterni”.28 This seems strange—before, Ovid referred to 23

Frankel 1945, 1; Seneca Contra, 9.5.17. Porphyrio on Ep., 2.2.209; Thaniel 1973, 187. 25 Cicero Div., 1.63. 26 Lucian Philopscudes, 25; Pliny Ep., 7.27; Virgil Aeneid, 6. 27 Ovid Fasti, 5.483. 28 Ovid Fasti, 5.443. 24

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the ghosts as either “umbra” or “anima”, the neutral terms that seem to denote unnamed spirits. But by using the term, “manes”, Ovid names the ghosts as the ancestral dead. But less than ten lines later, he refers to them as the “Lemures”. He makes us question who the ritual was aimed at and why, if it was at the “Manes”, was the ritual so different to the cheerful reception at the Feralia. Scholars have argued that Ovid confused the terms and recorded the formula incorrectly.29 It is possible that Ovid was influenced in his choice of vocabulary by the elegiac meter of the poem. But it seems unusual that at a climax of the Lemuria rite, he chooses to use inaccurate vocabulary. At, presumably, the most important part of the ritual, Ovid would probably change some of his other vocabulary rather than record it inaccurately. As his primary audience had probably participated in the festival themselves, Ovid is not likely to have mistaken his terminology, especially as he is said to have revised these first six books of the Fasti several times before their publication.30 Perhaps it is a mistake to think of vocabulary for the dead denoting different “categories”. Scholia on Persius equates the “Lemures”, the “Manes” and “umbrae” too, writing “it is said the Lemures are the Dii Manes, who the Greeks call įĮȚȝȠȞĮȢ, just as the ‘umbras’ hold some divinity. Thus, the Lemuria are days on which the Manes are placated”.31 It seems that some Latin writers did not differentiate between the different titles afforded to the dead. This counteracts the arguments presented by modern scholars for the differences between the Lemures and the Manes. It seemingly did not matter what the dead were referred to in Rome. But this also does not explain why the dead had such different receptions in the Feralia and the Lemuria. I believe that it is due to the Romans’ belief in the physical presence of the ghost in the May festival. Ovid is very clear that the spirit is physically present at the Lemuria; he says that the ghost picks up the beans and follows the Paterfamilias.32 On the other hand, there is no indication that the spirit is physically present during the Feralia. Rather, it is a day for the living family members to gather together and remember their ancestors. It is an entreaty for them not to come back, so that they will not cause death, as Ovid says they did when the Feralia was neglected.33 At the Lemuria, perhaps, ghosts were treated to a much more hostile reception because they had returned to the world of the living, 29

Thaniel 1973, 184. Millar 1993, 8. 31 Scholia on Persius 5.185; Apuleius De deo Socratis, 15. 32 Ovid Fasti, 5.439-40. 33 Ovid Fasti, 2.549-550. 30

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despite being requested to stay away at the Feralia. At once, the natural order is broken. The dead had ignored the offerings from the Feralia and come up from the underworld, before they were invited at the opening of the Mundus in early August and the autumn season. And so they broke free from order; they could not be controlled by Roman state religion. Thus, outside sources, rites which occurred at the fringes of society, had to be consulted. The Lemuria had to contain magical elements because the targets of the rites, the “Lemures”, had broken the natural flow of life in Rome. They had escaped the confines of the Underworld without being invited at the Mundus and so unnatural means had to be taken in order to restore natural order to the world. The Romans were great believers in the concept of “talio” in their law; this meant basically, that one suffered in the same way that he had broken the law. It is not so difficult to apply this basic concept to the Lemuria festival too. The spirits had escaped and taken a physical presence as a ghost, becoming the companion of witches, and so they had to be rid by magic too. There are several elements of the Lemuria ritual that stand out as being related to magical practise. Ovid says that the ritual takes place at midnight, and the worshipper, commonly identified as the Paterfamilias, rises. He goes barefoot, and makes a “sign with his thumb in the middle of his closed fingers”, and washes his hands. He then accepts black beans, turns his face away, and throws them away. He says “These I cast: With these beans I redeem me and mine,” nine times, then washes his hands with water. He clashes bronze pots and says nine times, “Ghosts of my fathers, go forth”.34 It is reasonable to presume that the ritual descriptions are accurate; Ovid would have experienced these festivals first hand and his audience, at least in Rome, would have known the ritual procedures for each festival. Ovid’s need to create plausible rituals would not have been needed; indeed, it would have been frowned upon and pointed out as inaccurate by his readers. The Lemuria shares several elements with other minor festivals mentioned in the Fasti, one of which is the rites of Tacita, which is coincidentally celebrated on the same day as the Feralia, the concluding day of the Parentalia festival. Here, an old woman uses three fingers to put three lumps of incense into a mouse hole, before putting seven black beans in her mouth, and roasts a fish head, sewn with a bronze needle. She drops wine onto it, and shares the rest between her companions, and declares, that “we have bound fast hostile tongues and unfriendly mouths”.35 The Lemuria and the Tacita rites share the magical number of 34 35

Ovid Fasti, 5.429-443. Ovid Fasti, 571-584.

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three in the ritual, and of course, the use of black beans and bronze implements.36 Even the use of the earth is present in both rituals. Buriss asserts that the magical rites had their origins in “primitive” Italy. Although he is not discussing the Lemuria festival in his essay, the similar magical elements in the two rites point to a similar background. We will see, in the main body of this paper, that many of the magical elements in the Lemuria, and so in the Tacita rites, come from Greece, again betraying their antiquity. The very number of days that the Lemuria is spread over is invocative of a festival of protection. Three was considered in the ancient world to be the perfect number. Aristotle explains that the Pythagorean cult came to the conclusion that the world was governed by this number. He says that it is because a whole is made up of three parts, a beginning, a middle and an end that it is perfect; it is the first truly whole number, with nothing added to it or taken away.37 It had long been adopted into the Roman world and played an important part in ritualistic observances.38 More importantly for our purposes, though, the number three was a prominent part of acts of purification, especially in death rites.39 Thus, the Lemuria immediately becomes associated with the idea of purification, because of the number of times it is held. It is not unusual for purifications to be associated with the number three. The Ludi Saeculares took place over three days and three nights, and was preceded by three days of purification. The number three continued to be used throughout the ceremony, dictating the number of sacrifices and even the number of participants involved in each part of the festival. The Ludi Saeculares celebrated the ending of a “lifetime” and ushered in the next, and so purification would naturally be a part of this, to start the new “saeculare” without any of the impure baggage perhaps gained in the last “lifetime”. In the same way as the Lemuria festival, the Ludi Saeculare dealt with the dead, or at least, the death gods, Hades and Proserpina.40 And it is this dealing with chthonic beings that necessitates the use of the number three. The Anthesteria festival from Greece also takes place over three days, and like the Ludi Saeculares and the Lemuria, the festival deals with the chthonic beings. Here, the dead are said to roam, and like the Lemuria, the Anthesteria festival ends with the declaration, 36

Buriss 1928, 153. Aristotle De Caelo, 1.1. 38 Livy 22.10.7–three hundred and thirty three thousand, three hundred and thirty and a third brass pieces are paid to appease the gods; Sophocles O.T., 159–triads of gods, including the Athena, Apollo and Artemis and Kronos and Rhea’s children. 39 Lease 1919, 61; Virgil Aeneid, 6.226. 40 Valerius Maximus 2.4.5. 37

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“șȪȡĮȗİ țȒȡİȢ Ƞ੝ț ਥIJ’ ਝȞșİıIJȒȡȚĮ”-“Leave, Keres, Anthesteria is over”.41 The Anthesteria is often associated with the Lemuria festival, and it is said that the Roman ritual had its origins in the Greek festival.42 Although this cannot be proved, they have strikingly similar purposes and commands for the ghosts to leave the humans alone. The number three and its multiples are used in the Anthesteria, and it shows what might have once been regarded as a magical number being used at a state religious level. By the time Ovid is writing, it seems to have been a well-established notion in standard state religious practises, although there is evidence from Egypt that it had its origins in magic, and even in the Roman world, it is still thought to be effective in charms.43 It sits between the legitimate state religion and the ancient arts. In the Lemuria, the pleas for the ghost to depart are repeated nine times; obviously a multiple of three. Nine makes the perfect number even more perfect, giving power to the human against the ghost. This power is also increased by the days on which the Lemuria fell. Unlike the Anthesteria and the Ludi Saeculares, the Lemuria does not take place on consecutive days. Rather, it falls on three successive oddly numbered days. The Romans seem to be drawing on another ancient tradition which calls on the power of the odd number, a value which Virgil emphasises by saying “The God rejoices in odd numbers”.44 In the Lemuria, it is as if the Romans were doing everything they could to gain the celestial gods’ favour and to protect themselves from the ghosts. It is superstition rather than magic, old traditions which might have once had a magical stem, but had become so engrained in the state religion that it was considered usual to use them in festivals. The sheer amount of usage of the number three and the multiples of it in the festival places an undeniable importance on the number, and emphasises the need for protection and perhaps the old superstition from whence this festival grew. The Lemuria, unlike any other festival in the Roman calendar, takes place exclusively at night. Ghosts were long associated with the dark; they came from the Underworld, and so were more comfortable moving in the gloom.45 Traditionally, sacrifices to chthonic gods were made at night; sacrifices to Proserpina and Hades at the Ludi Saeculare also took place at midnight. It was regarded as a “tween” time, between night and day, when 41

Bomer in Dumezil 1970, 365. Bomer in Dumezil 1970, 365. 43 Egypt: Demotic Magical Papyrus of London and Leiden. Col. 8.17; Rome: Tibullus 1.2.53-56. Lucian Philopscudes, 7. From Roman charms, see, for example, Virgil Eclogues, 8.74-5 and Ovid Metamorphoses, 7.153. 44 Virgil Eclogues, 8.75. 45 Homer Odyssey, 11.19; Lucian Philopscudes, 14. 42

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the boundaries separating the living world and that of the dead were weakened so that a ghost could appear.46 If the ghost is supposed to be physically present, it is thus fitting that the ritual took place in a “tween” time. The Romans rarely acted for dramatic effect alone; everything they did, no matter how showy, had a distinct purpose, and holding the festival at midnight was a requirement for the ritual to be able to take place, so that the ghost might be a tangible being and able to be driven away. There was no need though, for the Feralia to take place at night, as the spirit was not physically present in that festival, and so it could take place at a more conventional time. The next element that Ovid introduces is the idea of being free from knots; this means that the celebrant is barefoot.47 This is another long standing tradition in Roman ritual; those communicating with the Underworld entities in Latin literature often remove their shoes before the ritual. In the Aeneid, for example, Dido stands barefoot and with her dress unbound before calling on the Gods to watch over her suicide.48 In Rome itself, the Flamen Dialis was prohibited from wearing knots, or even a ring, unless it was broken by a stone.49 Knots were obviously used to bind, and they were thought to represent a spiritual restriction.50 Thus, it was necessary for the celebrant to go barefoot. Burriss argues that this prohibition on knots is a remnant from the “early days”, when men believed that a symbolic action was equivalent to an actual happening and vice versa.51 It seems to be symbolic of leaving oneself open to the possibility of magic and favourable reception from the gods. Although not directly connected to the purification of the house and the restoration of order within the city as a whole, being barefoot seems to be a necessary part of taking centre stage as the orchestrator of a ritual. Frazer names the sign which the celebrant makes as the next part of the festival as “the fig” and says it is a charm to avert the evil eye.52 This seems to be undeniably magical. Belief in the “evil eye” dates back at least five thousand years.53 It was a widespread phenomenon, with virtually 46

Ogden 2001, 77; Homer Odyssey, 24.1-4; Hesiod Theogony, 211-12, 748-57; Virgil Aeneid, 6.278. 47 Ovid Fasti, 5.433. 48 Virgil Aeneid, 4.518. 49 Gellius 10.15.6. 50 Servius Ad Aeneid., 4.518; Dido wears only one shoe and her dress unbound during her rite so that she might be free and Aeneas, bound. Burriss 1929, 158. 51 Burriss 1929, 158. 52 Frazer 1989, 292. 53 Dundes 1992, vii.

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every culture around the Mediterranean having a belief about the “evil eye”. Essentially, though, all revolved around the idea of one person or spirit being able to harm another simply through their gaze.54 In Rome, the evil eye seems to have been attributed to any being that might wish another ill, whether they are supernatural or another human and it is classed among the practise of witchcraft. As has been demonstrated, ghosts are seen as the consort of witches and so it makes sense that they are seen to be capable of casting the evil eye, and thus a gesture which averts this is probably appropriate for the celebrant, in order to protect themselves. It is suggested that the fig sign is used to symbolise female genitalia being intruded by a phallus, and the ghost is so distracted by the “vagina” that it forgets to cast the evil eye.55 Ovid says that the celebrant in the Lemuria festival cannot look back at the ghost; perhaps in case it should happen to catch the participant’s eye and give it the evil eye.56 The sign has undeniable roots in folklore; it is obviously an ancient superstition, and does not play a part in any other Roman festival, again indicating the magical nature of the festival. The celebrant of the Lemuria, after making this gesture, washes his hands. This is a standard part of purification rituals, and is commonly used in Roman religion. It is not a particularly magical gesture, though it is an ancient one, and is still used today as a cleansing ritual in many religious practises. Notably, as well as priests, magicians were also required to wash their hands before casting a spell; perhaps this ritual in the Lemuria is reminiscent of that.57 However, because hand washing had become so engrained in state religious practises, it is impossible to tell if this part of the Lemuria is a reflection of its ancient nature or of how the rite had developed to be accepted into the Roman festival calendar. The use of black beans in the festival, on the other hand, gives a clear indication of the superstitious nature of the Lemuria. Beans were associated with the dead in Rome; they were often thrown into graves to appease the spirits, and appear in several other rites, including those of Tacita, to “bind fast hostile tongues and unfriendly mouths”.58 They seem to be a way to exorcise unwanted beings, or at least, to keep these spirits at 54

The concept is heavily featured in mythology–Medusa’s gaze, for example. Evidence of the evil eye in Greece and Egypt is well documented and points to the concept’s antiquity. 55 Morris 1999, 177. 56 Ovid Fasti. 57 See Lucian Nec., 7. 58 Ovid Fasti, 2.581; Beans thrown into graves: Frazer 1989, 424; Joannes Lydus De mensibus, 4.24.

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bay. They were associated with “mystic rites” and the Flamen Dialis was made to abstain from even touching beans, a reflection on this “magical”, impure association that is at odds with the Roman state religion.59 This is a long tradition stemming as far back as Egypt, relating the beans to magic through their association with the mystic East.60 After throwing the beans, Ovid says that the participant has to say, “With these beans, I redeem me and my own”.61 Beans were connected to superstition and to ghosts—they were said to aid sleep, which was an ideal time for ghosts to contact humans.62 Ovid renders the beans a bargaining tool, making it seem as if the ghosts take the beans as an offering rather than a family member. Although there is no evidence to suggest that the celebrant spits the beans, Rose argues that the celebrant puts the beans in his mouth in order to make them taste like a human soul, something which ghosts are said to expect as offerings.63 In the Greek world, ghosts seem to demand human sacrifice. In Hecuba, Polyxena was sacrificed to the shade of Achilles, after he demanded a sacrifice and it was judged right that blood should be spilled for him.64 Hecuba is obviously fiction, and Euripides was creating a “prisoner tragedy” and so in order to heighten the tragedy, it was necessary for Polyxena to die.65 But Euripides’ choice of showing her as being sacrificed to the shades by the Greeks demonstrates that it was not an unheard-of concept in the Greek world. The Etruscans seemed to have similar beliefs too—it is said that the gladiator festivals were introduced to Etruscan culture and later to Rome in order to appease the spirits of fallen warriors with blood sacrifices.66 By the time of the first century AD, though, the gladiator fights were viewed as entertainment rather than sacrifices to the shades. In the Roman world, human sacrifice was ostentatiously abhorred, and the Romans concealed it from their past. For example, in the festival of the Argei in the Augustan period, it was poppets that were thrown into the Tiber, rather than old men.67 Human sacrifice was regarded as old fashioned and barbaric, and yet, it was still there as an undercurrent in Rome.

59

Diogenes Laertius 8.23; Abstinence from beans: Plutarch Roman Questions, 95. Herodotus 2.40. 61 Ovid Fasti, 5.438. 62 Pliny H.N., 18.117-9. 63 Rose 1941, 93. 64 Euripides Hecuba, 104-24. 65 Abrahamson 1952, 121. 66 Tert de Spect., 12. 67 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 1.19.38. 60

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In the Lemuria festival, there does not seem to be any sign of human sacrifice, unless the beans were sucked to “flavour” them with “soul”. In Greece, beans were seen as a sign of fertility because they were shaped like a female’s genitals.68 This is interesting when the earlier “fig” sign is remembered; if both are said to represent the vagina, then there seems to be a definite undercurrent of sex in the ritual. Sex and death often intermingled; in the Elusinian Mysteries, the great secret is suggested to have been a phallus, and in Egypt, the death goddess, Hathor, was also the goddess of fertility.69 In the Lemuria, the gender of the word for bean, “faba”, is female, perhaps incorporating the idea that it represented the genitals of a female. If the traditional offering to a ghost was blood, and they were said to want to steal away family members, then perhaps the original idea behind the use of beans was as a symbol for menstrual blood; an offering to protect the family from harm and to promote fertility and well-being. If the ghosts really did want to carry a human away, perhaps a symbolic offering of the family’s fertility would do instead. It is impossible to say whether beans were part of a magical rite, but their association with ghosts seem to be widespread, possibly because they are a symbol of female blood, which ghosts seem to demand as offerings, and possibly because they, like the ghosts, were considered to be impure.70 The statement of intent spoken during the ritual also seems to have magical origins. In ancient charms, a statement of intent, written in the imperative, was always included.71 This is a clear indication that charms were an influence on the formulae spoken at the Lemuria, and it reflects too, on the possible Greek origins of the festival. It is a direct command, and the celebrant is obviously seeking control over the ghost at this point in the ritual. This stands in contrast to prayers to Gods, where supplicants asked for what they wanted, rather than demanded. This again makes the festival seem more like a perversion of religion, indicating its magical nature. The use of bronze in rituals can trace its origins to folklore. Bronze was commonly used in Roman religious rituals but it can be traced as far back as Cretan mythology, where the guardian of the island, Talos, was said to be made of the metal.72 Thus, the ancient association with protection is established. Bronze was considered to be a pure metal and so its use in the expulsion of the ghosts was fitting, a symbol of purity 68

Diogenes Laetius 8.33-36. Hippolytus 5.8.39. 70 Lucan Civil War, 6.569-71; Plutarch Roman Questions, 83. 71 For example, see PGM.VII.686-702. 72 Burriss 1928, 159-60; Lucian Philopscudes, 19; Frazer 1989, 48. 69

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defeating magic, and of the mundane overcoming the mystical.73 Bronze was a common material, a reflection, perhaps of the necessity of the Lemuria to the well-being of Rome.74 Most people would already own bronze pots and so would be able to participate in the festival. In that sense, it seemed to be an inclusive festival, for rich and poor, to safeguard their families and to help restore natural order to Rome. Perhaps the festival, in that sense, helped to foster a sense of community spirit. The Lemuria is concerned with purification and the expulsion of the supernatural from the house. The sheer amount of seemingly magical elements makes the festival stand out as being a perversion of the normal festivals in Rome, leading scholars to question its antiquity, and it is easy to see ancient and Eastern influences within the rites. We cannot say, though, that they were definitely magical in nature as a great many of the elements which seem to have had “magical” beginnings were also used in other state religious rituals, indicating that they were an accepted part of the religion, rather than a fringe belief. It is the sheer amount of seemingly magical practises in one festival that indicates that the Lemuria might be magical in origin. Although magic was abhorred, Romans still celebrated the Lemuria because they were invoking the concept of “talio” in their religious practises. The escaped “lemures” had upset the normal course of life, and had left the jurisdiction of normal religion. Outside practises had to be invoked so that natural order might be restored. The Romans were trying to directly influence the ghosts; they were ordering the ghosts to leave, and they were trying to directly influence the future by saving their family from the ghosts. This immediately puts the festival into the magical realm, perhaps leading to the end of a public celebration and the continuation of the ritual behind closed doors. It seems to have been a sense of duty that made the festival continue, as there would be no way to police its occurrence as it took place in private; and yet, Ovid gives the festival a prominent place in the Fasti. This in turn relates to the idea that the festival was about the restoration of Rome and a symbolic expulsion of foreign beings that went against the normal flow of society with malicious intentions.

73 74

Lucian Philopscudes, 15. Macrobius Saturnalia, 5.19.2.

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Bibliography Primary Sources 1904. Demotic Magical Papyri of London and Leiden. Tr. F.L.Griffen and H. Thompson. [Available online at http://www.sacred-texts.com/egy/dmp/]. 1986. The Greek Magical Papyri. Ed. and tr. H.D.Betz. London: The University of Chicago Press. Scholia on Persius. 1935. in G. Wissowa “Lemuria.” Paulys RealEncyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft. 34 vols. and 15 supplemental vols. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1893-1978. 12.2. 1932. Apuleius. 2001. Rhetorical Works. Tr. S.Harrison, J.Hilton and V.Hunink. Ed. S.Harrison. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Aristotle. 1939. De Caelo. Tr. W.K.C.Guthrie. London: Heinemann Cicero. 1997. The Nature of the Gods and On Divination. Tr. C.D.Yonge. Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books. Diogenes Laertius. 1925. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. R.D.Hicks. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 1942. The Roman Antiquities. Tr. E. Cary. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Euripides. 1999. Hecuba. Tr. J. Gregory. Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press Gellius. 1932. Attic Nights. Tr. J.C.Rolfe. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Herodotus. 2003. The Histories. Tr. A. de Selincourt. London: Penguin Books. Hesiod. 1987. Theogony. Tr. R.S.Caldwell. Newburyport: Focus Information Group. Hippolytus. 1999. ‘Refutation of All Heresies’, in M.Meyer, The Ancient Mysteries; a Sourcebook of Sacred Texts. Pennsylvania: University of Pennsylvania Press. Homer. 2009. Odyssey. Tr. L.E.Doherty. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jonnes, Lydus. 1898. Liber de Mensibus. Ed. R.Wuensch. Leipzig: B.G.Teubner. Livy. 1990-1996. Ed. and Tr. P.G.Walsh. London: Aris and Phillips Lucan. 1998. Civil War. Tr. N.Rowe. ed. S.Annes Brown and C.Martindale. London: Everyman. —. 1925. Necyomantia. Tr and ed. A.M.Harmon. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann.

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—. 1921. Philopscudes. Tr and ed. A.M.Harmon. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Macrobius.2011. Saturnalia. Ed and tr. R.A.Kaster. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press. Ovid. 1989. Fasti. Ed and Tr. J.G.Frazer. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London, Heinemann. —. 2004. Metamorphoses. Tr. D.Raeburn. London: Penguin Books Pliny the Elder. 1938-63. Natural History. tr. H. Rackham. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Pliny the Younger. 1969. Letters. Tr. B.Radice. Harmondsworth, England, and Baltimore: Penguin Books. Plutarch. 1924. Roman Questions. Tr. H.J.Rose. Oxford: Clarendon Press Porphyrio. 1966. Acronis et Porhyrionis Commentarii in Q.Horatium Flaccum. Ed. F. Hauthal. Amsterdam:P.Schippers. Seneca. 1974. Declamations. Tr. M.Winterbottom. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press. London: Heinemann. Servius. 2004. Ad. Aeneas. Commentary on Book 4 of Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’. Tr. C.M.McDonough, R.E.Prior and M.Stansbury. Wauconda, Illinois: Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers. Sophocles. 2009. Oedipus Tyrannus. Tr. F.Macintosh. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press. Suetonius.1999. Nero. Ed. B.H.Warmington. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press . Tertullian.1986. On the Spectacles. Tr. and ed. M.Turcan. Paris: Cerf Tibullus. 2002 Elegies. Tr. R.Maltby. Cambridge: Francis Cairns. Valerius Maximus. 2000. Memorable doings and sayings. Ed and tr. D.R.Shackleton-Bailey. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Virgil. 2003. Aeneid. Tr. D.West. London: Penguin. —. 1979. Eclogues and Georgics. Ed. R.D.Williams . New York: St. Martin’s Press, London, Macmillan Education.

Secondary Sources Abrahamson, E.L. 1952. “Euripides Tragedy of Hecuba.” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Society. 83: 120-129. Bailey, C. 1932. Phases in the Religion of Ancient Rome. Volume 4. Berkeley, California: The University of California Press. Oxford, England: The University of Oxford Press. Beard, M., North, J., and Price, S. 1998. Religions of Rome, Volume 1: A History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Buriss, E. 1928. “Some Survivals of Magic in Roman Religion.” The Classical Journal 24(2): 112-123. Davies, J. 1999. Death, Burial, and Rebirth in the Religions of Antiquity. London: Routledge. Dumezil, G. 1970. Archaic Roman Religion. Trans. Philip Krapp. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dundes, A. 1992. The Evil Eye: A Casebook. Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press. Felton, D. 1999. Haunted Greece and Rome. Austin: University of Texas. Frankel, H. 1945. Ovid: A Poet Between Two Worlds. London: University of California Press. Frazer. J. 1989. Ovid: Fasti. Cambridge, Massachussets: Harvard University Press, London: Heinemann. Janowitz, N. 2001. Magic in the Roman World: Pagans, Jews and Christians. London: Routedge. King, C.W. 2009. “The Roman Manes: The Dead as Gods.” In Rethinking Ghosts in World Religions, edited by M. Pu, 95-114. Leiden: Brill. Knight, J. 1970. Elysion. London: Rider & Co. Lease. E.B. 1919. “The Number Three: Mysterious, Mystic, Magic.” Classical Philology 14(1): 56-73. Littlewood. R.J. 2001. “Ovid Among the Family Dead: the Roman Founder Legend and Augustan Iconography in Ovid’s ‘Feralia’ and ‘Lemuria’.” Latomus 60(4): 916-935. McKeown, J.C. 1984. “Fabula Proposito Bulla Tegenda Meo: Ovid’s ‘Fasti’ and Augustan Politics.” In Poetry and Politics in the Age of Augustus, edited by T. Woodman, A. Anthony, J. Woodman and D. West. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press. Millar. F. 1993. “Ovid and the ‘Domus Augusta’: Rome Seen from Tomoi.” The Journal of Roman Studies 83: 1-17. Morris, D. 1999. Bodyguards: Protective Amulets and Charms. Shaftsbury, Dorset; Boston, Massachussets; Melbourne, Victoria: Element. Ogden, D. 2001. Greek and Roman Necromancy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rose, H.J. 1941. “Manes Exite Paterni.” University of California Publications in Classical Philology 12(6): 89-94. Scullard, H. 1981. Festivals and Ceremonies of the Roman Republic. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Thaniel. G. 1973. “Lemures and Larvae.” American Journal of Philology 94: 182-87. Warde-Fowler. 1899 . The Roman Festivals of the Period of the Republic. London: MacMillan and Co. LTD.

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Wissowa. G. 1925. “Lemuria.”. Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft. 34 vols. and 15 supplemental vols. Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 1893-1978. 12.2. 1931-33.

CHAPTER EIGHT PERSONAL BELIEF AND SOCIAL PRACTICE IN PLINY THE ELDER’S NATURALIS HISTORIA CATERINA AGOSTINI

The moral considerations in Pliny the Elder’s Naturalis Historia, like all first-century materials, require a full cultural contextualization within the Greco-Roman world, the one available and relevant to the writer and the readership to whom the treatise was addressed. Constant reference to that culture, its values, and foundations need to guide the responsible evaluation of each of Pliny’s moral comments and digressions.1 Two elements combine in Pliny’s observations on personal belief and social practice at his time. First, there is a purpose of propaganda, to be expected in an encyclopedia that has Titus as a dedicatee2 and is, at the same time, written for the layman.3 Second, one has to consider the particular encounter between the Roman and the foreigner in the first century. Indeed, our aim is to understand what is perceived as proper in the first century in different cases, like a private citizen and a man in charge during his duty, as well as a legitimate way to relate to nature through agriculture and medicine.4 But unless the general presentations at the beginning of 1

Murphy 2004, 95, believes that “the Natural History is deeply interested in man as a moral creature, and its ethnographies are rhetorical elaborations of this interest, which work out the implications of moral problems that preoccupied the Roman imagination”. 2 NH Praefatio 1: iucundissime imperator; NH Praefatio 14 ante omnia attingenda quae Graeci IJȘȢ İȖțȣțȜȚȠȣ ʌĮȚįİȚĮȢ vocant. 3 NH Praefatio 6: humili vulgo scripta sunt, agricolarum, opificum turbae, denique studiorum otiosis. 4 As pointed out by de Oliveira, Francisco. Les idées politiques et morales de Pline l’Ancien, 127: “l’éloge de la frugalité et de la modération dans les marques extérieures du niveau social, de la richesse e de l’habitation, que de la mesure en matière de nourriture et de la vaisselle utilisée” and 129, “Dans une perspective de critique sociale ou castigatio, Pline censure des coutures contemporaines, en leur

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Book VII on anthropology, Book XXVIII on charms and Book XXX on magic are studied, any intended allusion to them will be completely ignored, and a statement made about Pliny’s ethical and environmental message will be misunderstood and lost. The Natural History preserves the best of Greek science and the new contributions by the Romans. Therefore, it long remained a source of both correct and incorrect scientific information.5 By challenging and introducing a new approach to the understanding of the world, an entity that coincides with God,6 Pliny justifies both his choice and purpose on utilitarian grounds. In fact, he is dealing with “the nature of things, that is, life”.7 The Roman Empire was keen to spread the word by way of an encyclopedia written in a comprehensible language, making it accessible to both the elite and to the common man. Numbers of authors and books of reference are supposed to impress the reader about the authoritative encyclopedia, and give an idea of the efforts behind the gathering of such a repository of knowledge. Not only the past thinkers are considered, but also a blank space is left to progress, in an optimistic perspective that allows mankind to improve itself constantly.8 Titus, the dedicatee of the encyclopedia, must have been aware of such potential propaganda and the benefits that would affect his people, by making them obey and contribute to imperial, civil, and cultural life actively. Personal achievements regarded duty, and also included high moral standards. The only general aphorism promoting enthusiasm for social engagement is to be found, interestingly, in the cosmology section, that is, opposant la defense ou l’éloge du mos maiorum, en faisant coincirder la tradition morale romaine avec les themes de la diatribe cynico-stoicienne et en celebrant la législation somptuaire romaine”. Other references to the utilitarian purpose of the Natural History, especially the botanical and medical sections, are to be found at 276, 278, 284, and 286-291. 5 Gudger, 269 “for the fourteen hundred years betwixt Pliny’s death and the appearance of his book in print, no other work contributed so much to keep natural history alive; and as we shall see later, for the three hundred years following the appearance of the first printed edition in 1469, it was still the great authority, read, studied, and quoted by all students of natural history”. 6 NH II, 1: Mundum ... numen esse credi par est. 7 Rerum natura, hoc est vita in NH Praefatio 13. 8 NH Praefatio I, 17 XX rerum dignarum cura, quoniam, ut ait Domitius Piso, thesauros oportet esse, non libros, lectione voluminum circiter VV, quorum pauca admodum studiosi attingunt propter secretum materiae, ex exquisitis auctoribus centum inclusimus XXXVI voluminibus, adiectis rebus plurimis, quas aut ignoraverant priores aut postea invenerat vita. For a history of the influence of encyclopedias, see Brown 2011.

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Book II, as long as the divine is identified with good and nature, to which man conforms in order to fulfill his earthly mission. More so, this mission pertains to the Roman man specifically, as a perfect case of commitment to society, the institution where he can succeed the most.9 The commemoration of Quintus Metellus’s father, Lucius, highlights that he had accomplished the biggest goals as a sapiens. This is also the only passage, in a total of around six hundred thousand words, declaring what evidently makes a good man in charge for the country: scriptum reliquit decem maximas res optimasque, in quibus quaerendis sapientes aetatem exigerent, consummasse eum: voluisse enim primarium bellatorem esse, optimum oratorem, fortissimum imperatorem, auspicio suo maximas res geri, maximo honore uti, summa sapientia esse, summum senatorem haberi, pecuniam magnam bono modo invenire, multos liberos relinquere et clarissimum in civitate esse; haec contigisse ei nec ulli alii post Romam conditam. (NH VII, 249-250)

Inner qualities, if cultivated, make a difference for the individual, and for the community, so that even a freedman can become an example of Roman activity, when succeeding in running a farm (NH XVIII, 41-43).10 After being sued as a magic practitioner, Caius Furius Cresimus demonstrates how work and dedication only compete in productivity, and therefore denies credibility to his former accusation of casting a spell to gain an extraordinary crop that his neighbours’ envied. Pliny does not waste such a story to make an anecdote of it, but, as often is the case, exploits the practical situation of the trial to draw a moral consideration on it, one regarding his own role as a writer. It sounds like meta-literature, where the collector of information gives a reason why writing is worthwhile. His claim is that it is not the expense or the raw material, but the effort that leads towards an enjoyable result: profecto opera, non inpensa, cultura constat, et ideo maiores fertilissimum in agro oculum domini esse dixerunt. This resonates with Praefatio I, 14 (iter est non trita auctoribus via nec qua peregrinari animus expetat) and gives us an 9

NH II, 18 deus est mortali iuvare mortalem, et haec ad aeternam gloriam via. hac procures iere Romani, hac nunc caelesti passu cum liberis suis vadit maximus omnis aevi rector Vespasianus Augustus fessis rebus subveniens. 10 C. Furius Cresimus e servitute liberatus, cum in parvo admodum agello largiores multo fructus perciperet quam ex amplissimis vicinitas, in invidia erat magna, ceu fruges alienas perliceret veneficiis. (…) postea dixit: “Veneficia mea, Quirites, haec sunt, nec possum vobis ostendere aut in forum adducere lucubrationes meas vigiliasque et sudores.” omnium sententiis absolutus itaque est.

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important hint of the importance of Pliny’s own personal belief in shaping the contents of his work in all sections, not only the moral digressions. The history of science and civilization are interpreted through his own informed point of view. A matching example for women has modesty as the criterion for a contest celebrating the Great Mother.11 The Great Mother was particularly appreciated for enhancing women’s modesty, a very important value for the mater familias. A good wife and a good mother, such as Cornelia was, could even be a very important character in a family, meant to give her children life and values (NH VII.120). Nature, that is often deemed to be a mother and a presence pervading all the living beings, is taken into account based on morality, a guiding criterion in the choice of what is or is not legitimate to employ in the relationship between man and nature itself.12 That morality is a guideline for dealing with nature is implied in the opening of Book VII, Principium iure tribuetur homini, cuius causa videtur cuncta alia genuisse natura (NH VII, 1). The devotion to nature as a source of healing serves humanity and delivers from the concern for a long healthy life for all people, no matter what their social condition.13 Nature represents no individual country and power, and is international, so to speak, as well as the Roman power aimed to be. Be it the government, the family land management, or human health, a moral shadow was cast in Pliny the Elder’s representation of nature. This also serves the purpose of political propaganda, presenting the Roman Empire as the social milieu capable of giving people products from distant lands, as well as knowledge one might need and desire. The teleological foundation of everything that exists, however, does not allow an indiscriminate exploitation of nature. On the contrary, interacting with nature is ruled by respect of plants, animals, and environment, in order to grant that nature can still be ruled either by analogy or by contrast actions to achieve a desired effect in health. From these sources, we learn that magical 11 NH VII, 150 Pudicissima femina semel matronarum sententia iudicata est Sulpicia Paterculi filia, uxor Fulvi Flacci, electa ex centum praeceptis quae simulacrum Veneris ex Sibyllinis libris dedicaret, iterum religionis experimento Claudia inducta Romam deum matre. 12 At the opening of Book VII (VII, 1) we read non ut sit satis aestimare, parens melior homini an tristior noverca fuit. 13 De Oliveira considers Cato as the most noteworthy case of cultural and political opposition to Greek medicine (130 “C’est Caton également qui mène le combat contre la médecine grecque et les pratiques elisires des médecins. Cette attitude est considérée une action politique (…) défenseur du mos maiorum (…) l’image du bon gouvernant”; 41 “la condemnation de la magie assume chez pline un caractère essentiellement politique”.

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observation and actions tend to mirror nature (NH XXX, 1-2), and a thorough knowledge of nature and its parts can only improve man’s life. This encyclopedia, claiming to be the first such attempted gigantic work,14 provides a wealth of information on medical practices and the politics of intellectual life. Therefore, there is more than just a repository of knowledge. Medicine is opposed to witchcraft and magic, which subvert a cosmic order, also, science is opposed to non-science, truth to falsity, and, furthermore, religion to magic. The most dangerous byproduct of medicine is hybris trying to alter the course of nature. Science, as we have so far seen, is knowledge in progress, causing us to wonder if it is also the only means to understand reality. Guiding ideas, as well as moral considerations from the first-century philosophical background in Epicurean and mostly Stoic beliefs, constitute relevant settings in Pliny’s presentation of the health section (Book XX to XXXII). Beliefs, that by definition are not neutral concepts, but points of view, contribute enormously to enriching science through time, just as much as persuasion does in rhetoric and literature. The interesting fact is, what looks like magic to the eyes and mind of the Roman, can actually mean medicine to the foreigners first inventing it. It is commonsense that magic and belief are topics still closely associated with personal opinions: gullibility and trust work on double standards, as one can either believe in an alternative practice individually, or acknowledge its power. How do we react to things never heard of before? We can figure them out through a representation or a resemblance to what we already knew, and from this point of view, the equites appealed to ambition, making up stories about their travel stories in distant lands in order to sound interesting to people who did not have the chance to travel, therefore to entertain (NH V, 12). It holds true, however, that what is unknown always questions the observer’s, or the reader’s system of values, until acceptance or rejection of the new knowledge is established (NH VII, 6). What happened when the Romans came in contact with people, or practices, that were completely different? It may be people, as the Hyperboreans (NH IV, 8991) and the Essenes (NH V, 73), or practices, like magic and foreign medicine, with which Pliny struggles to deal in a rational setting. For example, some people, he reports, are claimed to cause miracles by their own presence and authority. King Pyrrhus’s toe, for example, was believed to have healing powers. It operated by contact in a way that resembles the supposed miracles performed by relics centuries later, in the

14

Praefatio I, 14.

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Middle Ages.15 Magic is a practice that undermines the Roman sense of duty and activity. The real danger originates from superstition (NH XVI, 251): tanta gentium in rebus frivolis plerumque religio est. The inexplicable sounded mysterious and threatening because some form of caste would start. The Roman conquest of Britain stopped monstrosities, such as human sacrifices and rituals performed by the Druids, both prophets and doctors (NH XXX, 13 hoc genus vatum medicorumque). The Roman superiority in the world, considered to be undergoing globalization, is part of political propaganda and a commonly held belief (NH XXIV, 4-5). The would-be emperor Titus, a comrade with Pliny, had recently conquered Jerusalem and displayed a triumph with a symbolic meaning (Murphy 2004, 114-118). The monotheism that was practiced in the Holy Land was certainly a concern to the Roman ruling class. There was a reason of pride for the Romans, as Jerusalem is claimed to be the most beautiful city, a compliment that even Rome does not receive: Hierosolyma, longe clarissima urbium orientis, non Iudaeae modo, Herodium cum oppido inlustri eiusdem nominis (NH V, 70). But we must also admit that there is a sense of awe in front of the Essenes and the Bible miracles. The normalization problem is also much trickier than it seems—how do you decide what constitutes a normal standard Roman subject, and how can you have them conform to a standard that is being assessed? A number of people that differ very much from the Romans are described throughout the encyclopedia, especially in Book VII. A real need to regulate their presence is felt for the Essenes and the Jewish mostly. The Hyperboreans, for instance, live a lavish life caring only about pleasure and happiness, and eventually die in a Stoic way, by committing suicide, which is disturbing to a Roman reader, as the only aim of it is to pursue perfect happiness, not duty and virtue. But they live so far north, and they are only reported to exist, without any Roman evidence of their real presence, as we read in NH IV, 89: gens felix, si credimus, quos Hyperboreos appellavere, annoso degit aevo, fabulosis celebrata miraculis. ibi creduntur esse cardines mundi extremique siderum ambitus. Unlike the Hyperboreans, the Essenes existed, and archaeological evidence recently identified them with the holders of the Qumran scrolls from the Dead Sea. Murphy (2004, 118) writes that the main contrast consists in the “rejection in Roman terms: vitae paenitentia, ‘repentance of life’” and “the nausea of overindulgence, ‘repentance of life’ (vitae paenitentia, 5.73),” that he sees behind “the living death of the Essenes” (126). Their community, living in 15

quorundam corpori partes nascuntur ad aliqua mirabiles, sicut Pyrro regi pollex in dextro pede, cuius tactu lienosis medebatur. hunc cremari cum reliquo corpore non potuisse tradunt conditumque loculo in templo (VII, 20).

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a desert by the Dead Sea, refuses money and marriage, the milestones on which the Roman society was founded.16 Ab occidente litora Esseni fugiunt usque qua nocent, gens sola et in toto orbe praeter ceteras mira, sine ulla femina, omni venere abdicate, sine pecunia, social palmarum. In diem ex aequo convenarum turba renascitur large frequentantibus quos vita fessos ad mores eorum fortuna fluctibus agitat. Ita per seculorum milia (incredibile dictu) gens aeterna est in qua nemo nascitur: tam fecunda illis aliorum vitae paenitentia est! (NH V, 73)

Magic provides another chance to talk about the Jewish. Popular legends of his day had Jewish magicians confused with Bible characters. After investigating the origins of magic in Asia, Pliny introduces another group of magicians and names Moses, Jannes, and Lotapes.17 Charles Torrey guesses that Lotapes is a misunderstanding that occurred in the manuscript tradition, as a Latin speaker read the Hebrew name of God iota pe, which are the letters most resembling the Hebrew letters hey iod, written backwards, the first two letters of the name of God.18 But something more than names is evident here. Pliny shows that he shares the Hellenistic philosophical stance that the elements of earth are intelligent and recognize the obedience wanted by God for world leadership. Pliny understands the portent in a way influenced by his Roman world and by the Roman philosophy that he had studied. He understood, and wanted his audience to understand, that there was the same dignity and message. This example alerts us to the importance of being familiar with all the most well-known references attributed to Romans. It is, indeed, surprising that a definition of magic as a cultural phenomenon is so rarely attempted in first-century Roman literature, Pliny being a unique case. Magic is close to religion, astrology, and medicine. This 16

Historical information about the Essenes is in Levine, Allison, and Crossan 2006: “The New Testament does not mention the Essenes … Whereas Josephus indicates that the Essenes lived in groups throughout Judea, Pliny the Elder and Dio Crysostom locate their community by the Dead Sea” (16); “about the Dead Sea scrolls, Almost all scholars now agree that the community that wrote and stored the scrolls were Essenes … Long before the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, several links were alleged between the Essenes – as described by Josephus, Philo, and Pliny the Elder – and Jesus” (110-111). 17 NH XXX, 11: est et alia magices factio a Mose et Janne et Lotape ac Iudaeis pendens, sed multis milibus annorum post Zoroastren. 18 Torrey 1949, 326: “The magicians and exorcists of Pliny’s time – chiefly Jews, but also others – made great use of the Hebrew tetragrammaton, the ineffable name of the Hebrew God”.

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affinity might make magic a topic not easy to mention, and one needing silence to protect oneself. An apotropaic practice required silence for things connected to awe and potential portents, as was the case for Rome’s secret name, never to be communicated to anyone (NH III, 65). Silence is very important and makes a difference, as well as spells, the most powerful use of words and tunes to be performed in the most attentive way. This is also why Pliny includes details on how to observe precautions and taboos, to avert danger, and amulets, to capture good energies. Beagon (1992, 97) wrote that Pliny is aware of “another facet of the abuse of ratio which he opposes”. If life is being awake (Praefatio I, 18 vita vigilia est), after learning that nature is life (Praefatio I, 13 rerum natura, hoc est vita), the consequence is that intellectual life finds its highest accomplishment in man’s study of nature. Intellectual dignity is not only ridiculed, but threatened by the rise of magic as a source of interest for the learned. Roman ways of healing, in addition to this, are safer and more legitimate than magic, as they acknowledge vis naturae (NH XXI, 78) and are morally plausible (NH XXIV, 4-5): “Not even the woods and the wilder face of Nature are without medicines, for there is no place where that holy Mother of all things did not distribute remedies for the healing of mankind, so that even the very desert was made a drug store, at every point occurring wonderful examples of that well-known antipathy and sympathy”. Nature’s remedies were to be found in local products. Pliny strongly criticizes the importation of drugs from India and Arabia (NH XXIV, 5): ita est profecto, magnitudine populus R. perdidit ritus, vincendoque victi sumus. paremus externis, et una artium imperatoribus quoque imperaverunt. verum de his alias plura.

In his opinion, effective drugs would never be sold elsewhere, were they indeed effective. The importance of basic homeland products is stressed with some pride:19 wine and oil are local products with many applications in medicine (NH XIV, 150 Duo sunt liquores humanis corporibus gratissimi, intus vini, foris olei, arborum e genere ambo praecipui, sed olei necessarius) and for all his practical wisdom, Pliny was a supporter of autarchy. He justifies a political and economic system on account of theological reasons: Nature is a Mother and pervades every living being, providing everything one needs in terms of benefit and preventing risks. Sympathy and antipathy are forms of harmony and war 19 Chesnutt speaks of “The triad of bread, cup, and ointment is reminiscent of the biblical formula ‘grain, wine, and oil’” (2006, 360).

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in Nature.20 I assume that magic is not a prerequisite for scientific knowledge, but a different way of constructing and representing a causeeffect connection: thus, Pliny’s indignation about salamanders, which cannot put out fire, otherwise Rome would have been saved by them (NH XXIX, 76). Medicine, magic, and religion arise from an individual and intellectual matter of involvement to a form of dominating nature, one of the ways in which individuals think about the world and represent it to share this experience of life with their fellow humans, in front of indifferent deities (II,54), hoping to win their favour. It is not a matter for which to verify the true and the false: these are different languages expressing the same thing. The interplay between religion and belief is important also in medicine, whose practitioners are considered to be dangerous, looking suspiciously close to magicians (charms and spells, XXVIII, 10-29; Book XXX, 1-2). Superstition is very close to religion, according to the perspective and the status and nation of the person expressing his opinion. Charms, spells, and incantations are discussed throughout the whole Book XXVIII, whose introductory passage reads: Ex homine remediorum primum maximae quaestionis et semper incerta est, polleantne aliquid verba et incantamenta carminum. quod si verum est, homini acceptum fieri oportere conveniat, sed viritim sapientissimi cuiusque respuit fides, in universum vero omnibus horis credit vita nec sentit. quippe victimas caedi sine precatione non videtur referre aut deos rite consuli.

Some may feel that the truth about religion and belief in society is too important to be obtained by an encyclopedia. Nevertheless, it may be that correctness in the reconstruction of this process of symbolism and representation is not found in what we think of first, that is, sacred books. Like many religious traditions past and present, early Roman religion categorizes persons, places, and other things as “pure” and “impure”. Our topic is both complicated and controversial. The complications arise from the difficult nature of the primary sources that treat these matters. The academic foundation for the study of purity was set in the 1930’s with the publication of Magic, Taboo, and Spirits by the classicist Edward Eli Burriss. The book changed forever the way scholars looked on ancient and modern notions of defilement and taboo. Before Burriss, purity laws such as those found in Book VII were dismissed as meaningless folklore, hardly worth scholarly interest, let alone detailed investigation. Burriss demonstrated that purity rules, when interpreted properly, express fundamental societal 20

NH XXI, 78; XXIV, 1; among many other examples.

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ideologies. Impurity does not mean sin, status, or a tool by which the socially dominant Romans, or their priestly status, asserted their power over those elements of society that they despised and wished to lord over. It is generally believed that religion is an important factor shaping mentality. More so, the Romans founded their system of belief according to a celestial order guaranteeing order in the universe (Burriss 1931). Words and silence were ritual conditions and social conventions to be careful about. In Rome individual expression of belief was unimportant, strict adherence to a rigid set of rituals was far more significant, thereby avoiding the hazards of religious zeal. Moral purity is achieved by punishment, atonement, or, best of all, refraining from committing morally impure acts in the first place. More questions may come to the careful reader, who may be interested to know if these rules apply in all circumstances. Such a reader should keep in mind that the above passage constitutes only the very first passage. Other readers may ask a different question: what interest can such a text have for the study of personal belief and social practice in the first century? The answer is: plenty. The land of Rome is holier than all other lands. The supremacy is one to be redressed, as globalization threatened the leadership of Rome in culture. The danger of defilement is the potential to defile others in various ways. Even philosophical issues crossed the path of religion, as in the case of Epicurus and the worshipping of statues representing him (NH XXXV, 5), that are threatening the strife for success: ita est profecto: artes desidia perdidit, et quoniam animorum imagines non sunt, negleguntur etiam corporum. My main objective to date has been to investigate data in order to explain facts and opinions as voiced by those who supported them. I believe that integrating approaches must consider the Roman worldview on moral, scientific and technical knowledge as a necessary blueprint, where things from abroad, especially magic, are dangerous because they sound unknown and mysterious and lack an understanding of the cultural background that originated such institutions.

Bibliography Beagon, Mary. 1992. Roman Nature. The Thought of Pliny the Elder. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Brown, Andrew. 2011. A Brief History of Encyclopedias: From Pliny to Wikipedia. London: Hesperus Press. Burriss, Eli Edward. 1931. Taboo, Magic, Spirits. A Study of Primitive Elements in Roman Religion. Westport: Greenwood Press.

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Caspar, J.W. 1924. Roman Religion as Seen in Pliny’s Natural History. Chicago: University of Chicago Libraries. Chesnutt, Randall D. 2006. “Joseph and Aseneth: Food as an identity marker.” In The Historical Jesus in Context, edited by Levine, AmyJill., Allison, D.C., & Crossan, J.D., 357-365. Princeton: Princeton University Press. French, R., & Greenaway, F. 1986. (Eds.) Science in the Early Roman Empire. Pliny the Elder, His Sources and His Influence. London; Sydney: Croom Helm. Grabbe, Lester L. 2000. Judaic Religion in the Second Temple Period; Belief and Practice from the Exile to Yavneh. New York, London: Routledge. Levine, Amy-Jill., Allison, D.C., & Crossan, J.D. 2006. (Eds.) The Historical Jesus in Context. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Gudger, E.W. 1924. “Pliny’s Historia Naturalis. The Most Popular Natural History Ever Published.” Isis 6: 269-281. Healy, John. 1999. Pliny the Elder on Science and Technology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lloyd, G.E.R. 1979. Magic, Reason and Experience: Studies in the Development of Greek Science. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —. 1999. Science, Folklore, and Ideology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Murphy, Trevor. 2004. Pliny the Elder’s Natural History. The Empire in the Encyclopedia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Oliveira, Francisco de. 2004. Les idées politiques et morales de Pline l’ancien, Coimbra: Instituto Nacional de Investigacao Cientifica. Stannard, Jerry. 1965. “Pliny and Roman Botany.” Isis 56: 420-425. —. 1982. “Medicinal Plants and Folk Remedies in Pliny’s ‘Historia naturalis’.” History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences 4: 3-23. Torrey, Charles T. 1949. “The Magic of Lotapes.” Journal of Biblical Literature 68: 325-327. Veltri, Giuseppe. 1998. “The Rabbis and Pliny the Elder: Jewish and Greco-Roman Attitudes toward Magic and Empirical Knowledge,” Poetics Today 19: 63-89. Wallace-Hadrill, A. 1990. “Pliny the Elder and Man’s Unnatural History,” Greece & Rome NS 37: 80-96.

CHAPTER NINE ABRAHAM’S STRIVING WITH GOD: FAITH AS COGNITIVE OBEDIENCE MATEUSZ BONIECKI

One of the most striking features of any work of Søren Kierkegaard are the different central philosophical aspects and issues, which are all packed in a surprisingly short, almost pamphlet like, piece. In this paper I will approach only one such “aspect”, which seems to be at the heart of philosophical discussions surrounding Fear and Trembling (FT)–namely faith. To postulate the centrality of the concept of faith in FT may not cause much controversy, but the exact role this concept plays, i.e. its nature (or, maybe more correctly, the nature of its numerous aspects) and structure, remains an issue in the debates among commentators and philosophers who would like to see Kierkegaard’s discussion influencing contemporary philosophy of religion. In my engagement with the subject in this paper I will start off with what I take to be an unproblematic presupposition: that the concept of faith is non-reducible to other concepts, but is aspectual, in the sense that there are a number of sides to this concept which need to be discussed in relative isolation. With this presupposition in mind, I want to address the following issue. Given that at least one context of the discussion of faith in FT is the way in which it should explain how Abraham is more than a murderer (either by postulating his act as nevertheless holy, or by contradicting that he was in fact a murderer) there are two issues which are central to the initial exposition of Abraham’s faith at the beginning of FT, “Preamble from the Heart”: (1) What is the relation between the movement of infinite resignation and the movement of faith and what is exactly meant by saying that faith necessarily involves movement of infinite resignation;

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(2) Given the structure of faith and its “epistemic” aspect, what is the relationship between two beliefs which, according to the author, seem to be at play. The beliefs in question are: the belief that Isaac will live and the belief that Isaac will die. I will begin this paper with an exposition of the contemporary debate on these two issues and then propose an alternative account, in which the relevant aspect of Abraham’s relation with God is the idea of striving and that it is a form of cognitive disobedience.

Two Movements: Infinite Resignation and Faith One of the most unique contributions of Kierkegaard to the subject of philosophy of religion is what can be seen as a shift of focus from the objects of religious thought (i.e. concept of the divine and its essence) towards the discussion of the act of religious believing. In a number of his works, he engages again and again with the nature of religious faith. Each time, he approaches this issue from a slightly different angle. Fear and Trembling is about faith, or at the very least, one can say that faith plays a central role in the narrative of its philosophical exposition. Central to the specific narrative of faith present in FT is the idea of faith as a movement, a movement which is analysed by contrasting it in relation to another movement–infinite resignation. It is beyond the scope of this paper to fully engage with the question as to what is exactly meant here by “movement”; or to fully answer the question about what is it movement of. Nevertheless it seems plausible to suggest that it is a movement or an act of consciousness. It is also very plausible that there is much more to it than a simple act of consciousness, but this is not crucial at this point. What matters is that this movement is, at least in part, constituted by the active engagement of the subject’s consciousness. Having that in mind, let us dive straight into the distinction between Infinite Resignation and Faith, starting from the way in which this distinction is supposed to help us in making sense of the story of Abraham and Isaac, or more specifically, in making sense of Abraham’s actions. Kierkegaard’s piece is narrated by Johannes De Silentio. The narrator offers an explanation which starts with an alternative of what may have been Abraham’s existential state and then he shows how faith, the state that he was in fact in, differs from this alternative. At this point, it is essential to introduce a further complication in the form of the pseudonymous author of the FT–Johannes De Silentio. Leaving aside complicated debates about the exact nature of the pseudonymous

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authorship and the overall literary or philosophical aims that motivated Kierkegaard in employing those pseudonyms, the way that Johannes De Silentio narrates FT is a central concern in the understanding of both movements. The reason why this particular narration is of importance even when we suspend our views on the more general problem of Kierkegaard’s authorship is because of Johannes’ attitude towards both the described movement and his confessed (1) (supposedly) personal engagement with the movement of infinite resignation and (2) inability to comprehend the movement of faith. Those two points will play an important role in what will follow in this paper. Without going into the details of all the analogies and parables that are employed in FT, I will start straightaway by extracting some central features of both movements. Infinite Resignation, maybe surprisingly, is presented as a movement which is in some way easily understood. By “easily” I do not mean here that the author is suggesting that it is either an easy thing to do nor is it not complex in its nature, but that the author seems to suggest that we can all somehow relate to and understand this movement. The possibility of understanding this movement as accessible to human or worldly reason is a first distinguishing characteristic of infinite resignation. Secondly, the author specifically suggests that the central idea of infinite resignation is that the subject, which performs this movement, has to do it himself. It is not only the case that nobody can do this movement for him (which could be trivially explained by the idea that it is supposed to be an act of his or her consciousness) but also that the available forms of help are very limited. It could be useful to say here that, for Johannes De Silentio, any case of Socratic ignorance is an example of the movement of infinite resignation. If that is the case, then Socrates’ discussion of his work as the “midwife” could hint at the idea of the subject’s singular involvement in the performance of the movement. Nevertheless, it is the third feature that explains what the movement is actually supposed to be. To perform the movement of infinite resignation, the subject abandons the finite for the sake of the infinite, thereby leaving the temporal for the sake of the eternal. What does this mean? I think the exact meaning of this idea is beyond anything that could fit in this paper. Indeed, the clearest explanation that Johannes gives of this is through the examples and parables that he is employing. What we can glean from the main example of the lad who falls in love with a princess is that this is supposed to show how, in the movement of infinite resignation, he lets go of the love in this world and transcends beyond that. It is not absolutely clear here at what level in the act the transcendence happens (that it becomes a “higher” act of love): it could be at the level of the object (instead of the princess here

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and now, it’s some idea of her or the “eternal being”) or maybe it is that act and object are there related in such a way that both are being transformed.1 The exact nature of this transformation is not essential for our purpose. What is crucial is that both elements are present–the finite (in some form) is abandoned for the sake of infinite (in some form). So it is not simply a case of a movement of resignation, in which one lets go of some attachment to the finite world; this “letting go” has to be made in the implicit movement towards the infinite. It seems then that, in the movement of infinite resignation, finite and infinite are contrasted with each other as almost hostile and incommensurable spheres. This last idea becomes somehow central to Johannes’ exposition of how the movement of faith is different. As such, most of the defining features of faith become polar opposites to the movement of infinite resignation. And so faith becomes something private and inaccessible to third parties. It is dependent on the other, in the form of the divine, which then seems to play an active role in the movement. But once more the crucial part consists in faith seeming to involve a deep commitment to the finite. We are still to see the extent of that commitment, but it seems plausible to interpret Johannes as claiming that this commitment to the finite is a kind of “reconnection” or a form of “getting finite back”. Those central features need to be expanded upon. For example, Kellenberger (1997) argues that faith involves not just commitment to the finite, but also a strong sense of joy in the finite world and a lack of blame or guilt in the situation that triggers either of those movements. This last point is interesting, as it highlights the unique situation in context of which FT disuses faith, or at least one form or aspect of it. It is worth remembering that we are supposedly dealing here with cases in which the finite world forces upon the subject something terrible or frightening. It seems that we are discussing faith in the face of horror, the horror of unfulfilled love, the horror of possibly losing one’s child, the horror of a subject’s inability to fulfil his life’s goal. It seems that the very situation, which works as the context of discussion, already involves a certain polarity between how the world is and how it should be from the point of view of the subject. The impact of this idea should become clearer as we go along. For now, we are left with two movements which seem to be polar opposites. The problem we are facing comes from the fact that Johannes proclaims that faith is a double movement, but on the one hand it seems that the movement of faith somehow happens after the infinite resignation, and on the other hand, the 1

My own view would lean towards this third option offering an interesting possibility of reading Kierkegaard as describing a very Husserlian description of the intentional mental act.

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movement of infinite resignation is necessarily involved in the movement of faith. But how can it be so and what could it possibly mean?

Interpretative Dilemma We are faced with a problem whose importance should not be underestimated. Once one looks closely at this problem, it becomes apparent the extent to which the two movements are incompatible with each other. As a result, J. Lippit (Lippit 2003, 53) suggested a clear set of options available for interpreters: 1. 2. 3. 4.

It is impossible to understand faith Kierkegaard’s view is incoherent Johannes Di Silentio’s view is inherently confused Give an allegorical reading of the story (going beyond what is explicitly said).

The first point seems initially very attractive. It works well with the traditional interpretation, according to which one would argue that Kierkegaard thinks of faith as paradoxical, i.e. as an offence to reason. At the same time it seems plausible that this alternative should be avoided if at all possible. Indeed, if faith is paradoxical in that sense, then the whole project of FT may appear to be a gibe. That is to say that FT would attempt to elucidate something which cannot possibly be elucidated. Let us take note that this option does not say that faith is incomprehensible from the outside, but that it is so, no matter where one stands. Abraham was just as much in the dark as we were because it is an intrinsic feature of faith that it is impossible to understand. The second option is also very problematic–as we already mentioned, a number of different works deal with the issue of faith in often dramatically different ways, and all of them should be looked at. But this does not even touch on the difficulties with the pseudonymous authorship. The third and fourth options seem to be the more attractive possibilities. I will follow Lippit (2003, 53-54) and argue that the most fruitful way forward is by adapting a combination of 3 and 4. Furthermore, option 3 seems to open up an interesting possibility that a) faith is possibly only incomprehensible from “outside” or b) incomprehensible at least from the point of view of the knight of infinite resignation (in this way the relation between the two appear even more at odds). If we stipulate that Johannes’ confessions give good reasons to believe that he is a knight of infinite resignation, then b) becomes a very interesting possibility; it could offer some further elucidation on the

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concept of faith as well as its relation with the infinite resignation. As for option 4, it is worth noting that, what is meant is that there is the possibility of formulating an account of faith using the building blocks offered by Johannes. However, we can draw different conclusions from those Johannes draws. The viability of this option will constitute the crux of what follows.

Annulled Possibility Given that this paper is primarily concerned with an issue arising further down the road than the general account of the relation between faith and infinite resignation, we can ask ourselves what the point of discussing the issue of this relation is in the first place. It is true that the exact structure of this relation can be, to a certain extent, left unresolved, yet there is an important link between this relation and a topic that soon will be an issue, namely the exact content of Abraham’s beliefs. This draws our attention to the fact that, even if we want to ask about Abraham’s beliefs, we have to be careful not to think about this as a purely cognitive issue. It shows that the relation provides a certain framework in which we can see which questions and answers are relevant for the larger problem. Although I believe it is a viable question to ask about Abraham’s beliefs, we need to remember what place this question has in the overall presentation of faith as an “existential” state. One of the best ways of looking at this problem is by bringing in a distinction made by Kierkegaard (and pointed out by Piety 1996), which consists in making a difference between objective and subjective truths. In brief, the difference is between purely cognitive issues, in which the content of the subject’s mind is supposed to match with the state of affairs in the world (objective truth),2 and a situation, in which it is the being (in this case actual existence of the subject) that is supposed to match with the ideal— possibly some kind of normative idea—(subjective truth). Under that picture, it seems clear that Kierkegaard’s discussion of faith and infinite resignation is primarily concerned with the existential question. That being said, I see no good reason to deny that the exact content of Abraham’s beliefs is irrelevant because of this distinction. What becomes an issue then is not so much the traditional account of justification which holds that some kind of representational mental state is involved and that this state is or is not veridical, but rather the way in which holding any belief constitutes the “appropriate” form of existence. 2

And as such can be seen as a kind of correspondence theory of truth.

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With all this in mind, we still can ask what about the relation itself? Can we leave the issue unresolved and simply move to the next problem? I believe that this would be possible, but a structural analysis of the relation would clarify the issue (at least hypothetically). As such, I will offer one possible reading of the relation that became popular among some commentators. A reason for this approach is that, firstly, I think this picture offers an interesting and potentially very successful way of accounting for the relation, and secondly, it gives a way of constructing an analogical reading of Kierkegaard’s works among commentators which I would like to use as a motivation for endorsing my analogical reading further down the road. The picture that I would like to endorse here is the idea that, what is meant by saying that infinite resignation is necessary for the movement of faith is to say that it figures in faith as the annulled possibility. This view of the matter was proposed by R. L. Hall (Hall 2000). It uses some of the insights into the topic of relational nature of faith provided by Kierkegaard in the Sickness unto Death (SUD). This view holds that, if we look at some of the features of faith pointed out in FT which distinguish it from infinite resignation, then, in addition to previously mentioned differences, we see that faith is seen as a continuous movement, i.e. as a continuous decision. This is opposed to infinite resignation which then looks more like a threshold moment, a singular event in which the subject’s life changes at some point dramatically. In addition to being a further reason dividing those two types of movement, Hall (2000, 35) points out that this shows what is in fact meant by faith is (at least in one aspect) a movement of continuous resistance to the temptation of resignation. According to him, the subject’s attachment to the finite is constantly under the risk of temptation to infinitely resign from it. Hall uses the analysis of faith from SUD, in which despair is supposed to be a necessary requirement of faith as something that is/must be constantly resisted by the faithful (Hall 2000, 37): The full import of the faithful embrace of the world comes in the concrete, existential recognition of the fact that we have the power to do otherwise; it is this power to do otherwise that is a permanent possibility within faith, a possibility faith must continually annul.

Now there are a number of both textual and conceptual reasons why somebody may dispute this interpretation. But this is not the issue at hand. The reason why I am introducing and want to embrace this position is quite simple. Why? Because I want to show that, even if one will have to answer the problem of the relation between two movements, it does not

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help on its own to deal with what Abraham’s situation is according to FT. Here, an appeal to his belief that Isaac will leave, and that God will keep his promise, will not provide a full explanation. This belief and its relation to his actions and his apparent readiness to sacrifice his son are not at all explained by an appeal to the relation between two movements. And given that it is not just the movements, but also this appeal to belief that is at work in FT, we still have a problem to deal with. This is true, I believe, although I will not be able to fully argue for this here. As such the explanation of the relation between those two beliefs is a separate issue which cannot be reduced to the worry about the relation.

What does Abraham believe as he draws the knife? Let us then consider Abraham’s belief seriously while having in mind what problem this puts forward. Once more I will say: it is not simply the problem of holding a true or false belief, neither is it about the possibility of holding two inconsistent beliefs by appealing to different belief-forming mechanisms (faith and reason). It is instead an issue of how holding a given belief corresponds to faith, seen as a change of existence to emulate the ideal norm. If to hold faith is to act and be in some specific way, then it is the case that the subject’s beliefs are part of this specific acting and being. The problem is that there seems to be two beliefs at work, and thus we should consider what it means for Abraham to hold both of them: 1. The belief that Isaac will live takes primacy (e.g. Lippitt) 2. The belief that Isaac will die takes primacy (e.g. Cross ) 3. Both beliefs are somehow held at the same time (e.g. the traditional interpretation). Let us start with the traditional view: “Traditional interpretation, which has Abraham believing two incompatible things: ¿rst, that he will have to sacri¿ce Isaac (and so Isaac will die), and second that somehow he will not have to sacri¿ce Isaac (and so Isaac will not die). The former belief shows Abraham’s obedience to God (that dimension of his faith), while the second belief shows his ability to continue to take joy in Isaac (thus manifesting faith rather than in¿nite resignation)” (Lippit 2003, 67; my italics). The problem with the traditional interpretation mimics the problems had by the view that holds faith to be paradoxical, i.e. impossible to understand, in a diminished way. The problem is twofold: on the one hand, there is a problem in believing two inconsistent things about the

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world, on the other hand, this does not say anything about how these two beliefs relate to Abraham as a man of faith, how they fit his existential task. Now, there is an obvious temptation to suggest that, in fact, the two beliefs are not inconsistent. Maybe one can change them into the belief that Abraham will kill Isaac but God will bring him back. Interestingly though, this is not the view given by Johannes De Silento, but he attacks this view as one which does not take the situation seriously. This view tries to lessen the horror of Abraham’s situation, simply because we know the end of the story. It also dismisses the way in which Abraham knows that Isaac will die, because he is commanded by God to kill him. It misses the true problem, which is about how the belief that Isaac will die figures in his existence and is unavoidably connected with God’s command. The importance of this second point will become clearer soon. Furthermore, it seems theologically more accurate to accept FT’s criticism that the notion of resurrection should not be seen as “commonsensical”, i.e. as an available way of solving any kind of problem with the inconsistency of the beliefs involved. The other two alternatives are to take either one of the beliefs as somehow primary. It is not to say that we should claim that Abraham holds only one of those beliefs, as it is clear in FT that both of them figure in the explanatory narrative. What is crucial is that, even if one of the given beliefs will take primacy, there is still the need to show in what role both beliefs play in Abraham’s conduct. We need to look at the sense in which both possibilities of Isaac’s living and dying (as opposed to any beliefs about which will occur and how) figure in what is going on.

Isaac Lives One example of the “Isaac will live” view is given by J. Lippit (Lippit 2003, 69). Lippit argues that Abraham, on the strength of faith and trust in God, believes that Isaac will live contrary to all the evidence he has. Abraham believes on the strength of the absurd that Isaac will live, he believes that even when faced with no reason whatsoever to believe it. Lippit tries to argue for this view by considering some possible objections and showing how they are rooted in misunderstanding what it would mean to hold this belief in such a way. Cross’ (1999, 234) view is similar to one of Lippit’s suggested objections: Abraham’s faith is nothing more than delusion. Abraham ignores the evidence and, by doing so, he is not entertaining the thought that he will lose his son. On this reading though, Abraham would be like the little girl described in FT (53). Lippit (2003, 69) argues the contrary to this: Abraham’s faith is exactly such that the

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thought of losing Isaac is always present to him. Furthermore, Lippit argues that this view takes seriously Abraham’s belief in God’s Grace, in God’s miracle, possibly in even the direst circumstances. Lippit wants to argue that Abraham’s belief in divine grace does not render mute his belief in Isaac’s death. Cross’ (1999, 237) follow-up objection seems to be that, if this is so, this would not be enough for a genuine sacrifice. Lippit’s response is that this doesn’t matter as the question is not whether Abraham is performing a genuine sacrifice but rather: “What matters is whether he would be willing to go through with it if push came to shove” (Lippit 2003, 71). That being said, Lippit’s view still seems to leave out two interrelated crucial elements of the story: firstly his account seems to read as if Isaac’s death was something which is happening to Abraham (as if sickness took his son and he nevertheless had faith that God will save him). But this is not the case. The belief in Isaac’s death comes from the fact that God is commanding Abraham to kill his son. This is to me a radically different situation, especially if we are concerned with more than simply the content of those beliefs, but also with how holding those beliefs relates to the existential task Abraham is facing. Secondly, God is present in this picture as an outsider, as a coping mechanism, helping Abraham to deal with his situation until Divine intervention. But this will not do. It is not enough to explain what is going on in the story, because what we do want to understand, what the account is supposed to explain, is not just how Abraham can stay sane or his mental life intelligible to us, but we are supposed to learn something about his relation to God as it is tested by God. And so: a. This account does not treat seriously enough the relational element of the story—the relation between Abraham and God b. It does not present the possibility of Isaac’s death as something that is ultimately in his hands, as something that is asked of him.

Isaac Dies What about the alternative? Cross suggests that the belief that Isaac will die should be taken as primary, and that in fact this is the only cognitive (or maybe doxastic) belief at work in Abraham (1999, 236). Cross suggests that Abraham’s orientation towards Isaac remaining alive is practical instead of cognitive. He lives and acts as if Isaac will live, while at the same time, cognitively speaking, he is convinced that Isaac

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will die. Cross has to answer to some textual evidence, which states clearly that Abraham does believe that Isaac will live (FT, 65). His strategy is to interpret this belief as something not cognitive, as an attitude of trust or conviction towards some non-propositional being. But as Lippit (2003, 73) points out this seems to solve nothing. In Abraham’s case, his “belief as trust” is directed towards God. A question then comes: in what does he trust exactly? Cross is aware of this problem and seeks an answer which leads him to a highly implausible view of faith and trust according to Lippit: “The maximum of trustfulness would be manifested in a person who voluntarily leaves herself open to the greatest possible loss or harm, and is certain that the harm she is counting upon not to happen will happen” (Cross 1999, 243). The second problem pointed out by Lippit (and accepted by Cross) (Lippit 2003, 74) is that, according to this view, Cross seems to argue that the conception of faith in FT allows for a lack of any theistic belief. Not only that, but actually the presence of an omnipotent deity would be problematic for the knight of faith, as it would undermine what he finds necessary for faith, i.e. the actual and unavoidable impossibility of Isaac living. And so as long as Abraham believes in the omnipotence of God, this very belief stands against the very possibility of his faith. But this view of faith is simply nonsensical and it leaves some of what matters in the account utterly unresolved. If faith is supposed to be in some sense inter-subjective, and at the same time it cannot be possible for one to hold a theistic belief, then the account given has gone terribly wrong somewhere. Now there is a possibility that a different account, one that would take either one of those beliefs as primary or that would take them as somehow mutually supportive, is possible. What will follow is my attempt to offer such an account.

An Alternative Interpretation Our discussion so far gave most of the elements necessary for the interpretation I wish to offer. On my view, the belief that Isaac will live takes primacy and through our understanding of Abrahams relation to this belief (the way in which it figures in his existential stance), we can understand how this belief is supposed to help with the problem presented in FT, as well as how it relates to the belief that Isaac will die. What is central in my interpretation is one element that so far has not been treated seriously enough, i.e. that faith appears in the context of interpersonal relation. This interpersonal relation is characterised as a relation between

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Abraham and God as two subjects. The relevant relation I am postulating is that of Strife with God. Here is some textual evidence, which lends support to my interpretation (FT, 16): They shall all be remembered, but everyone was great in proportion to the magnitude of what he strove with. For he who strove with the world became great by conquering the world, and he who strove with himself became greater by conquering himself; but he who strove with God became greater then all. Thus there was strife in the world, man against man, once against thousands, but he who strove with God was greater than all. Thus there was strife upon earth: there was he who conquered everything by his own strength, and he who conquered God by his powerlessness. There was one who relied upon himself and gained everything, and one who, secure in his own strength, sacrificed everything; but greater than all was the one 3 who believed God.

And furthermore (FT, 54): Whenever I want to make this movement I turn giddy, at the same moment I admire it absolutely and yet in the same instant an immense anxiety seizes my soul, for what is it to test God?4

If we are to think of the relation between Abraham and God as a strife of faith, strife to keep faith in God’s promise and goodness against not just the evidence available in the finite world, but also against God’s proclaimed commandment, then what initially looked like Abraham’s obedience (a belief that Isaac will die) becomes in fact disobedience (in the sense that Abraham’s actions are motivated to change God’s mind, something impossible and yet believed as possible through Faith). Why is this disobedience? Because, it is no longer the case that Abraham believes that Isaac will die, due to his obedience to God, but because he is acting in such a way as to change God’s mind while keeping his faith in Him. According to this picture, it is not only the fact that Isaac will live that is believed through faith, but more importantly, it is the belief that Abraham will change God’s mind. I believe that my view has a number of advantages. It brings back the relationship between God and Abraham into the picture in a way that is meant to be explanatory of this relationship. Faith is no longer seen simply as a mental act of the subject against the disinterested world, or a set of metaphysical possibilities or necessities. It accepts Cross’ insight that the 3 4

All my italics. All my italics.

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kind of belief which is at work is inter-subjective. It allows for Abraham to believe that Isaac will live; more specifically, that Isaac will be given to him once more by God. With this belief, the belief that Abraham will kill Isaac is neither mute nor in the background. It now plays a central role in how Abraham relates himself towards God. He accepts God’s command and wants to use it, so to speak, to change the role of God regarding who is testing who (that is not to say that his situation is not a test or that it loses its status of a test). Furthermore, it shows how both beliefs figure not simply as cognitive representational mental states, but as elements of the existential choice made by Abraham. They are acts contributing to what it means for Abraham to accept a subjective religious truth.

Conclusion In the face of many interpretative difficulties and important questions as to how we should approach Kierkegaard’s writing, every philosopher has to make a number of difficult choices. I endeavoured to engage fully with the problem that Kierkegaard is positing. I looked for an account of faith using Johannes’ narrative, which I believe would make sense as well as stay true to the importantly edifying aspect of Kierkegaard’s writing. I showed how numerous interpretations left untouched crucial elements of the narrative and its purpose. I also showed how this lack of consideration led the said accounts to miss the goal of the narrative in the first place. My own alternative, which is more controversial in its form, has the advantage of remaining true to the situation which needed to be explained. By arguing that Abraham’s faith should not be considered to be an act of obedience to God, but that it should be considered as a kind of disobedience, we can see the pieces of the puzzle form a different and a possibly more illuminating picture. By no means am I saying that this is the whole story. Neither do I claim that all there is to faith is only striving with God, but I believe that once we take this aspect of faith seriously in Fear and Trembling, we can find some of the answers we were looking for.

Bibliography Cross, A. 1999. “Fear and Trembling’s unorthodox ideal.” Philosophical Topics 27(2): 227–53. Hall, R. L. 2000. The Human Embrace: The Love of Philosophy and the Philosophy of Love: Kierkegaard, Cavell, Nussbaum. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press.

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Kellenberger, J. 1997. Kierkegaard and Nietzsche: Faith and Eternal Acceptance. London and New York: Macmillan and St Martin’s Press. Kierkegaard, S. 2005. Fear and Trembling. Translated by A. Hannay. London: Penguin Books. Lippit, J. 2003. Kierkegaard and Fear and Trembling. London: Routledge.

CHAPTER TEN WHAT TO WEAR FOR THE AFTERLIFE JUDITH SIMPSON

The novelist Philip Roth describes a horrific nightmare in which his dead father returns dressed in a shroud and full of reproach (Roth 1991, 233ff): He said, “I should have been dressed in a suit. You did the wrong thing.” …. All that peered out from the shroud was the displeasure in his dead face. And his only words were a rebuke: I had dressed him for eternity in the wrong clothes.

This reflects a common predicament. To do the wrong thing when dressing a loved one for their final journey seems unthinkable, yet most people in the Modern West arrive at the point where they have to make such decisions in a state of almost total ignorance; they do not know what choices are available, what other people choose to do, or why. This paper uses survey responses from British funeral directors to provide some insight into this area. The responses are placed in historical context and considered in the light of traditional explanations for body styling, which include family pride, commercial exploitation, solace for the bereaved, and afterlife beliefs. An alternative framework which interprets the styling of the dead body as the visual expression of a “good death” narrative is recommended.

What do the Dead Wear? Questionnaires were sent to 80 funeral directors whose email addresses were available on the internet. Participants were asked how British families arranging a Protestant funeral chose to dress the dead body. This elicited twelve completed surveys and three email responses: a low return but one that provided significant consensus on key issues.

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Respondents stated that dead bodies were almost always clothed in some way (5% of adult males were buried naked; this option was not mentioned at all for women or children). This is a striking finding in itself, suggesting a strong cultural attachment to clothing the dead body, while raising the question: “what purpose is served by such clothes?” It was reported that decisions on clothing were generally made by close family although occasionally the deceased left specific instructions. Specific instructions could be quirky; requests to be buried dressed as Elvis were mentioned several times. No one responding to the survey believed that clothing choices were directly informed by any religious considerations. Respondents described three categories of coffin wear: the shroud, the gown, and the deceased’s own clothing. The modern shroud is the descendant of the winding sheet, an ancient form of body wrapping sometimes used in place of a coffin, sometimes inside one. Essentially this is an oversized sheet wrapped and tied around the body rendering it parcel like. The gown also has at least three hundred years of history. It is a loose, flowing garment that resembles a long night dress or christening gown. Decorated with ruffles and tucks, the modern gown is offered in a variety of pastel colours to co-ordinate with coffin upholstery. “Own clothing” is clothing that the family supply: usually items from the deceased’s own wardrobe, though new clothing may be purchased. Although America has a wellestablished industry that manufactures “couture” for the dead (for examples see the websites of Ethel Maid, Rita Barber or Eternal Coutures), in Britain coffin clothes are generally purchased on the high street. Respondents consistently described a situation in which, over the last twenty to thirty years, shrouds and gowns had moved from being the norm to being an exception, with the majority of bereaved families now choosing to supply clothing even when not planning to “view” the deceased in the funeral home. Shrouds or gowns accounted for only 5% of the outfits described. The most popular choices for adult male burials were suits or “smart casual wear”, while around 10% made their final journey in a football or a rugby shirt. Adult women were usually dressed in contemporary day wear or “smart, special occasion clothes” with around 10% being buried in their wedding dress. A further 10% of women, mainly the very elderly, were dressed in nightclothes. This was a category that did not appear in descriptions of male burials. Whereas thirty years ago the body was processed into anonymity, it is now being dressed as a person and treated as someone who is socially, if not physically, alive until the very moment of disposal. The deceased is not only dressed as a person, but also provided with items that a living person would enjoy: many of my respondents mentioned that cigarettes,

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alcohol, books, letters and mementoes were placed in the coffin with the body. Funeral directors explained the styling of the dead in terms of the emotional needs of the bereaved. They suggested that bereaved families choose clothes to make the person who has died look more attractive and familiar, to emphasise their individuality and uniqueness and to make them comfortable. Bereaved families try to carry out the final wishes (explicit or imagined) of the deceased and to demonstrate that the family care; they also want to do what is traditional or “normal practice” in an unfamiliar situation.

Historical Context In order to understand the recent changes in practice it is necessary to look briefly at the history of body preparation and consider what factors have shaped this in the past. Such factors include legislation, public health concerns, economic and lifestyle factors, and religious change. Joseph Strutt, an 18th century writer, noted that the Saxons clothed their dead in a shirt (or “camisia”), over which were placed clothes appropriate to the rank of the deceased. Once dressed, the corpse was wrapped in a winding sheet. The face was left uncovered but would have a handkerchief placed upon it (Cunnington and Lucas 1972, 156) . Linen was the preferred material for shrouds, even among the poor (Cunnington and Lucas 1972, 156), either because of an association with Christ’s burial or because it was, more generally, felt to be lucky (Richardson 1987, 21). However, linen was prohibited by the Burial in Woollens Act, first mooted in 1666 but enforced from 1678. This Act aimed to boost the woollen industry by fining anyone choosing to be buried in another fabric. The insistence on burial in woollens caused much resentment among those unable to pay the fine. The educated rich, who could afford the levy, mocked the poor for their superstition, but failed to change anybody’s mind (The Good Wife's Lamentation: or, The Womens Complaint on Account of their being to be Buried in Woollen 1678, 4): Now what could in itself be more indifferent, than whether the dead were wrapped in Linnen [sic] or Woollen? And yet not a few ignorant people feel almost as much troubled and concerned at it as if they were sentenced to be Buried Alive or have their bodies Gibbetted after they were dead.

Richardson (1987) speculates that the wish to bury the dead in a respectful way without incurring fines may have led to the creation of a death-specific outfit (1987, 20), suggesting that exquisitely decorated

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burial gowns were introduced to compensate for having to use despised materials. Certainly one enterprising business woman was announcing that she had found a way to make woollens respectable in The London Gazette during August 1678 (Cunnington and Lucas 1972, 161): Decent and fashionable laced Shifts and Dressings for the Dead made of Woollen have been presented to her Majestie by Amy Potter Widow (the first that puts the making of such things into practice).

In a travel memoir written in 1719 Henri Misson described the British burial gown as a shift, made of white flannel, ornamented with woollen lace or embroidered with black thread and at least a foot and a half longer than the body. Those who could afford to pay fines continued to be buried in their own clothes plus winding sheet. Lady Kilsyth, who died in 1717, was accidentally disinterred in 1795. She was found to be wearing an exquisite be-ribboned outfit beneath her winding sheet (Anonymous writer in Notes and Queries 1868). Likewise, the actress Mrs Oldfield, who died in 1730, was buried in a headdress of Brussels lace, a Holland shift with lace ruffles, new kid gloves and winding sheet (Cunnington and Lucas 1972, 161). Such freedom theoretically became available to all from 1814 when the Burial in Woollens Act was repealed, but by this time the burial gown was firmly established as a respectable choice. From the late 19th century onwards, changes in life expectancy began to exert a significant influence on the way death was experienced. Until the mid 1890s death in infancy was more common than death in old age (Jalland 1996, 5), but from this point on middle and upper class parents could reasonably expect that their children would outlive them (Mitchinson 1977). The displacement of dying from childhood to old age allowed death to be perceived less as a terrifying enemy than as “a natural and timely event concluding a long life” (Jalland 1996, 6). While it is impossible to trace the precise impact of this on the treatment of the dead body, increasing life expectancy coincides with a movement towards less ostentation in funerary and mourning ritual as a whole (Howarth 2007, 242; Bregman 2011, 99). Until the mid twentieth century most dead people were prepared for burial either by family members or by local women who earned an irregular income as “layers out” (Richardson 1987, 19); the body remained in the family home until it was buried. Two studies of laying out practices, both conducted by interviewing the descendants of “layers out”, cast light on traditional ways of dressing the corpse. Adams (1993), who investigated practices in a working class area of Coventry in the 1920s and

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1930s, cited a range of clothing choices. These included clean nightclothes, wedding clothes for a recently married woman, a best suit for a man, clothes that related to a career, a burial gown which had been made in advance, or a shroud purchased from an undertaker. Chamberlain and Richardson’s (1983) study indicated that where the family was poor, personal choice was replaced by communal improvisation: “you … put them in a clean night shirt or whatever you could find–of your own if they hadn’t got anything. It didn’t matter whose house it came from” (Chamberlain and Richardson, 1983, 39). Where a family had a burial gown prepared this was likely to have been made within the family, perhaps as part of a wedding trousseau, and kept in readiness for years (Radford, Radford and Hole 1961). Shrouds were more likely to be purchased than made; they could be obtained from an undertaker or, if the individual had died in hospital, the hospital might provide the shroud and charge the family for it. Professional funeral directors started to appear during the eighteenth century. At first they served upper class families who aspired to funerals modelled on those organised by the College of Arms for royalty and knights (Taylor 1983; Litten 2002). It was the experience of city life that created a demand for professional assistance with death among working class families. In the city, houses were small, privacy was cherished (Roberts 1989) and the guidance and support of the extended family was less readily available (West 1988, 109). These factors, together with a growing distaste for physical processes such as birth and death, created a demand for commercial undertaking services (Walter 1994). The rhetoric of the Victorian burial reformers (Chadwick 1843) encouraged the use of professional undertakers by linking the tradition of caring for the dead body at home with harmful “miasmas” and “emanations”; it was unhygienic and, by implication, immoral (Hotz 2001). Consequently many of the joiners who had been providing coffins began to offer additional services: they became funeral directors and started to sell shrouds or gowns alongside coffins, ultimately creating a situation where most of the dead were dispatched in one or the other. From the mid twentieth century the medical progress that had increased life expectancy began to deliver a secondary effect: death was transformed from a religious event to a medical failure. The priest was displaced at the bedside by the doctor, and people became increasingly likely to die in a hospital (Howarth 2007, 121). The preparation of the dead body became routinized as part of an efficient workflow (Charmaz 1980) and a hidden activity as the medical profession sought to control what visitors and other patients saw (Sudnow 1967). The transfer of

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responsibility for body preparation from the family to the hands of hospital orderlies and funeral directors took place against a background of significant religious change. While Victorian England was Christian in both public law and social convention (Chadwick 1971), modern Britain is secular and multi-cultural. The discourses that surround death on hospital wards and in newspaper columns are no longer specifically Christian. According to my informants, a move (back) towards dressing the dead in their own clothes began in the 1970s or ‘80s. Numerous factors are implicated in the re-emergence of this former tradition. There is certainly evidence of a growing dissatisfaction with the funeral industry. Discontent was articulated by the Natural Death Centre and by consumer groups including Age Concern from the 1970s onwards: this consumer activism gained some support from the British Broadcasting Corporation (Spottiswoode 1991). The 1980s, meanwhile, saw the development of a consumer culture that created the expectation of choice in all things (Berridge 2001). The initial acceptance of a limited range of standardised coffin-wear was probably, in part, a legacy of war. Britons who had fought in World Wars I or II had little interest in prestigious and personalised funerary rites. Mass fatalities and un-repatriated bodies had created a memorial tradition that focussed attention on memories and symbols rather than on physical remains (Berridge 2001, 56), while recollections of shared adversity encouraged this generation to accept “standard issue” in peacetime funerals (Berridge 2001, 129), as well as in other products and services. Moreover, those who had witnessed man’s inhumanity in war appeared to take a communal decision that the less said about death the better (Walter 1999; Berridge 2001; Van Emden 2011) effectively making death a taboo subject (Gorer 1965). It was as the generations who had experienced war began to die out that the funeral practices they had found appropriate were challenged by their children. These children had grown up in a very different society, one that valued individualism greatly and required a more individualised death ritual (Walter 1994, 2).

Explanations for the Styling of the Dead Body Many explanations are offered for the way in which the corpse is prepared for its final journey: some locate formative forces at the cultural level, in beliefs about the afterlife, attitudes to the body or the role of the ancestors; some offer sociological interpretations based on social competition or commercial exploitation; others find it at the psychological level and interpret behaviour towards the corpse in terms of grief and guilt.

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It is worth noting that, while cultural and religious explanations were favoured until the late Victorian period, the focus moved first to sociological explanations and more recently to psychological ones as, perhaps, the social unit deemed worthy of study shrank from being the nation to being the man. In the funeral parlour, the individual mourner encounters both commerce and culture and it seems sensible to treat the available explanations, not as competing models, but as elements in a complex web of causality. Nonetheless, some are more illuminating than others. Three explanations can be dismissed as offering little insight into current practice. The first is that body styling is clearly and directly influenced by Christian theology, the second that it represents a claim for social status, the third that it is explained solely by rampant commercialism. Historically Christianity has offered many reasons for treating the corpse with reverence, but no guidance at all on the preparation of the body. This reticence may derive from Protestantism’s vagueness about what happens to the individual after death. Biblical material on the afterlife has not given rise to one theology of death, but rather to several variants (Pelikan 1961), all of which have been subject to reinterpretation over time (Bregman 2011). Thus the dead have been imagined as going straight to Heaven, travelling there via Purgatory, or sleeping in the bosom of Abraham, perhaps, but not definitely, to be reanimated on a final Judgement Day (for evidence of the on-going debate see the website of the United Methodist Church). Semiotic analysis of coffin garments may pick up Christian themes of transcendence and purity in flowing white garments, but such analysis may introduce rather than discover meaning. Semiotic analysis may thus reveal the retrospective Christianisation of established practice rather than a death rite based on Christian belief. The argument that a finely dressed corpse is an attempt to claim social status draws on the functionalist view of society which sees funerary rites as mechanisms through which societies reallocate power, goods and social roles. The family of the deceased are argued to be making a claim that the deceased was powerful and that they should inherit. Commentators on the clothing of the living draw attention to the ways in which people wear expensive and impractical clothes to vaunt their wealth and distance themselves from physical labour (Veblen 1912). While it is tempting to see the clothing of the dead as a similar display of wealth and status, this argument collapses as soon as the question of audience is considered: who is going to see finery on a corpse? Competitive social display requires an audience of people to impress. Ideally this audience should be close enough to be able to read the same symbolic code as those trying to

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impress them, but far enough removed to assume that the social display is reality as opposed to performance. This audience is simply not present at the contemporary British funeral home. The notion that funeral practice is dictated by the avarice of the undertaking trade has been famously articulated (on both sides of the Atlantic) by Charles Dickens, Evelyn Waugh, Bertrand Puckle (1926) and Jessica Mitford (1963). For Puckle “the origin of the custom of washing, anointing and clothing the corpse in garments suitable to its rank” was to be found in pre-Christian superstition (1926, 35). However, these traditions were “carefully fostered by the dismal trader” (Puckle 1926, 32) in order to maintain both his profits and his status as an expert in funerary procedure. Mitford argued that funeral directors, in their rush to provide palatial premises and beautiful limousines, had acquired crippling overheads that could be met only by selling a raft of expensive and unnecessary services, such as embalming, cosmeticizing and styling the corpse. The argument from profit can be dismissed, in the British context, on two grounds. Firstly, it is evident that funeral directors were not the first to pay careful attention to the appearance of the dead; many cultures have deemed this absolutely essential. Secondly, the tradition of minimal advertising among British funeral directors makes companies reliant upon repeat business and word of mouth recommendations; thus success is not based upon “profit per body” but on building a reputation for value and service. Ironically, British funeral directors have attempted to increase profitability by streamlining processes and encouraging customers to choose “packages”: coffin a, with outfit b, c or d (Naylor 1989); leading to, arguably, less emphasis on the appearance of the corpse. Furthermore, the development of a tradition in which families provide their own clothes means funeral directors lose the opportunity to sell gowns or shrouds. Although funeral directors evidently play some role in the development of body styling practices it does not make sense to overemphasise the role of their commercial interests. The explanations for body styling which will be considered next, do appear to influence mortuary practice, but have little explanatory power: they include arguments based on responses to grief, and those which draw attention to the “survival” of older forms within an evolving tradition. These arguments either explain the impetus behind mourners’ behaviour without saying much about the form it takes, or describe the lineage of a tradition without explaining the survival. “Grief therapy”, a notion that the bereaved do things because it makes them feel better, was the explanation for body styling favoured by survey respondents. Research involving bereaved families appears to support this

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common-sense interpretation. People shocked by a sudden death may respond by lavishing care and attention on the corpse that can no longer be given to the living individual (Naylor 1989): mothers in particular may appreciate the opportunity to participate in the washing and dressing of the corpse as the continuation of a relationship of care (Chapple 2010). A widespread desire to check that the dead person is at peace and comfortable is reported (Chapple 2010), with relatives being reassured when the deceased is presented in a “life-like” manner (Williams 2010). The wish to “make amends” to the deceased by offering gifts or making a personal sacrifice is sometimes used to interpret funerary behaviour. This response is believed to lie in the guilt of the survivors, guilt that arises from escaping death themselves, from failing to avert the death (Lindemann 1944), or from experiencing a frisson of satisfaction at the death in the midst of their grief (Freud 1918). While this is credible it leaves unexplained the consistent and patterned ways in which bereaved people seek to make amends. It was culture rather than unmediated grief that led fourteenth century Christians to purchase multiple cloaks or palls to throw upon the coffin (Cunnington and Lucas 1972, 136f), and it is surely culture that impels modern Britons to buy a new football shirt for a dead man. Similarly the attentions given to the dead body may be interpreted as an attempt to deal with its sudden transformation “from a sacred to a profane entity” (Howarth 2007, 185, see also Kristeva 1982 and Douglas 1966). While it is clear that ritual action is called for to symbolically extract what is valued from what is contaminating, this knowledge has no power to predict the form that ritual action will take. Arguments based on “survivals” include attempts to placate the dead with gifts or to fool them with rituals so that they will not return (Frazer 1933; Ashenburg 2003). A striking example of this argument concerns burial in wedding regalia. It is argued that in times when married women enjoyed much greater social status than maidens or widows, proof of marriage was required to gain entrance to heaven. For this reason a ring, or a wedding dress must be placed in the coffin (Taylor 1983, 51). Death weddings, with a ceremony as well as the outfit, were sometimes held for young unmarried women to prevent their spirits returning to haunt the living (Ashenburg 2003). This was an attempt to fool both the gatekeepers of heaven and the dead themselves that a marriage had taken place before they died (Taylor 1983, 184); for example (Ashenburg 2003, 68): When the daughter of a naval officer died just before her wedding in Portsmouth, England, in 1881, she and her attendants were dressed in their

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wedding clothes …. the distraught groom stood by the upended coffin while the minister read first the marriage service, then the funeral service.

It appears that death weddings were relatively common in 19th century England (Lloyd, 1967) and there is evidence of similar rites in central Europe and America (Ashenburg 2003, 69). While the rationale behind these practices seems shocking to modern Westerners, it is credible that the emotional intensity attached to them may have been sufficient to lead to the behaviour, if not the belief, being passed down through generations. Having dismissed some explanations of body styling as having limited power to explain recent changes in practice, a model will be proposed which draws on both anthropological theory and on studies of bereavement. Beginning with the assumption that all human actions take place because the actor benefits somehow (Glaser 1967), the bereaved can be viewed as actors, with tasks to perform and needs to address within a very specific landscape. The task is to translate the person who has died from a peer to an ancestor. The need is to find a way of living with the new reality and creating an enduring bond with the one who has died (Klass, Silverman and Nickman 1996). The landscape is the liminal zone (Gennep 1960); a place where the sociological “work” of moving someone from one state to another occurs. In this zone normal social rules are suspended and ritual and symbolic expression are the norm. To accomplish their (sociological) task and meet their (emotional) needs the actors work to create a “good death narrative” that provides a rational explanation for the death. This narrative informs both conversations about the deceased and the styling of the body. Successful death narratives have two essential elements: they make the death “good”, in the sense that it becomes compatible with a belief in a safe and meaningful universe (Attig 2001); and they reconfigure the relationship between the bereaved and the deceased so that the mourner can live without the physical presence of the dead person while continuing to experience some sort of a relationship with them (Hagman 2001, 24; Whiting 2006). Thus the time when the body is being prepared for disposal is a time in which stories, which have the ritual effect of translating the deceased from one state to another, are both narrated and symbolically enacted. Some narratives are explicitly religious: the death is good because it represents access to Heaven, reunion with God and with those gone before, safety from physical danger and moral temptation. Other narratives find value in delivery from pain, in the appropriateness of death after a “good innings”, or in benefits delivered to other people. Within either kind of narrative, talk about all that the dead person has achieved lifts them from the realms of the living by arguing that their life was completed

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rather than cut short. Talk about their exemplary life, the way in which they lived up to social expectations, installs them as an ancestor who sets the pattern for communal behaviour. The bereaved, consulting each other over how the body should be prepared, placing mementoes in the coffin, viewing and reminiscing, are thus developing a new way of relating to the one who has died (Harper 2012). The life of the deceased is reviewed and reinterpreted to create a narrative of a life well lived as the family moves towards consensus on how this particular ancestor will be remembered. Death narratives, however personal they seem, are never unique or idiosyncratic, but are based upon cultural narratives of the good death which the mourner has appropriated (Seale 1998). These narratives are shaped by the types of death a community encounters (Kellehear 2007; Walter 2003) and shared beliefs and values (Metcalf and Huntington 1991) which are embedded in a “civil religion” (Bellah 1967). Civil religion provides rules for life and nurtures community spirit: it is perpetuated through national holidays, political speeches and mainstream medical discourses. Funeral directors, as acolytes of the civil religion, create a corpse-centred death ritual which articulates shared understandings of life and why death occurs (Metcalf and Huntington 1991). Within this model the American practice of embalming, beautifying and publicly displaying the dead body can be interpreted as a collective representation of the key ideological notion of personal fulfilment. For an American (Metcalf and Huntington 1991, 210): the life of the individual should rise in an arc through brassy youth to fruitful middle years and then decline gently toward a death that is acceptable as well as inevitable. It is the end point of this ideal life that we see represented in the open coffin. Key ideological concepts are not very different in Britain: consumerism may be less well developed, but individualism is perhaps more so (Walter 2003). A survey by Co-op Funeral Care (2012) indicated that Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” was requested at 15% of the funerals they organised. The death narrative being deployed here is particularly clear: “I’ve lived a life that’s full … and did it my way” (Anka 1967). This is a narrative that is well expressed by dressing the corpse in his or her own clothes. Hertz (1960) suggested that the treatment of the corpse paralleled the imagined journey of the soul. For example, in societies that practice secondary burial, while the bones are being de-fleshed in the ground, the soul is believed to undergo a similar cleansing transformation. It is possible to apply this model to the cosmetic restoration of the corpse, even

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within a society whose grasp on the idea of a discarnate soul has become shaky. While the mortician works to perfect the body, it is the whole person that is being transformed into an embodiment of communal ideals. It hardly matters whether the incorporeal element is believed to be a soul or simply an imprint on communal memory. In the former case inscribing key beliefs on the body affirms eligibility for Heaven; in the latter it perfects the memory. In either scenario mortuary processes can be understood as ritual actions through which the deceased is translated into an ancestor. Funeral directors, in helping the family transform a dead body into a “staged presentation of the good death” (Hyland 1995), are participating in a kind of community theatre with a long history. The Tudors’ use of effigies to celebrate the continuation of the “body politic” while the King’s natural body rotted is one example (Seale 1998, 67). The posing of dead soldiers so that their demise might seem more heroic is another (Ruby 1995, 13). The creation of a good death narrative and its translation into a staged presentation is most easily understood by considering the development of the Victorian deathbed tableau. Victorians living in densely populated cities before the invention of antibiotics were uniquely vulnerable to infectious diseases, and the deathbeds of fever victims lent themselves magnificently to eschatological interpretation. The visions and the dramatic final struggles of disease victims led to the deathbed being understood as a bridge between this world and the next. The dying were believed to be already interacting with the next world, perhaps undergoing some kind of trial for their sins (Kellehear 2007, 82). Ultimately this trial became a kind of theatre. It was common for Victorian Christians to invite people, especially children to attend their deathbed as an exercise in spiritual education (Jalland 1996). When smaller families and a growing taste for privacy meant less people attended the death bed, family and friends were often invited in later to “pay their respects” to the deceased. Visitors would look at the body in the hope of seeing clues that this person had indeed triumphed over temptations and died with a vision of heaven before them. Immaculate clothing and tidy hair did much to shore up the assumption that they had. In effect, the family was now able to stage the final scene of a narrative of judgement and salvation after the individual had died. Staging a good death narrative involved more than tidying the corpse and styling them in an attitude of repose; symbolism was deployed to represent Christian hopes while also evoking a sense of tragedy and pathos. Thus we see the corpse dressed in white for purity, or perhaps to

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express the joy of the resurrected state (Metcalf and Huntington 1991, 63), adorned with flowers, suggesting resurrection as part of a natural cycle, but also next to a stopped clock, to draw attention to the short time span allotted to the human individual (Ariès 1985). The beautiful corpse thus evokes both the romantic tragedy of lost possibilities and the hope of something even better. This staged presentation of a good death was not simply educational; it was theatre in the full sense: engaging, cathartic, comforting and bonding. The idealised corpse stimulated the emotions so that people expressed their grief communally in a way that both relieved the individual and strengthened the community. The living were also reassured that their own deaths would be well managed. The continuing appeal of this representation of death, despite a decline in religious belief since its inception, is due to its effectiveness in evoking a sense of poignant regret which, in its celebration of human relationships, is ultimately life-affirming. As previously noted, collective understandings of death will change when the experience of death changes, so it seems reasonable that the good death staged in the twenty first century will require a different script to the Victorian version. Today there is a conflict between the death people hope for and the death they expect. As a society that values individualism, choice and control, we (Walter 2003, 120): would like to go out like a light one night after 20 years of active retirement, a good round of golf and a nice meal, but we know the chances are slim.

What is much more likely is a “shameful” or “stigmatising” death from cancer or Alzheimer’s, conditions which can rob the individual of dignity and erode or change their personality (Kellehear 2007). Where death is stigmatising, a redemptive death ritual is required, one which will restore wholeness and unique personhood so that the deceased can be installed as an exemplary ancestor and remembered with affection. There is scope here for the funeral director’s artistry, both in recreating the appearance of wholeness and in making it appear as if the ideal of going “out like a light” at the pinnacle of self-realisation had been achieved.

Interpreting Burial Outfits Assuming that the styled corpse represents a communal understanding of what life is about and how death ought to happen, the bodies described in survey responses can be interpreted to find out why, thirty years ago, a

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shroud or gown articulated an appropriate death narrative, but now this is achieved with an outfit from Marks and Spencer’s. What narrative might a bereaved community have articulated through a shroud? A narrative, most probably, in which the chaos of death is defeated by the order and constructed meanings of culture. A shroud hides the reality of death when death is messy, reinforces the boundaries of the body when these are breached, hides any indication of pain and suffering, and provides evidence that there was someone there to provide care and respect when the worst happened. There is a great deal here to allay the fears of the living about the nature of death and their own future demise. It is possible that the shroud is disappearing from the modern funerary rite simply because some of its advantages have been usurped. The coffin has taken over the containment function of the shroud. Refrigeration and disinfection procedures now arrest physical dissolution reducing the need to hide the body. In fact there is no need at all to hide a body now that we have the technology to beautify. If the shroud is seen as an attempt on the part of culture to conceal and disempower the nature that has led to death, then the gown is its natural replacement. In order to feel safe in an uncertain world, man imposes culture upon it, forcing order upon chaos. It may be that in the face of death all he can create is the illusion of order, the corpse laid out symmetrically and covered in linen that is unnaturally white. But these triumphs are empowering and important. Increased effort on the part of culture replaces the shroud with the ruffled and tucked burial gown. Unlike the shroud, the gown resembles clothing. Nonetheless, its high neckline and fussy trimmings conceal a multitude of sins: the undertakers in Naylor’s (1989) study explained that burial gowns with ruffled necks were very useful for hiding autopsy incisions. It is possible that the burial gown’s capacity to carry Christian interpretations has contributed to its longevity. A flowing white garment can be linked to transcendence and purity, while ruffles and tucks are set in opposition to disruptive sexuality (Miller 2010). Such associations can be read as a reversal of the Christian doctrine of the “Fall”. The doctrine holds that man was originally united with God in a way that enabled him to participate in God’s immortality. After his expulsion from Paradise he became a mortal and sexual being. While man embraces the sexual side of his nature he is settling for a life apart from God; to be reunited with God he must renounce his sexual nature. The flowing gown of the corpse, as described in Misson (1719), and as still produced by the Co-op in 2013, might then tell a story of a journey (back) from sexual to virginal, mortal to immortal, fallen to redeemed.

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The burial gown also underlines the liminal status of the corpse. This is a garment never worn by a living person and one which erases the sartorial markers of individuality and status, moving the deceased from a state of known individuality to one of generic stereotype. It is clear that this is a person who is journeying to another realm and for whom new narratives must be constructed. Where the corpse is deliberately stripped of the insignia of uniqueness, but the family keep their clothes and personal effects as mementoes (Hallam and Hockey 2000), we can see a curious double outcome with the common essence of the dead one being returned to its original state, while their uniqueness is celebrated and reinforced in family memory. The replacement of gowns and shrouds by clothing represented both continuity and change in terms of the death narratives being articulated. A liminal status was still being highlighted by juxtaposing signs of life (street clothes, reading glasses, make-up) with signs of death (closed eyes, crossed hands, flowers). This evocation of the recumbent effigies that decorate tombs and churches (Ariès 1985, 52) suggested that the person was “neither dead nor alive, but beatus” (Ariès 1985, 37); a saint, in a blessed state. Thus ironically, putting a corpse in very ordinary clothing may actually represent an attempt to invoke an ancient understanding of the newly dead as occupying a liminal, numinous, perhaps intercessory state. The death narrative being invoked here is a spiritual one; death is not the end and relationships are not severed. It may be particularly important to regain a sense that death is a mysterious and spiritual process when families have had to make difficult decisions about the termination of care (Kellehear 2007, 214f). Thus, the corpse who is dressed as in life may represent a response to a particular type of death, one that is common in late modernity. The implication that the dead person is being treated as socially alive and somehow present, is inescapable, and is perhaps the most significant factor of the switch from gowns and shrouds to clothing. Several explanations may be offered here. This may represent a shift of focus from the afterlife to the completed life, the dead person being dressed less for admission to a future life than in commemoration of the life just ended. It may also represent the imaginary superimposition of the nineteenth century good death, where the individual dies quickly, surrounded by friends and family, upon the twenty first century experience of a slow and lonely death in a hospital or care facility. Physical death has its own agenda but, with modern preservative technology, social death can be deferred until the family has assembled to say goodbye. Alternatively, of course, the practice could give the family the opportunity to make amends

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for treating the individual as socially dead before biological death occurred (Mulkay 1993); a tragically common situation when death occurs in advanced old age (Charmaz 1980). Harper (2012) who studied the behaviour of families “paying their respects” to the dead in British and American funeral homes draws attention to the ways in which the clothing and accessories on the dead body facilitate story-telling among the bereaved. Mourners paying their respects may, she suggests, focus on the way they are presented, and the way this captures their pre-death personality, rather than on the fact of death itself (Harper 2012, 50-51). Clothing and accessories prompt the mourners to remember the deceased as they used to be and to share stories about them. Thus the use of personal clothing becomes a stimulus for creating and sharing the ritual narratives that translate the deceased into an ancestor. The specific types of clothing chosen afford an opportunity for reading death narratives more closely. Where the corpse is dressed in clothes that “seem respectable”, or that evoke social roles and behaviours the community valorises, the functionalist idea of social repair and regeneration through the creation of ancestor myths seems pertinent (Durkheim 1915). Here a key role of the ancestor is to ensure the survival of the group by reminding the bereaved community how they should behave. This is done by symbolically restating the tenets of civil religion (Huntington and Metcalf 1991). Thus the corpse in “smart casual” dress becomes a cypher for civilisation, community and moderate success. In his sports jacket and clean leather shoes, he is a collective representation of the respectability and social compliance we value. He reminds us simultaneously both that he was good, and what being good means. The fact that 10% of the female bodies described by survey respondents were dressed in a wedding dress is striking in an age where marriage is less common, divorce more so, and feminism has challenged some of marriage’s most positive representations. Is this a survival of an older, darker death tradition, or does it really support a current good death narrative? In fact the wedding dress may support several narratives. A wedding remains a story of “fitting in” socially, fulfilling expectations and building social bonds. It also contributes to narratives about youth, physical beauty and aspirational life styles. Perhaps the explanation of the encoffined bride lies not in the life-story of the individual woman but in the shared values of our society. She is a collective representation of our interest in family, beauty and romantic love. There may also be a suggestion here that romantic love is one of the things most likely to persist beyond the grave. Perhaps a ritual which originated as a

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supernatural deception has been diluted to a romantic representation, a declaration that the living will continue to love the dead. The football or rugby shirts seem initially to represent several core tenets of civil religion: team spirit, self-improvement and good sportsmanship. However, it is just as likely that what is denoted here is the membership of an imaginary community (Anderson 1983) embracing the living and the dead (Seale 1998; Howarth 2000). As both organised religion and formal mourning etiquette have been eroded in Britain, the role of the sports ground as a focus for emotion, spirituality and mourning has increased (Foster 2012). Hymns are sung at sports grounds, deaths are marked with silence or black armbands on the players, men are permitted to cry and a strong memorialising tradition has grown out of incidents such as the tragedies at Hillsborough and Juventus. It is surely membership of this emotional, remembering community which the dead sports-fan is claiming. The death narrative being deployed is one of a comradeship which will survive anything, an immortality based on communal memory (Bauman 1992, 52f). This narrative is made explicit by the sign in the Hillsborough Memorial Garden which reads “You’ll never walk alone” and by the Leeds United tradition of memorialising dead fans with football shirts inscribed with “M.O.T.”, shorthand for “Marching on Together”, a reference to the team song, which declares that loyalty and comradeship will persist “until the world stops going round” (Reed 1972). Sporting communities invest strongly in a vision of themselves that continues, largely unchanged, through the generations; these groups actively recall the past, remember their dead and count them as part of their imaginary community. The use of sportswear in the coffin appears to be a statement of membership to such inclusive groups. The use of night-clothing on the dead body suggests sleep, intimacy and perhaps a quiet transition from a sick-bed. The death narrative being deployed here is that of “peacefully, at home”. This is a narrative which draws on romanticised deathbed scenes and an older tradition of death bed portraiture: it comforts through its assertion that death is natural, dignified and painless and through its celebration of the human bond. The corpse in its (immaculate) night-clothing is at home, cared for and among friends. One survey respondent noted that night-clothing was most frequently seen on old ladies collected from residential homes, suggesting that here again an idealised deathbed scene has been created when something more modern and impersonal had occurred. Curiously, night-clothing is almost never used on the American dead. This may be because the American corpse meets his visitors as host at a wake (Laderman 1996), whereas for his English counterpart the viewing at the funeral parlour represents not

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the wake, but the brief paying of respects which formerly took place at the death bed (see also Harper 2012, 46-47). It is sometimes argued that the clothed corpse has been prepared for a different kind of journey from that of his shrouded forbear. While the shrouded or be-gowned corpse is moving away from the living towards an imaginary future that is closer to God, the corpse in his own clothes is more intent upon comforting the living. He provides a lesson on how to live, he represents individual fulfilment and implies that personality survives death; he suggests ways in which contact can be sustained. This may, perhaps, imply declining belief in the afterlife, but this point is far from proven.

Conclusion The development of a group of professional undertakers appears to have temporarily superimposed a practice that was convenient to business organisations (the provision of a standard burial garment) on a more varied and personal practice. These arrangements were accepted for many years, but the funeral directors responding to my survey were clear that there had been a change in consumer behaviour twenty to thirty years ago. Bereaved families had then sought, and obtained, a more personalised service, central to which was the dressing of the dead body in his, or her, own clothes. Some funeral directors wondered about their own role in this. Had they allowed commercial rationalisation to go so far that rebellion was inevitable, or had they shaped the new custom by starting to see themselves as grief counsellors and advocating the rituals that others had found helpful? The funeral industry may well have played a role in this change, but there were other factors involved, principally the legacy of war being eroded by a burgeoning consumer culture. It is suggested that body-styling practices should be interpreted as a way of making visible, and thus sharing, the narratives that the bereaved have created to make a particular death comprehensible. These narratives are never completely esoteric, but are based on cultural scripts mediated by popular culture, religious advisors and funerary professionals. These scripts are informed by the kinds of death people experience and by communal values, thus they will inevitably change over time. Experience of war has been one factor that has driven change, medical progress and shifting patterns of morbidity are others. The Victorian experience of death was shaped by a sudden demise from fever, which evinced a good death narrative of “tempted but triumphant, now at peace with the Lord”. The shock of mass annihilation in war dominated the mid twentieth

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century experiences of death. This created narratives of sacrificial death for one’s country and a funerary practice that marginalised the body while emphasising the ultimate triumph of order over chaos. In the twenty first century it is degenerative diseases which shape our experience of death. Seeing someone die slowly from a dehumanising condition can create a strong desire to see them made whole once more, and the funeral home’s artistry may go some way towards delivering this. Renewed interest in presenting the dead as they appeared in life also reflects a wish to maintain a connection with the deceased, either by placing them centre-stage in family story-telling or by admitting them to a social group that embraces both the living and the dead. It could, therefore, be argued that the changes we see in the styling of the corpse from the 1980s onward represent a shifting of emphasis from the transcendent meanings of death to its familial impact. However, we should be wary of assuming that what we have observed is a shift towards a secular understanding of death in the late twentieth century. A focus on the body, or on bonds between the living and the dead, does not necessarily imply a lack of belief in God. It may simply be that at a time of great stress the bereaved focus on what is known, rather than on what is unknowable.

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Bregman, L. 2011. Preaching death: the transformation of Christian funeral sermons. Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press. Chadwick, E. 1843. “Great Britain. Home Department, and Great Britain. Poor Law Commission.” Report on the sanitary condition of the labouring population of Great Britain : a supplementary report on the results of a special inquiry into the practice of interment in towns. Made at the request of Her Majesty's principal secretary of state for the Home Department. London: Printed by W. Clowes for Her Majesty's Stationary Office. Chadwick, O. 1971. The Victorian church. An ecclesiastical history of England. 3rd ed. London: Black. Chamberlain, M. A. R., Ruth. 1983. “Life and death.” Oral History 11(1): 31-43. Chapple, A. A. Z., S. 2010. “Viewing the body after bereavement due to a traumatic death: qualitative study in the UK.” British Medical Journal 340. Charmaz, K. 1980. The social reality of death: death in contemporary America. Reading, Massachussets: Addison Wesley. Cunnington, P. L. C. 1972. Costume for births, marriages and deaths. London: Adam and Charles Black. Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and danger. An analysis of the concepts of pollution and taboo. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Durkheim, E. 1915. The elementary forms of the religious life : a study in religious sociology. London: Allen & Unwin. Foster, L. W., K. 2012. “A Golden Silence? Acts of Remembrance and Commemoration at UK Football Games.” Journal of Sports and Social Issues 3(1): 50-67. Gennep, V. 1960. The rites of passage. Chicago: University of Chicago Pres. Glaser, B. A. A. S. 1967. The discovery of grounded theory. Chicago: Aldine Publishing. Gorer, G. 1965. Death grief and mourning in contemporary Britain. London: Crescent Press. Hallam, E. M. and J. L. Hockey. 2000. Death, memory and material culture. Oxford: Berg. Harper, S. 2012. “I’m glad she has her glasses on. That really makes the difference: Grave goods in English and American death rituals.” Journal of Material Culture 17(1): 43-59. Hertz, R. 1960. Death and the right hand. Aberdeen: The Free Press.

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Reed, L. A. M., Barry. 1972. Marching on Together/Leeds Leeds Leeds. Richardson, R. 1987. Death, dissection and the destitute. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Roberts, E. 1989. “The Lancashire way of death.” In Death, Ritual and Bereavement, edited by R. Houlbrooke. London: Routledge. Roth, P. 1991. Patrimony: a true story. London: Cape. Ruby, J. 1995. Secure the Shadow: Death & Photography in America Cambridge Massachusetts: MIT Press. Seale, C. 1998. Constructing death: the sociology of dying and bereavement. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Spottiswoode, J. 1991. Undertaken with love: the story of a DIY funeral. London: Robert Hale. Sudnow, D. 1967. Passing on: the social organisation of dying. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall. Taylor, L. 1983. Mourning dress: a costume and social history. London; Boston: G. Allen and Unwin. Unknown. 1868. “Accidental exposure of the body of Jean Cochrane, Lady Kilsyth.” Notes and Queries 2 4th series(28). Van Emden, R. 2011. The quick and the dead: fallen soldiers and their families in the Great War. London: Bloomsbury. Veblen, T. 1912. The theory of the leisure class. New York: Macmillan. Walter, T. 1994. The revival of death. London: Routledge. —. 1999. The mourning for Diana. Oxford: Berg. —. 2003. “Historical and Cultural Variants on the Good Death.” British Medical Journal 327: 218-220. West, J. 1988. Jack West funeral director: 60 years with funerals. Ilfracombe: Arthur H Stockwell Ltd. Williams, M. 2010. Down among the dead men: a year in the life of a mortuary technician. London: Constable.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN CONCLUSION CHRISTOPHER T GREEN

Allow me to offer a few concluding remarks. We, as writer and reader, are engaged and interested in a dialogue and a debate about religion and belief, whether that be Platonic eschatologies, Abraham’s paradoxical belief concerning his son’s sacrifice, or how the dead are interred. Throughout this edited collection of essays the vast scale of religion and belief is seen; one cannot easily categorise or make bold broad assumptions on what characterises religion or belief. I will finish this book with a short discussion on the nature of the debate, why it is important, and how we should strive to progress this, increasingly needed, dialogue. I will begin where we started; the New Atheists–mainly Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins–are often accused of simplifying the arguments and not engaging with current academic theological scholarship. To a great extent these criticisms are justified, especially regarding Hitchens and Dawkins. But the criticism hides a subtle variance in the modern debate of religion: who is the intended audience, academics or the general public? Do the “ordinary” public read the new theological scholarship, do they even have access to that material, locked away in university libraries, only accessible for those with ever incresingly expensive library cards (tuition fees)? Is the lay Christian community taught the detailed and nuanced academic issues on Sunday? Or do the majority of worshippers hear a specific version, perhaps only the Biblical verses and the interpretation of the one speaking? These examples are caricatures, but they represent a real division in society: university academic and the rest. Having taught RE in a secondary school and philosophy at university, I am aware that the open-minded arguments in class at university are not always cultivated at all levels: place of worship, secondary school, or, indeed, university. This can create a tension between the one that holds a deeply personal belief and the person trying to encourage an open debate. We must continue to understand the diverse nature of the audience. A

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failing of universities is their exclusivity, and chastisement of those who choose to ignore their work. In an academic setting one should read the scholarship, reference widely, and offer the most balanced argument. But flicking through a current edexcel GCSE textbook, as I am now doing, one does not encounter 21st century theological debate or scholarship, instead the terms omni-benevolent, omnipotent, omniscient, the example of Paley’s watch, and the causation argument are all presented in very basic format. For the vast majority, this is the only source they will read, or come into contact with. If we are to have a more nuanced and detailed public debate, then we had better start teaching current ideas more effectively, outside of university. Otherwise, we should not criticise writers for writing a book equivalent to the level of their readers. Perhaps it is the task of academics to make their important work more widely available, to those without a university theological or philosophical education. Unfortunately, the public debate taking place is demeaned, not by the lack of academic reference, but by the sloppy use of terminology, especially, God, religion, and morality. Therefore, this book, though “public” and academic, has shown why clarifying terminology is important. Christopher Hitchens’ title God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything may be a publisher’s dream, but it is not conducive to useful debate, if at all. For that, one must be willing to be cordial, and not belittle beliefs or religions absolutely and categorically. Indeed, Hitchens convolutes “God” and “Religion”, clearly two separate terms. The statement is too unsophisticated to be of any use, outside of selling books to an already established audience. That is not to say Christopher Hitchens’ work is not important. Indeed, his concluding chapter is prefaced with an important quotation from Gotthold Lessing, and it is this quotation that I will end my discussion on: The true value of a man is not determined by his possession, supposed or real, of Truth, but rather by his sincere exertion to get to the Truth ... If God were to hold all Truth concealed in his right hand, and in his left only the steady and diligent drive for Truth, albeit with the proviso that I would always and forever err in the process, and to offer me the choice, I would with all humility take the left hand.1 Terminology is important. What do we mean by Truth? Perhaps something meta-physical, something that lacks obvious empirical 1

Hitchens 2007, 277. See Chapter Two.

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evidence: the meaning of life, or the existence of “God”? I am profoundly moved by the ending to Lessing’s quotation. So much so that, in good Socratic fashion, this book will conclude, not on an expression of Truth found, but on a search reviewed and continually needed. As participants we must not fear failure, but strive to greater understand the hardest questions available: meaning and purpose. In this book we examined how our predecessors sought religion and cultivated belief in the world available to them: in the ancient teleology of Greek philosophy, ritual belief of Rome, or 21st century debate. Clearly religion and belief are fluid and dynamic entities, not divorced from those that practice and hold those beliefs to be true. Let us remember those that came before us, lest we forget how indebted we are.

APPENDIX A Images

Fig. 6.1: Aes Signatum with images of an eagle holding a thunderbolt and a Pegasus with the word ROMANOM inscribed beneath. Produced c.280 B.C. Image from http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_ object_details.aspx?objectId=1171049&partId=1&object=23144&matcult=15620 &page=1 [Accessed on 03/09/13]

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Fig.6.2: Aes Signatum with the image of a boar and of an elephant. Produced c.280 B.C. Image from http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collect ion_object_details.aspx?objectId=1171050&partId=1&object=23144&matcult=15 620&page=1 [Accessed on 03/09/13]

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Fig.6.3: Narrative Frieze of Jupiter and Aeneas found on a cista in the Staatliche Museen, Berlin. Aeneas on the left holding what appears to be an aquila standard. Image from Wiseman, 2004: 112, Fig.48.

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Fig.6.4: Warrior playing the salpinx. Attic black-figure lekythos, late 6th-early 5th century B.C. in the Museo Archaeologico Regionale, Palermo. Photo by Nguyen, M.-L. 2008. Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Salpinx_player_MAR_Palermo_NI1853.j pg. [Accessed on 03/09/13]

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F is one of the symbolls of Zoroastriaanism, and Fig.6.5: The Faravahar or Frawahr thus Ahura M Mazda. It was also the symbo ol of the Persiaan royal court.. Draw by Shaahin, 20088. Image from http://en.wikiipedia.org/wiki//File:Faravahar-Gold.svg. [Ac cessed on 03/09 9/13]

CONTRIBUTORS

Caterina Agostini, Wake Forest University, USA Mateusz Boniecki, Kings College London Christopher T Green, Ph.D Student, Department of Classics, University of Leeds Ben Greet, Ph.D Student, Department of Classics, University of Leeds Malcolm Heath, Professor of Greek Language and Literature, Department of Classics, University of Leeds, Ancient Philosophical Poetics (Cambridge 2013) Rachel Meadows, M.A. Student, Department of Classics, University of Leeds Jo Norton-Curry, M.A. Student, Department of Classics, University of Leeds Tony Pacyna, Ph.D Student, Department of Philosophy, University of Zurich Musilinguistik: A Philosophical Investigation into the Origins of Music and Language (Nordhausen 2012) Fabio Serranito, Ph.D Student, New University of Lisbon Judith Simpson, Ph.D Student, University of Leeds