Second Temple Jewish “Paideia” in Context 311054606X, 9783110546064

Table of contents :
Contents
Introduction: Perspectives on Second Temple Jewish Paideia from the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting
Jewish Education in Palestine
Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period
Jewish Education in Ben Sira
Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia
The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira
Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls
Jewish Education in the Diaspora
Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas
The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus: Between “Didactic” Hymnography and Alexandrian Exegesis
Discipline, Transmission, and Writing: Notes on Education in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs
The School of Moses in Alexandria: An Attempt to Reconstruct the School of Philo
Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum
Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia: Wisdom of Solomon, 4 Maccabees, and Philo
The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia: Facets of the Formation of a Hellenistic Jewish Rhetor
Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations
Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity
Jewish Education and Identity: Towards an Understanding of Second Temple Paideia
Index of Modern Authors
Index of Ancient Sources

Citation preview

Second Temple Jewish Paideia in Context

Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft

Edited by Carl R. Holladay, Matthias Konradt, Hermann Lichtenberger, Judith Lieu, Jens Schröter and Gregory E. Sterling

Volume 228

Second Temple Jewish Paideia in Context Edited by Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini

ISBN 978-3-11-054606-4 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-054697-2 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-054611-8 ISSN 0171-6441 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. © 2017 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Contents Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini Introduction: Perspectives on Second Temple Jewish Paideia from the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting 1

Jewish Education in Palestine William M. Schniedewind Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period Frank Ueberschaer Jewish Education in Ben Sira

11

29

Samuel L. Adams Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia Elisa Uusimäki The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

47

59

Matthew Goff Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea 71 Scrolls

Jewish Education in the Diaspora Benjamin G. Wright Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas 93 Luca Arcari The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus: Between “Didactic” Hymnography and Alexandrian Exegesis 113

VI

Contents

Patrick Pouchelle Discipline, Transmission, and Writing: Notes on Education in the Testaments 131 of the Twelve Patriarchs Gregory E. Sterling The School of Moses in Alexandria: An Attempt to Reconstruct the School of Philo 141 Sean A. Adams Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical 167 Curriculum Anders Klostergaard Petersen Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia: Wisdom of Solomon, 4 Maccabees, and Philo 185 David A. deSilva The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia: Facets of the Formation of a Hellenistic Jewish Rhetor 205 Kathy Ehrensperger Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations Jason von Ehrenkrook Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

239

255

Jason M. Zurawski Jewish Education and Identity: Towards an Understanding of Second Temple Paideia 267 Index of Modern Authors

279

Index of Ancient Sources

285

Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini

Introduction: Perspectives on Second Temple Jewish Paideia from the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting Despite the incredible strides made in the past century in the understanding of Second Temple Judaism and the strong scholarly interest in Greek and Christian paideia and their relationship following the work of Werner Jaeger,¹ the nature of Jewish paideia during the period has remained elusive. Compared to the scholarship on Israelite education prior to the Babylonian exile and on the development of the Jewish academies in later rabbinic times,² the history of research on postexilic education has been surprisingly meager. Early research suffered from significant methodological problems, most seriously the uncritical use of rabbinic literature to describe Jewish education centuries earlier.³ This led to several anachronistic presuppositions, such as the common claim of a universal school system throughout Hellenistic and Roman Judea.  Werner Jaeger, Paideia: Die Formung des griechischen Menschen, 3 vols. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1934– 47), translated into English as Paideia: The Ideals of Greek Culture, 3 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1939 – 45); Early Christianity and Greek Paideia (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1961). See also Henri Irénée Marrou, Histoire de l’éducation dans l’antiquité (Paris: Le Seuil, 1948), translated into English as A History of Education in Antiquity (New York: Sheed and Ward, 1956), esp. 314 ff.  On ancient Israelite education, see the reviews of the pertinent literature in James L. Crenshaw, “Education in Ancient Israel,” JBL 104 (1985): 601– 615; Graham I. Davies, “Were there schools in ancient Israel,” in Wisdom in Ancient Israel, ed. John Day, Robert P. Gordon, and H.G.M. Williamson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 199 – 211; and James L. Crenshaw, Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deadening Silence (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 4– 5 note 6. On the rabbinic side, see, e. g., Ben Tsiyon Rozenfeld and Chava Cassel, Torah Centers and Rabbinic Activity in Palestine, 70 – 400 CE: History and Geographic Distribution (Leiden: Brill, 2010); Robert Brody, The Geonim of Babylonia and the Shaping of Medieval Jewish Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).  See Fletcher Harper Swift, Education in Ancient Israel from Earliest Times to 70 A.D. (Chicago: The Open Court Publishing Company, 1919); Nathan Drazin, History of Jewish Education from 515 B.C.E. to 220 C.E. (During the Periods of the Second Commonwealth and the Tannaim), The Johns Hopkins University Studies in Education 29 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1940); Ernest Simon, “Hebrew Education in Palestine,” The Journal of Educational Sociology 22.3 (Nov. 1948): 190 – 205; Eliezer Ebner, Elementary Education in Ancient Israel during the Tannaitic Period (10 – 220 CE) (New York: Bloch, 1956); Shmuel Safrai, “Education and the Study of the Torah,” in The Jewish People in the First Century, ed. S. Safrai and M. Stern, CRINT (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1976), 2:945 – 70. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-001

2

Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini

More recent scholarship has often focused on individual texts, authors, or corpora. There have been several important studies on, for example, the role of the Greek preliminary studies in the thought of Philo of Alexandria,⁴ and views on Jewish education as related to Ben Sira or the Dead Sea Scrolls have long been a standard aspect of their respective research fields.⁵ Studies on the texts of the New Testament in light of Greco-Roman education have also become popular in recent years.⁶ Attempts at a more comprehensive picture of Second Temple Jewish education have been rare,⁷ yet we are now beginning to witness

 See Alan Mendelson, Secular Education in Philo of Alexandria, Monographs of the Hebrew Union College 7 (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1982), among several others.  On Ben Sira, see in particular Martin Löhr, Bildung aus dem Glauben. Beiträge zum Verständnis der Lehrreden des Buches Jesus Sirach (Dissertation; Bonn 1975); Helge Stadelmann, Ben Sira als Schriftgelehrter: Eine Untersuchung zum Berufsbild des vor-Makkabäischen Söfer unter Berücksichtigung seines Verhältnisses zu Priester-, Propheten- und Weisheitslehretum, WUNT 2/6 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1981); Oda Wischmeyer, Die Kultur des Buches Jesus Sirach, BZNW 77 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995); Frank Ueberschaer, Weisheit aus der Begegnung: Bildung nach dem Buch Ben Sira, BZAW 379 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008). And on the Dead Sea Scrolls, see, e. g., Carol Newsom, “The Sage in the Literature of Qumran: The Functions of the Maśkîl,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 373 – 382; Steven D. Fraade, “Interpretive Authority in the Studying Community at Qumran,” JJS 44 (1993): 46 – 69; Emanuel Tov, “The Scribes of the Texts Found in the Judean Desert,” in The Quest for Context and Meaning: Studies in Biblical Intertextuality in Honor of James A. Sanders, ed. C. A. Evans and S. Talmon (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 131– 152; Tov, “The Text of the Hebrew/Aramaic and Greek Bible Used in the Ancient Synagogues,” in The Ancient Synagogue from Its Origins until 200 C.E. Papers Presented at an International Conference at Lund University, October 14 – 17, 2001, ed. Birger Olsson and Magnus Zetterholm (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 2003), 237– 259; Armin Lange, “In Diskussion mit dem Temple: Zur Auseinandersetzung zwischen Kohelet und weisheitlichen Kreisen am Jerusalemer Tempel,” in Qohelet in the Context of Wisdom, ed. A. Schoors (Louvain: Peeters, 1998), 113 – 159; and Bilhah Nitzan, “Education and Wisdom in the Dead Sea Scrolls in Light of their Background in Antiquity,” in New Perspectives on Old Texts. Proceedings of the Tenth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 9 – 11 January, 2005, ed. Esther G. Chazon and Betsy Halpern-Amaru, STDS 88 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 97– 116.  See the studies of Samuel Byrskog, Jesus the Only Teacher: Didactic Authority and Transmission in Ancient Israel, Ancient Judaism, and the Matthean Community, Coniectanea Biblica: New Testament Series (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1994); Robert S. Dutch, The Educated Elite in 1 Corinthians: Education and Community Conflict in Graeco-Roman Context (London: T&T Clark, 2005); Adam G. White, Where is the Wise Man? Graeco-Roman Education as a Background to the Divisions in 1 Corinthians 1 – 4 (London: T&T Clark, 2010); and Matthew Ryan Hauge and Andrew W. Pitts, eds., Ancient Education and Early Christianity (London: T&T Clark, 2016).  David Carr’s work, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), is probably the most thorough, but his focus on the textuality of the Bible leads him view education only through this narrow lens.

Introduction

3

a shift and a growing interest in Jewish paideia more broadly, with several recent doctoral dissertations, conferences, and research groups exploring the subject from different methodological angles.⁸ It is within this context that the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting gathered from June 30 to July 4, 2015 in Naples, Italy, at the invitation of the Enoch Seminar and the University of Naples Federico II, and with the support of the FIRB research project under the direction of Luca Arcari: “The Construction of Space and Time in the Transmission of Collective Identities. Religious Cohabitations and/or Polarizations in the Ancient World (1st – 6th cent. CE).” The meeting was made up of eight major paper sessions, each of which featured a brief introduction by the author, a ten-minute response, and seventy minutes of moderated discussion. There were also three short paper sessions. All sessions were held at the University of Naples Federico II with the exception of the closing session on Saturday, which took place in the thirteenth-century castle Maschio Angioino. In addition, the participants and their guests had the chance to visit Pompeii and the Naples Archaeological Museum. Founded in 2001 by Gabriele Boccaccini, the Enoch Seminar is an open and inclusive forum of international specialists in Second Temple Judaism and Christian Origins. Scholars with different methodologies and approaches and at various stages of their academic careers, meet and share the results of their research, addressing topics of common interest. Since 2011, the Nangeroni Meetings, promoted by the Enoch Seminar with the sponsorship of the Michigan Center for Early Christian Studies and the Alessandro Nangeroni International Endowment, have offered the opportunity for additional gatherings on specific topics in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Origins. The closed nature of these meetings ensures an environment where the participants are free to share work in progress and to collaborate on inchoate ideas.⁹ The scholars who gathered in Naples, each an expert in various facets of the subject, came with the shared goal not to try to locate some sort of normative or  At the 2012, 2013, and 2014 Society of Biblical Literature annual meetings, the Wisdom and Apocalypticism in Early Judaism and Early Christianity group offered several sessions on early Jewish and Christian paideia, the results of which will be published later this year as From Musar to Paideia: Pedagogy in Early Judaism and Christianity, ed. Matthew Goff, Karina Martin Hogan, and Emma Wasserman (Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming). Additionally, a recent research group has been formed within the Courant Research Centre “Education and Religion” at the University of Göttingen, led by Tobias Georges and titled “Piety and Paideia. Religious Traditions and Intellectual Culture in the World of the Roman Empire,” though their focus is on the second and third centuries CE rather than the Second Temple period.  Detailed and updated information on the Enoch Seminar and the Nangeroni Meetings are available online at www.enochseminar.org and www.4enoch.org.

4

Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini

common notion of Jewish education during the period, but to move towards a greater overall understanding by allowing the diversity of views to stand and speak for themselves. The choice of the Greek term paideia instead of simply “education” in the title of the conference and this volume is telling of the significance of the subject beyond what we may typically associate with pedagogical or curricular matters. The term referred most basically to “education,” but it was much more. Plato would argue that paideia was not some simple training in a skill or occupation, but rather training in virtue and the means to becoming a cultured individual and true citizen (Leg. 1.643e). Thus, paideia could refer at once to the process of education and the end result of culture. Taking up the idea first found in Isocrates (Panegyr. 50), that it was a shared paideia rather than a shared bloodline that made an individual truly Greek, philosophers and rhetors of the Hellenistic and Roman periods understood paideia as a—maybe even the—defining characteristic of social and cultural identity.¹⁰ While we must not assume a perfect correspondence between such Greek and Roman attitudes and those of Jews in the diaspora, let alone in Judea, they do often reflect the values placed on a proper Jewish education found in the literature, whether the term used is paideia or not. The papers offered for discussion in Naples and revised for the present volume highlight well the importance of the concept for understanding the wider world of thought of the individual authors and the social and cultural lives of the Jewish people during the period. They also vividly demonstrate the necessity of collaboration and interdisciplinary dialogue in attempting to grasp such a foundational and multi-faceted topic as Jewish education. The essays have been divided along geographical lines, those that deal with texts or authors from the diaspora and those from Judea. This organizational strategy, however, is not meant to insinuate that such a divide necessarily existed, whether in ideology or practice. Parallels and/or differences cannot be assumed but, instead, must be evaluated on an individual basis.  See, e. g., Ps.-Plutarch, Lib. Educ. 5c–e. The connection between paideia and identity has been highlighted by Yun Lee Too, The Rhetoric of Identity in Isocrates: Text, Power, Pedagogy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Jan-Jaap Flinterman, Power, Paideia & Pythagoreanism: Greek Identity, Conceptions of the Relationship Between Philosophers & Monarchs & Political Ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 13 (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Simon Goldhill, ed., Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); and idem., Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011).

Introduction

5

The first part, Jewish Education in Palestine, opens with Bill Schniedewind’s paper on the social location of scribal education at the transition from the Iron Age to the Persian period. Schniedewind finds a shift between the periods in linguistic ideology or politics. In the Iron Age, the primary function of a scribal education would have been in service to the state bureaucracy, with a secondary religious role. The language of this education, in both cases, was Hebrew. Instead, in the Persian period, scribal education became segregated by language, with Aramaic as the official language of the bureaucracy and Hebrew used to reinforce religious traditions and identity. Three authors take up Ben Sira’s views on education from unique perspectives. Frank Ueberschaer offers an overview of the author’s many different statements on proper teaching and learning and the important responsibility the inspired sage has to Israel. In the end, Ben Sira’s teaching, traditional yet innovative, reflects his attempt to redefine Judaism and Jewish life in response to the changing circumstances of Hellenistic Judea. Samuel Adams looks anew at the long-running scholarly debate over Ben Sira’s supposed particularism and rejection of Hellenism. A focus on the author’s own pedagogy reveals, instead, a far more ecumenical attitude, open to foreign wisdom and outside perspectives. Elisa Uusimäki focuses her study on the intellectual and spiritual exercises the sage must undertake to acquire wisdom. Drawing on Pierre Hadot’s work on Greco-Roman philosophy as a series of exercises designed to transform one’s way of living, Uusimäki finds several parallel activities in Ben Sira, including teaching, scribal activities, contemplation, and prayer. The various exercises help to form a life of virtue and are integral in the development of the sage. Matthew Goff’s paper on education in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the yaḥad closes the first part of the volume. Goff’s overview demonstrates that the pedagogy within the community centered on the Torah, which went beyond the bounds of the Pentateuch itself to include other authoritative writings and instruction from authoritative teachers, such as the Teacher of Righteousness, who were needed to provide access to esoteric, revealed knowledge. Despite the strict Torah-centric education, Goff does not find any evidence for a sort of anti-Hellenistic counter curriculum as has been suggested by scholars like Elias Bickerman or David Carr. Part two, Jewish Education in the Diaspora, begins with Ben Wright’s study on Greek paideia and the Letter of Aristeas. Reading the text in light of contemporary Greek intellectual culture, Wright shows that the author had a relatively advanced level of Greek education that included rhetorical training. The author utilized several of the rhetorical techniques found in the progymnasmata, including ekphrasis, the chreia, and synkrisis, and makes frequent use of Greek sources and philosophical traditions. The demonstration of this Greek paideia reinforces

6

Jason M. Zurawski and Gabriele Boccaccini

Wright’s view of the author as a Hellene who happened to be a Jew, whose Jewish ethnic identity was important to him but who could move comfortably in Greek cultural circles. The near contemporary Aristobulus also possessed an advanced Greek education, as Luca Arcari demonstrates, showing, via the collected materials known as the Testament of Orpheus, the author’s adoption of common Alexandrian exegetical strategies. Patrick Pouchelle looks at the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and the patterns of paternal education found therein, which included disciplinary rebuke, the handing down of customs, traditions, and identity, and the teaching of writing, the last of which innovatively and explicitly links literacy and Jewish culture. Greg Sterling and Sean Adams both seek to locate the works of Philo of Alexandria within an educational setting. Sterling posits the existence of a private school of Jewish exegesis run by Philo in Alexandria. Looking at the curricula of such Hellenistic and late antique philosophical schools as those of Epictetus, Plotinus, and Proclus, Sterling then shows how Philo’s works would have been utilized in his own school. Adams, instead, focuses on Philo’s Questions and Answers in light of the use of other “Questions” literature, and sees them plausibly functioning in an educational setting. Anders Klostergaard Petersen explores three unique manifestations of Jewish paideia, in the Wisdom of Solomon, 4 Maccabees, and Philo, and how they help to reveal the ambiguity in the dichotomy between philosophy and religion in the ancient world. 4 Maccabees is also the subject of David deSilva’s detailed study, which examines the author’s own paideia as evinced from his work. The mastery of Greek language and literature, Greek rhetorical techniques, and philosophical ethics reveals an author whose advanced Greek education was seamlessly woven together with Jewish cultural literacy, the former used to promote the value of the latter. Kathy Ehrensperger discusses the problems involved with Paul trying to teach a new set of values and social behaviors to those in his communities who had been educated in the elite male discourse of the time. To overcome the difficulties, Paul embodied those aspects of his own Jewish traditions and of the Christ-event which he hoped to pass on. Finally, Jason von Ehrenkrook closes the volume by looking at how the grave importance we have seen attached to paideia during the Second Temple Period carries over into late antiquity. Von Ehrenkrook sees the discourses of proper paideia by Eusebius, Athanasius, and Eunapius as a window into the cultural competition and contested boundaries of identity during the period. If we were to seek some similarity among the wide diversity of views found in the unique historical and cultural contexts discussed throughout the essays it would be the fundamental role of education in individual and communal self-

Introduction

7

understanding and self-representation. Paideia provides a unique vantage point from which to view the continual reimagining, reshaping, and deployment of identity. It thus proves an invaluable, and underutilized, asset in our goal of a greater historical understanding of the Second Temple period. This idea will be explored further in the volume’s concluding essay. Participants of the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting (June 30—July 4, 2015, Naples): Samuel Adams, Union Presbyterian Seminary Sean Adams, University of Glasgow Luca Arcari, University of Naples Federico II Gabriele Boccaccini, University of Michigan Francis Borchardt, Lutheran Theological Seminary Hong Kong Daniel Boyarin, University of California Berkeley Brian Capper, Canterbury Christ Church University Rodney Caruthers, University of Michigan James Charlesworth, Princeton Theological Seminary Paolo Collini, Florence, Italy David deSilva, Ashland Theological Seminary Kathy Ehrensperger, University of Wales, Trinity Saint David Gregory Goering, University of Virginia Matthew Goff, Florida State University Robert Hall, Hampden-Sydney College Vered Hillel, MJTI David Jackson, William Carey Christian School Anders Klostergaard Petersen, University of Aarhus Patrick Pouchelle, Centre Sèvres, Paris Tessa Rajak, University of Reading William Schniedewind, University of California Los Angeles Gregory Sterling, Yale University Steve Tinney, University of Pennsylvania Frank Ueberschaer, University of Zurich Elisa Uusimäki, University of Helsinki Jacqueline Vayntrub, Brandeis University Jason von Ehrenkrook, University of Massachusetts-Boston Benjamin Wright, Lehigh University Jason Zurawski, University of Groningen

Jewish Education in Palestine

William M. Schniedewind

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period Education is a rather elusive topic for ancient Israel and Judah. To begin with, biblical Hebrew actually doesn’t have a word that easily translates as the abstract noun, “education.” Of course, there are lots of words related to education such as lmd “to study, teach,” ʾlp “to learn,” drš “to study (in Late Biblical Hebrew),” mwsr “instruction,” and even twrh (i. e., torah) “teaching.” Education in ancient Israel and Judah was primarily oral as is suggested by Proverbs 1:8: “Hear, my child, your father’s training (mwsr), and do not reject for mother’s teaching (twrh).” Of course, by its nature, orality does not lend itself to a great deal of textual documentation. We do know that education was a family affair with both the mother and the father responsible for it. Liturgy was also likely a core of education. Yet, we have no explicit curriculum for teaching. There are many ways to approach the topic of education in ancient Israel, but it is important to begin by recognizing the types of evidence that we have —and, the limits of that evidence. There are four main sources: first, comparative (especially from Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Greece); second, anthropological theory dealing with writing and education; third, archaeological and epigraphic (especially evidence for scribal curriculum and exercises); and fourth, the biblical corpus. The biblical corpus is perhaps the most problematic. Unlike Mesopotamian literature, no biblical texts are explicitly framed as scribal curriculum. This paper focuses upon the social location of scribal education. The social location changed considerably from the Iron Age into the Persian period as will be illustrated from the archaeological and epigraphic record. The study of education has often been associated with the study of wisdom literature. For example, the most extensive scholarly book on the subject was published by James Crenshaw, Education in Ancient Israel (1998). Crenshaw’s research focused on biblical wisdom literature, and his work on education is a natural outgrowth of these studies. The classic study by E. W. Heaton, The School Tradition of the Old Testament, similarly associates the education with wisdom literature. Wisdom, however, is not a locus of education, but merely a component of scribal curriculum.¹ Unfortunately, the evidence for education in ancient Israel

 This is especially evident from the comparative evidence; see, for example, N. Veldhuis, Elementary Education at Nippur: The Lists of Trees and Wooden Objects (Groningen: s.n., 1997), 60 – DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-002

12

William M. Schniedewind

and Judah is surprisingly limited. In this paper, I will focus in particular on one of the only examples in the archaeological record of education in ancient Israel, namely, the case of Kuntillet ʿAjrud. Kuntillet ʿAjrud contrasts sharply with aspects of the archaeological and biblical literature from the Persian period. Education in ancient Israel and Judah has vexed scholars from a variety of perspectives. On the one hand, there are excellent contemporary comparative examples from Egypt and Mesopotamia.² These examples include extensive discussions of the scribal profession and the curriculum of schools that were developed over centuries. In contrast, we have a situation in ancient Israel and Judah where we have little direct archaeological, epigraphic, or literary evidence of the scribal profession, schools, or curriculum. This situation has actually generated the question, “Were there schools in Ancient Israel?” The simple answer is—yes, of course. For example, André Lemaire’s classic work, Écoles et Formation de la Bible, optimistically teases out a considerable network of schools with a robust curriculum based on epigraphic discoveries along with biblical texts.³ Of course, when we use the term “school,” we are not thinking anachronistically of more modern notions of schools. Schools in antiquity operated more on an apprenticeship model. In this sense, there were definitely schools in ancient Israel. There is no other way to account for the standardization of Hebrew language and script in the Iron Age or the production of biblical literature.⁴ Moreover, comparative evidence provides excellent models for an ancient educational system. At the same time, it is problematic to rely too heavily on comparative models for schools in Egypt, Mesopotamia, or even Greece.⁵ These were very different societies with long histories of schools and education and relatively minor contact with ancient Israel. We certainly cannot ignore this comparative material, but at the same time we cannot be too hasty to fill in the gaps about education in

63; U. Kaplony-Heckel, “Schüler und Schulwesen in der ägyptischen Spätzeit,” Studien zur altägyptischen Kultur 1 (1974): 229 – 32.  The comparative material has recently been developed by D. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), and K. van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009).  Lemaire, Écoles et Formation de la Bible, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 29 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981). In a similar vein, see the recent book by A. Demsky, Literacy in Ancient Israel (Jerusalem: Bialik, 2012) [Hebrew].  This point is especially made by C. Rollston, “Scribal Education in Ancient Israel: The Old Hebrew Epigraphic Evidence,” Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 344 (2006): 47– 74.  Carr, while doing extensive comparative study, recognizes the problem in his work, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart, 112– 16.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

13

ancient Israel and Judah from the long and well-developed traditions elsewhere in the Mediterranean world. The Mesopotamian record is nicely summarized in Steve Tinney’s paper in this conference.⁶ His examples include extensive discussions of the scribal profession and the curriculum of schools that were developed over centuries. Niek Veldhuis has outlined the three areas for understanding Babylonian schools.⁷ These include literary texts, archaeology, and exercise tools. These sources enable Veldhuis to outline a fairly robust model of Mesopotamian scribal education in his book, Elementary Education at Nippur. Unfortunately, almost nothing comparable exists for ancient Israel and Judah. We do have the Bible, but we are unsure which, if any, biblical texts were used for school curriculum. We also have a limited corpus of “exercise tools” from the southern Levant, but they are quite limited in scope. We certainly don’t have any substantial archaeological finds that can contribute to understanding schools and education in ancient Judah. Indeed, there is little evidence for scribal curriculum in any of the early alphabetic cultures beginning with Ugaritic, and then in Phoenician, Old Aramaic, or Hebrew. A contrast between Mesopotamia and the Levant can be illustrated by a survey of school texts at ancient Ugarit. Excavations at Ras Shamra yielded the full array of traditional Akkadian cuneiform school curriculum. These include the tu-ta-ti exercises, trilingual and quadrilingual lexical lists (the hubullu [ur5ra]), as well as more advanced literary texts.⁸ In contrast, the alphabetic school texts were quite limited in their scope; essentially, the alphabetic Ugaritic school texts included a few abecedaries and some practice letters.⁹ There was no evidence for a well-developed school curriculum paralleling the Akkadian school texts preserved at Ugarit and known throughout the ancient Near East. It is difficult to know exactly how advanced education in alphabetic literature was done at Ugarit. Of course, almost all alphabetic scribes at Ugarit would have had begun their education in Akkadian cuneiform. While there are literary texts

 Also see Tinney’s older summary article, “Texts, Tablets, and Teaching: Scribal Education in Nippur and Ur,” Expedition 40 (1998): 40 – 50.  Niek Veldhuis, “The Cuneiform Tablet as an Educational Tool,” Dutch Studies Published by Near Eastern Languages and Literature 2/1 (1996): 11– 26 (11– 15); and more exhaustively, Elementary Education at Nippur.  See W. van Soldt, “The Written Sources: The Syllabic Akkadian Texts,” in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. Watson and N. Wyatt (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 40 – 41; also see van Soldt, Studies in the Akkadian of Ugarit Dating and Grammar, AOAT 40 (Neukirchener: Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1991), 19 – 32.  See O. Pedersén, Archives and Libraries of the Ancient Near East 1500 – 300 BC (Bethesda: CDL Press, 1998), 68 – 80. Ugaritic school texts are published in KTU and the Ugaritic Data Bank, §§5.1– 24.

14

William M. Schniedewind

from Ugarit such as the Baal Cycle,¹⁰ they do not seem to be purely school texts. The Baal Cycle does have internal evidence for oral recitation and scribal correction. We may want to assume that some of the stories in Genesis, the poetry of the Psalter, or the wisdom of the book of Proverbs served as school curriculum in ancient Israel. But again, there is little internal, epigraphic, or archaeological evidence to substantiate this theory. The epigraphic evidence from ancient Israel and Judah, although brief, is worth reviewing. There are examples of abecedaries at Izbet Sarta, Tel Zayit, Kadesh Barnea, Lachish, and Kuntillet ʿAjrud. In addition, there are some excellent lists of hieratic numerals and accounting abbreviations that have been excavated at Kadesh Barnea. The hieratic school exercises are especially important as they illustrate the necessary training for accounting, administrative, and economic texts that form the majority of scribal activities. There is speculation that other more literary texts like the Gezer Calendar or the poetic texts from Kuntillet ʿAjrud might be scribal exercises. It is difficult to know for certain whether a text like the Gezer Calendar is a school text or perhaps a ritual magic text especially since it was a surface find without archaeological context. On the other hand, it is worth examining the excavated inscriptions at Kuntillet ʿAjrud in more depth.

Internal Israelite Evidence: The Example of Kuntillet ʿAjrud Some issues regarding education in ancient Israel can be illustrated with the best example we have in the archaeological record—namely, the excavations and inscriptions at Kuntillet ʿAjrud that were recently published in the report by Ze’ev Meshel.¹¹ The inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud include extensive scribal exercises. The most obvious example of this are four abecedaries found among the seventeen ink inscriptions found at the site. The complete publication of the inscriptions also notes that the exercises included “an advanced study of epistolography.”¹² The other scribal exercises there form the most complete example of a scribal curriculum in ancient Israel.

 See M. Smith, The Ugaritic Baal Cycle, Volume 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 26 – 36.  Meshel, Kuntillet ʿAjrud (Ḥorvat Teman): An Iron Age II Religious Site on the Judah–Sinai Border (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2012).  S. Aḥituv, E. Eshel, and Z. Meshel, “The Inscriptions,” in Kuntillet ʿAjrud, 134.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

15

In the official publication of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscriptions, the possibility that these are scribal exercises and school texts is dismissed as follows: “Were they scribal exercises? The study of reading and writing—a privilege conferred on a select few in this period—probably took place in urban areas, close to administrative centres or sanctuaries.”¹³ Thus, Meshel interprets the site as a religious site inhabited by a group of priests in the remote desert location of the Negev highlands. Hence, we have a group of priests just hanging out in the desert writing texts and training other priests. For Meshel, this illustrates that priests were the main educated class in ancient Israel, and that they were the scribes and teachers during the Iron Age: “Priests were the main education class in this period, and the main contributors to the knowledge of reading and writing.”¹⁴ However, this religious interpretation of the site has been widely debated. Meshel’s own co-authors—Eshel and Aḥituv—questioned his interpretation of the site.¹⁵ On the other hand, Nadav Na’aman has accepted and elaborated upon Meshel’s theory of the religious nature of this remote site.¹⁶ Yet, the site has produced no cultic material culture apart from the religious interpretation of the inscriptions. An exclusively religious interpretation of Kuntillet ʿAjrud is certainly wrong. Indeed, a closer examination of the inscriptions will indicate that there is no special religious nature to the site. It has already been observed by scholars that there is little that can be interpreted in the material culture of the site that is especially religious or cultic besides the inscriptions. This should give us reason to examine the inscriptions more carefully. There are several aspects of the inscriptions that indicate a general educational context rather than some special religious interpretation. First of all, there are the four abecedaries. In addition, there are exercises in writing the same letter repeatedly, most notable the letter yod on Pithos A. There are also examples of accounting exercises—the hieratic numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 are quite clearly written on Pithos A.¹⁷ More than this, the writing called “scribbles” by Meshel

 Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “The Inscriptions,” 134.  Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “The Inscriptions,” 134.  Eshel and Aḥituv frame the association with priests as something that “Meshel asserts …”; see Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “The Inscriptions,” 134.  See Na’aman, “The Inscriptions of Kuntillet ʿAjrud Through the Lens of Historical Research,” UF 43 (2011): 299 – 324. Na’aman’s analysis utilizes the observations by Jeremy Hutton, who noted the relationship between trade and religious activity, see Hutton, “Local Manifestations of Yahweh and Worship in the Interstices: A Note from Kuntillet ʿAjrud,” JANER 10 (2010): 177– 210.  The numbers 5 and 6 are probably written inside the larger and smaller bull. These are not the typical Egyptian hieratic, but they are too obviously the numbers 5 and 6—that is, 5 strokes and 6 strokes—to be interpreted in any other way. Cp. S. Wimmer, Palästinisches Hieratisch: Die

16

William M. Schniedewind

is actually an exercise in writing hieratic numerals. As with the yod, the student repeatedly tries writing various numerals. The number 10, which looks like a capital “T,” is written at least two times. Most of the rest of the so-called scribbles look like attempts to write the hieratic number 70 and perhaps also the number 50.¹⁸ In any case, given the writing of the number sequence of 1 through 4 as well as the clear writing of the number 10, these scribbles should be understood as a scribal exercise in writing hieratic numerals. This also recalls the six ostraca excavated at Kadesh Barnea (located 50 km north of Kuntillet ʿAjrud), which are well-preserved accounting exercises in writing hieratic numerals.¹⁹ Another part of scribal training is the writing of letters. For example, exercises in letter writing are one of the few types of scribal curriculum that are found for the alphabetic cuneiform texts at Ugarit. And, there are also exercises at Kuntillet ʿAjurd with letter templates that are written on the side of huge storage jars (both on Pithos A—Inscription 3.1—and Pithos B—inscriptions 3.6 and 3.9) instead of on an ostracon. A letter written on a huge pithos could not be actually sent, which means that it had no practical value except as a school exercise. The writing on Pithos B illustrates several more physical aspects of school texts. First, there is the mixture of red and black ink, which is typical in Egyptian school texts to differentiate the teacher and the apprentice (and the teacher naturally uses “red ink” as we find here as well).²⁰ Second, there is the use of the use of the vertical line, which typically separates the master from the apprentice in school texts. In this case, the left side is an example of a letter template: “Message of Amaryaw: Say, to my lord. Are you well? I have blessed you by YHWH of Teman and his asherah. May he bless you and may He keep you, and may He be with my lord[…].” This is a scribal template with the formulaic beginning for all letters. A similar letter template is also found on Pithos A.²¹ In the present case, to the right of the vertical line in the middle, we find the last few letters of an abecedary crudely written in black ink, which looks very much like an apprentice practicing their letters.

Zahl- und Sonderzeichen in der althebräischen Schrift, Ägypten und Alten Testament 75 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008), 202– 211. There is one instance of the number 7 being written with seven strokes instead of standard hieratic in an inscription from Jerusalem.  See Wimmer, Palästinisches Hieratisch, 216 – 17, 223, and 225.  See Wimmer, Palästinisches Hieratisch, 93 – 115. Likewise the hieratic numerals on Arad 34 should also be understood as a scribal exercise; see Wimmer, Palästinisches Hieratisch, 42– 46.  See R. Parkinson, Cracking Codes: The Rosetta Stone and Decipherment (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 143 – 61; Parkinson and S. Quirke, Papyrus (Austin: University of Texas, 1995), 45.  See Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “Inscriptions,” 87.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

17

Another typical feature of scribal curriculum is the writing of lists. On the far left side of the drawing of Pithos B is a list of six names: “1Šekanyaw / 2Amotz / 3 Šemaryaw / 4Eliyaw / 5ʿUzziyaw / 6Miṣri (or, Egyptian).” The last “name” is more likely a gentilic that should be translated, “the Egyptian.” This is not a list of names, which is also a typical scribal exercise. Indeed, the writing of lists and names was a critical part of the job of a scribe. Niek Veldhuis, for example, points out that writing lists of personal names was part of scribal training. Indeed, he notes, “The ability to write names is of the highest importance for the would be bureaucrat. Most of the texts he will write in his future life will be business documents, consisting of ever the same formulas. The names of persons involved, however, are not predictable.”²² In this case, a list of names serves no purpose on the side of this particular large storage jar. Rather, it must be read in the context of the other writing on the jar. The other significant inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud are poetic text(s) written on wall plaster. There are a few larger readable fragments and many smaller fragments that include only parts of a letter or two.²³ They are clearly literary texts that include some nice poetic and religious imagery. For example, Inscription 4.2 might be translated, “ … in an earthquake. And when God shines forth in the [heights. …] The mountains will melt, the hills will be crushed […].”²⁴ Without going into a detailed analysis of these texts, it is clear that these plaster inscriptions are literary texts that harken back to some of the language of biblical poetry. The open questions concern the significance and interpretation of these texts. For example, are they related to a group of priests living at the site as Meshel has suggested? This seems a very unlikely interpretation. To be sure, there are religious themes in the plaster texts. However, the advanced training of scribes would have included literary texts that regularly included religious themes. Religion is woven into all ancient near eastern literary texts, and there is nothing specifically priestly about the Kuntillet ʿAjrud literature plaster texts. In the same way, the letter templates on the two Pithoi include blessings, “May you be blessed by Yahweh and his Asherah”; however, this is not necessarily written by priests. Templates for letter writing typically refer to a blessing by God. Arad 16, for example, begins, “Your brother, Hanniah, send for the welfare of Elishib and the welfare of your house. I bless you to Yahweh.” And, in Ugaritic letters one typically finds formulas like “may the gods guard you and keep you well” (KTU 2:11:7– 9). In sum, religious content does not point to a priestly or spe-

 Veldhuis, “The Cuneiform Tablet as an Educational Tool,” 18.  See Ahituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “Inscriptions,” 105 – 121.  Following the reconstruction of Ahituv, Eshel, and Meshel, “Inscriptions,” 110.

18

William M. Schniedewind

cial religious context for Kuntillet ʿAjrud. Likewise, there is no reason to posit a religious context more generally for education in ancient Israel. Finally, it is worth reflecting on the significance of Kuntillet ʿAjrud for scribes and education in ancient Israel. The site is a remote fortress that must have served caravan trade coming to and from the Red Sea. The fortress is quite small (about 20 m x 10 m) and guarded a nearby water source. It is hard to imagine that it would have been occupied by more than a half dozen people. And yet, the site had a scribe. Perhaps as Aḥituv and Eshel have suggested, this scribe was an officer who was also trained as a scribe. This practice would be paralleled by the so-called “Letter of the Literate Soldier” from Lachish.²⁵ This scribe had the opportunity to train an apprentice. This training focused on the whole gamut of elementary educational curriculum: the alphabet, numbers, epistolary formulas, and onomastic lists. Indeed, the situation is probably similar to the site of Kadesh Barnea some 50 kilometers to the north where six ostraca with exercises in writing hieratic numerals as well as a partial abecedary were discovered. In other words, already by the end of the ninth century BCE, even remote desert fortresses would have scribes who were trained in basic scribal skills relating to trade and administration. This would have been the basic work of scribes throughout the kingdoms of Israel and Judah. What about the literary texts written on the plastered walls at Kuntillet ʿAjrud? This would have not been important knowledge for the day-to-day work of scribes. However, education often involves learning things that are not particularly practical! Indeed, as Niek Veldhuis notes about Mesopotamian scribal training, “a scribe learned far too much. A scribe had to be able to write contracts and business documents. … But a considerable part of the words he had learned in the lexical lists was obscure, obsolete, or for other reasons of no practical use. If we take into account the literary exercises the burden of ‘useless’ knowledge a scribal pupil had to digest is all the more impressive.”²⁶ While I don’t imagine most Israelite scribes had the same burden of useless knowledge as the Mesopotamian scribe, we must also assume that Israelite education had a degree of impracticality that would have included literary texts like the Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscriptions. In the first part of this paper, I have focused especially on the example of Kuntillet ʿAjrud to illustrate some aspects of education in ancient Israel. First of all, it illustrates a main role of scribes in the ancient world, namely, they

 See W. Schniedewind, “Sociolinguistic Reflections on the Letter of a ‘Literate’ Soldier (Lachish 3),” Zeitschrift für Althebraistik 13 (2000): 157– 67.  Veldhuis, “Cuneiform Tablet as an Educational Tool,” 23.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

19

work in the service of the state and bureaucracy. The Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscriptions also serve as a cautionary critique regarding the association of the scribal profession with the religion, the temple, and priests. In Mesopotamia, for example, the archaeological and literary evidence indicates that most education took place in private houses.²⁷ The overwhelming majority of texts are administrative, most commonly associated with the royal bureaucracy or private enterprise. Closer inspections of archives also yield problematic results. For example, Yoram Cohen’s exhaustive study of the scribes at Emar critiqued earlier hypotheses that attributed texts to a temple scribal workshop; instead the education system was located in private houses, and their employment was primarily for private enterprise and state bureaucracy.²⁸ Likewise, the suggestion that the cult was the locus for education at Kuntillet ʿAjrud is certainly incorrect.²⁹ To be sure, there were temple scribes, but this was not the main locus for scribes or education in ancient Israel. As Veldhuis writes, “Bureaucracy depended on loyal scribes.”³⁰ As long as the bureaucracy is essentially generated by the palace and the state, the loyalty of the scribes would to their main employer—namely, the palace. However, the locus of cuneiform studies did shift in the Babylonian, Persian, and Hellenistic periods when cuneiform was no longer the writing system of the state bureaucracy.³¹ This was an opportunity for the locus of the late cuneiform education to shift to the temple and priests. The locus of education can change as bureaucracy changes and with language shift, and this certainly is the case in the Second Temple period.

Education in the Persian Period The locus of education was both substantially the same and radically different in the Persian province of Yehud. Language ideology begins to play a central role in language choice and education in Persian Yehud. This likely began already in the

 See, for example, S. Tinney, “Texts, Tablets, and Teaching: Scribal Education in Nippur and Ur,” Expedition 40 (1998): 40 – 50.  Cohen, Scribes and Scholars of the City of Emar in the Late Bronze Age (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 55 – 56.  Note, for example, my review of van der Toorn’s Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 10 [2010]).  Veldhuis, “Cuneiform Tablet as an Educational Tool,” 25.  See P.-A. Beaulieu, “Official and Vernacular Languages: The Shifting Sands of Imperial and Cultural Identities in First-Millennium B.C. Mesopotamia,” in Margins of Writing, Origins of Cultures, ed. S. Sanders (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 2006), 187– 216.

20

William M. Schniedewind

neo-Assyrian period when Aramaic first began to be used as an administrative language. It certainly continues into the neo-Babylonian and Persian periods. The book of Esther, for example, underscores the role of language ideology when it repeatedly states, “to every province in its own script and to every people in its own language” (Esth 1:22; 3:12; 8:9). Languages are especially associated with identity in situations like in a diaspora, under colonialism or imperialism, and in the context of globalization where ethnic identities are challenged.³² The state—or, more specifically, the Achaemenid empire—was a huge bureaucracy that trained and employed many scribes throughout the empire. Aramaic was the standardized imperial administrative tool in which scribes across the empire were educated. These scribes generated scores and scores of documents, mostly letters, receipts, and contracts; and, these documents reflect a thorough and relatively uniform education in an Aramaic scribal chancellery. The epigraphic evidence for Aramaic during the fifth through fourth centuries in the southern Levant is quite impressive. Aramaic was the language of commerce and administration. But what about Hebrew education? The Hebrew language evolved under the long shadow cast by the Aramaic of the Achaemenid Empire. Imperial presence would have demanded that the Hebrew speech communities become bilingual, using Aramaic alongside Hebrew. The fate of the Hebrew scribal tradition was even more precarious. The Aramaic writing system and imperial scribal infrastructure supplanted Hebrew within the empire. Jews living in Yehud adopted the Aramaic script as their own (displacing the Paleo-Hebrew script), so much so that it even came to be called “the Jewish script.”³³ By the end of the Babylonian period, it is unclear what, if any, infrastructure was available in the region for the continued study of written texts and language. The very persistence of Hebrew as a literary language actually depended upon Aramaic and the Aramaic chancellery.³⁴ The use of Aramaic as a lingua franca in the Near East had already begun in the eighth century BCE. The Assyrian Empire adopted Aramaic as an imperial language in their political strategy for integrating the western provinces into

 See, for example, P. Trudgill, Sociolinguistics: An Introduction to Language and Society, 4th ed. (London: Penguin, 2001), 119 – 46.  This is the term that Joseph Naveh uses in his Early History of the Alphabet (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1982), 162– 74.  See Schniedewind, A Social History of Hebrew: Its Origins Through the Rabbinic Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 131. Also see D. Vanderhooft, “’el-mĕdînâ ûmĕdînâ kiktābāh: Scribes and Scripts in Yehud and in Achaemenid Transeuphratene,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. O. Lipschits, G. Knoppers, and M. Oeming (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns: 2011), 529 – 44.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

21

their empire.³⁵ In the Dûr-Sharrukîn Cylinder Inscription, for example, the Assyrian monarch Sargon II (r. 722– 705 BCE) articulates the goal of unification, cloaked in linguistic jargon. The inscription mentions “one mouth” as metaphor for allegiance to the Assyrian overlord, but the linguistic vehicle for this imposed allegiance was the Aramaic language. The Assyrians sent “scribes and overseers” to teach their conquered states, and in the east they utilized the Aramaic writing system to implement imperial policy. To carry out their plan, they built new administrative centers (such as Megiddo, Ekron, and Tell Jemmeh in Israel). Vernacularization—that is, literary communication aimed at the masses—was critical to the emergence of empire in the ancient Near East.³⁶ Referring to the formation of European and Indian societies, Sheldon Pollock observes that “using a new language for communicating literarily to a community of readers and listeners can consolidate if not create that very community, as both a sociotextual and a political formation.”³⁷ In the case of the ancient Near East, the simplicity of the alphabet as opposed to the cumbersome cuneiform writing system likely informed this choice. More than this, as a result of the spread of Aramaic, cuneiform itself became a restricted and esoteric writing system in the Persian and Hellenistic periods,³⁸ being supplanted by Aramaic in the administration of far-reaching parts of the empire. To perform its new functions, a literary standard was created, which scholars have called Official Aramaic (or Imperial Aramaic, or Reichsaramäisch).³⁹ Before this Aramaic had been a cacophony of different dialects; and, not surprisingly, after the decline of the Persian Empire, Aramaic splinters into a multitude of dialects. The standardization and concomitant simplification of Aramaic was a natural consequence of its wide diffusion under a central authority. Such tendencies are also evident in the Greek language in the wake of Alexander’s conquest and in Arabic in the aftermath of the advent

 H. Tadmor, “The Aramaization of Assyria: Aspects of Western Impact,” in Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn. Teil 2, ed. H.-J. Nissen and J. Renger (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag, 1982), 449 – 70.  Vernacularization was also a dialectic in the formation of the Hebrew Bible, particularly books like Deuteronomy; see my discussion, How the Bible Became a Book: The Scripturalization of Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 111– 17.  Pollock, “Cosmopolitan and Vernacular in History,” Public Culture 12 (2000): 591– 625 (592).  For an account of the demise of cuneiform, see Geller, “The Last Wedge,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 87 (1997): 43 – 95.  J. Fitzmyer, “The Phases of the Aramaic Language,” in A Wandering Aramean: Collected Aramaic Essays (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1997), 57– 84; H. Gzella, A Cultural History of Aramaic: From the Beginnings to the Advent of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2015).

22

William M. Schniedewind

of Islam.⁴⁰ For this reason sociolinguists point to Aramaic as “a classic case of imperialism utilizing a foreign language instead of trying to impose its own.”⁴¹ During the Persian period (538 – 333 BCE), Aramaic was adopted as the language of the empire. From Egypt to Iran, we find ample written evidence for Aramaic that reflects the effectiveness of the empire in training scribes in the literary standard. This literary standard is even found in the Hebrew Bible, where sections of the books of Ezra and Daniel are written in Official Aramaic. Not incidentally, the literary characters of Ezra and Daniel are both officials of the imperial government and hence trained by its scribal chancellery. One indicator of the authors’ training is the use of the verb mprš “to translate” (Ezra 4:18), which was equivalent to the Persian term (h)uzvarisûn, which describes the unique method invented in the Persian chancelleries for translating a document.⁴² Thus, when the torah was read aloud in Jerusalem during the Persian period, it apparently needed to be translated into Aramaic to be understood (Neh 8:7– 8): “the Levites explained the torah to the people, while the people stood in their places. They read from the scroll of the torah of God, translating it and giving the sense; so they understood the reading.” Clearly, Hebrew was no longer understood by the majority of people, and this is also reflected in the epigraphic record. Although the province of Yehud was economically poor and demographically depopulated, we still find hundreds of inscriptions in Aramaic, reflecting the penetration of the imperial bureaucracy in virtually all aspects of economic, political, and domestic life. Appropriately enough, the letters written between the political leaders in Yehud and the Persian king Artaxerxes were written in Aramaic as reflected in the book of Ezra. More than this, even the narrative surrounding the correspondence between political leaders is written in Aramaic (Ezra 4:9 – 6:18), and undoubtedly the use of Aramaic reflected the scribal training even of the leaders of the community in Yehud. Letters written from the Egyptian Jewish community at Elephantine to Jerusalem are also written in Imperial Aramaic. Although the use of Aramaic in portions of the book of Daniel serves as a literary device (Dan 2– 7), it also reflects the degree to which the Aramaic language was used by Jews in the Second Temple period.

 See V. Kiernan, “Languages and Conquerors,” in Language, Self, and Society, ed. P. Burke and R. Porter (Cambridge, MA: Polity Press, 1991), 191– 210.  Kiernan, “Languages and Conquerors,” 195.  J. Naveh and J. Greenfield, “Hebrew and Aramaic in the Persian Period,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism I: Introduction: The Persian Period, ed. W. Davies and L. Finkelstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 116.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

23

The epigraphic evidence for Aramaic during the fifth through fourth centuries in the southern Levant is quite impressive.⁴³ There are almost no Greek inscriptions from this period, and very few Hebrew inscriptions. Only on the northern coast, in places like Dor, Akko, and Sidon, do Greek inscriptions begin to appear, probably evidence of traders beginning in the fourth century BCE. As Israel Eph’al notes, “the overwhelming majority, however, is written in Aramaic, the lingua franca of the age.”⁴⁴ Beginning in the 1960s, archaeological excavations began to uncover impressive evidence of the Aramaic administration in the region. Dozens of Aramaic ostraca have been excavated at a variety of sites. These include sixty-seven fourth-century Aramaic ostraca excavated at Beersheba, one hundred ostraca from Arad, and smaller numbers from Tell elKheliefeh (biblical Ezion-Geber) on the Red Sea and Tell Jemmeh. Israel Eph’al and Joseph Naveh published a large cache of administrative ostraca from Idumea dated to 363 – 311 BCE. Add to this evidence the famous papyri from Wadi el-Daliyeh and the hundreds of seals and seal impressions, as well as coins. In sum, the evidence for the use of Aramaic in Yehud is quite overwhelming, yet the evidence for Hebrew is almost completely lacking in the epigraphic record. Chaim Rabin suggested that Aramaic was restricted to outside communication and had only limited literary use in Yehud. Epigraphic discoveries certainly demonstrate that Aramaic was used widely throughout the Levant for both local and international purposes. These discoveries include mundane uses of Aramaic for record keeping, marriage contracts, and economic transactions. To be sure, Aramaic literature is relatively limited until the end of the Persian period (i. e., until 330 BCE). The most well-known early Aramaic literary text is the Proverbs of Ahiqar, which was apparently a widely known scribal and school text.⁴⁵ This is a wisdom text, and it was likely a certain text in advanced scribal training. According to this tale, Ahiqar is a wise scribe of the Neo-Assyrian kings. The earliest known version of the tale dates to the fifth century BCE in Elephantine. The lack of a more developed neo-Assyrian or Persian literary corpus suggests that the primary role of Aramaic writing was administrative in this period. In contrast, Aramaic literary production flourishes in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Al-

 See summary by I. Eph’al, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible, Volume II: The Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian Periods (732 – 333 B.C.E.) (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 360 – 66, 535 – 70.  Eph’al, Archaeology, 362.  Gzella, A Cultural History of Aramaic, 201– 211.

24

William M. Schniedewind

though some Qumran Aramaic texts (such as 1 Enoch) were conceivably written in the late Persian period, most seem to date to the Hellenistic period.⁴⁶ The proposition that biblical Hebrew (instead of Aramaic) was used for normal literary composition during the Persian period is based on the assumption that this was the period when the composition of biblical literature flourished. There is little evidence outside of the Bible itself for this presumption, and the explicit internal biblical evidence is quite limited. That is, only a few biblical texts situate themselves as Persian compositions, so the argument must be made on external criteria that are either limited or equivocal. The main biblical texts that situate themselves in a Persian context are Ezra-Nehemiah, Esther, and Daniel. The minor prophets Haggai and Zechariah are situated at the very beginning of the Persian period. The book of Chronicles is also widely considered a Persian work, although it does not include the Persian period in its historical purview. Scholars are increasingly wanting to date Chronicles in the early Hellenistic period,⁴⁷ although a late Persian period seems just as plausible to me. The book of Daniel likely receives its final shape in the Hasmonean period, even though some of the Aramaic tales may go back to the Persian period. Other late biblical books like Ecclesiastes are also likely to date to the Hellenistic period. In other words, there is very little biblical literature that places itself in the Persian period. The main example of literature dating to the Persian period in the biblical corpus is Ezra-Nehemiah.

The Demographic Aspect to the Survival of Hebrew Chaim Rabin thought that most of the common people would have continued to speak some form of vernacular Hebrew, a precursor to Rabbinic Hebrew. It does seem unlikely that vernacular Hebrew would have completely disappeared, especially given that it continued to be spoken (although it is difficult to be sure how widely) until the third or fourth century CE. Joachim Schaper nuanced Rabin’s position, arguing, “the use of Aramaic and Hebrew respectively was a matter

 See, for example, K. Berthelot and D. Stökl Ben Ezra, “Aramaica Qumranica: Introduction,” in Aramaica Qumranica: Proceedings of the Conference on the Aramaic Text from Qumran in Aixen-Provence (June 30-July 2, 2008), ed. K. Berthelot and D. Stökl Ben Ezra (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 1– 12.  See R. Duke, “Recent Research in Chronicles,” Currents in Biblical Research 8 (2009): 10 – 50.

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

25

of social division, not literary genre.”⁴⁸ At the heart of Schaper’s argument is this assumption: “The majority of the inhabitants of Judaea had not been abducted by the Babylonians and had thus remained virtually unaffected by Aramaic linguistic influences.”⁴⁹ To be sure, continuity and change in the Hebrew language would be greatly shaped by changes in the demographic situation in Judah. It is often asserted that the demographic situation in Judah remained largely unchanged after the Babylonian conquests; however, archaeological investigation tells a different story. The evidence for vernacular languages spoken in ancient Yehud must necessarily begin with demographics. In his monumental work Principles of Linguistic Change, William Labov stressed that changes in the demographic composition of a community are a central factor determining the course of linguistic change.⁵⁰ Thus, the continuity of linguistic communities (that is, Hebrew speaking) as well as the introduction of new linguistic communities (namely, Aramaic speaking) can be directly correlated to the impact of the Babylonians and Persians in Yehud. Archaeological excavations and surveys indicate both continuity and significant disjunction in communities from the end of the Iron Age (586 BCE) until the Hellenistic period (333 BCE).⁵¹ Beginning with the Babylonian military campaigns, there was a massive demographic disruption, and archaeological surveys have suggested as much as a ninety percent decrease in the population of the region surrounding Jerusalem. All other regions in Judah decreased more than sixty percent. Perhaps even more important than the overall decline in population is the disjunction and displacement in individual cities, towns, and villages. Archaeologists have estimated that at least sixty-five percent of Persian towns were new foundations—they have no continuity from the late Iron Age into the period of Persian control. This type of demographic disjunction resulted in a significant language shift in southern Yehud during this period. That is, the majority of Hebrew speakers were actually displaced by the events surrounding the Babylonian invasions and administration of Judah in the sixth century BCE, and most Persian period villages were not continuations of their Iron Age predecessors. What language would these new settlements speak? Aramaic. New towns and villages—that is, new speech communities—appeared throughout the Persian province of Yehud, and their language was Aramaic.

 Schaper, “Hebrew and Its Study in the Persian Period,” in Hebrew Study from Ezra to BenYehuda, ed. W. Horbury (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), 17.  Schaper, “Hebrew,” 16.  Labov, Principles of Linguistic Change. Volume 1: Internal Factors, Language in Society 20 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 503.  See my discussion of the archaeological evidence in A Social History of Hebrew, 128 – 31.

26

William M. Schniedewind

There was also some continuity in Hebrew speech communities. Although most Iron Age towns and villages show a disjunction between the seventh and fifth centuries BCE, there are certainly many examples of continuity of settlement. As Labov observes, the continuity in settlement usually results in the continuation of the vernacular in these speech communities. A striking contemporary example in the modern Middle East is the stubborn persistence of Aramaic speakers in Iraq, even though many have been displaced by recent events. Indeed, my UCLA colleague Yona Sabar is a native Neo-Aramaic speaker, although his children no longer speak Aramaic because his village was displaced in 1950.⁵² Likewise, some Hebrew speech communities persisted in Judah after the Babylonian invasions, into the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman periods.

Education in Ezra-Nehemiah There are four important topics related to education in Ezra-Nehemiah. These have been treated by many scholars, but it worth making some observations in the present context. The relevant topics include 1) the Aramaic code-switching in Ezra, 2) the vocations of Ezra and Nehemiah, 3) the role of language ideology in education, and 4) the location of education. The Aramaic portions of Ezra underscore the central role of Aramaic as the administrative language of the Persian Empire. The fact that they employ the original Aramaic language illustrates the role of what linguistic anthropologists call “code-switching” in language choice. Aramaic was the language of letter writing and diplomacy during this period so it is quite natural for the book of Ezra to include epistles in Aramaic. Yet, the use of Aramaic actually begins before the letters themselves in Ezra 4:7– 10. That is to say, the Aramaic letters are given an Aramaic introduction as well. The author of Ezra is obviously quite comfortable with the Aramaic language as well as the conventions of Aramaic letter writing—indeed, this would have been a standard part of his education. Some loanwords reflecting scribal education include nštwn “letter,” trgm “to translate,” pršgn “copy,” tʿm “report, decree” and gnzyʾ “archives, treasury” (Ezra 4:7, 17; 5:6, 7, 17; 7:20). Two of the main Jewish figures in the Persian period, Ezra and Nehemiah, were apparently Persian officials. In the Nehemiah Memoir, for example, Nehemiah calls himself “cupbearer to the king” (Neh 1:11). Whereas Nehemiah is a

 See the anecdotal account in A. Sabar, My Father’s Paradise: A Son’s Search for his Jewish Past in Kurdish Iraq (Chapel Hill: Algonquin, 2008).

Scribal Education in Ancient Israel and Judah into the Persian Period

27

Persian official, the relationship of Ezra to the Persian administration is slightly more ambiguous. Ezra is specifically given the title of a scribe (Ezra 7:11; Neh 8:1, 4, 9); and, he was apparently in the Persian court where he asked for and received favors from King Artaxerxes (Ezra 7:6, 12, 21). Moreover, a letter from Artaxerxes gives Ezra authority to create administration in Yehud (v. 25). Although Aramaic was the language of scribal training, Ezra-Nehemiah also displays language ideology that privileges Hebrew as part of religious and political nationalism. This is illustrated by Neh 13:23 – 24, which laments, “In those day I saw Jews who had married women of Ashdod, Ammon, and Moab; and half of the children spoke the language of Ashdod, and they could not speak the language of Judah.” As linguistic anthropologists have pointed out, language maintenance is important for preserving identity and ethnic boundaries.⁵³ In the present example, the story begins with reading “from the book of Moses in the hearing of the people,” and they discovered what “was written” (Neh 13:1). The story culminates with the discovery that many couldn’t understand what was spoken and what was written—that is, with a need for Hebrew education to solidify identity and to preserve religious traditions. The purpose of this education, however, becomes radically different from the First Temple period—now it has a religious, social, and nationalist purpose. And, the locus of Hebrew education changes with its different goals. The main literary figure in education during the Persian period is Ezra, “the priest and scribe.” Repeatedly in Ezra-Nehemiah, Ezra is given both titles together, “Ezra, the priest and scribe” (see Ezra 7:11, 12, 21; Neh 8:9, 12:16). The title “scribe” probably related merely to Ezra’s role as a low level bureaucrat,⁵⁴ but his title “priest” was a more significant statement about his role in the community. Indeed, priests become the leaders of the Jewish community in the Second Temple period. This is evident by the role of Ezra, but also in the books of Haggai and Zechariah. It is also attested in the epigraphic record where we find a Hebrew coin stamped with the inscription, “Yochanan, the Priest,” in paleo-Hebrew letters.⁵⁵ The coin illustrates the role of the priesthood in the leadership, but even

 See Trudgill, Sociolinguistics, 128.  See P. Michalowski, “Charisma and Control: On Continuity and Change in Early Mesopotamian Bureaucratic Systems,” in The Organization of Power: Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, ed. M. Gibson and R. Biggs, SAOC 46 (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1991), 51. See also B. Landsberger, “Scribal Concepts of Education,” in The City Invincible, ed. C. Kraeling and R. McAdams (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1960), 94– 102.  See L. Fried, “A Silver Coin of Yoḥanan Hakkohēn,” Transeuphratène 26 (2003): 65 – 85; J. Betlyon, “The Provincial Government of Persian Period Judea and the Yehud Coins,” JBL 105

28

William M. Schniedewind

more the role of language and script in political ideology. As far as we can tell, the role of the scribe was particularly associated with priests in the late Second Temple period.⁵⁶ Daniel, for example, is not called a scribe. On the other hand, the book of Nehemiah mentions another scribe by the name of “Zadok” (Neh 13:13), who was undoubtedly a priest. Hebrew scribal education then is closely associated with the priests in the Second Temple period. In this respect, its social location is strikingly different than the First Temple period. Languages and language choice played a central role in the change in the social location. Hebrew became a sacred language, but it also became a language with strong associations to Jewish identity as well as nationalistic aspirations. In sum, education had strikingly different social locations in the Iron Age and the Persian period. In the Iron Age, scribal education would have had a primary role in the service of bureaucracy and a secondary role in the service of religion. But there was one language for scribes and education—Hebrew. In contrast, during the Persian period, language served to segregate education. A primary role of scribal education would still have been to serve bureaucracy; however, the locus and purpose of education was segregated by languages. Aramaic was the written code for bureaucracy and the economy. Hebrew education served to reinforce social and religious identity as well as preserve religious tradition.

(1986): 633 – 42; and B. Root, “Coinage, War, and Peace in Fourth-Century Yehud,” NEA 68/3 (2005): 131– 34.  I concur with the position outlined by S. Fraade, “The Early Rabbinic Sage,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. J. Gammie and L. Perdue (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 420 – 23.

Frank Ueberschaer

Jewish Education in Ben Sira Introduction The book of Ben Sira was composed in the early second century BCE, most likely in Jerusalem. It is one of the main representatives of wisdom literature from this era, which brought numerous changes to the Ancient Near East. The book also represents one way Jewish thinkers reacted to the challenges which Hellenism posed Judean society. Ben Sira’s response is to take a mediating position; his work is nothing less than a complete reformulation of Jewish thought in a new era. The book of Ben Sira is a work with an incredibly complex history of textual transmission. Originally, the book was written in Hebrew, but it was soon translated into Greek by the author’s grandson. According to the grandson’s own prologue, this translation took place in Egypt, to where he seems to have immigrated in the year 132 BCE. The book was later translated into Syriac and into Latin in the Christian era. While the Hebrew text is still quoted in the Talmud, both as words of a Talmud sage and as scripture, the Hebrew text was subsequently lost. Only at the end of the nineteenth century were fragments found in the Cairo Geniza dating to the Middle Ages. Then in the middle of the twentieth century, new fragments of the Hebrew text were found at Qumran and Masada. Although these fragments are very small, they are exceptionally important because they represent the oldest Hebrew text of the book. To date about 68 % of the Hebrew text has been located. Unfortunately, the textual transmission as a whole is very diverse, and there are many instances in which there is no way to go back to an Urtext. This must be taken into account while working with the book of Ben Sira.¹ Methodologically speaking, the evidence raises questions that will never

 The most important edition for the Hebrew text is Pancratius C. Beentjes, ed., The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew: A Text Edition of All Extant Hebrew Manuscripts and A Synopsis of All Parallel Hebrew Ben Sira Texts, VTSup 68 (Leiden: Brill, 1997); for the Greek text: Joseph Ziegler, ed., Septuaginta. Vetus Testamentum Graece XII/2: Sapientia Iesu Filii Sirach, 2nd ed. (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprech, 1980); Alfred Rahlfs and Robert Hanhart, eds., Septuaginta id est Vetus Testamentum Graece iuxta LXX interpretes (Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2006), 377– 471; for the Syriac text: Nuria Calduch-Benages, Joan Ferrer, and Jan Liesen, eds., Wisdom of the Scribe: Diplomatic Edition of the Syriac Version of the Book of Ben Sira according to Codex Ambrosianus, 2nd ed. (Estalle (Navarra): Editorial Verbo Divino, 2015); for the Latin Text: Walter Thiele, ed., Vetus Latina. Die Reste der altlateinischen Bibel 11/2: Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) (Freiburg: DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-003

30

Frank Ueberschaer

receive sufficient answers: Which text should we focus on? And, seeing as a book can never be equated an oral teaching process, what are we dealing with—Ben Sira’s teaching or his book’s, which is of course addressed to a much larger audience than Ben Sira’s personal teaching would have been.²

Jewish Education According to the Book of Ben Sira Wisdom literature has always had an instructional purpose and an educational aim. In the instructions from Mesopotamia and Egypt, one may even observe delineated curricula. But not every wisdom instruction provides as clear a reflection of what happens in the educational process or how this can be understood theoretically as we find in the book of Ben Sira. The author not only unfolds what should be taught, but also how it should be taught, providing a theoretical background for the entire educational process.

Anthropological Preconditions Deliberation and a tongue and eyes, ears and a heart for thinking he gave them. With knowledge of understanding he filled them, and good things and bad he showed to them. (17:6 – 7a)³

Man is an intelligent being. He is created with a tongue, eyes, and ears as organs of perception and communication. These are framed by “deliberation” (διαβούλιον) and the heart (καρδία), two “organs” of cognition. The terms ἐπιστήμην and σύνεσις suggest that man is intended to be an intellectual being from the very beginning so that he is able to distinguish between good and bad. This means that man is provided with the ability to live an intellectually self-deter-

Herder, 1987); Robert Weber and Roger Gryson, eds., Biblia Sacra Vulgata iuxta Vulgatam Versionem, 5th ed. (Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 2007), 1029 – 1095.  In this paper the textual problems will be addressed only when necessary as the focus here is not textual transmission.  The English translations of Septuagint texts are quoted from the New English Translation of the Septuagint (NETS).

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

31

mined life.⁴ Moreover, this characterization of the human being preordains the individual to an intellectual life and intellectual pursuits. Interestingly, Ben Sira draws clear lines between the professions in their access to wisdom, but his anthropological foundation is very democratic: there is no fundamental difference between individuals. This also means that Ben Sira does not take the intellectual differences between individual human beings into account. Finally, Ben Sira participates in the ancient wisdom tradition, believing that humans are in need of education.⁵ In this context, one of Ben Sira’s main intellectual conditions for humankind is free will. In 15:14– 17 he dramatically emphasizes human’s freedom of choice: humanity is provided with everything it needs, and one must choose to use one’s abilities. Ben Sira wrote his book to provide guidance on this path.⁶

The Students A clear picture of Ben Sira’s students is hindered by two obstacles. The first is the fact that the book of Ben Sira does indeed present his teaching or at least what he considered to be the most important part of it. However, although at least parts of the book approximate basic concept sketches for teaching lessons very closely,⁷ a book is not identical with the teaching itself. A book is generally written to extend the close circle of one’s own students. Thus the addressees of the book are not the same as the students who have been sitting “παρὰ τοὺς πόδας” of Ben Sira himself. As a result, many statements and instructions are quite general and not focused solely on young students. On the other hand, Ben Sira still refers to his own students, which points to the second difficulty: he does not focus on their actual nature as students. He draws colorful images of their possible future life, without explicitly considering their social back-

 Verse 7b can be seen as an allusion to Gen 2. However, one should take into account that neither is the terminology the same (in Gen 2 the terms καλός and πονηρός are used, in Sir 17 αγαθός and κακός) nor is the idea of gaining the ability to distinguish between good and bad identical (in Gen 2 it happens only by transgression of a commandment, in Sir 17, it is a creational ability of the human being).  See Jutta Hausmann, Studien zum Menschenbild in der älteren Weisheit. Spr 10 ff., FAT 7 (Mohr Siebeck: Tübingen, 1995), 168 – 171.  This indicates already that, with his book, Ben Sira had intended a larger audience than his own students, as Greg Goering has correctly emphasized.  See Katja Tesch, Weisheitsunterricht bei Ben Sira. Lehrkonzepte im Sirachbuch und ihre Relevanz für heutiges Lernen im Religionsunterricht, BBB 169 (Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2013), 44, 69 – 79.

32

Frank Ueberschaer

ground. Their nature can only be accessed indirectly and to a high degree with uncertainty.⁸ Nevertheless, what can be said is that his students come from affluent middle class families that can afford to send their children or young adults—we are talking only about sons—to school or are able to spend their time educating themselves, in the hope of realistically moving up the social ladder. At a minimum, the students Ben Sira has in mind are of an age when they can receive a panorama of their whole life (6:18). He appeals to their own notions to draw them to his teaching. The meditation on duties in relation to parents in Sir 3 also presupposes students advanced in age and education, most likely young adults. Ben Sira’s reflections on money and wealth surely imply at least some wealth both with regard to the student’s parents or themselves as well as what can be expected in their future life (e. g. 5:1, 8). The meals Ben Sira mentions in chaps. 31– 32 indicate some financial means, and in his view his students are governed by the duty of the wise to care for the poor (e. g. 4:4a; 7:32). But their wealth is far from unlimited, as Ben Sira’s words about the treatment of slaves imply: on the one hand he assumes that they own slaves, but he cautions against their harsh treatment because a slave could run away, and there will be no possibility to get him back (33:32; see also 33:26, 28; and 7:20 – 21). Similarly, Ben Sira teaches about vouching for somebody (29:14; more cautiously in 29:20; and with a clear warning in 8:12– 13). And finally, he explicitly cautions against people richer and more powerful than his students now and in their future (e. g. 13:1– 7). If Ben Sira’s instruction can be drawn from the topics in the book itself, the main occupations will be in trade and commerce (see 42:3 – 5a; 26:29 – 27:3, and warning in 13:1– 7). But most instructive in respect of financial background is Ben Sira’s statement in 38:24: “The wisdom of the scribe multiplies wisdom, who is in lack of occupation will become wise.” Thus, Ben Sira thinks that his students will have to work to make their living, but they still will have time for leisure, in which to devote themselves to the search for wisdom. In addition, Ben Sira sets his and their sights on service as high ranking officials (e. g. 4:7, 27, and warning in 7:4– 6). In any case, their focus should be the people’s assembly,

 See Franz Böhmisch, “‘Haec omnia liber vita’: Zur Theologie der erweiterten Textformen des Sirachbuches,” Studien zum Neuen Testament und seiner Umwelt 22 (1997): 160 – 180; and Böhmisch, “Die Textformen des Sirachbuches und ihre Zielgruppen,” Protokolle zur Bibel 6, 2 (1997): 87– 122.

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

33

but this seems to be primarily for their reputation and not for economic advancement.

Ben Sira’s Lessons In 6:18 – 37 Ben Sira gives a long meditation on gaining wisdom. He characterizes it as a lifelong process of learning that must begin at an early age (6:18). And he does not hide anything: becoming a truly wise person is not a gift from heaven only, it also requires hard work (6:19 – 25). In 6:22, he writes, “The Instruction—it is like her name, and not for many it (= the instruction) is straight.” In this verse, the Hebrew term ‫( מוסר‬instruction) derives from the root ‫ יסר‬meaning “to rebuke,” which can happen both orally and physically.⁹ This likely implies the metaphors of being bound and under a yoke (6:24– 25). But in the end, the student will finally gain wisdom’s rest or pleasure (‫)מנוחתה‬. What afflicted him during the process of learning will later become clothes and accessories of honor (6:28 – 31). Discipline and the ongoing process of learning will become internalized and the remedy for success. What does this process of teaching and learning look like literally? The address “my son” (‫ )בני‬is not only a traditional wisdom address; it still shows that the origins of wisdom education lie in oral communication. One of the main methods of teaching was clearly oral lecturing. This is indicated by phrases like ‫“( שמע בני‬listen, my son,” in e. g. 16:24; 31:22) or “if you want to hear” (‫ )אם תבוא לשמע‬and “incline your ear” (‫( )והט אזנך‬both in 6:33). In her dissertation, Katja Tesch has even extracted very plausible lesson sketches.¹⁰ In addition to the “lectures,” Ben Sira recommends that his students listen to the discourses of the sages among themselves (‫ שיח‬or ‫)שיחה‬. This may allude to Greek and Hellenistic symposia, but there is no certain proof, as Ben Sira gives no indication where and under which conditions these talks might have taken place. Besides 6:35, the most important appearance of this theme is 8:8 – 9. In 44:4 the “sages of talks” (‫ )חכמי שיח‬stand in parallel to those who compose wisdom statements (‫)מושלים‬, which may indicate that talks and the composing of sentences and parables are closely connected. The sequence of 8:8 – 9 may also hint at a special genre of wisdom statements within these talks: riddles (‫)חידות‬. These may have been real riddles, but they may also have been an en For a new approach to “physical education,” see Greg Schmidt Goering, “Attentive Ears and Forward-Looking Eyes: Disciplining the Senses and Forming the Self in the Book of Proverbs,” JJS 66 (2015): 242– 264.  See Tesch, Weisheitsunterricht, 69 ff.

34

Frank Ueberschaer

crypted special sociolect urging students to think for themselves, thereby better internalizing the teachings. In additional to these intellectual occupations, Ben Sira also emphasizes a praxis pietatis. Sir 6:37 clearly recalls Ps 1:2 by the verb ‫( הגה‬to meditate). It is not only important to learn and meditate on wisdom, but also on the commandments. And it is not only important to meditate the commandments, but also to observe them. This last aspect has been pointed out by the Greek translator who rendered ‫ הגה‬with μελετάω, which implies both study and practice. For the first time in the history of Jewish thought, wisdom and Torah are drawn so closely together in a reflective book of wisdom literature. And for the first time in the history of wisdom literature, observing God’s commandments becomes a crucial part of the educational process. The Psalms seem to have played a role as well, as can be seen in 39:2– 16. All in all, Ben Sira obviously understands the limitations of the educational system during his time and, and he, therefore, thinks far beyond it. He introduces two new “methods”: first, he elevates life experience (πολυπειρία) to the rank of a method of learning (25:3 – 6), and second, he explicitly talks about leisure time (38:24). The innovativeness of this concept in Hebrew thought at that time is reflected by the fact that, unlike in Greek, there is no Hebrew term for it. He must therefore paraphrase with the expression ‫( חסר עסק‬in Greek: σχολή). Finally, Ben Sira’s book should itself be mentioned as a teaching tool. We can never know if Ben Sira used his book in his own teachings, but we can say that it bears the fruit of that instruction. This is how he introduces it in 39:32. But more importantly, with his book, Ben Sira transcends the limitations of the classroom and addresses the public at large, at least all those of good intentions. These aspects are glimpses of how Ben Sira taught, or at least what he makes of the educational process. Which topics does he advocate to be taught? The book does not provide a curriculum in the sense of detailed educational contents and chronology. However, what Ben Sira considered worthy to be taught, he laid out in his work. The main aspect is, of course, wisdom teaching. In 8:8 – 9 Ben Sira introduces the term ‫מיעת שבים‬, which not only emphasizes the importance of hearing in the educational process but also points out that all wisdom teaching is received through the tradition. Although Ben Sira never tires of emphasizing his own uniqueness—in this context it is not important if the “I” in the book is autobiographic or rhetorical¹¹—he clearly understands himself as standing in a line of

 See Benjamin G. Wright, “Ben Sira on the Sage as Exemplar,” in Praise Israel for Wisdom and

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

35

tradition. Being a student of wisdom means being a student of the elders for the whole span of one’s life. Within the Hebrew language this is also expressed by the term ‫ ֶלַקח‬that Ben Sira uses in v. 8: the educational process is primarily a process of accepting and taking for oneself, in Hebrew: ‫לקח‬. These wisdom teachings find their oral and literary expressions in proverbs (‫)מושלים‬. The sage is singled out through his understanding of these proverbs: “The heart of a sage [or: a wise heart] understands the proverbs of the sages, and an ear that listens to wisdom pleases” (3:29). With this statement Ben Sira brings to an end the discussion about hidden wisdom or teachings (be they apocalyptic or not), against which he speaks. He tries, instead, to guide his students to what is revealed to them, to the wisdom tradition. Within his instruction Ben Sira teaches and offers reflections about the wise and the foolish,¹² family and its internal and external relationships,¹³ social and economic affairs,¹⁴ and how to approach relationships with rulers and their representatives.¹⁵ These are all traditional topics. New main points include reflections on religious affairs¹⁶ and death.¹⁷ Finally, Ben Sira adds new subjects: friendship,¹⁸ creation,¹⁹ anthropology,²⁰ and history.²¹ He reflects on professions²²—a topic known from Egypt, e. g. in the Instruction of Cheti, but not in the Israelite wisdom tradition—and apparently about new phenomena like symposia (31:12– 32:13). But the most important innovations in his book are the theological reflections about the acquisition of wisdom: 1:1– 10; 4:11– 19; 6:18 – 37; 8:8 – 9; 14:20 – 15:10; 19:22, 24; and 24. Although the topic itself is not new, the level of reflection and its importance within his thinking makes the book one of the most interesting on the topic. Instruction. Essays on Ben Sira and Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas and the Septuagint, ed. Benjamin G. Wright, JSJSup 131 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 165 – 182.  See 22:1– 23:6; 27:22– 30; 32:14– 23; 39:1– 11; 41:14– 42:8.  About parents (3:1– 16; 7:27 f), the wife (7:19, 26; 9:1– 2; 22:5; 25:13 – 20, 22– 23; 26:1– 27; 36:21– 26), sons (7:23; 22:3; 30:1– 13; 41:5 – 13) and daughters (7:24– 25; 22:3 – 4; 42:9 – 14), but also about the danger of the strange woman (9:3 – 9; 23:16 – 28; 25:21).  About social behavior (5:14– 15; 8:5 – 7; 11:7– 13), social commitment (4:1– 6, 8 – 10, 31; 7:32– 36; 12:1), and being cautious in community closeness (11:27– 32; 12:8 – 18; 33:20 – 24).  Sir 4:7; 7:4– 8; 8:14; 10:1– 5, 8, 24.  Sir 1:21; 4:25, 26; 5:1– 8; 7:8, 10; 11:2– 6, 14, 19; 17:21– 32; 21:1– 10; especially about priests, cult, and sacrifice: 7:29 – 31; 34:21– 35:15. Ben Sira even adds prayers: 36:1– 17; 51:1– 12.  Sir 11:16 – 17; 11:11– 19; 38:16 – 23; 40:1– 11; 41:1– 4.  Sir 6:4– 16; 7:18; 9:10; 27:16 – 21; 37:1– 6.  Sir 16:24– 30; 18:1– 7; 33:7– 15; 39:12– 35; 42:15 – 43:33.  Sir 17:1– 14, 15 – 20; 18:8 – 14.  Sir 44:1– 50:24 and some allusions in 2:10; 16:6 – 10.  The physician (38:1– 15), craftsmen (38:25 – 34), and the sage (39:1– 11).

36

Frank Ueberschaer

Stylistically, he follows the later texts of wisdom literature like in Prov 1– 9 and Ecclesiastes, in tying several proverbs together into small sections so that they take on the character of short essays. With his second focus, Ben Sira adds the Torah into his instruction on wisdom. In 38:34– 39:2 (Ziegler edition; Rahlfs/Hanhart: 39:1– 2), he likely even alludes to the three parts of the biblical canon.²³ Most prominent is 24:23. Right after wisdom’s speech, Ben Sira talks about the “book of the covenant of the highest God” (βίβλος διαθήκης θεοῦ ὑψίστου), which is “the law that Moses commanded” (νόμον ὃν ἐνετείλατο ἡμῖν Μωυσῆς). The Greek translator—there is no extant Hebrew text in this passage—even uses a borrowing of Moses’s blessing in Deut 33 in his translation: Sir 24:23: νόμον ὃν ἐνετείλατο ἡμῖν Μωυσῆς κληρονομίαν συναγωγαῖς Ιακωβ, Deut 33:4: νόμον, ὃν ἐνετείλατο ἡμῖν Μωυσῆς, κληρονομίαν συναγωγαῖς Ιακωβ. a law which Moses commanded us, an inheritance for the congregation of Jacob

It is clear that the translator had access to the Pentateuch as a physical written book, which suggests that these passages about νόμος / ‫ תורה‬indicate the Torah in the later sense of the word as the book of the Pentateuch. In connection with the Torah, Ben Sira also requires a praxis pietatis, as he states in 1:26 and 33:2: “If you desire wisdom, keep the commandments, and the Lord will furnish her abundantly to you” (1:26). Thus learning wisdom includes intensive study of the Torah, the presupposition for any praxis pietatis. At the same time, Ben Sira connects wisdom and Torah so closely into an integrated unity that he can emphasize that there is no life in wisdom without Torah. However, the study of the Torah is no end in itself. Its purpose is to gain mastery over one’s haughtiness and to provide a steady handrail: “He who keeps the law gains mastery over the object of his thought” (21:11), and “He who hates the law does not become wise, he is tossed about like a ship in the storm” (33:2). Finally, the Torah is important as a definable and verifiable subject of education and thereby more reliable than any other method of searching for God’s will, like omina, dreams, etc. (34:5 – 8).

 Depending on the structure assumed for the canon, these statements offer both the outline of the Hebrew canon with Torah (νόμος), Neviim (προφητείαι), and Ketuvim (στροφαί παραβολῶν) and the order of the Septuagint with Pentateuch (νόμος), wisdom literature (σοφία πάντων ἀρχαίων), and prophetic (books) (προφητείαι).

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

37

Given all his excitement about the Torah, it is striking that Ben Sira does not provide his students with interpretations of specific texts.²⁴ He strictly holds to the wisdom tradition in style and literary forms for the composition of his own texts, even if he is clearly attracted to Pentateuchal texts.²⁵ Thus, it is impossible to identify irrefutably the sources for Ben Sira’s reflections. Additionally, Ben Sira does not seem to have had any interest in cultic and ritual affairs in the sense of purity or otherwise, in spite of his interest in the temple and its priests. A third topic of teaching is cosmology. This is certainly not new within the wisdom tradition, as indicated by Job 38 – 39; Prov 8:22– 31; and, in some way, even Pss 104; 148; and Gen 1.²⁶ In the book of Ben Sira, cosmology takes on a prominent role through its position at the end of the book (42:15 – 43:33), just before the history of Israel.²⁷ What interests Ben Sira is magnitude of the cosmos and the amazement that comes with it. He, thereby, concludes in 43:32 that man has only seen parts of the whole. Moreover, he is fascinated by the order that he observes in God’s creation (e. g. 42:21, 24). Although wisdom is very rarely mentioned in this section, all this is the splendor of God’s wisdom (42:21), and Ben Sira trenchantly points out at the end of the passage that God created all things and gave wisdom to the pious (43:33). In this connection he surely intends to point out that only the sage will be able to understand all this, and only in wisdom can it all be understood. A very new subject of wisdom reflection and teaching is the history of Israel. In chaps. 44– 50, Ben Sira provides an outline of how and by whom wisdom ruled history. The pedagogical aim is displayed clearly in the manner of presentation: Ben Sira does not tell the history itself, but instead points out certain figures who serve as role models with whom the reader should identify. In this context, “role model” need not to be understood only in a positive manner, but

 See also Benjamin G. Wright, “Torah and Sapiential Pedagogy in the Book of Ben Sira,” in Wisdom and Torah: The Reception of ‘Torah’ in the Wisdom Literature of the Second Temple Period, ed. Bernd U. Schipper and Andrew D. Teeter, JSJSup 163 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 157– 186.  E. g., Sir 3 and the commandment to honor parents, Sir 17 and Gen 1– 3, and Sir 28:7 and Lev 19:18b.  Cf. Nuria Calduch-Benages, “The hymn to the creation (Sir 42:15 – 43:33): a polemic text?,” in The Wisdom of Ben Sira. Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology, ed. Angelo Passaro and Giuseppe Bellia, DCLS 1 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 119 – 138. She points out several connections to contemporary traditions. Cf. also George Sauer, “Der traditionsgeschichtliche Hintergrund von Ben Sira 42,15 – 43,33,” in Studien zu Ben Sira, ed. Siegfried Kreuzer, BZAW 440 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 67– 78.  On the connections between these topics, see Greg Schmidt Goering, Wisdom’s Root Revealed: Ben Sira and the Election of Israel, JSJSup 139 (Leiden: Brill, 2009).

38

Frank Ueberschaer

rather as a term for generic figures with whom Ben Sira points out different aspects of wisdom’s sovereignty over history.²⁸ This passage is also of interest because Ben Sira provides one of his major motivations for his students: a way of “eternal life” for those by whom wisdom conducts history (especially 44:14– 15).²⁹ Finally, Ben Sira implicitly points out that there are limitations to instruction, and he, therefore, emphasizes the need for personal experience. Although experience is the major heuristic method of wisdom thinking, it is only in Ecclesiastes and Ben Sira that it receives so much attention. Ben Sira connects it with traveling and, interestingly enough, with temptation (34:9 – 11). This suggests that wisdom cannot only be acquired by learning but also through one’s own trial and error and reflection upon it. This leads to the role of the student within the whole process of teaching and learning. Ben Sira strongly emphasizes free will. In the end it is the student who has to choose the way he will follow (see 6:32– 33 with its literary structure of four “if you …” statements).

Wisdom’s Teaching In this whole process of teaching and learning, Ben Sira argues that it is neither the student nor the teacher alone who acquires wisdom or equips himself with it. On a basic level it is “wisdom’s teaching,” which means both that “it is her teaching” (wisdom becomes a personalized female figure in this process) and that “wisdom is teaching,” which may indicate that, fundamentally, wisdom is the subject of the entire process. In the beginning God created the spirit of understanding: “Reflect on the fear of the Most High, and on his commandments meditate all the time. And he will give understanding to your heart and if you wish, he will make you wise” (6:37).³⁰ At the end of the whole process of teaching and learning, it is God  This ambivalence of the named figures in the presentation is a clear argument against the notion of Sir 44– 50 as encomion, even if Simon II. is regarded as the high point. Cf. Christine Mitchell, “Chronicles and Ben Sira: Questions of Genre,” in Rewriting Biblical History: Essays on Chronicles and Ben Sira in Honor of Pancratius C. Beentjes, ed. Jeremy Corley and Harm van Grol, DCLS 7 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 1– 25 (12– 13).  See Frank Ueberschaer, “Mit gutem Glauben und vorbildlicher Weisheit. Zwei Ahnentafeln im Vergleich (Sir 44 f. und Hebr 11),” PzB 20 (2011): 27– 50.  This verse contains many textual problems. The waw in ‫ והגה‬seems to be a scribal error, and there is no point of reference for ‫ואשר‬, so that it is translated by “if.” The differences from the Greek version are numerous, and they surely cannot be solved by textual criticism alone. They should instead be understood as interpretations (e. g. καὶ ἡ ἐπιθυμία τῆς σοφίας δοθήσεταί σοι

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

39

who provides wisdom. Literarily speaking, Ben Sira indicates this by placing the quoted verse at the end of the aforementioned reflection in chap. 6. The process of learning must be done by the human being; God must grant the final success. Ben Sira already gives the foundation for this in the opening section in his book (1:1– 10). He states there that wisdom—all wisdom (πᾶσα σοφία)!—is with God and will be with God in eternity (v. 1), but God distributes it (= Syriac: ) or pours it out (= Greek: ἐξέχεεν), according to his will (= Syriac: ), or rather according to his measurements (= Greek: κατὰ τὴν δόσιν αὐτοῦ). This last aspect is quite interesting. With this section’s global perspective in mind, it may be interpreted as a differentiation between the peoples and their wisdom(s). However, it is also possible to understand it as an early reflection on individuals’ different intellectual abilities to gain wisdom and to devote themselves to the search for it. It is noticeable that again, as in chaps. 38 – 39, Ben Sira does not attach a value judgement to the differentiation. Ben Sira goes back to this point more explicitly in 18:13 – 14. In these verses he characterizes God’s teaching as his mercy, which is contrasted to man’s mercy in its endless nature. In his mercy God corrects, instructs, teaches, and leads his flock like a shepherd. What is said about “all flesh” in v. 14 seems to become more intense or tangible for those who accept discipline and follow God’s commandments. Thus Ben Sira indicates different stages for those who accept God’s education and those who do not. Again it is the individual who decides and acts out of free will and who, therefore, bears the main responsibility in the learning process. The other side of the coin is represented in 39:6: “If the great Lord wants, he [= the sage] will be filled with a spirit of understanding. He will pour forth words of wisdom, and in prayer he will acknowledge the Lord.” The passivum divinum in the second line represents the divine action. But most important is the first line in which Ben Sira clearly indicates that education in the full sense of the word cannot be accomplished by the student himself, but it is instead an experience that happens through the will of God. This phrase also indicates that not every student will be granted wisdom by God, which leads to the assumption that within Ben Sira’s conception of education, there are two kinds of sages: those with the granted wisdom and those without, or, perhaps more prosaically, inspired sages and mere scholars.

for ‫)ואשר איותה יחכמך‬, misreadings (στηριεῖ = ‫ יכין‬for ‫)יבין‬, and possibly memory variants within the transmission process (ἐν τοῖς προστάγμασιν κυρίου for ‫)והתבוננת ביראת עליון‬.

40

Frank Ueberschaer

This inspiration by God is by no means the norm.³¹ Instead, it seems to come as a result of a kind of favorable attention. The inspired sage knows this, and he acknowledges it through his way of life with respect to people and to God. Interestingly, Ben Sira does not describes this event as a relationship or as a personal encounter. He uses a passivum divinum, indicating the remaining difference between God and human, even if an inspired sage. This divide changes completely when he discusses the relationship between the sage and wisdom, most prominent in 14:20 – 15:10. In this section Ben Sira describes the process of education using metaphoric language. He strongly emphasizes the steadfastness necessary for success as a student, and then, in 15:2, he describes the successful process of education as an encounter between the student and wisdom, who appears to him as mother or the woman of his youth. She provides him with the bread of prudence and the water of understanding (v. 3). He can rest and rely on her. He will become a leader of the people, and he will receive an eternal memorial, Ben Sira’s only view of an afterlife existence. In these statements Ben Sira develops his understanding of the educational process. Again, the student must take the initiative. He has to prove his sincerity and perseverance. But wisdom initiates the decisive event. The verses in 15:2– 6 are characterized by a constant change between wisdom and the student or sage as the grammatical subject. These changes could imply that both enter into an interactive relationship in which they alternately take on the active role. But a closer look at the verbs shows that it is wisdom who is depicted in the active role, while the student seems to take the role of the more passive partner. Despite all of the student’s devotion and efforts, it is wisdom who most decisively becomes active and makes herself accessible to the student. Thus, only in the end is the student characterized as wise, and wisdom herself still sings the song of praise through the mouth of the sage. In this relationship, wisdom takes the lead role. There is another characterization of this relationship in 4:11– 19. Just as in 14:20 – 15:10, the opening verse of this passage clearly indicates that wisdom is the one who turns toward the students. In this case, Ben Sira uses the term “to bear testimony” of herself or “to affirm” (‫)ותעיד‬.³² But the focus of 4:11– 19 is on certain other aspects. Ben Sira points out the great opportunities provided  See Helge Stadelmann, Ben Sira als Schriftgelehrter. Eine Untersuchung zum Berufsbild des vor-makkabäischen Sofer unter Berücksichtigung seines Verhältnisses zum Priester-, Propheten und Weisheitslehrertum (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980), 233.  This version is attested in the Hebrew and the Syriac textual transmissions; the Greek version renders ἐπιλαμβάνεται, which is supported by the Latin (suscipit).

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

41

to the successful student: God’s favor, glory, and blessing. God will stay with the student constantly, and the student will remain in close relationship with wisdom. But, the road to gaining wisdom is not easy (v. 17). It ends after wisdom’s promise to turn toward the student (v. 18), with, however, an unmistakable threat to drop the student if he goes astray (v. 19). In v. 18, Ben Sira suggests that the successful educational process is an inspiring act of wisdom: she promises to reveal her secrets to her student (‫)וגליתי לו מסתרי‬. Furthermore, 4:11– 19 expresses that wisdom and the wise not only encounter one another but also enter into a close and enduring relationship which is shaped by them both. This ongoing relationship is surely the main difference between the above-mentioned scholar and the inspired sage. As can be seen throughout the book, Ben Sira does not leave these two sources of instruction—teaching by God and teaching by wisdom—as unrelated parallels, but he attributes to them different aspects. When he talks about God and teaching, the context is the fundamental question of the possibility of gaining wisdom. It is God who provides wisdom to every human being. With the same theologumenon, Ben Sira seems to frame the fact that human beings are provided with different degrees of intellectual capability. Thus Ben Sira speaks about God and teaching before and as the basis for his thinking about wisdom and teaching. Consequently, Ben Sira does not speak about education sensu stricto in this context: he never indicates that God’s teaching leads to wisdom, not even that God’s teaching leads to the acceptance of wisdom by a student. The human being maintains free will. In 39:6 Ben Sira declares that in the end it is not the student’s achievement if he gains wisdom, but God’s action. Still, even in 39:6, Ben Sira does not talk about wisdom that is provided to the student but the “spirit of understanding” (πνεύμα συνέσεως). In the second half of the verse, we find that the student has encountered wisdom. Ben Sira describes this encounter between wisdom and the student in a very colorful way; it is clearly one of his main interests. God somehow provides the framework for the process of education, but God is at an even greater distance from humankind than wisdom. God provides access to wisdom as an act of sovereignty. But, Ben Sira does not conceive of a student’s relationship with wisdom as a singular encounter but rather as a long process, where wisdom even puts on a personal face. If the student finally becomes an inspired sage, his close relationship to wisdom will enable him to become an inspired teacher and an intellectual leader of his people. This “if” indicates an event which lies beyond human achievement.³³

 In 4:18 Ben Sira even speaks of this as “revelation” (‫ וגליתי‬resp. ἀποκαλύψει).

42

Frank Ueberschaer

The Teacher’s Role In several places Ben Sira offers insight into how and where he envisions the task of the teacher. They are mostly connected with the aforementioned texts about the topics and methods of teaching, but one also finds them as promises within the sections about wisdom teaching the student. Thus, it should be mentioned that Ben Sira uses the term teacher only for the inspired sage, who has encountered wisdom and associates his whole life with her (see 15:10, also, e. g., 18:29; 21:13, 15a). However, Ben Sira mainly uses his reflections on the role of the teacher to describe the ideal teacher, indicated by “I.” Benjamin Wright has convincingly pointed out that these sections fulfill a literary and argumentative function within the book,³⁴ thus making it harder to use them as actual, biographical details of Ben Sira’s life as a teacher. However, they still can offer a glimpse into Ben Sira’s life, at least in his own idealized view of himself. The first aspect of Ben Sira’s claim for his role as an authoritative teacher is his use of the sapiential terminology of father-son for the teacher-student relationship. This point has been correctly emphasized by Carol Newsom and, following her, Benjamin Wright, but it should be noted that Ben Sira’s terminology is far from original. The father-son motif is a trope in sapiential literature and, therefore, need not be discussed further.³⁵ His insistence that he gleaned from his predecessors (33:16 – 19) surely should be understood as captatio benevolentiae. But, it also functions as a legitimation of his work, which is, in his own words, characterized both by his own accuracy and by God’s blessing. Additionally, Ben Sira describes himself as both traditional and innovative; he thus legitimizes his book for the traditionalists in the “wisdom sector” by claiming that his teaching is nothing more than a gleaning from the ancients, but at the same time he emphasizes it as his own individual work. And this work, along with Ecclesiastes, will set a new tone in wisdom literature. In what follows, Ben Sira expounds on his writing of the book as a gracious generosity, in that he thought not only of himself, but for “all those who seek instruction” (33:18). The context clearly indicates that this sequence was never been part of an oral teaching but has been composed and placed here as a “promotion” for the book itself.  See Wright, “Ben Sira on the Sage as Exemplar.”  See Carol Newsom, “Women and the Discourse of Patriarchal Wisdom: A Study of Proverbs 1– 9,” in Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel, ed. P. L. Day (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 142– 160.

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

43

In 24:30 – 34, Ben Sira describes himself as the channel of wisdom that properly guides her water and as the one whose wisdom will shine like the dawn. This section clearly indicates his self-awareness: he teaches his wisdom like prophecy (ὡς προφητείαν) or rather by prophecy ( ). Both versions can be explained as misreadings of ‫ ב‬and ‫ כ‬in the missing Hebrew Vorlage. Although there is a clear difference between “like” and “by,” both express the same claim: Ben Sira’s teaching is inspired, a unique claim among wisdom teachings. Finally, he does not simply teach wisdom, but heavenly wisdom. Ben Sira argues that a sage can only teach wisdom which he has gained through personal experience. In 34:12– 13, he introduces himself as a traveler who gained his knowledge through experience. He reflects on the perspective that there is a vast difference between knowledge gained by book learning and knowledge gained through individual experience and reflection. Ben Sira uses the first-person singular, “I,” to garner authority. In 39:12, 32 it is the framework for a sequence about the reasonable and good order in the world. In 42:15 it is an introduction to his cosmology. And in 44:1 it functions as the beginning of his outline of the “history of Israel.” From his point of view, these topics required such an authoritative, personal attribution. For the cosmological deliberations, the reason may lie in the fact that there were many current, competing versions, and he had to claim authority to be able present his own as the essential one. Instead, he may have emphasized his outline of the history of Israel with the personal attribution precisely because it was innovative within the wisdom-theological framework of thinking. Most instructively, we find Ben Sira doing exactly what he says is the occupation of the inspired sage: he teaches his own wisdom. We find this in 39:1– 11, esp. v. 6, but also with the final poem of the book in 51:13 – 30. The poem features many allusions to different passages in the book. Nevertheless, it has been argued that this passage was not written by Ben Sira but is, instead, a later addition.³⁶ It is certain, however, that the poem is an established part of the Greek textual transmission.³⁷

 See Jim Alvin Sanders, “The Sirach 51 Acrostic,” in Hommages à André Dupont-Sommer, ed. André Caquot and Marc Philonenko (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1971), 429 – 438 (437); and Sanders, “The Psalms Scroll of Qumran Cave 11 (11QPsa),” DJD IV (Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), 79 – 85. He argues that the poem was been transmitted independently from the Book of Ben Sira in Qumran.  See the Ziegler edition, 365.

44

Frank Ueberschaer

Regardless of the poem’s ideal autobiographical nature,³⁸ the author presents himself again, at the final point in his book, as a role model for his students, the only positive role model at this time. He first mentions his own intense search for wisdom (vv. 13 – 22), and then he appeals to his students to follow him (vv. 23 – 30). The poem is characterized by its many allusions to topics found throughout the rest of the book, especially to 39:1– 11; 14:20 – 15:10 (51:20b); 6:18 – 37; and 4:11– 19. Within the scholarly reception of 51:13 – 30 the mention of a ‫בית מדרש‬, which can be translated as “school,” has drawn the most attention (v. 23). The debate concerns whether one finds here the first hint of schools existing in Jerusalem, maybe even to a schooling system, or if ‫ בית מדרש‬is just a metaphorical expression.³⁹ There are no definitive arguments for either side which can be drawn out of these few statements, but it seems more likely that an author (given that 51:13 – 30 was written by Ben Sira himself) who uses metaphors in a way that makes them clearly identifiable would use an expression like ‫ בית מדרש‬in a non-metaphorical manner, and therefore, indeed referring to his own school.⁴⁰

Finally: The Purpose of Education In the same way that Ben Sira indicates that he did not strive for wisdom solely for himself, he clearly favors the same goal for his students. If they become inspired wise sages through their encounter with wisdom and their steady association with her, they can and should use their abilities for the betterment of society at large. Ben Sira points out that the inspired sage is a teacher who himself teaches wisdom. As mentioned above in the section on 38:34– 39:3 (Ziegler; Rahlfs/Hanhart: 39:1– 3), he appears to mention the three parts of the biblical canon. This may indicate that the sage constantly studies the Jewish scriptures. In addition,  Already Hans Heinrich Schmid, Wesen und Geschichte der Weisheit. Eine Untersuchung zur altorientalischen und israelitischen Weisheitsliteratur, BZAW 101 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1966), 72; and Martin Löhr, Bildung aus dem Glauben. Beiträge zum Verständnis der Lehrreden des Buches Jesus Sirach (Bonn: Fr. Wilhelm Universitä t, 1975), 116, referred to the Egyptian ideal biography.  See James L. Crenshaw, “The Primacy of Listening in Ben Sira’s Pedagogy,” in Wisdom, You Are My Sister: Studies in Honor of Roland E. Murphy, O. Carm., on the Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday, ed. Michael L. Barré, CBQMS 29 (Washington D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1997), 172– 187 (184); and John J. Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 38.  Nevertheless, there is no doubt that the use of this expression in the book itself can equally be understood as a sort of ‫ בית מדרש‬now, but this is a secondary use.

Jewish Education in Ben Sira

45

the sage becomes a bearer of this tradition, which includes but is not bounded by these scriptures. The tradition is ongoing and thus never complete. This is indicated by phrases like “wisdom of all the ancients” (σοφία πάντων ἀρχαίων) in v. 1 and the “considerations of famous men” in v. 2 (διήγησις ἀνδρῶν ὀνομαστῶν), which hint to the past, side by side with likely contemporary “twists of illustrations” (στροφαί παραβολῶν), “obscurities of proverbs” (ἀπόκρυφα παροιμιῶν), and “riddles of illustrations” (αἰνίγματα παραβολῶν). Interestingly enough, these phrases indicate that the sage exercises a certain independence from traditional forms and topics of thinking, a fact that Ben Sira shows in his own book by adding new topics to the wisdom discourse like the reflective thinking about wisdom and the educational process, but also his inclusion of the history of Israel. With the proverbs in 21:13 and 33:3, Ben Sira moves the wisdom of the sages very close to religious perceptions and practices. The inspired sage is both a teacher who carries on tradition, an authority to apply the tradition to contemporary challenges, and one who forms new traditions on his own. The formation of new traditions empowers the inspired sage to serve the public. The ideal sage will be able to serve before noble men (39:4) and to give advice to the people’s assembly and thereby become an intellectual leader of his people.⁴¹ The importance of the assembly is found in chaps. 38 – 39, where Ben Sira discusses the values of different professions. He does not here despise craftsmen, but he clearly indicates that the most important criterion for the value of a profession is its prominent representation in the people’s assembly (see 38:32– 34a on the one hand and 39:10 – 11 on the other). Within this assembly, the inspired sage will guide his people and will be rewarded by an eternal memorial (at least in the ideal situation Ben Sira has in mind). This can be seen in 44:15, the final statement of the opening section of the “Praise of the Ancestors” in chaps. 44– 50. The sage will follow in the line of these praised ancestors: as wisdom conducted history through them, Ben Sira promises that wisdom will now conduct history through him, the sage. At the same time, this outline expresses the idea that there is no wisdom that exists for itself; the true sage combines both association with wisdom and the practical conduct of life (see also 37:19 – 26).

 It is noteworthy that Ben Sira envisions his students themselves becoming rulers, as there seems to be an invisible barrier for them to reach really powerful positions within the political system. Ben Sira even cautions against being too close to officials in powerful positions (e. g. 7:6). Still Let. Arist. 121– 122 may indicate that such positions existed in the Hellenistic period, and Sir 10:3 may bear witness to the same, given that ‫ ַשׂר‬does not mean “prince,” but is an expression for an official.

46

Frank Ueberschaer

Conclusion Ben Sira was a thinker living in exciting times. Hellenism appeared as a major cultural power that challenged all traditional societies in the ancient Near East, including Jerusalem and its people. Ben Sira attempts to redefine Judaism under these changing conditions. He mentions many diverse topics, ranging from everyday life to theological reflections. He does not and cannot do this for every subject, but he gives an impression of how he envisions Jewish life in these times. Ben Sira places himself firmly within the tradition, but he does not disapprove of new topics of teaching which better fit the contemporary circumstances. A good example is his reflection on the Torah. Surely the Torah is the most important block of traditional material that he emphasizes, and it is clear from his argument that he aims to legitimize it. But Ben Sira does not try to defend it by pointing out the biblical (his)story; he instead takes a new path. As a wisdom teacher, he legitimizes the Torah through wisdom and thereby provides it with a new, almost rational basis in order to include it in his thinking, his teaching, and the conduct of life he demands from every scholar who wants be become a true sage. Within these changing circumstances, Ben Sira emphasizes education. He regards all human beings as empowered by God to search for wisdom. But becoming what Ben Sira would call an inspired sage is a long and hard road. The student of wisdom must be prepared for exhausting studies and an honest praxis pietatis before he may have the experience of what Ben Sira can only metaphorically call the encounter with wisdom. But after this encounter, the student will be a sage inspired by wisdom. He will be a carrier of tradition, able to apply it for the benefits of his present time and even able to move the tradition forward. But Ben Sira thinks beyond tradition. He sees his students as advisers to the people and to high ranking officials in order to direct the people’s fate —assuming that wisdom will secure Israel’s fortunes through these sages. And together with Israel, the sage will receive the greatest possible appreciation: his name will live forever.

Samuel L. Adams

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia Introduction: The Cultivation of Discipline The Jewish sage, Ben Sira, repeatedly emphasizes mindfulness and reverence (i. e., “fear of the Lord”) and the resultant blessings. In the opening chapter of the instruction, he declares “For the fear of the Lord is wisdom and discipline (παιδεία), fidelity and humility are his delight” (1:27).¹ Within his late thirdand early second–century BCE context, this sapiential figure encourages piety and study, a process that yields favorable results for diligent pupils. According to this author, the learning process demands intensive training and attentiveness to the wisdom tradition: Do not slight the discourse of the sages, but busy yourself with their maxims; because from them you will learn discipline (Heb. ‫ ;לקח‬Gr. παιδεία) and how to serve princes. (Sir 8:8)

The need for pupils to lean on the insight of earlier instructors and their maxims is apparent in this passage and elsewhere in Sirach (cf. Sir 6:34– 36). Moreover, we should note the eudaemonistic character of Ben Sira’s advice on character formation (i. e., commit yourself to this enterprise so that you can prosper and serve among the elite). Throughout his instruction, this author underscores the tangible benefits of ‫מוסר‬/παιδεία. One should commit to his program in order to achieve favorable relations with the Deity (e. g., 1:11– 13) and material rewards (e. g., 11:14). Additional exhortations underscore an obligatory process of learning and character formation, which occurs in a specific locale. This teacher urges his pupils to come “and lodge in my house of instruction (‫( ”)ולינו בבית מדרשי‬Sir 51:23, B).² This phrase has generated much attention, with many commentators asking whether the “house of instruction” designation sheds light on educational patterns among elite Judean households in the late Second Temple period. Basing larger inferences about formal education on this reference is an interesting but  The Hebrew for παιδεία in this verse is almost certainly ‫מוסר‬.  The author also mentions a ‫ ישיבה‬in Sir 51:29, suggesting some type of training center. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-004

48

Samuel L. Adams

ultimately speculative enterprise. The probable sense here is that Ben Sira has his own coterie of pupils who receive scribal training under his tutelage, an informal, private academy of sorts.³ By way of analogy, H. I. Marrou refers to “collective tutoring” among the Sophists in their private academies, a learning process that was more localized and entrepreneurial than some of the later, more developed Greek philosophical schools.⁴ Ben Sira’s school was similar in his efforts at promoting his own teaching and understanding of the wisdom tradition.⁵ Yet we must ask the next question: what, precisely, did Ben Sira teach in this “house of instruction”? Can we glean from this book any hints of the pedagogical framework for his teaching, and what were the specific foci? Based on the content of the book, he is clearly dependent upon and loyal to antecedent material that we may accurately label Israelite/early Jewish wisdom. The reference in 8:8 to the “discourse of the sages” recalls the content of the book of Proverbs, the cumulative anthology of sayings that had become part of the wisdom tradition in Judea. Throughout his instruction, Ben Sira utilizes maxims from the book of Proverbs as source material and in many cases offers reinterpretations of its central themes, from the motif of the hothead to whether or not a person should stand surety for the loan of another.⁶ Even as he works in the tradition of Proverbs, however, the primary innovation in his pedagogical framework is the close relationship between “fear of the Lord,” the figure of Wisdom, and the Torah. Ben Sira makes a clear, explicit association between Wisdom and Torah in a manner that his sapiential predecessors had not done. A statement in the opening chapter sets the tone in this regard: “If you desire wisdom, keep the commandments, and the Lord will lavish her upon you” (1:26). Greg Schmidt Goering and others seem correct that this verse and similar ones reflect “pentateuchal norms” and not the more generic language regarding “commandments” in such passages as Psalm 119 (vv. 6, 10, etc.).⁷ Throughout the instruction, Ben Sira lifts up the Torah as a fundamental blueprint for righteous living. He advises his charges about the  Oda Wischmeyer, Die Kultur des Buches Jesus Sirachs, BZNW 77 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995), 177.  H. I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. George Lamb (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1956), 49.  John J. Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997), 38.  See Jeremy Corley, “An Intertextual Study of Proverbs and Ben Sira,” in Intertextual Studies in Ben Sira and Tobit: Essays in Honor of Alexander A. Di Lella, O.F.M., ed. Jeremy Corley and Vincent Skemp, CBQMS 38 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2005), 155‒ 82.  Greg Schmidt Goering, Wisdom’s Root Revealed: Ben Sira and the Election of Israel, JSJSup 139 (Leiden: Brill, 2009).

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia

49

company they keep by referring to the Mosaic law: “Let your conversation be with intelligent people, and let all your discussion be about the law of the Most High” (Sir 9:15). The most famous example of this type of allegiance is the pivotal hymn in chapter 24, where God commands the figure of Wisdom, “Make your dwelling in Jacob, and in Israel receive your inheritance” (Sir 24:8; cf. v. 23). The exclusivist tenor of such language seems clear enough, as the author brings together the search for knowledge, the figure of Wisdom, and the sacred/legal traditions of ancient Israel. The book of Proverbs and other antecedent texts had not drawn this thread in such an explicit manner, and Ben Sira’s efforts to link Wisdom and Torah are a major innovation. Such passages have led certain commentators to argue that Ben Sira’s palpable affinity for Mosaic traditions necessarily led him to reject Hellenistic customs and ideas. For example, Martin Hengel (following Rudolf Smend and others) has maintained that “the universalistic attitude expressed in earlier Jewish wisdom tradition is necessarily qualified.” He further claims that the influence of Hellenistic ideas into the social world (particularly the upper class) of Ben Sira’s day gives the overall instruction an “apologetic-polemical basis” in relation to Greek thought.⁸ Eckhard Schnabel catalogues all of the references to “law” and “wisdom” in the instruction, before concluding that “The universalistic tendency of wisdom is limited and the possibility of profane wisdom is excluded. From now on, wisdom is the exclusive gift of Yahweh to Israel.”⁹ Schnabel and those with similar conclusions tend to dismiss the author’s openness to Greek ideas and texts, or Hellenistic culture in general. Even those who reject such a rigid ideology often assume that this instruction has an exclusivist streak that differentiates Ben Sira from previous Israelite sages and mitigates the impact of any external borrowing.¹⁰ Yet such conclusions attribute too much of a separatist mentality to Ben Sira. Even if the expansive views of Middendorp on Hellenistic parallels have not garnered widespread support, this instruction reflects a far more receptive spirit to external influences, particularly those that dovetail with Ben Sira’s pre-

 Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period, 2 vols. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1974), 1.138.  Eckhard J. Schnabel, Law and Wisdom from Ben Sira to Paul: A Tradition Historical Enquiry into the Relation of Law, Wisdom, and Ethics, WUNT 16 (Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1985), 87.  Jack T. Sanders, Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom, SBLMS 28 (Chico, CA: Scholar’s Press, 1983), 58, argues that Ben Sira is “open to Hellenic thought as long as it can be Judaized” (author’s emphasis).

50

Samuel L. Adams

sentation.¹¹ Although a full review of the relevant statements in Sirach lies beyond the scope of the current discussion, we can demonstrate openness to foreign ideas, and more specifically, respect for the cross-cultural nature of the wisdom tradition. In terms of his travel (Sir 34:12; 51:13), borrowing from other instructional documents (e. g., Sir 6:10‒15 and the dependence on Theognis), and familiarity with emergent philosophical proposals about divine determinism and human character (Sir 42:15‒43:33), Ben Sira wants his pupils to find knowledge where they can get it, and he does not confine his exploration to the Torah. He speaks with the obvious allegiance of someone who fully embraces the texts and ancestors of Israel, but the search for Wisdom can and should incorporate the diversity of a person’s experiences. Contrary to certain arguments about this instruction, Wisdom is larger than Torah for Ben Sira. The author borrows freely from a variety of sources and lacks the distinction between “sacred” and “profane” Wisdom that some interpreters have posited. The remainder of the discussion will seek to demonstrate a more inclusive pedagogy in Sirach, with attention to his borrowing from foreign (including Greek) sources, his largely receptive spirit to outside perspectives, and his subtle presentation of the relationship between Wisdom and Torah.

Travels, Faculty with Greek, and Engagement with Hellenistic Sources This figure’s self-disclosure of his travels raises the issue of familiarity with external ideas, including the question of why he refers to his journeys in the first place. The statement in 34:12 is cryptic, but intriguing: “I have seen many things in my travels, and I understand more than I can express.” A similar disclosure at the end of the book alludes to the youthful stage of his life prior to any travel (51:13). In searching for the rationale behind such information, one possibility is that Ben Sira seeks to depict himself as a worldly individual whose advice should be trusted. Such a sophisticated person becomes a fount of knowledge and is conversant on a broad range of topics. This interpretation finds justification elsewhere in the instruction. For example, in his praise of the scribal vocation, Ben Sira declares that a learned person “seeks out the wisdom of all the ancients” (39:1). Such a statement implies openness to a variety of ideas, including foreign ones, and not just the specifics of his own tradition. His effort to depict  Th. Middendorp, Die Stellung Jesu Ben Siras zwischen Judentum und Hellenismus (Leiden: Brill, 1973).

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia

51

himself as a worldly figure lends gravitas to the instruction, but it also appears to indicate someone who has actually traveled enough to gain a certain degree of exposure to innovative literature and proposals about the human condition. Ben Sira’s awareness and utilization of non-Jewish sources, whether because of travels or exposure to oral and written works, is a noteworthy feature of the instruction. Clear evidence that he borrowed from outside sources exists in multiple passages, including his dependence on the maxims of Theognis. The connection between the two authors is indisputable and has received significant attention elsewhere, and so an example or two should suffice. The commonality on the topic of friendship is an obvious point of contact: “And there are friends who sit at your table (‫)יש אוהב חבר שלחן‬, but they will not stand by you in time of trouble.” (Sir 6:10) “Many become comrades dear beside the bowl, but few in a grave matter.” (Theognis 115‒ 16/643‒44)¹²

Friendship receives a great deal of attention in Sirach, and the author also warns about deceitful “friends” in a manner that parallels Theognis (Sir 37:1‒3; Theognis 979).¹³ The style of the poet obviously appealed to Ben Sira, although we cannot determine precisely how these sayings became familiar to him. Oral recitation through associates is perhaps just as likely as the availability of a written deposition of Theognis. Ben Sira might have known several of these sayings from memory. Unlike the actual text of the Instruction of Amenemope (most likely translated into Aramaic) that provided a template for the compiler of Prov 22:20‒24:22, the works of Theognis appear more randomly in Sirach (though there is a cluster of borrowed allusions in Sir 6:10‒15).¹⁴ The same is true for the affinities between Sirach and the Demotic instructions. While Sanders has overstated the extent of the relationship, Ben Sira clearly knew certain maxims from Ankhsheshonqy and Papyrus Insinger and incorporated monostich sayings

 The terminological affinities between these and other passages are not close enough to require a textual relationship between the two authors (regardless of whether Theognis was translated into Hebrew), but there are clear thematic links that reflect Ben Sira’s knowledge of the gnomic poet.  On this theme and the connections with Theognis, see Jeremy Corley, Ben Sira’s Teaching on Friendship, BJS 316 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 2002), 72.  Michael V. Fox, Proverbs 10‒31, AYB 18A (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009), 707‒ 67.

52

Samuel L. Adams

from those texts into his discourses.¹⁵ As with the dependence on Theognis, Ben Sira borrowed freely from the Egyptian texts when it suited his purposes and presented this material through the lens of his social ethics (cf. the Satire of the Trades in Sir 38:24– 39:11, which borrows from the Instruction of Duakhety). By incorporating such material, the author evinces no qualms about including “foreign” maxims into an instruction that also values the Torah. The perceived tension between rigid adherence to the Torah and openness to a broader array of instructional literature is largely a construct of modern scholarship. When addressing Ben Sira’s era and the influence of Hellenism during the period of his career, one relevant question is whether the author of this instruction had faculty with Greek. The Hellenistic “reforms” in Jerusalem, including the establishment of the gymnasium, had not yet occurred during the period of his career, but if the content of the instruction is any indication, some literate persons appreciated ideas from Greek authors/figures, even if these became known indirectly. Since Ben Sira wrote in Hebrew and the original text does not contain Greek loan words, his level of knowledge is a relevant but essentially unanswerable question. Along the coastal areas of Judea, Greek-speaking authors had begun to influence the culture during the time of Ben Sira, but the level of penetration to Jerusalem and other interior areas remains uncertain and was probably modest.¹⁶ Ben Sira does not allude directly to any Greek authors or encourage his students to learn the language. Perhaps a case can be made that the correspondence between Ben Sira and Theognis is so great that the Jewish sage had a Greek manuscript before him.¹⁷ Yet this is far from certain, and the close thematic parallels do not require such knowledge. In addressing the question of exclusivism, Ben Sira’s willingness to borrow from outside ideas and texts that conformed to his worldview is a more important indicator of his attitude towards Hellenism than his possible faculty with Greek. One could argue that his decision to write in Hebrew is in and of itself an ideological decision, a conscious choice that reflects allegiance to his own sacred traditions.  Sanders, Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom, 61‒106. For a response to Sanders, see Samuel L. Adams, Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instructions, JSJSup 125 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 175‒77.  The description in Strabo (Geogr. 16.2.29) points to educational learning in the region. Much of this occurred in the Phoenician cities of Tyre and Sidon, where interaction with Greek ideas and cultural propellants occurred with greater ease and frequency. See Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 83‒88. Ben Sira’s personal interaction with this cultural scene is uncertain. Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age, 41, notes the “remarkable” contrast between the relative isolation of Jerusalem and the more vibrant literary culture of a Greek-speaking city like Alexandria during the period of Ben Sira’s career.  Sanders, Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom, 30.

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia

53

This is undoubtedly the case, but it does not necessarily follow that a Jerusalemite sage would have written in Greek prior to the Maccabean revolt. In any case, the language of this instruction does not indicate objection to whatever Greek ideas and texts had penetrated Ben Sira’s cultural landscape. A related question is that of Stoic influence, which has been a topic of some controversy. Such commentators as David Winston and Ursula Wicke-Reuter suggest parallels in this regard, while others, including Sharon Lea Mattila, argue against any definitive connections.¹⁸ Both Ben Sira and the Stoics highlight a tension between human freedom and divine determinism, with the accentuation of one or the other depending on the rhetorical strategy of the particular passage.¹⁹ For example, Ben Sira declares the significance of every element in the universe for a specific divine purpose in 39:21 and in vv. 29‒30, and yet the sage states elsewhere that a person should consciously submit to Wisdom for personal benefit (6:30‒31). Similarly, the Stoics emphasized divine providence watching over earthly affairs, with natural disasters sometimes working to punish wayward individuals (Cels. 4.64).²⁰ The purposeful nature of creation receives particular emphasis in Sir 39:21 and in Chrysippus, who was roughly contemporaneous with Ben Sira. An even more compelling link is the idea of oppositional pairs in both Ben Sira and the Stoics (Sir 39:12‒35 and 42:15‒43:33; cf. On Providence, Book 4 in Gellius 7.1.1‒13).²¹ The presentation of the pairs in chapter 42 is reminiscent of Stoic ideas, especially the statement that “Each supplements the virtues of the other. Who could ever tire of seeing his glory?” (Sir 42:25). In addition, the ‫“( הוא הכל‬He is the all”) phrase in Sir 43:27 is similar to the pantheistic notion in Stoicism of divine power within each person and throughout the universe.²² Collins argues convincingly that Ben Sira’s focus on the immanence of Wisdom parallels the understanding of the divine in many Stoic texts.²³

 David Winston, “Theodicy in Ben Sira and Stoic Philosophy,” in Of Scholars, Savants, and their Texts: Studies in Philosophy and Religious Thought; Essays in Honor of Arthur Hyman, ed. Ruth Link-Salinger (New York: Peter Lang, 1989), 239‒49; Ursel Wicke-Reuter, “Ben Sira und die Frühe Stoa. Zum Zusammenhang von Ethik und dem Glauben an eine göttliche Providenz,” in Ben Sira’s God: Proceedings of the International Ben Sira Conference–Ushaw College 2001, ed. Renate Egger-Wenzel, BZAW 321 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2002), 268‒81; Sharon Mattila, “Ben Sira and the Stoics: A Reexamination of the Evidence,” JBL 119 (2000): 473‒501.  Such a tension between determinism and human freedom also occurs in earlier ancient Near Eastern instructions, most notably in Egypt. See Adams, Wisdom in Transition, 15‒52.  Winston, “Theodicy in Ben Sira,” 242.  SVF 2.1169.  Middendorp, Die Stellung Jesu Ben Siras, 29. Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1.148.  Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age, 88

54

Samuel L. Adams

Mattila makes a number of salient points in her rejection of any influence on Ben Sira in this regard, but the cumulative effect of the examples listed above, along with other possible links, suggests that the sage did have at least superficial familiarity with certain Stoic ideas, perhaps indirectly. Mattila is quite correct that the retributive theology of Deuteronomy and other aspects of the Mosaic tradition hold greater sway for the sage, but it does not necessarily follow that the instruction contains no Stoic influence. No one could convincingly call Sirach a Stoic text, but it does contain traces of this philosophical perspective, even if the degree of intentionality is uncertain. As Collins explains, Ben Sira was a “quintessentially eclectic thinker, not known for consistency.”²⁴ In this respect, his selective borrowing from Theognis, perhaps Homer (Iliad 6.146‒49), the Egyptian instructions, and other sources indicates his openness and in some cases inclusion of material that contradicts theological claims elsewhere in the book. In exploring possible parallels in this regard, the post-colonial concept of hybridity can be helpful in assessing the presence of different ideas and cultural concepts in Sirach. In exploring the hybridity concept, cultural theorist Homi Bhabha argues that “ … hierarchical claims to the inherent originality or ‘purity’ of cultures are untenable, even before we resort to empirical historical instances that demonstrate their hybridity.”²⁵ In some cases, individuals or groups resist the introduction of new ideas and cultural norms, and in in other instances they welcome them. Bhabha argues that “hybridity” often reflects acts of mimicry, adaptation to innovative ideas, and on certain occasions a pushback against new influences. The introduction of new cultural propellants into a particular context often indicates hybridity, and the social world of Second Temple Judea became a venue for cultural exchange, particularly under the Ptolemaic and then Seleucid dynasties. A process of assimilation and rejection occurred in this context, particularly among literate Judeans with greater access to external ideas. For his part, Ben Sira does not generally resist the introduction of innovative cultural norms, provided that they conform at least somewhat to his understanding of Jewish tradition. His advice on how to negotiate Hellenistic banquets is a case of assimilation (31:12– 32:13). He is also willing to incorporate sayings and philosophical ideas he has gleaned from external sources, whether written or oral.

 Collins, Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age, 89.  Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 38.

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia

55

Wisdom and Torah Our final inquiry is perhaps the most pivotal one: understanding the relationship between Wisdom and Torah in Sirach. Does everything in this text fall under the rubric of covenantal Yahwism, as some scholars have argued? For example, Schnabel notes the “particularistic dimension” of Ben Sira’s presentation of Wisdom and Torah. He claims that “both the law and wisdom are regarded by Ben Sira as possessions of Israel.”²⁶ Yet if one recognizes selective borrowing from foreign sources in Sirach, as most commentators do, the question becomes whether Ben Sira collapses all discourses and exhortations into his presentation of the sacred traditions of Israel. At a culminating point in his description of Wisdom in chapter 24, Ben Sira declares that “All this is the book of the covenant of the Most High God, the law that Moses commanded us as an inheritance for the congregations of Jacob” (v. 23; cf. Deut 33:4).²⁷ Such a move would seem to confirm the claim of Schnabel and others that the Torah represents the exclusive source and domain for Wisdom and therefore the only legitimate template for this author’s pedagogy. When analyzing this question, Schnabel and others who find a more exclusivist tenor in Sirach have a point. The full, explicit embrace of Torah is a pioneering move for a Jewish sage and indicates a core aspect of Ben Sira’s social ethics. He highlights the “commandments” repeatedly and urges deference to the priests in a manner that honors the pentateuchal norms on social structures (Sir 7:29‒31; 34:21‒35:13; the antecedent texts are Exod 29:27; Lev 7:31‒34; Deut 18:3). Ben Sira had to serve among the priestly and scribal elite, and therefore overt deference was a practical necessity.²⁸ Even with such practical concerns, we can hardly doubt the sincerity of his presentation of the commandments as the central guidepost and source of inspiration for leading a pious life. His emphasis on the importance of charity/almsgiving is an excellent example of the social justice imperative found in the Torah (Sir 3:30; 7:10; 12:3; 17:22; 29:8, 12; 35:4; 40:17, 24), as are his statements on filial piety (Sir 3:1‒6). Moreover, he states quite plainly that “whoever holds to the law (‫ )ותופש תורה‬will obtain it/her (wis-

 Schnabel, Law and Wisdom from Ben Sira to Paul, 89.  The sage does not associate Wisdom with a book elsewhere in the instruction, and the antecedent text in Deut 33:4 does not mention a written corpus.  For more on this connection, see Benjamin G. Wright, “‘Fear the Lord and Honor the Priest’: Ben Sira as Defender of the Jerusalem Priesthood,” in The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research: Proceedings of the First International Ben Sira Conference, 28 – 31 July 1996, Soesterberg, Netherlands, ed. P. C. Beentjes, BZAW 255 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997), 189‒222.

56

Samuel L. Adams

dom)” (Sir 15:1b). Finally, the latter part of the instruction contains a laudatory recitation of Israel’s past that has no precedent in previous Israelite instructions, the Praise of the Ancestors in chapters 44‒50, providing another example of his allegiance to his own sacred tradition.²⁹ Yet when addressing this question, in framing the relationship between these two concepts/laws in Sirach, Wisdom encompasses Torah and not viceversa. In chapter 1, the sage declares “If you desire wisdom, keep the commandments, and the Lord will lavish her upon you” (v. 26). Such a statement should not be taken in isolation from more inclusive pronouncements, especially those that emphasize the universality of God’s blessings upon all of humanity (e. g., 17:11). Earlier in chapter 1, he discusses the Deity “lavishing” Wisdom upon the ones who “fear him,” without any specific language involving pentateuchal norms (1:10).³⁰ This is an inclusive vision for redemption, allowing for divine blessing and insight among disparate circles. Ben Sira alternates between a more inclusive understanding of divine providence and one predicated on the specific promises to Israel’s forbears, but his overall presentation of Wisdom is broader than a singular focus on the commandments. As Boccaccini explains, “The law, which is the manifestation of wisdom in history, in the cosmic context is but one of the rules that God in God’s wisdom has established to govern creation.”³¹ On the topic of pedagogy, Ben Sira endorses diverse learning and concludes by highlighting his own maxims. He urges his charges to find an instructor (like the author himself) who can teach them “every godly discourse” and all “wise proverbs” (6:35), and not just the Torah. Judging from his utilization of Theognis and the Demotic texts, there is no reason to believe that he confined his teaching solely to Israelite/Judean proverbs or the content of the Torah. In assessing his warnings about appropriate knowledge, one should not interpret the cryptic language in Sir 3:21– 24 as a polemic against the specifics of Hellenistic philosophy. The sage discusses appropriate learning for his charges: “Reflect upon what you have been commanded, for what is hidden (‫ )נסתרות‬is not your concern.” According to Skehan and Di Lella, this section is a warning about “the futility of Greek

 And yet even here we probably have Greek influence as well, since the encomium seems to provide the literary model for this section. See Thomas R. Lee, Studies in the Form of Sirach 44 – 50, SBLDS 75 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986).  For the last phrase of the bicolon, Greek has “who love him,” though the Syriac (and one group of Greek miniscule manuscripts) has “those who fear him.” The latter is preferable.  Gabriele Boccaccini, Middle Judaism: Jewish Thought, 300 B.C.E. to 200 C.E. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 94, referring to Sir 45:5.

Reassessing the Exclusivism of Ben Sira’s Jewish Paideia

57

learning” and “the failure to appreciate the grandeur of Israel’s heritage.”³² Consequently, this is a polemic against cultural interchange, especially as this relates to philosophical ideas. Yet the ‫ נסתרות‬in v. 22 probably does not refer to Greek ideas, but rather functions as a rebuttal to the esoteric, mantic ideas of the sage’s own tradition.³³ At the end of the book, he declares that his own book of sayings represents the key to Wisdom: “Happy are they those who concern themselves with (literally “meditate upon”) these things (‫באלה‬: referring to the instruction Ben Sira has just presented), and those who lay to them heart will become wise. For if they put them into practice, they will be equal to anything, for the fear of the Lord is their path” (50:28 – 29). This statement most likely represents the original ending of the book and does not mention the Torah or offer legal terminology, unlike the epilogist responsible for Qoheleth (Qoh 12:13). The Torah does represent an indispensable blueprint for righteous living and παιδεία, from Ben Sira’s perspective. Yet he operates in the traditional, sapiential mode of a figure who believes in a transcendent Deity, mediating the wisdom tradition to all pious individuals who seek to practice “fear of the Lord.” For Ben Sira, this tradition includes content beyond the Torah and the antecedent maxims of his own tradition.

Conclusions Ben Sira proffered his advice during a period in which the Torah functioned as a baseline source of authority, within the context of the late Second Temple period. While earlier sages avoided the explicit merger of Mosaic traditions with the longstanding rhetoric of Wisdom and “fear of the Lord,” Ben Sira repeatedly affirms this connection. His pedagogical approach and even his social outlook, however, do not involve erecting boundaries against external ideas and sources; his openness to these influences suggests quite the opposite. We have not even considered in great detail the social aspects of the instruction in this essay: for example, his discussion of behavior at banquets (Sir 31:12‒32:13) demonstrates willingness to accept the more venturesome aspects of Hellenistic culture, as

 Patrick W. Skehan and Alexander A. Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira, AB 39 (New York: Doubleday, 1987), 160.  See Randal A. Argall, 1 Enoch and Sirach: A Comparative Literary and Conceptual Analysis of the Themes of Revelation, Creation, and Judgment, SBLEJL 8 (Atlanta: Scholars, Press, 1995). The target of this warning is more likely to be fellow Judeans with a different eschatological framework than Ben Sira, possibly some of the circles responsible for what existed of the Enochic corpus.

58

Samuel L. Adams

long as a person practices relative self-control. Even the nationalistic eschatology that many interpreters find in Sirach is not quite as pronounced as some commentators suggest, but that is a topic for another discussion. One important conclusion that can be drawn from exploring these issues is that Ben Sira’s pedagogy involves a more inclusive vision of παιδεία. His effort to merge Torah-piety with longstanding modes of sapiential discourse was a critical move that later sages would also make. Yet for Ben Sira, scribal training is a lifelong pursuit that should involve as much learning as possible, and he is no polemicist against non-Jewish ideas. The following summary statement applies too much rigidity to the sage: “it is far better for the enlightened Jew to follow the certainties and true wisdom of the Law revealed to Moses than to strive after the often contradictory musings and uncertain opinions of the Greek thinkers.”³⁴ Such a rigid dichotomy between sacred and profane learning does not cohere with the pedagogical emphases in this instruction. Adherence to the Torah does not preclude the insight of other voices, both familiar maxims and emergent philosophical proposals. In his eclectic presentation, Ben Sira’s goal for his students is persistence: “My child, from your youth choose discipline, and when you have gray hair you will still find wisdom” (Sir 6:18). This lifelong process involves the search for insight from a variety of places, including ideas from the Hellenistic world that had begun to influence Judeans on a limited basis during the period of Ben Sira’s career. His transitional voice and allegiance to the Torah should not lead us to label him an exclusivist. Arguments to the contrary misinterpret the more receptive understanding of παιδεία in Sirach.

 Skehan and Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira, 161.

Elisa Uusimäki

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira Introduction Ben Sira encourages one to search for wisdom, but how does one attain wisdom and live in a wise manner? This article investigates exercises attributed to the figure of a sage. It argues that practice of wisdom constitutes a way of life with an array of exercises that are undertaken to achieve and/or retain the object of pursuit, wisdom (‫ חכמה‬or σοφία). This formative¹ process urges us to reconsider Jewish wisdom teaching as a cultural phenomenon of the Hellenistic era.

Wisdom as a Way of Life in Antiquity This article draws on the studies of Pierre Hadot, a French philosopher-historian, who argued that Graeco-Roman philosophy, in essence, was an exercise that provided wisdom-seekers with a method of living and acting in a certain way. Philosophy involved various physical, discursive, and intuitive exercises such as self-mastery, asceticism, dialogue, writing, concentration on the present, selfawareness, examination of the conscience, exercise of death, and contemplation of the sage or nature. The aim of philosophical discourse was to justify and motivate one’s choice of lifestyle,² whereas spiritual exercises were to shape and transform the self of the practicing subject.³

 For Ben Sira and formation, see Daniel J. Harrington, Jesus ben Sira of Jerusalem: A Biblical Guide to Living Wisely, Interfaces (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2005), 101, who describes the work as “a handbook for personal and spiritual formation.” Similarly Benjamin G. Wright III, “Ben Sira on the Sage as Exemplar,” in idem, Praise Israel for Wisdom and Instruction: Essays on Ben Sira and Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas and the Septuagint, JSJSup 131 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 165 – 82, esp. 168: “If a wisdom text like Ben Sira is meant to do anything at all, it is to ‘construct paths for living.’”  Pierre Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy?, trans. Michael Chase (Cambridge, MA: Belknapp, 2002), 6, 172, 177, 188 – 211, 220, 230.  Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 83. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-005

60

Elisa Uusimäki

This article applies Hadot’s paradigm to the research of Jewish wisdom education, with a focus on Ben Sira (or Sirach in the case of the Greek manuscripts).⁴ How is the life of a sage(‐to-be) documented as to spiritual exercises that manifest wisdom? What does this portrait look like against the wider cultural backdrop of Hellenism? The Greek influences on the work are indirect at most, and the author, Ben Sira, cannot be linked with any particular school;⁵ even so, he must at least have been aware of the phenomenon of philosophy. Thus, he probably reflected on the pursuit of wisdom in his own tradition and the same pursuit in neighbouring cultures.

The Lifestyle of a Sage in Ben Sira Ben Sira documents several exercises that can be described as “spiritual,” i. e., practices that form the sage or sage-to-be spiritually and are undertaken with an aim to attain and/or retain wisdom. They indicate that wisdom’s embodiment in everyday life is imagined in pragmatic yet spiritual terms. I hope to show, although with no claim to be exhaustive, the range of such exercises.

 Hadot’s notion of spiritual exercises has been linked with Ben Sira by Harrington, Jesus, 100 – 32, but his basic approach is fundamentally different from mine; the concept refers to “a method for reading Ben Sira’s book” and “major topics” that are treated “in different places … and from different angles” (131). By listing exercises, Harrington aims at imagining and thus reproducing what took place in Ben Sira’s school (102). He identifies ten thematic categories: a) the origin and nature of wisdom, b) fear of the Lord, c) the quest for wisdom, d) cultivation of virtues and avoidance of vices, e) friendship, f) sin, g) the problem of evil, h) mourning, death, and afterlife, i) the manifestation of God’s glory in creation, and j) the manifestation of God’s glory in Israel’s history. While Harrington makes insightful observations, he does not consider the lived aspect of wisdom, nor does he analyze the contribution of these “exercises” for the understanding of Jewish wisdom education as a cultural phenomenon. The value of his study should be emphasized, however, since the way in which Hadot associates spiritual exercises with ancient Jewish material is pioneering.  Yet, the parallels to Stoic ideas (particularly concerning theodicy) are most significant; see David Winston, “Theodicy in Ben Sira and Stoic Philosophy,” in Of Scholars, Savants, and their Texts: Studies in Philosophy and Religious Thought. Essays in Honor of Arthur Hyman, ed. Ruth Link-Salinger, Sol Roth, and Robert Herrera (New York: Lang, 1989), 239 – 49. For the philosophical way of life in Stoicism, see Hadot, Philosophy, 266 – 68.

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

61

Teaching Teaching belongs to an allegedly wise life, and the author employs “paternal authority” as a tool as he presents the teacher as a father and the pupils figuratively as sons.⁶ The elder’s aim to gain, spread, and transmit wisdom is expressed particularly succinctly in Sir 24:30 – 34.⁷ The account begins with lush natural imagery pointing to the efforts of the instructor: Ben Sira is one teacher among others, “a canal from a river and a water channel”⁸ who begins with watering his own garden and flower bed, but whose canal becomes a river and a sea (24:30 – 31). Thus, the sage cultivates his own wisdom before turning to work for the benefit of others. Water imagery, connected previously with nomos/torah (24:23 – 27), may suggest that wisdom is to be found in the Jewish tradition.⁹ The concerns of the next verses may be universal. The sage will “make education (παιδείαν) enlighten like dawn” and “shine them forth to far off” (24:32). He will “pour out teaching (διδασκαλίαν) like prophecy” and “leave it behind for generations of eternity” (24:33). Light may be linked with creation and revelation,¹⁰ or the image of shining may suggest that the teaching is to be seen in the diaspora.¹¹ The comparison with prophecy highlights its inspired nature, while the reference to future generations turns the expectations of the audience to what is to come. Verse 34, “see that I have not toiled for myself alone but for all who seek it out,” confirms the communal dimension of the sage’s endeavours; he contributes to the wisdom of the others as well.

 Benjamin G. Wright III, “From Generation to Generation: The Sage as Father in Early Jewish Literature,” in Biblical Traditions in Transmission: Essays in Honour of Michael A. Knibb, ed. Charlotte Hempel and Judith M. Lieu, JSJSup 111 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 309 – 32.  The section is not preserved in Hebrew.  All English translations of the Greek Sirach are from A New English Translation of the Septuagint, translated by Benjamin G. Wright III. Online: http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/nets/edition/.  Alexander A. Di Lella, The Wisdom of Ben Sira: A New Translation with Notes by Patrick W. Skehan. Introduction and Commentary by Alexander A. Di Lella, AB 39 (New York: Doubleday, 1987), 336 – 38. Di Lella lists related water imagery: Gen 2:10 – 14; Ps 36:9 – 10; Isa 12:3; Jer 2:13; 17:13; Ezek 47:1– 12; Joel 4:18; John 4:14; 7:37. The Song of Songs (esp. 4:12– 5:1) serves as another subtext; see Martti Nissinen, “Wisdom as Mediatrix in Sirach 24: Ben Sira, Love Lyrics, and Prophecy,” in Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola, ed. Mikko Luukko, Saana Svärd, and Raija Mattila, StOr 106 (Helsinki: FOS, 2009), 377– 90.  For wisdom/virtue and light, see Wis 6:12; 7:10, 26, 29; 1QS 11:3; Philo, Leg. 1.43 – 46. Other relevant associations include light and correct way (Isa 2:5), light and creation (Ps 19:5 – 6), light and torah (Ps 119:105; Wis 18:4; Jub. 24:18 – 20), and light and the future time of justice (1Q27 1 i 5 – 6).  So, Di Lella, Wisdom, 338.

62

Elisa Uusimäki

The discussion on the sage’s pedagogical efforts continues at the end of the book. The author is said to have “poured forth wisdom from his heart” and inscribed “instruction of understanding and knowledge” (50:27– 29). The claims are followed by an affirmative macarism (50:28): “Happy is he who is engaged in these things, and when he has placed them on his heart, he will be wise.”¹² Immersion in the sage’s instruction brings out a fortunate state. It is appropriate, therefore, that the work ends with an invitation to come and learn in his ‫( בית מדרש‬51:23 – 30).

Scribal activities The wise person’s exercise of composition, reading, and interpretation separates him from other people (39:1– 3). The learned life is contrasted with the work of artisans who display necessary skills but can neither instruct nor judge (38:24– 34). The sage, instead, wishes to grasp the “wisdom of all the ancients” (σοφίαν πάντων ἀρχαίων), is concerned with prophecies, memorizes the “narrative (διηγήσεις) of famous men,” explores “twists of illustrations” (ἐν στροφαῖς παραβολῶν), is absorbed in “obscurities of proverbs” (ἀπόκρυφα παροιμιῶν), and engages in “riddles of illustrations” (ἐν αἰνίγμασι παραβολῶν) (39:1– 3; not preserved in Hebrew). Hence, the sage masters, preserves, and passes on inherited texts and traditions: proverbs, narratives, prophecies. A pertinent statement in the Greek prologue to Sirach clarifies that he makes his own contribution as well. The author’s grandfather not only studied ancestral books, but also wanted “to compose something pertaining to education and wisdom” (συγγράψαι τι τῶν εἰς παιδείαν καὶ σοφίαν ἀνηκόντων) in order to provide the “lovers of learning” (οἱ φιλομαθεῖς) with insights. The transmission of old materials and the creation of new ones were simultaneous.¹³

Contemplation Contemplation belongs to a life dedicated to wisdom in many forms. It may fall upon the created order, as is suggested by the cosmological account in 42:15 –

 The macarism in MS B refers to “meditation” (‫)אשרי איש באלה יהגה‬.  On the collection of written material, see James L. Kugel, “Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” Prooftexts 17 (1997): 9 – 32.

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

63

43:33. The sage marvels at the elegance of creation, proclaiming that “the universe may stand firm in his [God’s] glory” (42:17)¹⁴ and “each creature is preserved to meet a particular need” (42:23).¹⁵ After praising God’s omniscience, he moves on to discuss the wonders of celestial bodies and weather phenomena before concluding that “[w]e could say more but could never say enough” (43:27).¹⁶ Contemplation may also fall upon the roles of animals and human beings in the world (13:16 – 19).¹⁷ References to contemplation on torah are common (e. g. 1:26; 15:1; 19:20; 33:2– 3).¹⁸ The one who desires wisdom should adhere himself to this divine revelation and related commandments (6:37): “Exercise your thoughts in the Lord’s ordinances, and on his commandments continually meditate. It is he who will make your heart firm, and the desire for wisdom will be given to you.”¹⁹ The ideal sage further describes his torah devotion in a section where the concepts of wisdom and torah seem to intermingle (51:18 – 19): “For I intended to practice her … My soul has grappled with her, and in the performance of the law I was exacting.”²⁰ Indeed, such dedication is to be rewarded in the form of salvation (38:34). Apart from divine revelation, to be perceived through both cosmos and torah, human resources may serve as objects of the exercise of contemplation. This issue is revealed in the aforementioned reference to a sage-scribe who explores the “wisdom of all the ancients” (39:1). Elsewhere, it is similarly stated that the student should not disregard the “discourse of the wise” (‫שיחת חכמים‬/ διήγημα σοφῶν) from which he can receive instruction (8:8).²¹

 The Hebrew version does not mention the term universe but reads similarly: ‫להתחזק לפני כבודו‬ (MS B, SirMas).  Parts of the Hebrew text, which has the same content, are preserved in MS B and SirMas.  Similarly MS B: ‫עוד כאלה לא נוסף‬.  Yet, Sir 3:21– 24 may warn the reader of not getting into excessive cosmogonic speculations. See Winston, “Theodicy,” 239.  See also 2:15; 21:11; 28:6 – 7; 35:1– 2.  In MS A, the first hemistich mentions “the fear of the Most High”: ‫והתבוננת ביראת עליון‬. This attitude has been described as the “framework” of the work; see Harrington, Jesus, 107– 9.  MS B has the same meaning apart from not referring to the precise performance of law: ‫חשבתי להיטיב … חשקה נפשי בה ופני לא אהפך ממנה‬.  On one’s dedication to wise words, see also 16:24; 21:15; 50:28.

64

Elisa Uusimäki

Emulation The account on the respected, pious, and wise ancestors (44:1– 49:24) suggests that the sage’s musing may fall on the figures of the Israelite past. Apart from praising, these models, including kings, rulers, leaders, legislators, advisers, prophets, heroes, sages, experts of scripture, and writers (44:1– 15), are probably remembered in order to emulate them. This view is supported by David deSilva’s argument that the section can be compared with Greek encomia; one rhetorical effect of these speeches, as is clear from Pericles’s funerary oration documented by Thucydides (Hist. 2.43.1– 4), is to praise virtuous people and, in doing so, to stir the audience to emulate them.²² The ideal sage also functions as an exemplar. Benjamin Wright compares Ben Sira’s authorial voice with those of Moses in Jubilees and of Ezra in 4 Ezra, the sage being “the producer of the text and the founder of the discourse.”²³ He argues that three specific features reflect “a deliberate self-presentation” and exemplarity: father-son language, first-person accounts, and a section on scribal activity (38:34c–39:11).²⁴ Sir 51:13 – 25 crystallizes how the sage “sets himself up as the ideal” and “charts the paradigmatic search for Wisdom.” Regardless of whether the passage harks back to Ben Sira’s experience or not, it motivates the pupil “not simply to abide by the sage’s teaching, but to emulate and then become the sage who produced it.”²⁵ One grows towards wisdom through the emulation of praiseworthy figures of the past, or those contemporary ones who possess wisdom and thus pave the way for wisdom-seekers. Although both the ancestors and the sage displayed in the work represent the Hebrew tradition, the models for wise life are not necessarily limited to it. This becomes clear as Ben Sira refers, in passing, to a sage who learns through his travels (39:4): “He will travel in the land of foreign nations, for he has tested the good and bad things in people.”²⁶

 David A. deSilva, “The Wisdom of Ben Sira: Honor, Shame, and the Maintenance of the Values of a Minority Culture,” CBQ 58 (1996): 433 – 55.  Wright, “Ben Sira,” 168. For the sage as an exemplar in ancient philosophy, see Julia Annas, “The Sage in Ancient Philosophy,” in Anthropine Sophia: Studi di filologia e storiografia filosofica in memoria di Gabriele Giannantoni, ed. Francesca Alesse et al. (Naples: Bibliopolis, 2008), 11– 27, esp. 24.  Wright, “Ben Sira,” 169. For the first-person speeches in Ben Sira, see 22:25 – 23:6; 24:30 – 34; 25 – 26; 33:16 – 19; 34:9 – 13; 39:12– 13, 32– 35; 42:15; 43:32; 50:25 – 26; 51.  Wright, “Ben Sira,” 178.  The verse is not preserved in Hebrew.

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

65

Prayer Prayer has many functions: it may be undertaken for the sake of wisdom (51:13 – 14) or an otherwise considerate life (23:1– 6). Prayer can serve as the medium of thanksgiving (51:1– 12) or for purposes such as petition and healing (e. g., 3:5; 7:10, 14; 17:25; 36:1– 19; 37:15; 38:9).²⁷ It is also attributed to the wise person (esp. 39:5 – 8),²⁸ who immerses himself in personal piety (39:5): “He will devote (ἐπιδώσει) his heart to rise early towards the Lord who made him, and he will petition (δεηθήσεται) in front of the Most High, and he will open his mouth in prayer (ἐν προσευχῇ), and concerning his sins he will petition (δεηθήσεται).”²⁹ As a consequence, the sage may be filled, God willing, with a “spirit of understanding” and express “words of his wisdom” (39:6). He continues to pray (39:6), ponders “hidden things” (39:7), and boasts in torah (38:8). In other words, wisdom cannot be attained with human efforts alone, but it requires devotional prayer and petition.³⁰ Even if the portrait may seem individualistic—the sage petitions for his own sins—the fruit of prayer, wisdom, is more broadly beneficial. This is suggested by the claim that the sage shares the “instruction of his teaching” (38:8) as well as by the pedagogical ethos that penetrates the work (esp. 24:34). Remarkably, it ends with a humble pledge as the author expresses gratitude for divine deliverance from his enemies.³¹ The prayer and praise demonstrate that he wishes to attach the instruction with liturgical associations that go beyond the sphere of human pedagogy; the sage sought wisdom and could attain it only with the help of God.

Prophecy Although the institution of prophecy had ceased, prophecy as a transformed phenomenon continued to flourish in the second temple era.³² Its ongoing pres As for ritual behavior, the sage offers sacrifices and gifts to God; see 7:9, 31; 14:11 (LXX); 35:1– 4, 10 – 12; 38:11.  The section is not preserved in Hebrew.  The fact that the sage is said to pray early in the morning may point to specific prayer patterns.  Sins prevent wisdom in Ps 51:8 – 9 and Wis 1:4– 5. For another praying sage, see Wis 7:1– 22 (cf. 1 Kgs 3:6– 9, Psalm 72).  Only two prayers in Ben Sira (22:27– 23:6; 51:1– 12) are presented as first-person speeches. See Wright, “Ben Sira,” 171.  Hindy Najman, Losing the Temple and Recovering the Future: An Analysis of 4 Ezra (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 5, speaks about ongoing “modes of divine encounter.”

66

Elisa Uusimäki

ence is visible in Ben Sira, too. The prophetic tones of the composition have been observed, e. g., by Wright who describes sages portrayed in it as “recipients of heavenly revelation.”³³ As can be gathered from the references above, the wise person is indeed concerned “with prophecies” (ἐν προφητείαις) (39:1) and meditates “on his (God’s) secrets” (ἐν τοῖς ἀποκρύφοις αὐτοῦ) (39:7). The sage may also become a prophetic figure himself if he is filled with a “spirit of understanding” (πνεύματι συνέσεως) (39:6). Furthermore, he may create inspired teaching: “Still I will again pour out teaching like prophecy (ὡς προφητείαν), and I will leave it behind for generations of eternity” (24:33, see also 24:30 – 34).³⁴ Sir 34:1– 8 on true and false visitations pertains to prophecy since visitations serve in the mediation of divine knowledge. Ben Sira states that “dreams give wings to fools” (34:1). They, like divinations and omens, are unreal (34:5). One should immerse oneself in such messages only if they come from the Most High (34:6). Hence, divine communication is restricted to receiving “genuine” revelation from the God of Israel, although God makes use of other agents in the transmission of revealed knowledge. The female figure of wisdom, in particular, functions as a prophetic mediatrix in chapter 24.³⁵ She also appears as a revealer of secrets in 4:17– 18.³⁶

Self-mastery The wise person has self-control against passions such as sexual desires (23:6), appetite (18:30; 23:6; 37:29), and speech (19:6; 21:25; 32:8). Moderation is stressed in the Greek version of Sir 18:30 – 33, which begins with an exhortation (18:30): “After your desires (τῶν ἐπιθυμιῶν σου) do not go, and from your appetites (τῶν

For wisdom and prophecy, see Samuel I. Thomas, The “Mysteries” of Qumran: Mystery, Secrecy, and Esotericism in the Dead Sea Scrolls, SBLEJL 25 (Atlanta: SBL, 2009), 188 – 220.  Benjamin G. Wright III, “Conflicted Boundaries: Ben Sira, Sage and Seer,” in Congress Volume Helsinki 2010, ed. Martti Nissinen, VTSup 148 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 229 – 53, esp. 230. For Ben Sira’s interest in revelation, see also James K. Aitken, “Apocalyptic, Revelation and Early Jewish Wisdom Literature,” in New Heaven and New Earth: Prophecy and the Millennium: Essays in Honour of Anthony Gelston, ed. Peter J. Harland and C. T. Robert Hayward, VTSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 181– 93, esp. 188 – 93.  For the phrase ὡς προφητείαν, see Wright, “Conflicted,” 236, who argues that the translation “like prophecy” is natural, yet the question is about the reception and transmission of divine wisdom (cf. the alternative “as prophecy”).  Nissinen, “Wisdom,” 377– 90.  Wright, “Conflicted,” 236 – 37.

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

67

ὀρέξεών σου) restrain yourself.” The student is motivated by saying that enemies laugh at the one who gives in to his desire (ἐπιθυμίας) (18:31). One should not rejoice “in great luxury” nor make himself poor because of feasting with borrowed money (18:33). This emphasis aligns with the importance of self-mastery in Greek philosophy³⁷ and makes wisdom concrete in everyday life; despite being an abstract quality, the mastery of wisdom becomes visible through one’s habits of consumption, the way one handles money, and one’s conduct at the dining table.

Prosocial deeds Some of the sage’s exercises affect society more widely. The wise person should display charity, feel compassion, and help those in need (7:10, 32– 35; 35:4). He should give handouts and loans and serve as a guarantor according to his wealth (29:1– 20). The virtue of sharing is detailed in Sir 4:1– 10: The “child” is encouraged to show empathy through good deeds that will be loved and blessed by God (similarly 7:32, 35). God will also hear the petition of one who bitterly curses his poverty (4:5 – 6). The question concerns the common humanity, for “[t]he kindness of something given is before everyone alive” (7:33).³⁸ A helper is rewarded, moreover, in the form of a good reputation: “many” will cherish his memorial (39:9 – 11; cf. Qoh 2:16; Wis 2:4).

Lived Wisdom: Ben Sira in his Hellenistic Context Ben Sira describes the sage’s lifestyle as being filled with the exercises of teaching, reading, writing, interpretation, contemplation, emulation, prayer, prophecy, self-control, and prosocial deeds. How did he see his search for wisdom in a world with an awareness of Greek culture?

 Only verses 18:32– 33 (and the last word of 18:31) remain in Hebrew. The Greek translation develops the content of the Hebrew text, which simply exhorts the reader not to rejoice in vain things (the exact meaning of ‫ שמץ‬is unclear), or behave like a glutton or drinker, in order not to make himself poor.  This statement follows the Greek text. The Hebrew text exhorts to give a gift to all living beings.

68

Elisa Uusimäki

Elias Bickerman argued that the Greek notion of paideia, “that education forms a man,” was known in Jerusalem in the late third century BCE.³⁹ Also, “hokmah had acquired something of the meaning … of paideia in Hellenistic Greek.”⁴⁰ Judith Newman too describes Ben Sira’s intention in Greek terms; the aim “is not to establish an ancient scribe of blessed memory … but particularly, at least in the Greek texts, to establish a contemporary named person as an ideal type and practitioner of paideia.” Newman points out that the grandson’s autograph and chapter 24 underline “the importance of the individual,” which implies that “any wise male might wear the ‘glorious robe’ of wisdom (Sir 6:29, 31; 27:8).” In this context, the sage, “who himself creates an eternal dynasty through generations of future students,” holds a central place in Jewish life.⁴¹ There is no doubt about the importance of paideia, the cultivation and training of a person, in this instruction. Based on the observations made above, I would also argue that there exists another conceptual parallel between the Greek and Jewish cultures: like ancient philosophical schools, Ben Sira promotes the practice of various exercises as part of the good life. Both display a similar pattern of thought where wisdom presumes an active life that embodies one’s values. Ben Sira’s account is certainly idealized, but this only brings it closer to the Greek world where the process of becoming a virtuous person always involved an aspirational element.⁴² My proposal is natural in that Judaism was linked with the phenomenon of philosophy in antiquity.⁴³ The connection between Hebrew wisdom and Greek paideia implied, as Bickerman argued, that “[h]okmah now meant culture, and Ben Sira was its prophet and teacher.” This enabled one to reimagine the Jewish sage in Greek terms: “Ben Sira’s sage, like a Greek philosopher, is an intellectual. The sage he describes must, in the first place, have leisure for learning.” Underlying this is the idea relating to the never-ending formation and education of a person.⁴⁴

 Elias J. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988), 171.  Bickerman, Jews, 166.  Judith H. Newman, “Liturgical Imagination in the Composition of Ben Sira,” in Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature: Essays in Honor of Eileen Schuller on the Occasion of her 65th Birthday, ed. Jeremy Penner, Ken M. Penner, and Cecilia Wassen, STDJ 98 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 311– 26, esp. 325 – 26.  See Annas, “Sage,” 13.  E. g., Joan E. Taylor, Jewish Woman Philosophers of First-Century Alexandria: Philo’s ‘Therapeutae’ Reconsidered (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 105 – 25.  Bickerman, Jews, 166.

The Formation of a Sage according to Ben Sira

69

Bickerman further stressed that the sage transmits wisdom through dialogue. Similarly to Greek philosophers, Hellenistic Jewish sages probably both gave and received knowledge as they spoke with people. The Jewish sage lacked formal schooling “in the pedagogical meaning of the word,” but had followers to whom he transmitted “no technical skill, but the secret of happy and successful life.”⁴⁵ Instead of mimicking Greek pedagogy, Ben Sira assembled, however, his own curriculum where torah, rather than Homer’s poems,⁴⁶ constituted “the central subject of Jewish culture and education.” The claim was that the learned elite of Jerusalem could draw on their own heritage: Moses provided the Jews with a core of their own paideia and an intellectual, text-based culture.⁴⁷ The present observations on Ben Sira’s spiritual exercises further enhance Bickerman’s idea that sages of Hellenistic Jerusalem connected themselves with the learned people of the Greek world in one way or another. They had inherited a Near Eastern wisdom tradition and transformed it to serve contemporary purposes, interests, and needs. The existence of the wisdom tradition demonstrated that Judaism too involves an ancient practice of wisdom-seeking, which entails a whole way of life. This enabled the Jews, known as sages and “lovers of learning” (cf. Sirach, Prologue), to associate themselves with philosophers; there was a parallel between Greek culture and their own, which were perhaps perceived as rather separate in some other respects.

Conclusions As I have shown, Ben Sira refers to variegated exercises that constitute a virtuous way of life: teaching, text-related tasks, contemplation, emulation, prayer, prophetic acts, self-mastery, and prosocial deeds. The fact that spiritual exercises were an integral part of ancient philosophical schools urges us to consider the parallel observed between Jewish and Greek intellectual traditions. Paideia clearly was a valid concern in the context of Jewish wisdom education in the late second temple period. The parallel concerning the lived aspect of wisdom even suggests that the sages of Hellenistic Jerusalem—the learned elite of the city—probably regarded themselves as a type of philosopher in the Mediterranean region.  Bickerman, Jews, 167– 68.  For Homer in the Greek tradition, see Margalit Finkelberg, “Homer as a Foundation Text,” in Homer, the Bible, and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World, ed. Margalit Finkelberg and Guy G. Stroumsa, JSRC 2 (Leiden: Brill 2003), 75 – 96.  Bickerman, Jews, 170 – 71.

Matthew Goff

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls Introduction Elias Bickerman called the Hellenistic period “the Age of Education.”¹ The Torah came to prominence in this era as a written book that became the basis of the education of the Jewish people, he argued, in part as a response to Homer, the central text of Greek paideia. ² The full publication of the Dead Sea Scrolls provides a valuable new vantage point to understand Jewish education during the late Second Temple period. They do not demonstrate that Jews turned to the Torah to oppose Homer. The scrolls provide no indication of a pervasive opposition to Hellenism. The scrolls also do not support the view, attested in rabbinic literature, that by the first century BCE there were institutionalized schools, including at the level of primary education, throughout Israel.³ The scrolls do, however, affirm the centrality of authoritative writings for Jewish pedagogy, as Bickerman stressed, and show that their study and interpretation were not restricted to a priestly elite.

I thank Kyle Roark, Blake Jurgens, and David Skelton for their helpful comments on this essay. I am also grateful to the participants of the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting for their lively discussion and insightful reactions to an earlier version of this paper.  Elias J. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988), 176. For a similar perspective, see Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1974), 1.77. Consult also Albert I. Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Period: An Interpretation, JSJSup 55 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 118 – 19.  Plato famously states that Homer educated Greece (Rep. 10.606e).  According to y. Ket. 8:11, 32c, Shimon b. Shetaḥ (first century BCE) mandated that children should go to school (cf. y. Meg. 73b). The Babylonian Talmud records a tradition that Joshua ben Gamla, the high priest from 63 – 64 CE, appointed teachers of Torah throughout Palestine and that children were to start school at age six or seven (b. B. Bat. 21a; cf. m. ʾAbot 5:21). This material likely reflects an ideal placed on literacy and Torah study shaped by the spread of synagogues in late antiquity, which required congregants to read Torah. See Catherine Hezser, “Private and Public Education,” in The Oxford Handbook of Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine, ed. idem (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 465 – 81 (471); Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1.81– 83; David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 241– 51, 271. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-006

72

Matthew Goff

In this essay I assess what the scrolls can teach us about Jewish education in the late Second Temple period.⁴ The scrolls provide evidence for pedagogical techniques which were used at the time, such as the memorization and recitation of scriptural texts. The scrolls also indicate the priority of learning and study within the Dead Sea sect, which legitimated various teachings by endowing them with the status of esoteric, revealed knowledge made available through the Teacher of Righteousness. The centrality of learning within the sect became institutionalized through the development of leadership offices that have important teaching functions, such as the Instructor and Overseer. I also examine the question of whether sectarian education included the entire family, and argue that children were taught typically at home by the father (at least according to the Damascus Document), as was the case more broadly in Judaism at the time. The Dead Sea Scrolls indicate not only that the yaḥad had a particularly stringent mode of education. They also suggest that the study of scriptural writings was done under the supervision of authoritative teachers, who developed various ways to make a complex web of texts and traditions coherent and meaningful to their students.

Education and the Torah in the Hellenistic Age The designation of Mosaic law as “Torah” testifies to its pedagogical significance. The word means “instruction” and is derived from the root ‫“( ירה‬to teach”).⁵ The Pentateuch repeatedly uses the term torah in this way, signifying teachings on specific issues (e. g., Lev 7:1, 11, 37). The book of Deuteronomy repeatedly refers to itself as a torah (as in 32:46), marking it as a book of instruction. This biblical book embodies a pedagogical ideal, stressing that through the study of “this torah” (i. e., Deuteronomy itself) Israel can become “a wise and discerning people” (4:6). The Hebrew Bible also records the tradition that priests are not simply ritual specialists but also teachers of the “Torah of Moses” (e. g.,

 Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 215 – 39; Bilhah Nitzan, “Education and Wisdom in the Dead Sea Scrolls in Light of Their Background in Antiquity,” in New Perspectives on Old Texts: Proceedings of the Tenth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 9 – 11 January, 2005, ed. Esther G. Chazon, Betsy Halpern-Amaru, and Ruth A. Clements, STDJ 88 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 97– 116. See also Laura Quick, “Recent Research on Ancient Israelite Education: A Bibliographic Essay,” CBR 13 (2014): 9 – 33.  John J. Collins, “Wisdom and Torah,” in From Musar to Paideia: Pedagogy in Early Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. Karina Martin Hogan, Matthew Goff, and Emma Wasserman, SBLEJL (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, forthcoming).

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

73

Ezra 7:6), a designation for some early form of what became the Pentateuch. Nehemiah 8 calls Ezra both a priest and a scribe, depicting him as reading publicly from the Torah, while his learned associates help the hearers understand it (vv. 1– 8). Numerous texts from the late Second Temple period continue the trope that the priests have a special prerogative to teach (e. g., Sir 45:17; Jub. 31:15). The Dead Sea Scrolls, both compositions that reflect practices of the yaḥad and those that do not, stress the priority of understanding the Torah and following it halakhically.⁶ The scrolls, however, also complicate the issue.⁷ They demonstrate that the textual form of the Torah was multivalent in this period. The scrolls preserve a range of pentateuchal texts that do not cohere neatly into distinct known text-types (e. g., the MT, LXX, and the Samaritan Pentateuch), an issue exemplified by the 4QReworked Pentateuch texts. Moreover, the scrolls also indicate that the meaning of the term “Torah” was not restricted to the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. The Damascus Document, for example, recommends following the “Torah of Moses” by understanding it as explicated in the “book of the divisions of the periods,” very likely a reference to the book of Jubilees (CD 16:1– 4). Mosaic authority could be appropriated and utilized by authors of texts like Jubilees and the Temple Scroll, who produced creative representations of material from the Pentateuch.⁸ This literary phenomenon stretches, as it were, the meaning of “Torah” beyond the pentateuchal books themselves. The scrolls also show that numerous other traditional texts were studied and interpreted aside from the Mosaic Torah, as, for example, the pesharim indicate vis-à-vis the prophetic books. The decentralized and pluriform nature of our ancient Jewish evidence for the Torah and other authoritative writings testifies to their pedagogical deployment. The compilers and copyists who produced this material were intellectuals, who had attained mastery over a diverse body of scriptural traditions, which they transmitted and creatively refashioned in myriad ways, as is evident from the many compositions found at Qumran. This underscores an even looser and very important meaning of the term torah: “instruction” from a teacher. People studying the Torah and other writ-

 See, for example, CD 4:8; 6:7; 1QS 5:2, 16; 4Q171 1– 2 ii 14; 4Q525 2 ii + 3 4; 11Q5 18:12. The educational practices of the sect are discussed below.  John J. Collins, Scriptures and Sectarianism: Essays on the Dead Sea Scrolls, WUNT 1.332 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 19 – 50; Eugene Ulrich, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Developmental Composition of the Bible, VTSup 169 (Leiden: Brill, 2015); Karel van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 23.  Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism, JSJSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003).

74

Matthew Goff

ings, and interpretive traditions surrounding them, did so by receiving instruction (torah) about them from an authoritative teacher. The evidence of Ben Sira, a crucial source for understanding the pedagogy of the period, supports this perspective. He does not simply urge one to study Torah, but that one should do so under the tutelage of a learned teacher, as the rabbis would later stress (Sir 6:34– 37; cf. m. ʾAbot 1:6). The presentation of the Torah of Moses in the book of Ezra also presumes learned men guide people’s comprehension of it. As discussed below, the form of education practiced by the Dead Sea sect was likewise dominated by a mode of Torah study guided by authoritative teachers. The pedagogical importance of Jewish scriptures has been understood as an act of cultural resistance. Carr, echoing the earlier scholarship of Bickerman, attributes the origins of authoritative scripture within Judaism to a “Hellenisticstyle anti-Hellenistic curriculum” promoted by the Hasmoneans.⁹ He argues that they encouraged the study of pre-Hellenistic scriptures written in Hebrew in part to oppose Hellenistic paideia, which involved the study of Greek texts, above all Homer. While the Maccabean literature attests conflict between Jews and broader Hellenistic cultural norms (2 Macc 4:12– 13), it is not clear that one should ascribe the formation of authoritative scriptures to Hasmonean cultural policy. Parts of the Hasmonean period, such as the reign of Jannaeus, attest far more Jewish popular sentiment against the Hasmoneans than Homer or Greek education. The diversity of the textual materials from this period suggests that the study of sacred writings was not implemented according to a fixed curriculum standardized by the state. The Hellenistic context for the centrality of the study of scriptures in ancient Judaism is nevertheless important. The loss of native political control throughout the ancient Near East in the Hellenistic era led to a renewed interest in older writings that affirm the antiquity and importance of cultures indigenous to the region.¹⁰ The Torah and other writings helped establish a sense of Jewish identity in Palestine and the Diaspora. It is reasonable to think of the status of such writings in this period in Hellenistic rather than anti-Hellenistic terms. Judaism during this era exhibits a strong interest in writtenness, evident in texts such as Jubilees and 1 Enoch, which repeatedly appeal to heavenly books as authoritative sources of knowledge. This is consistent with broader Hellenistic trends, such as the foundation of libraries and an increased importance of written texts

 Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 253 – 72.  I explore this issue further in “A Blessed Rage for Order: Apocalypticism, Esoteric Revelation, and the Cultural Politics of Knowledge in the Hellenistic Age,” HeBAI 5 (2016): 193 – 211.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

75

(cf. 2 Macc 2:14– 15).¹¹ The translation of the Pentateuch into Greek in the third century BCE testifies to a broad readership. Both Homer and the Torah attest the prominence of written textuality in the Hellenistic age. It is not impossible that Homer was studied in Palestine. If one grants the historicity of the gymnasium in Jerusalem recounted in the Maccabean literature (1 Macc 1:14; 2 Macc 4:9), then Homer, the centerpiece of Greek paideia, was taught in Jerusalem in the early second century BCE.¹² The gymnasium, however, seems to have been restricted to elite circles (2 Macc 4:12) and it is not clear that it had an extensive cultural impact throughout Palestine. I know of no Palestinian Jewish text from this period that explicitly cites or alludes to Homeric literature.¹³ The use of Greek in Palestine in this period is attested in the Cave 7 documents from Qumran, and acquisition of this language may have involved the study of Homeric texts. If so, pedagogical techniques derived from the study of Homer may have shaped Jewish Torah pedagogy. The Dead Sea Scrolls do in fact attest pedagogical uses of scripture that are similar to that of Homer in Greek paideia. The recitation, copying, and memorization of passages from the Iliad and the Odyssey were central in Hellenistic ed-

 Steve Johnstone has argued that the Hellenistic period is characterized by the spread of libraries, which helped instill a widespread belief in the importance of books, triggering what he calls a “biblio-political revolution.” See his “A New History of Libraries and Books in the Hellenistic Period,” ClAnt 33 (2014): 347– 93. For a similar perspective, see van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 23 – 26.  Robert Doran, “Paideia and the Gymnasium,” in Hogan, Goff, and Wasserman, From Musar to Paideia, forthcoming; idem, “The High Cost of a Good Education,” in Hellenism in the Land of Israel, ed. John J. Collins and Gregory E. Sterling, CJAS 13 (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001), 94– 115; Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 34– 36; Henri I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. George Lamb (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1956), 214.  The extant writings of Philo the Epic Poet and Theodotus, preserved by Eusebius from the collection of Alexander Polyhistor, are in epic verse and may have been authored in Palestine. Writing in this style of Greek would unequivocally indicate familiarity with Homer. I thank Gregory Sterling for pointing this out during the Naples conference. The likelihood of a Palestinian provenance is more likely for Theodotus than Philo the Epic Poet. The evidence for Diaspora authors engaging Homer is more explicit. Philo cites the Iliad (e. g., Il. 2.204– 5 in Conf. 170). Aristobulus mentions Homer by name and attributes statements to him that allude to lines from the Odyssey (frag. 5.14; cf. Od. 10.513; 12.1). A Jewish sibyl ‘predicts’ that Homer (a “false writer”) will learn and speak her words (Sib. Or. 3.419 – 32; cf. Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.256). See John J. Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids/Livonia: Eerdmans/Dove, 1998), 54– 60; Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism, 1.75.

76

Matthew Goff

ucation.¹⁴ The abundance of scriptural manuscripts at Qumran (over two hundred) constitutes material evidence for a Torah-centric education which likely involved the recitation and memorization of texts.¹⁵ The pluriform nature of the Qumran evidence for scripture can be explained by appealing not simply to the existence of discrete text-types in circulation at the time, but also by positing that scribes at times copied texts from memory.¹⁶ The evidence from Qumran shows that scriptural texts were not always copied out to produce Torah scrolls or other collections of authoritative writings. 4QGenesisf (4Q6), for example, is a copy of Gen 48:1– 11, written on a single sheet in an unskilled hand; it was never sewn to another sheet on its right side (the left column is not preserved). The fragment was, in all likelihood, not produced as part of a Torah scroll. 4Q6 may be a snapshot of the use of the Torah in Jewish education in the period, the product of someone copying out a passage from memory.¹⁷ Texts of the Hebrew Bible endorse the memorization of material by urging one to write it on the “tablet of the heart” (Prov 3:3; 7:3).¹⁸ The Qumran corpus also contains numerous instances of citations of scriptural material. One doubts that in every such instance a scroll was unwound to ensure flawless reproduction of a text. The acrostic texts from Qumran, particularly in the non-masoretic hymns of the Cave 11 Psalms Scroll, also attest to the memorization of texts, as do the acrostics of the Hebrew Bible.¹⁹ The Dead Sea Scrolls also suggest that the study of Torah and other scriptures had both oral and written dimensions, not unlike the study of Homer, as David Carr and others have stressed.²⁰ Paragraph markers and other indicators of textual units in Qumran texts accord with similar markers that are attested

 For the role of Homer in ancient Greek education, see Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, 21– 34, 226 – 27; Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, 220 – 44. Consult also Rosalind Thomas, Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992).  Van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 98.  Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 230. See also Carol Bakhos, “Orality and Writing,” in Hezser, The Oxford Handbook of Daily Life in Roman Palestine, 482– 99.  Emanuel Tov understands 4Q6 as a “scribal exercise.” See his Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert, STDJ 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 14.  This is the basis of the title of Carr’s important book on the subject.  11QPsa 21:11– 17; 22:1– 15; 24:3 – 17. These texts are, respectively, a version of Sir 51:13 – 30, the Apostrophe to Zion, and Psalm 155. For acrostics in the Hebrew Bible, see, for example, Proverbs 31 and Psalm 119. See Hanan Eshel and John Strugnell, “Alphabetical Acrostics in Pre-Tannaitic Hebrew,” CBQ 62 (2000): 441– 58.  Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 229; Susan Niditch, Oral World and Written Word: Ancient Israelite Literature (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 75 – 76.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

77

in later scribal traditions among Jews, Christian, and Samaritans.²¹ Traditions of reading the text aloud may also be evident in the stichometry of poetic texts from Qumran.²² The ways in which scriptural texts were written down may reflect traditional ways they were read aloud, presumably not simply in liturgical contexts but pedagogical ones as well. Also, it seems that the scriptural books most important in Jewish education at the time were Deuteronomy, Isaiah, and the Psalms. More manuscripts of these scriptural books were found at Qumran than any other composition of the Hebrew Bible. Extensive engagement with these three books is also found in the New Testament. The broad agreement between these two corpora suggests a common Jewish pedagogical milieu, in which these three writings were prominent.²³

The Teacher of Righteousness and His Torah The practices of the Dead Sea sect attest the centrality of the Torah in Jewish pedagogy during the late Second Temple period. According to the Community Rule, whenever ten or more members were together, one of them had to interpret Torah (1QS 6:6 – 8). The B text of the Damascus Document describes people who are expelled from the sect as no longer having a share in the “house of Torah” (CD 20:10, 13), a statement that asserts the Torah to be the central locus of sectarian life. The word “Torah” in CD and other Qumran texts likely denotes, as discussed above, not simply the Pentateuch. In the writings of the Dead Sea sect the pedagogical value of the Torah cannot be separated from the position that its comprehension requires instruction (torah) from a teacher. The major authoritative interpreter of Torah in the sectarian writings from Qumran is the Teacher of Righteousness (‫)מורה הצדק‬. This figure is also described as a priest (4Q171 3 15; 1QpHab 2:8 – 9), which coheres with the tradition that priests taught the Torah  Josef M. Oesch, “Formale und materiale Gliederungshermeneutik der Pentateuch-Handschriften von Qumran,” in From Qumran to Aleppo: A Discussion with Emanuel Tov about the Textual History of Jewish Scriptures in Honor of his 65th Birthday, ed. Armin Lange, Matthias Wiegold, and József Zsengellér, FRLANT 230 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 81– 122; Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 231.  Note, for example, 4Q44 [4QDeutq] and 4Q365 6b 1– 5 [4QReworked Pentateuchc], which contain, respectively, versions of Deut 32:37– 43 and Exod 15:16b-21. The placement of long gaps between phrases often accords with the parallelism of the text, which may suggest that the way some texts were placed on the page reflects how they were recited. See Shem Miller, “The Oral-Written Textuality of Stichographic Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” DSD 22 (2015): 162– 88.  Van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 102.

78

Matthew Goff

of Moses and other writings.²⁴ Since not all the members of the yaḥad are priests, Carr is surely correct when he understands the Dead Sea sect as offering a priestly form of education to non-priests.²⁵ The sect also offers a counterpoint to Ben Sira, in that the sect provides evidence that advanced instruction of Torah took place in this period outside of elite, aristocratic circles.²⁶ The importance of the Teacher of Righteousness as an inspired interpreter of scripture is particularly evident in the Damascus Document. This composition offers a pesher-style interpretation of Num 21:18, which reads “A well which the princes dug, which the nobles of the people delved with the staff (‫( ”)מחוקק‬CD 6:3). The “well,” while a multivalent symbol, clearly signifies the Mosaic Torah. This explanation is consistent with a tradition, found elsewhere in early Jewish and rabbinic literature, of describing the Torah as a source of nurturing water.²⁷ The nobles are “the returnees of Israel” (‫ ;שבי ישראל‬6:5). While the exact meaning of this phrase can be debated, it denotes the sectarian community which possesses the knowledge necessary to live in accordance with God’s covenant. This is because of the staff with which they dig the well. The staff in Num 21:18 is identified as the “interpreter of the Torah” (‫ ;דורש התורה‬CD 6:7; cf. 1QpHab 7:4– 5). The “diggers” follow the teaching of this figure, who, the text assumes, lived in the past. The “interpreter” is reasonably understood as a reference to the Teacher of Righteousness (cf. 1QS 8:11– 12).²⁸ The group carries out and continues the teachings of this interpreter. They dig “with the staves that the staff decreed (‫)במחוקקות אשר חקק המחוקק‬, to walk in them throughout the whole

 In continuity with these tropes, elsewhere “the sons of Zadok” are presented not only as custodians of scripture, but also of the revelations possessed by the sect regarding how it should be followed (cf. CD 13:2– 5). According to 1QS 5:8 – 9, people who join the group make an oath to follow “the law of Moses … with a whole heart and whole soul, in compliance with all that has been revealed of it to the sons of Zadok, the priests who keep the covenant and interpret his will” (cf. l. 2). See John J. Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community: The Sectarian Movement of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 60 – 65.  Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 215.  See also the discussion of 4QInstruction below.  The image of the well appears in CD 3:16 and 19:34– 35. See also, e. g., Sir 24:23 – 27; 4 Ezra 14:38 – 41. Consult further Michael Fishbane, “The Well of Living Water: A Biblical Motif and its Ancient Transformations,” in Shaʿarei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East presented to Shemaryahu Talmon, ed. idem and Emanuel Tov (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 3 – 16.  The phrase “interpreter of the law” can also denote an eschatological figure who will arrive at the end of days. See CD 7:18; 4Q174 3 10 – 12 (cf. 4Q177 2 5). The epithet is a title that can be applied to more than one individual. The use of the expression in CD 6:7 may suggest that the estimation of the Teacher of Righteousness within the sect influenced its eschatological expectations. See Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 38.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

79

age of wickedness” (CD 6:9 – 10). The passage explores nuances of the word ‫מחוקק‬. It can denote not only a staff but also a scepter, symbolizing the authority of a ruling figure who establishes laws that others must follow.²⁹ This is exactly what the staff of CD 6 does. The root ‫ חקק‬can likewise denote writing and decrees that have been promulgated (e. g., Isa 30:8; Prov 31:5). The sectarians are to “walk” (‫ )להתהלך‬with the staves which the interpreter has given to them. The exegesis involves not one staff but several. The staves likely signify teachings, halakhic tools provided by the “interpreter of the law” that members of the sect are to use in their daily life. They pertain to a number of halakhic subjects, as the passage goes on to describe (CD 6:14– 19; cf. 3:14– 16). The perspective that the sectarian community is beholden to halakhic teachings that are grounded in scriptural interpretation and given legitimacy through association with an idealized teacher from the past, is also evident from the B text of the Damascus Document. CD 20:13 – 15 reads: “And from the day of the gathering in of the unique teacher (‫)יורה היחיד‬, until the end of all the men of war who turned back with the man of lies, there shall be about forty years” (cf. l. 1).³⁰ The “unique teacher” is likely the Teacher of Righteousness.³¹ Although he is deceased, his followers nevertheless hear and heed his voice. The members of the sect are described as “all those who remain steadfast in these regulations, [co]ming and going in accordance with the law and listen to the teacher’s voice” (20:27). Lines 32– 33 likewise envision the ideal community as comprised of members who hear “the voice of the Teacher of Righteousness and do not reject the just regulations when they hear them.” The passage also describes members of the sect as being “taught by God” (‫)למודי אל‬, as if they were instructed not by a human but by God himself, highlighting the high value the sect placed on the Teacher (CD 20:4). The B text of the Damascus Document describes the sect as devoted to continuing the teachings and ideals of its beloved and departed teacher.

Pedagogical Leadership The Qumran rulebooks describe several leadership positions held by people within the sect. Despite the differences among these offices, they have a common  Deut 33:21; Isa 33:22; Gen 49:10; Judg 5:14; Prov 8:15.  Notice the pun in the epithet for this teacher with yaḥad. The passage asserts that there will be some sort of major eschatological event forty years after the death of the Teacher.  This is suggested by CD 20:32, which associates the teachings of “the men of the Unique (Teacher)” (‫ )אנשי היחיד‬with the Teacher of Righteousness.

80

Matthew Goff

interest in pedagogy. The key ones are the maśkil (“Instructor”) and the mebaqqer (“Overseer”). The Overseer (‫ )מבקר‬is important according to the Damascus Document. Decisions made by sectarians regarding marriage and finances must be approved by the Overseer; for example, no one can be introduced to the group without his permission (CD 13:4– 6; cf. 14:13). The Overseer is also involved in people’s admission into the group and their regular evaluation (13:11; 15:14). The office moreover has an important pedagogical function: “He shall instruct the many in the deeds of God and shall teach them his mighty marvels” (13:7– 8; cf. 15:14– 15). It is not stated that this office must be held by a priest but, given the sect’s emphasis on priestly leadership, this is a reasonable assumption.³² In the Community Rule the major pedagogical office is not the Overseer but the Instructor (‫)משכיל‬. The Treatise of the Two Spirits, which gives sectarians a comprehensive teaching about the dualistic and cosmological forces that determine human conduct, is presented as a lesson conveyed by this functionary: “The Instructor (‫ )משכיל‬should instruct and teach all the sons of light about the nature of all the sons of man” (1QS 3:13). 1QS 9:12 – 19 stipulates the pedagogical responsibilities of the Instructor: “He should lead them with knowledge and in this way teach them the mysteries of wonder and of truth in the midst of the men of the community (‫)אנשי היחד‬, so that they walk perfectly, one with another, in all that has been revealed to them” (ll. 18 – 19). He also has a role in the annual evaluation of sectarians and is responsible for giving reproach and judging group members (1QS 9:15 – 18). The term ‫ משכיל‬denotes a sectarian office in numerous other instances elsewhere in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In 4Q298, entitled 4QWords of the Maśkil to all Sons of Dawn, this term signifies, not unlike 1QS 9, a teacher-figure who instills a commitment to righteousness in members of the sect. This text, except for its title, is written in a cryptic form of Hebrew and it sounds like an admonition that was heard. This portion begins: “List[en to me, a]ll men of heart” (ll. 1– 2). The composition may preserve teachings that individuals holding the office of Instructor were to memorize and recite to members of the group as part of their instruction.

 Robert A. Kugler, “Priests,” in EDSS, 2.688 – 93 (689).

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

81

Qumran Sapiential and Didactic Literature The reference to 4Q298 highlights that the Dead Sea Scrolls contain numerous texts that are generally identified as wisdom literature.³³ Texts that are so identified include not only this composition but also 4QInstruction (1Q26, 4Q415 – 418, 423), the Book of Mysteries (4Q299 – 301), 4Q184, 4Q185, 4Q420 – 421, and 4Q525. “Wisdom” in this context signifies an etic category of genre rather than a precise literary Gattung that authors consciously deployed in antiquity. Scholarly definitions of the genre and their list of Qumran texts that should be so categorized vary.³⁴ But in general the Qumran wisdom texts provide teachings on various topics, seek to instill a desire for learning, and encourage that one heed a teacher. It should also be stressed that didactic themes, such as stressing the importance of study, are found throughout the Dead Sea Scrolls, and are not restricted to the sapiential texts.³⁵ The wisdom texts 4QBeatitudes (4Q525) and 4QInstruction are particularly relevant to the topic of education.³⁶ 4QBeatitudes begins with a pedagogical prologue, not unlike Proverbs, that stresses the value of “wisdom and instruction” ([‫ ;חוכמה ומו]סר‬4Q525 1 2). The composition encourages students to learn by having them imagine that by the time they die they will have become great teachers, to be mourned by their students who will carry on their teachings (4Q525 14 ii 14– 15). The lengthiest and most important Qumran wisdom text is 4QInstruction.³⁷ It is explicitly pedagogical. It is written to a mebin or “understanding one.” He is to bring his shoulder under all instruction (4Q416 2 iii 13) and learn from all his teachers (4Q418 81 17). Many of the lessons of 4QInstruction pertain to topics of daily life, such as marriage and finances, which is also reminiscent of Proverbs.

 Matthew J. Goff, Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls, VTSup 116 (Leiden: Brill, 2007).  Matthew J. Goff, “Qumran Wisdom Literature and the Problem of Genre,” DSD 17 (2010): 286 – 306; idem, “Searching for Wisdom in and Beyond 4QInstruction,” in Tracing Sapiential Traditions in Ancient Judaism, ed. J.-S. Rey, E. J. C. Tigchelaar, and H. Najman, JSJSup 174 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 119 – 37.  Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 234– 36.  Matthew J. Goff, 4QInstruction, WLAW 2 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013).  John Strugnell, and Daniel J. Harrington, Qumran Cave 4.XXIV: Sapiential Texts, Part 2. 4QInstruction (Mûsār Lĕ Mēbîn): 4Q415 ff. With a re-edition of 1Q26, DJD 34 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999). See also Matthew J. Goff, “Recent Trends in the Study of Early Jewish Wisdom Literature: The Contribution of 4QInstruction and Other Qumran Texts,” CBR 7 (2009): 376 – 416.

82

Matthew Goff

The way one acquires wisdom according to 4QInstruction is, however, quite different from Proverbs. He is repeatedly urged to study the raz nihyeh (‫)רז נהיה‬, which is often translated the “mystery that is to be” (e. g., 4Q417 1 i 6 – 8). In apocalyptic texts the term raz denotes revelation disclosed to visionaries (Dan 2:27– 30; 1 En. 106:19 [4QEnc 5 ii 26 – 27]). In 4QInstruction the “mystery” has likewise been revealed to the mebin (4Q416 2 iii 16 – 17). The focus of the text is not on the moment in which revelation is disclosed. Rather it is on the study of revealed knowledge. God created the world by means of the mystery that is to be, according to 4Q417 i 8 – 9. Three times the expression is associated with a tripartite division of time (that which was, that which is, and that which will be; ll. 3 – 4 [2x]; 4Q418 123 ii 3 – 4).³⁸ The mystery that is to be denotes a comprehensive divine plan that orchestrates history and creation, presented to the addressee as a revealed truth. This helps explain why the mebin can learn so much from this mystery. 4QInstruction provides very little indication, unfortunately, with regard to how one should study the raz nihyeh. 4QInstruction is generally regarded as written originally to a sect that predates the yaḥad. The original addressees, the document teaches, have elect status. The mebinim are taught that they have a unique affinity with the angels (4Q418 81 4– 5). The elect status of the addressee is signified by the incredible claim that he has been entrusted with tending the garden of Eden (4Q423 1). The disclosure of the mystery that is to be also indicates their special status before God. Although the mebin possesses such exceptional knowledge, with regard to social class he is quite ordinary. The text repeatedly states that he is poor (e. g., 4Q416 2 ii 20; 4Q416 2 iii 2). The mebin is urged to be honest when borrowing money from creditors, even though they may have him flogged (4Q417 2 i 24– 26). The social setting of 4QInstruction is starkly opposed to that of Ben Sira, a contemporary wisdom text. This sage works with upper class students, giving them the skills in literacy and moral instruction needed for employment in a range of administrative and courtly professions. He praises the leisure of the scribe as necessary for the acquisition of wisdom, while scoffing that anyone who pushes a plow, while displaying practical skills, could never attain truly valuable knowledge (Sir 38:24– 34). Much of the intended audience of 4QInstruction, by contrast, were farmers (4Q418 103 ii 3 – 4; 4Q423 5 5 – 6). This Qumran text gives no indication whatsoever that its stress on learning is driven by professional concerns, such as training students to become scribes or court bureaucrats. Rather the economic goal of 4QInstruction is basic survival, providing advice about how one can meet essential material needs, such as get-

 Goff, 4QInstruction, 143 – 47.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

83

ting enough food, which at times can be difficult (e. g., 4Q417 2 i 17– 22). The document establishes that an advanced level of education, involving sophisticated interpretation of scriptural texts combined with appeals to esoteric claims of revelation, took place outside of elite circles.³⁹ 4QInstruction is, however, not necessarily evidence for widespread literacy—it was written to a community that distinguished itself from the rest of society. The work nevertheless demonstrates that advanced forms of instruction could not only exist but also thrive among the poor. 4QInstruction problematizes the common view that wisdom literature was written for and promulgated by scribes who work in an elite context, such as the temple or the royal court. Also, since numerous copies of 4QInstruction were found in the Qumran caves (at least six), it is reasonable to imagine that members of yaḥad studied the document. In particular, given 4QInstruction’s focus on marriage and financial affairs, one can posit that the text circulated among the “camps” described in the Damascus Document.

The Education of Children within the Dead Sea Sect A major issue with regard to education in the Dead Sea movement is whether its rigorous directives guiding daily practice and the study of scriptures entail a process that involved only men. The Rule of the Congregation (1QSa) construes education within the movement as a process that is not restricted to men, but rather as one that involves the entire family: husband, wife, and children— “they shall assemble all those who come, including children (‫ )טף‬and women, and they shall read into [their] ea[rs a]ll the precepts of the covenant and shall instruct them in all their regulations, so that they do not stray in [the]ir e[rrors]” (1:3 – 5). This passage has been interpreted as describing the participation of one’s whole family in the sect’s annual covenant ceremony (cf. 1QS 1:18 – 3:12; 4Q266 [4QDa] 11 17– 18).⁴⁰ The text understands the mode of instruction as primarily oral, relying upon the recitation of written texts. Children are also, according to 1QSa, taught “the book of Hagu” (‫)ספר ההגו‬: “From [his]

 This conclusion is similar to that of William Schniedewind with regard to education in ancient Israel. See his How the Bible Became a Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) and his paper in the present volume.  Cecilia Wassén, “On the Education of Children in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” SR 41 (2012): 350 – 63 (352); Lawrence H. Schiffman, The Eschatological Community of the Dead Sea Scrolls, SBLMS 38 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 13, 16.

84

Matthew Goff

yo[uth, they shall edu]cate him in the book of Hagu [or book of Meditation], and according to his age, instruct him in the precept[s of] the covenant, and he will [receive] his [ins]truction in their regulations” (ll. 6 – 8). The nature of this Hagu book is enigmatic, but the passage presumes it is an actual document. The Damascus Document stipulates that priests are to be well-versed in this composition (10:6; 13:2; 14:7– 8). The book of Hagu may be a cryptic reference to some sort of authoritative scriptures, perhaps the Torah, if not a major sectarian composition such as the Community Rule.⁴¹ Josephus claims that all Jewish children were taught to read and knew the Torah well (Ag. Ap. 2.204; cf. 2.178).⁴² While such a claim should be likely understood not as a historical fact but as attesting the Jewish ideal enshrined in the Pentateuch itself of educating children (e. g., Exod 12:26), some children were at the time taught the Jewish scriptures, most likely within the domain of family and the home. The format of education with regard to children has been understood as primarily oral.⁴³ The education of children and women in 1QSa is consistent with this perspective, since it envisages that they learn by listening to the recitation of regulations. The emphasis on the verb ‫ הגה‬regarding the book of Hagu may denote the repetition and memorization of scriptural passages. The Rule of the Congregation also states that the education of youth continues until the children reach adulthood. 1QSa 1:8 – 9 states that one “shall be enumerated among the children (‫ )טף‬for ten years” and then at the age of twenty he shall join the “holy community.” This reference to ten years is ambiguous but may denote the years ten through twenty, during which period youth in families belonging to the sect undergo education.⁴⁴ The Rule of the Congregation is for “the end of days” (‫ ;אחרית הימים‬1:1). The meaning of this phrase in the Dead Sea Scrolls is debated but it is generally acknowledged that it refers to a future time when used with regard to messianic expectation; this appears to be the case in 1QSa.⁴⁵ This problematizes the extent to which the composition’s guidelines regarding education were actually carried

 The reliance on the verb ‫הגה‬, which can mean “to mediate” and “to mutter,” denotes the study of the authoritative writings elsewhere in the Dead Sea Scrolls and has a similar meaning in the Hebrew Bible (4Q525 2 ii + 3 6; Ps 1:2; Josh 1:8).  Josephus also states that Essenes received training in the holy books when they were young (J.W. 2.159; cf. Ant. 4.211; T. Lev. 13:2).  Wassén, “On the Education of Children,” 354. Catherine Hezser has estimated the literacy rate of Roman period Palestine to be 10 – 15 % of the population. See her Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine, TSAJ 81 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 496.  Schiffman, The Eschatological Community, 16.  1QSa 2:14– 22; CD 6:11; 4Q174 1 11. See Annette Steudel, “‫ אחרית הימים‬in the Texts from Qumran,” RevQ 16 (1994): 225 – 47.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

85

out. The document’s inclusionary stance with regard to the education of women and children may represent an ideal more than a historical reality. The children of sectarians did, however, go through some type of education, even if one should not regard the Rule of the Congregation as accurately describing this process. A Cave 4 version of CD 13:17– 18 stipulates that the Overseer shall “guide [one who divorces; ‫ ”]מגרש‬and “instruct their sons … and their children (‫[ )טפם‬in a spi]rit of hu[mi]lity and lov[ing-kindness” (4Q266 [4QDa] 9 iii 5 – 7).⁴⁶ The instruction by the Overseer of children whose father is divorced suggests it is the exception rather than the rule, at least in the portrait of sectarian life provided by the Damascus Document, and that the Overseer did not teach children whose parents did not divorce. A traditional locus of education in ancient Israel is the family.⁴⁷ This was likely the case regarding members of the Dead Sea sect as well, with regard to women and children. The Overseer, who dominated the daily life of sectarians within the “camps,” likely usurped the traditional authority of the father with regard to the education of his children in the case of divorce.⁴⁸

The Dead Sea Scrolls as Material Evidence of Advanced Education The possibility that children received education within the Dead Sea sect raises an important issue. One of the major sources of evidence for education in antiquity is rudimentary level, ‘school-boy’ exercises. Such work, often completed by

 It is clearer in the 4QD text than the Cairo Genizah version of the passage that the Overseer gives instruction not only to the children of a divorced male but also the man himself. CD 13:17 lacks the word ‫ יבן‬after ‫ וכן‬found in 4Q266 9 iii 5. There is some ambiguity in the passage with regard to whom the Overseer teaches. In CD 13:17 the singular noun (“the one who divorces”) is followed by nouns that have plural suffixes—“their” sons and “their” children. This may mean that the passage understands the singular ‫ מגרש‬as denoting a category, signifying that divorced men within the sect would have “their” children instructed by the Overseer. The singular noun does not survive in the version of the text in 4Q266 9 iii, but the plural suffixes affixed to “sons” and “children” do. See Joseph M. Baumgarten, Qumran Cave 4.XIII: The Damascus Document (4Q266 – 273), DJD 18 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 71.  James L. Crenshaw, Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deadening Silence, ABRL (New York: Doubleday, 1998), 86.  Philo (Hypoth. 7.14) and 4 Macc 18:10 – 16 depict the education of children within the family as the father teaching Torah stories to his children (cf. Sir 7:23; m. Pesaḥ. 10:4). The beginning of the instruction of Ahiqar is introduced as the words of a wise scribe to his son (Ahiqar 1.1). See further Nitzan, “Education and Wisdom,” 100; Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects, 116.

86

Matthew Goff

young males, provides a snapshot into the early stages of the acquisition of basic written literacy. Such material is often easy to identify, since it typically includes lists of repeated words and phrases, and, quite often, mistakes. There is ample evidence for writing exercises of this sort in the ancient Near East.⁴⁹ There is not a single unambiguous example of analogous material among the Dead Sea Scrolls. The scrolls as physical artefacts attest to advanced training in literacy. The scribal norms they attest with regard to paleography that vary from generation to generation (late Herodian, early Herodian, etc.) are a product of the standardization of writing, indicating formalized training in this craft.⁵⁰ The extensive evidence from Qumran for the copying of documents over successive generations implies a transmission of technical knowledge regarding writing. Only a handful of Qumran texts have been interpreted as produced by people learning to write. The evidence for reading these texts in this way is not overwhelming. Three Qumran texts have been classified as writing exercises. They are entitled “Exercitia Calami A-C.” They are, respectively, 4Q234, 4Q360, and 4Q341.⁵¹ 4Q234 is a small fragment on parchment in which several words, in an early Herodian hand, are written in three different directions. The different directions of the writing suggest that the text is a fragment of some sort of writing exercise. The words, such as ‫ישחק‬, ‫ ויאמר‬and ‫“( גשה‬approach”), accord with Gen 27:19 – 21. These admittedly common terms may suggest that someone copied them from a Torah passage, not as part of the production of a Genesis or Torah manuscript but as writing practice. This is not necessarily evidence, however, of someone learning how to write. The scribe may have simply been testing the functionality of his stylus. 4Q360 has a small number of letters, written horizon Carr, Writing on the Tablet, 20 – 30. See Raffaella Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students in Graeco-Roman Egypt, American Studies in Papyrology 36 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996); Niek Veldhuis, “Levels of Literacy,” in The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, ed. Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 68 – 89.  Writing as a skill in which some individuals received advanced training is particularly evident in letters from Naḥal Ḥever and Wadi Murabbaʿat. The writing of the body of the letter is at times much more consistent and smooth than that of the signatures. The signatories obviously had some written competency but not the same training as whoever copied out the letters. See, for example, Mur 42 (MurpapLetter from Beit-Mashiko to Yeshua b. Galgula) or XḤev/Se 7 (XḤev/SeDeed of Sale A ar). Consult Tov, Scribal Practices, 13. Note also Cribiore, Writing, Teachers, and Students, 97– 118. She (p. 97) cites a relevant quote from John Chrysostom: “Teachers write letters of great beauty for the children in order that they imitate them, even if at an inferior level” (MPG 59.385.56).  These texts are available in Stephen J. Pfann et al., Qumran Cave 4.XXVI: Cryptic Texts and Miscellanea, Part 1, DJD 36 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000). See (going from A to C) pp. 185 – 86, 297, and 291– 93; and plates 9, 20, and 18. Exercitia Calami A and B are edited by Ada Yardeni and Exercitium Calami C by Joseph Naveh.

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

87

tally and vertically, suggesting that this work is also some sort of practice text. The only legible word is the name Menahem, which is written three times. 4Q360 may be the only Qumran text that contains the name of its scribe! 4Q341, which for the most part has horizontal text, consists of a list of several names and apparently meaningless words. The spaces between words are at times virtually non-existent. Its editio princeps was published by John Allegro in 1979, who understood the text as an intentionally obscure medical document, titling it 4QTherapeia.⁵² Joseph Naveh critiqued this perspective, arguing that the text is a writing exercise by a skilled scribe who copied out letters to test out his stylus and accustom his hand to it.⁵³ The writing is quite clear, suggesting it was not written by someone learning to write. 4Q341 begins with a series of letters (‫ )לבעפסאצגדהו‬that do not constitute a word. The last portion of this sequence follows alphabetical order (from aleph to waw, although a sade is where one would expect a bet). Lines 4– 5 has a list of names that begin with the letter mem. Lines 6 – 7 contain a list of names which are in alphabetical order, from bet to zayin. This is similar to an abecedary ostracon believed to have been found at Heriodion which was published by Puech.⁵⁴ This text begins with the alphabet and then proceeds to a sequence of personal names that are also in alphabetical order. Fragments of the same list of alphabetic names were found in two ostraca from Masada (#608 and 609), suggesting that the names comprise some sort of fixed formula, most likely a mnemonic to learn the alphabet.⁵⁵ 4Q341 appears to be a variation of this theme. It contains the name ‫ וני‬in line 7 (cf. the name ‫ וניה‬in Ezra 10:36); this name also appears in the two Masada alphabetical ostraca and the one published by Puech. The latter also has the name ‫ דליה‬and 4Q341 7 attests the similar name ‫דלוי‬. 4Q341, according to Naveh, is not that of a beginner but the product of a scribe practicing with his stylus, presumably by recalling an established alphabetical sequence of names. This little known Qumran text may provide evidence of a mnemonic used at the time to learn the alphabet, even if the fragment is not necessarily the product of a beginner scribe.

 John Allegro, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Christian Myth (London: Westbridge Books, 1979), 235 – 40.  Joseph Naveh, “A Medical Document or a Writing Exercise? The So-Called 4QTherapeia,” IEJ 36 (1986): 52– 55.  Émile Puech, “Abécédaire et liste alphabétique de noms hébreux du début du IIe s. A.D.,” RB 87 (1980): 118 – 26.  Yigael Yadin and Joseph Naveh, “The Aramaic and Hebrew Ostraca and Jar Inscriptions,” in Masada: The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963 – 1965. Final Reports, 6 vols. (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society/The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1989), 1.61– 62.

88

Matthew Goff

There may be some other Qumran texts that were produced by people learning to write. There is a relatively crudely written abecedary on an ostracon from Khirbet Qumran (KhQOstracon 3).⁵⁶ There are also some Qumran texts that have been understood as written by apprentice scribes who had not fully mastered their craft.⁵⁷ This is certainly possible and one can understand the Dead Sea Scrolls as attesting various levels of expertise among the individuals who produced them. Some of these texts, however, may have simply been by scribes who were not that good rather than individuals in the early stages of their scribal training. Even if one interprets the above material as evidence of basic training in writing, a position which is by no means clear, it constitutes scant evidence for such rudimentary learning in relation to the sheer amount of the Dead Sea Scrolls as a whole. The writings found at Masada and Murabbaʿat, both sizable but much smaller corpora when compared with that of Qumran, include more abecedaries than the Dead Sea Scrolls.⁵⁸ There are also numerous ostraca from Masada on which letters were repeatedly copied, along with other scribbles.⁵⁹ Such rudimentary writing exercises are not present among the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Qumran scrolls attest at best minimal evidence of basic, low level education in written literacy. Neither the content nor material evidence of the Qumran scrolls suggest that the sect needed to teach its members how to write.⁶⁰ This

 This text is available in DJD 36, published by Esther Eshel. See pp. 509 – 12 (pl. 34). It is striking that one of the few discoveries of texts from the site of Khirbet Qumran itself (KhQO 3) is rather rudimentary, a striking contrast to the Dead Sea Scrolls themselves.  Skehan, for example, argued that a manuscript of Psalm 89 (4QPsx; 4Q98g; this manuscript was once classified as 4Q236), which has numerous inconsistencies in its orthography, was written as a practice exercise from memory by a scribe who in the process made several mistakes. See also the discussion of 4QGenf above. Consult Patrick W. Skehan, “Gleanings from Psalm Texts from Qumrân,” in Mélanges bibliques et orientaux en l’honneur de M. Henri Cazelles, ed. André Caquot and Mathias Delcor, AOAT 212 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 1981), 439 – 52 (439 – 45); Eugene Ulrich et al., Qumran Cave 4.XI: Psalms to Chronicles, DJD 16 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 163 – 67 (pl. 20); Tov, Scribal Practices, 14.  In addition to the abecedary list texts #608 and #609 from Masada (discussed above), #606 is an abecedary and this also appears to be the case with regard to #607. Five abecedaries were found in Murabbaʿat, two on leather (Mur 10B, 11) and three on potsherds (Mur 73, 78 – 80), all of which were published in DJD 2. See Yadin and Naveh, Masada, 1.61– 62; Pierre Benoit, Józef T. Milik, and Roland de Vaux, Les Grottes de Murabbaʿat, 2 vols., DJD 2 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 1.91– 92, 175, 178 – 79.  See texts #616 – 41, available in Yadin and Naveh, Masada, 1.61– 64 (plates 51– 53).  It is also significant that ostraca, a common medium for the writing exercises and abecedaries from Masada and Murabbaʿat that was widely available and easy to procure, is not a medi-

Students of God in the House of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls

89

of course may have happened, but the Qumran scrolls provide no evidence that rudimentary education in writing was in any way regulated or organized.

Conclusion The Dead Sea Scrolls confirm the centrality of the Torah for Jewish pedagogy during the late Second Temple period, in several senses of the term. They attest abundant evidence that study of the Pentateuch (Torah of Moses) was critical at the time. The scrolls also suggest the importance of studying Torah in a broader sense, denoting a range of authoritative texts and not only the Pentateuch. Learned individuals mastered a body of traditions and produced new works that reformulate this material in various and creative ways. This indicates another way that the scrolls show the importance of torah—in the sense of denoting instruction. The compilers and scribes of the Dead Sea Scrolls all likely studied authoritative scriptures under the guidance of a teacher. The interpretation of scripture and the halakhic practices of the Dead Sea sect were legitimized through attribution to an idealized teacher, whom the scrolls refer to as the Teacher of Righteousness. The stringent mode of education formalized within the yaḥad attests one manifestation of this broader cultural process. The Qumran scrolls show that in this period sacred writings were highly disputed. All Jews at the time regarded them as important but not how they should be interpreted. This helps explain the formation of sects in this period, whose founders and leaders can be understood as teachers who espoused a particular type of education (cf. CD 1:13 – 21). Key for understanding the diverse and rich contribution the Dead Sea Scrolls make to our comprehension of the pedagogy of ancient Judaism during the late Second Temple period is not simply their affirmation of the importance of studying authoritative writings but also that to do so required heeding a good teacher.

um on which the Dead Sea Scrolls were composed. The majority of these writings are on leather skin.

Jewish Education in the Diaspora

Benjamin G. Wright

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas Introduction From at least the fifth century BCE, we can find evidence of a Judean presence in Egypt. In the Elephantine papyri we meet a community that was employed as mercenaries in the southern portions of Egypt, probably to defend against the Nubians.¹ Under the Hellenistic dynasty of the Ptolemies, Jews lived in Egypt from Ptolemy I’s reign onward. In Alexandria, they settled in the Delta quarter of the city and undoubtedly comprised an important segment of the Alexandrian population.² By the second century BCE, then, the Jews already had a long history in Alexandria. It was in the middle to the latter part of this century that an anonymous Alexandrian Jew composed a work that purported to narrate how the translation of the Hebrew Torah into Greek came about. The Letter of Aristeas is so-called because the narrator of the story claims to be a courtier of Ptolemy II Philadelphus, who reigned in Egypt from 283 – 246 BCE.³ According to Aristeas, as Demetrius of Phalerum, the chief librarian of the Alexandrian Library, was gathering “all the books in the world,” he reported to Ptolemy that the “laws of the Jews” required translation before they could become incorporated into the collection. Ptolemy authorized this translation project and sent “Aristeas” on a deputation to Eleazar the Jewish high priest in Jerusalem with gifts for the performance of the cult in the Temple: a grand table and numerous bowls of various sorts. Eleazar sent back seventy-two translators, six from each of the twelve tribes, who would execute the translation. After they

 On the Jewish colony and the papyri from Elephantine, see Bezalel Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross-Cultural Continuity and Change, 2nd rev. ed. (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011); idem, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968); and Bezalel Porton and Ada Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt, 4 vols. (Winona Lake, Ind.: Hebrew University, 1986 – 1999).  For basic information on the Jewish community in Alexandria and its location in the city, see P. M. Fraser, Ptolemaic Alexandria, 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972).  For the Letter of Aristeas, see Benjamin G. Wright, The Letter of Aristeas: ‘Aristeas to Philocrates’ or ‘On the Translation of the Law of the Jews’, CEJL (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2015). DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-007

94

Benjamin G. Wright

completed their work, Ptolemy sent the men back to Eleazar with additional gifts. Yet, the actual story of the translation takes up only a relatively small part of the 322 paragraphs that comprise the larger narrative, and it acts as the frame within which other scenes and events, often called digressions, occur. These include a scene in which Aristeas engineers the manumission of over 100,000 Jewish slaves, an exchange of letters between Ptolemy and Eleazar, an elaborate description of the construction of the table and bowls, a travelogue in which we find descriptions of Jerusalem and its Temple, the temple service and the high priest’s vestments, the city’s fortifications, the surrounding countryside and its resources, a long apologia by Eleazar giving an allegorical interpretation of the Jewish food laws, and finally a series of banquets or symposia in which every translator answers a question posed to him by the king, which takes up over one-third of the length of the work. Even though the narrator claims to be a Gentile, Aristeas is patently a Jewish composition. Verbal reminiscences and even a citation from the Greek translation of the Pentateuch, along with the rewriting of important aspects of the Exodus narrative and the frequent references to the sovereignty and power of God, who is clearly the Jewish God, make a Jewish author certain.⁴ In the famous §16, for example, Aristeas tells Ptolemy that the Jews “revere God, the overseer and creator of all things, whom all also, even we worship, O King, using different names, Zeus and Dis.” Our purportedly Gentile narrator subsequently prays to this obviously Jewish God to “prepare the king’s mind” to release the slaves, something God ultimately does. Piety pervades the work as a central theme, and that piety is clearly a Jewish piety, articulated most clearly in Eleazar’s speech about the food laws (§§144– 171). Despite the setting of the story in the reign of Ptolemy II, the narrative was composed at least a century after the events it pretends to relate. The best evidence for a second century date can be found in the forms used in the official letters and documents that Ps.-Aristeas, as I shall refer to the author, includes in his narrative to enhance the verisimilitude of his story. Such elements as letter greetings or conclusions tend to be used in specific time periods and in documents that are often dated, sometimes precisely so. Since scholars possess a fair number of these documents from Egypt, they can follow the developments of certain standard forms over decades and observe how they change and develop. In the case of Aristeas, except for one instance, the prostagma or royal decree for freeing the slaves in §§22– 25, which displays third-century BCE phrases, all of

 See Wright, Letter of Aristeas, Introduction, section 4.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

95

the diagnostic phrases from these documents place Aristeas somewhere in the years between about 150 BCE and 110 BCE.⁵ In many respects, the Letter of Aristeas, although an important document of Hellenistic literature from Alexandria, has been relatively understudied. If one browses through the scholarly literature on Hellenistic Alexandria, one might find a few mentions, since it contains some information about the famous library established by Ptolemy I. Yet, very few monographs have been devoted to it, and my recent commentary is the first full-length commentary to treat Aristeas.⁶ One reason for this relative neglect can be laid at the feet of the seventeenth-century Oxford don Humphrey Hody, who dismissed Aristeas as a forgery in an attempt to prove that the Septuagint was not an inspired and holy text. Hody’s criticisms set the tone for much subsequent scholarship for almost 300 years. The other reason that Aristeas has been relatively ignored has to do with scholarly attempts to recover the historical origins of the Septuagint. The only other Alexandrian account of the Septuagint’s origins not based on Aristeas comes in a fragment of the Jewish writer Aristobulus, which is an apocopated and variant form of the story told in Aristeas. Consequently, many scholars have turned to Aristeas to try to mine it for its potential information about how the translations came about—and usually the remainder of the work simply gets ignored. Unfortunately, in my estimation, the Letter of Aristeas tells us nothing about the historical origins of the Septuagint, but rather it witnesses to the importance of the Septuagint and its status in the Alexandrian Jewish community of the mid to late second century BCE.⁷ (But that is the topic of another paper.)

Ps.-Aristeas and Relations with Greeks Since Aristeas is one of the only complete literary works of Alexandrian Jewish literature to survive from Ptolemaic Alexandria, what it might be able to tell us about Jews in this period is quite valuable. Of course, we have other kinds of in-

 Scholars have proposed a range of dates for Aristeas. For a detailed discussion, see Wright, Letter of Aristeas, Introduction, section 5.  Now see Wright, Letter of Aristeas.  For arguments about the problems of Aristeas’s historicity, see Sylvie Honigman, The Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria: A Study in the Narrative of the Letter of Aristeas (London/New York: Routledge, 2003); Benjamin G. Wright, “The Letter of Aristeas and the Reception History of the Septuagint,” BIOSCS 39 (2006): 47– 67; idem, “The Letter of Aristeas and the Question of Septuagint Origins Redux,” JAJ 2 (2011): 304– 26; and idem, Letter of Aristeas, Introduction, section 2.

96

Benjamin G. Wright

formation about Jews in Egypt from the papyri, most especially those from the Egyptian town of Heracleopolis that date from the middle of the second century BCE, which include papyri from the Jewish politeuma there.⁸ Most of these papyri come from the chora, not from the cosmopolitan city of Alexandria, however. With Aristeas, we encounter an educated Jew from the city who is writing for the benefit of other educated Jews. Why does Ps.-Aristeas compose this narrative? What does it accomplish for our author? While any number of suggestions have been proposed, two major ideas seem to lie at the heart of this literary enterprise: Ps.-Aristeas wanted (1) to construct or reinforce a Jewish identity that would provide justification for elite, educated Jews to participate in the larger Hellenistic world of Alexandria specifically as Jews and (2) to offer a myth of origins for the primary basis on which such a Jewish identity should be built, the Greek version of the Pentateuch, the Septuagint.⁹ Certainly ethnic identity in Ptolemaic Egypt was a complex phenomenon.¹⁰ While establishing ethnic identity markers solidified ethnic groups from the inside, they also differentiated people from other groups, and these identities might shift or change in different circumstances. So, for example, Willy Clarysse and Dorothy Thompson have shown that for tax purposes, Jews would likely have been classified as “Hellenes,” and thus, they had a different status from Egyptians.¹¹ For someone like Ps.-Aristeas, who clearly had a good education, as we will see shortly, aligning himself and his compatriots with his Greek co-residents of Alexandria took a high priority. Several elements of Aristeas support this interpretation. Eleazar’s speech plays a leading role in trying to disentangle what our author was trying to accomplish. He establishes the general theme right at the beginning, saying that

 For the texts, see James M. S. Cowey and Klaus Maresch, Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Heracleopolis [144/3 – 133/2 v. Chr.] [P.Polit.Iud.] (Wiesbaden: Westdeutscher Verlag GmbH, 2001) and Sylvie Honigman, “Soldiers and Civilians in Ptolemaic Egypt: The Jewish Politeuma at Heracleopolis (Review of Urkunden des Politeuma der Juden von Heracleopolis [144/3 – 133/2 v. Chr.] [P. Polit. Iud.])” Scripta Classica Israelica 21 (2002): 251– 66.  See Benjamin G. Wright, “Pseudonymous Authorship and Structures of Authority in the Letter of Aristeas,” in Scriptural Authority in Early Judaism and Ancient Christianity, ed. Géza Xeravits, Tobias Niklas, and Isaac Kalimi, DCLS 16 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2013), 43 – 62 and Wright, Letter of Aristeas, Introduction, section 10.  On the complications of ethnic identity among Greeks, Jews, and Egyptians in Egypt, see Stewart Moore, “With Walls of Iron”: Jewish Ethnic Identity in Hellenistic Egypt, JSJSup 171 (Leiden: Brill, 2015).  Willy Clarysse and Dorothy Thompson, Counting the People in Egypt: Volume 2: Historical Studies, Cambridge Classical Studies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 147– 48.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

97

Moses instituted the food laws in order to regulate “conduct and associations,” and throughout the speech the theme of associations with the right and wrong kinds of people predominates (§130). The high priest begins his apologia with a condemnation of idol worship, and accords Egyptian animal worship a special censure (§§134– 138). Immediately after this denunciation, he says, “Therefore the lawgiver … fenced us around with unbroken palisades and with iron walls so that we might not intermingle at all with any other nations, being pure in both body and soul, having been set free from vain opinions, revering the only and powerful God above all of the entire creation” (§139). This statement seems to contradict directly the universalizing tenor present in much of the work, especially in places like §16 in which our author affirms that the king and Judeans worship the same god. Of course, within the world of Alexandrian society Ps.-Aristeas and his co-ethnics must have confronted the problem of Greek religious practice. For Ps.-Aristeas, then, monotheism functioned as a central marker of Jewish identity.¹² His two main characters, Ptolemy II and Aristeas, both understand this and agree, and they serve as Gentile examples of monotheists with whom Jews might associate, since they do not hold the “vain opinions” of idol worshipers.¹³ The “unbroken walls and iron palisades” protect Jews from views that would compromise their commitment to revering the one God, but they also allow intercourse with non-Jews who hold the same views. For his readers, then, Ps.-Aristeas confirms that one can walk the fine line between participation and separation. In his interpretations of the kosher laws, Eleazar explains that Judean dietary practices actually inculcate and reinforce important moral values—values that enlightened Gentiles also share. So, for instance, of the clean and unclean birds, Eleazar says: 145. For of the winged creatures that we use, all are tame and distinguished by extreme cleanliness, having for food grains and pulse: pigeons, doves, locusts, partridges and also geese and all similar kinds. 146. Concerning those winged creatures that are forbidden, you will find wild ones and carnivorous ones and ones that oppress the others with the strength that they have, and through injustice they get food by consumption of the tame ones mentioned above. And not only these, but they snatch up lambs and kids, and they even harm humans, both dead and alive. 147. Therefore through these he established a sign, giving them the designation “unclean,” that it is binding on that person for whom

 See Moore, “Walls of Iron”, chap. 5.  On Greek philosophical monotheism, see Michael Frede, “The Case for Pagan Monotheism in Greek and Graeco-Roman Antiquity,” in One God: Pagan Monotheism in the Roman Empire, ed. Stephen Mitchell and Peter van Nuffelen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 53 – 81 and Moore, “Walls of Iron”, chap. 5.

98

Benjamin G. Wright

the legislation has been ordained to avail him/herself of justice and to oppress no one, relying on his/her own strength, nor to rob anyone, but to govern his/her life by justice, just as the tame ones of the aforementioned birds by nature consume the pulses upon the earth and do not oppress to the destruction of their kind. 148. Therefore, through these the lawgiver has granted a sign to those who are intelligent, to be just and to accomplish nothing with force, nor to oppress others, relying on their own strength.¹⁴

The presumption behind this text is that Jews actually adhere to these dietary practices, and such adherence undoubtedly reinforced ethnic boundaries between Jews and non-Jews. But, Eleazar says, these laws have a rational basis. In §143, the high priest distinguishes between “natural reason” (Gk. τὸν φυσικὸν λόγον) by which all things appear similar and the “profound reason” (Gk. λόγον βαθύν) for distinguishing between clean and unclean animals. Even though the food laws separate Jews from others, the important point is that they instill moral behaviors that Gentiles share and admire, most especially justice and piety. Importantly, Eleazar does not give these interpretations as his own, but he argues that they represent Moses’s intention when he gave the law. Of course, Eleazar’s speech relies on the Greek translation and not on the Hebrew text, and in that sense, for Ps.-Aristeas Moses’s reasons for giving the law reside in the Septuagint—that is, the translation. ¹⁵ Moreover, Ps.-Aristeas consistently attributes the giving of the law to Moses, who is called “lawgiver,” rather than to God, and thus Moses has a similar relationship to the Judeans, as Solon or Lycurgus, perhaps the two most famous Greek lawgivers, do to Greeks. By allegorizing the food laws, Ps.-Aristeas reaffirms ethnic boundaries. The practice indeed separates Jews from Greeks and Egyptians, but at the same time, in his argument that the laws given by the lawgiver of the Jews are rational and instill important values, they also point to common cause with Greeks. In every case in Aristeas, Greeks who occupy important social positions, even the king himself, recognize this rationality, and they affirm the importance of the law for Judeans. This Gentile respect for the laws of the Jews is nowhere better illustrated than in the royal welcome and the symposia that the king holds for the translators upon their arrival in Alexandria. When presented with the rolls of the law, the king bows “about seven times” and refers to their contents as “divine utterances” (§177). Before the first symposium, the king dismisses the sacred heralds and priests who usually sacrifice and offer prayers, and he asks one of the translators to pray (§184). Finally, the food for the symposium is prepared ac Translation comes from Wright, Letter of Aristeas.  Thus, Eleazar’s speech participates in what Hindy Najman has called “Mosaic discourse.” See her study Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism, JSJSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003).

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

99

cording to the standards of Jewish law (§182). In this scene, Ps.-Aristeas offers a paradigmatic illustration of how commensality between Greeks and Jews can take place—and most importantly, the Greeks are glad to abide by these customs.

Aristeas and Greek Paideia: The Evidence of the Text In what ways does Aristeas provide evidence for the engagement of Alexandrian Jews with Greek paideia/education? Before trying to answer this question, we need just a moment to think about Greek education in Egypt in the late Ptolemaic period. Much has been written on education in Egypt, largely because so many papyri survive that might be identified as school texts or exercises.¹⁶ The basic educational curriculum was called the enkyklios paideia, and it prepared students for possible advancement to higher forms of education, including for our purposes here, the study of rhetoric. Although in its ideal form rhetorical training was intended to lead to a career in law or as an orator, those who studied rhetoric most likely acted in other capacities in Hellenistic Egypt—that is, they put rhetoric into practice in more broadly utilitarian ways than formal oratory.¹⁷ As far as the curriculum of rhetorical training is concerned, it consisted of progymnasmata or elementary exercises that a teacher might give to a student beginning with the simple and moving to the most difficult. In rhetorical education, the student built upon the basic elements of the enkyklios paideia, which emphasized receiving information by reading and writing, mostly organized around the copying and recitation of Greek literature, especially Homer.¹⁸ At this stage the students began to reformulate in their own words the content of their earlier studies, largely through paraphrasing and rearticulating the authors that they previously had learned to recite.¹⁹ As we will see momentarily, the author of Aristeas shows evidence of having some rhetorical training. The evidence for Ps.-Aristeas’s engagement with Greek paideia that I want to explore for a few minutes comes in three forms: (1) the genre of the work; (2) the  See Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) and Raffaelle Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001).  Morgan, Literate Education, 197.  See Morgan, Literate Education, chap. 6; Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind, chap. 8; and George A. Kennedy, A New History of Classical Rhetoric (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994).  Kennedy, New History, 83 – 84 and Morgan, Literate Education, chap. 5.

100

Benjamin G. Wright

rhetorical forms that he employs; and (3) the sources that he used. The combination of all this evidence presents to us an Alexandrian Hellene who had acquired a decent level of education—one that likely exceeded that of most people in Egypt and that placed him in an elite group—and who happened to be a Jew. I have formulated this characterization as I have intentionally, since I think that Ps.-Aristeas’s literary product is first and foremost a Greek book, albeit one that has a Jewish content.

1. Genre Although it is called a letter, Aristeas does not have the form of either an official or personal letter. In fact, the first time we find the title “Letter of Aristeas to Philocrates” is in a fourteenth-century manuscript that contains excerpts from the work. The closest we get to a title is in Eusebius of Caesarea, who calls it “On the Translation of the Law of the Jews.” In the Greek manuscript tradition it is usually titled simply “Aristeas to Philocrates.” That is not to say that Aristeas has no affinities at all with ancient letters, however, as we shall see in a moment. Scholars have taken two basic approaches to the question of overall genre or form. The first focuses on Aristeas’s historiographical characteristics.²⁰ In §1, §8, and §322 we find the term diēgēsis, which is related to one of the progymnasmata, the diēgēma, which denotes a narrative that takes one of three basic forms: mythological, historical, or political.²¹ In its first use in Aristeas, the term refers to the present narrative and has a technical sense: “Having composed a noteworthy narrative, O Philocrates…” In §8, the term does not carry a technical sense, and it separates the Preface from the actual beginning of the story proper. In §322, Ps.-Aristeas uses several terms that recall the preface, including diēgēsis, and this use also has a technical sense. The characteristics of the work certainly bring it into relation with ancient historiography, and indeed Aristeas displays a number of features of ancient historiography—such as the insertion of official documents—even though one does not usually find in historiography such features as the direct address to Philocrates, which Ps.-Aristeas extends throughout the work. The other tack emphasizes Aristeas’s epistolary character. The work opens and closes addressing Philocrates, who also appears at crucial transitions

 Numerous scholars have concluded that Aristeas was historiography. Most recently, see Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship.  Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 30.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

101

throughout Aristeas. From this perspective, Aristeas resembles ancient epistolary treatises that often dealt with scientific or technical matters.²² It might not be necessary, however, to stand on one side of the fence or the other. A diēgēsis, while part of the progymnasmata, is a preliminary rhetorical exercise and as such probably can only serve as a loose indicator of genre. Although it resembles the form of the epistolary treatise, the content of Aristeas does not really fit this type so well as it does historiography. Yet, genre blending and bending seem to be characteristic of Hellenistic Greek literature, and in this sense, Ps.-Aristeas reflects his time period and its literary proclivities. Although Ps.-Aristeas describes his text as a diēgēsis or narrative, at the same time he formulates it as a correspondence with his brother Philocrates. The blending and bending of historiography and epistolography that we encounter in Aristeas was conscious, deployed in this way because they both had utility for the author’s communicative aims. The more important point for this paper, however, is that these are Hellenistic literary forms that, in order for Ps.-Aristeas to be familiar with them, would have required some level of Greek education. The literary form of Aristeas, then, constitutes our first piece of evidence for Ps.-Aristeas’s encounter with Greek paideia.

2. Rhetorical Forms Within the text of his composition, our author has incorporated other elements of the progymnasmata that enhance the rhetorical nature of his narrative. For his description of the table and the bowls that King Ptolemy sends to Eleazar in Jerusalem, Ps.-Aristeas utilizes ekphrasis, a description of a place or thing that brings the subject vividly before the eyes of the reader.²³ Indeed, the description of the table is so elaborate, even over the top, that working from its description, it would be a challenge to draw a picture of what it looked like. Here is just a small sample of that description: 57. So they fashioned the table two cubits in length 〈and a cubit in width〉 and a cubit and a half in height, of pure gold, making the creation solid on every side. Now I mean not of gold overlaid around something, but a metal plate was fastened on. 58. And they made

 For a detailed argument defending Aristeas’s epistolary character, see Lutz Doering, Ancient Jewish Letters and the Beginnings of Christian Epistolography, WUNT I 298 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 217– 32.  On ekphrasis, see Ruth Webb, Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009).

102

Benjamin G. Wright

a rim a palm’s breadth all around and twisted molding, having a design of ropes in low relief, which had marvelously carved relief on three sides, since it was triangular. 59. And on each side the full shape of the workmanship had the same arrangement, so that whatever side would turn, the appearance was identical, and when (the twisted molding) rested on the rim, on the one hand, the slope facing the table had a most beautiful shape, but on the other hand, the outer slope faced the view of anyone who approached it. 60. Therefore, whatever side would turn, it happened that the tip of the two slopes was acute, being situated at the highest spot, since it was constructed as a triangle, as we said earlier. There existed arrangements of precious stones in it in the middle of the ropes; each one interweaving with the other. It was inimitable in its creation.

Similarly, in §86 Ps.-Aristeas has a short ekphrasis on the curtain in the temple, and he employs the same technique in §§96 – 99 to describe the high priest’s vestments, concluding by saying, “And I insist that any person who comes near to the sight of those things that I have previously recounted will come into amazement and indescribable wonder, when turning his mind to the sacred construction of each thing.” A second exercise of the progymnasmata that we encounter in Aristeas is the chreia and the elaboration of it. In general, a chreia was a brief anecdote attributed to or about a specific character.²⁴ So, for example, “They say that Diogenes, on being asked how one might become famous, said, ‘By thinking about fame as little as possible.’” Some chreiai might combine both action and anecdote, such as the one in Aristeas §177: “When … they unrolled the parchments, pausing for a long time and prostrating himself about seven times, the king said, ‘I thank you, O men, and even more the one who sent you, but mostly the God whose utterances these are.’” Chreiai might also be elaborated into longer narratives or speeches that introduced, narrated, argued, and concluded a subject.²⁵ Eleazar’s speech criticizing idol worship and offering allegorical interpretations of the Jewish law seems to be related to the elaboration on the chreia, but Ps.-Aristeas has put it in the form of a speech given by a character in a specific situation, another element of the progymnasmata, the ethopoeia, in which one tried to represent what would be that character’s words, style, and ideas.²⁶ We find one last rhetorical form from the progymnasmata in Aristeas, the synkrisis or comparison in which one examines in parallel two subjects in

 On the chreia, see Ronald F. Hock and Edward N. O’Neil, The Chreia and Ancient Rhetoric, 2 vols. (Atlanta: SBL, 2002).  Hock and O’Neill, The Chreia, 89 and Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 20 – 21.  On ethopoeia, see Kennedy, New History, 66 – 67, 205 – 6.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

103

order to show that they are equal or that one is better than the other.²⁷ In §§107– 111, Ps.-Aristeas discusses the countryside surrounding Jerusalem. As part of that description, our author compares Alexandria and Jerusalem/Judea in which he leaves the clear impression that Jerusalem, at least in one respect, surpasses the great Egyptian metropolis.²⁸ Speaking of Jerusalem and the Judean countryside, he says: 107. It was not without reason that the first settlers constructed the city with fitting proportions, and they planned wisely [then follows a brief description]. … [E]verything is cultivated with much abundance in the entirety of the aforementioned country. 108. But in those cities that have great size and an accompanying prosperity, an abundance of population results, but the countryside is neglected, everyone inclined towards individual enjoyment, all people being in constitution prone towards pleasure. 109. This is what happened to Alexandria, which surpassed all other cities in size and prosperity. For those from the country who dwelled abroad there and stayed for a long time brought matters of trade into decline. 110. Thus, so that they might not stay, the king commanded that no one could sojourn for more than twenty days. And to those who were in charge of business matters he similarly issued orders in writing that if it became necessary to summon anyone, a decision must be rendered within five days. 111. Considering it very important, he ordered judges and their staffs into the districts, so that the farmers and agents, who were pursuing making money, might not diminish the city’s storehouses—I mean the income from agriculture.

Because “the first settlers” of Jerusalem and Judea “constructed the city with fitting proportions, and they planned wisely,” Eleazar, whom Ps.-Aristeas portrays as the ruler of the Jews and the equal of Ptolemy II, did not have to issue such an edict that would force people back into the countryside in order to assure enough agricultural activity that the city could be fed. Outside of the specific features of the progymnasmata, Ps.-Aristeas employs other forms that are not specific to rhetoric but that demonstrate his literary intentions. For example, as well as ekphrasis, the depiction of the high priest’s garments is an example of paraphrasis, a shortening and rewriting of a longer passage, in this case the much longer description found in Exodus 28. Ps.-Aristeas also exhibits a sense of basic stylistic flair that creates a pleasing Greek text. So, for instance, on occasion he will repeat the same word or phrase within a short compass, as we see in §67 with the repetition of θεωρίαν within about ten words and ending the paragraph with the verb θεωροῦσι. Especially illustrative are §§77–78 in which we find two cases of repeated phrases, παντελῶς ἀνεξήγητος in §77 and again in §78 and the phrase ἀργυροῦ κρατῆρος εἶτα χρυ-

 See Kennedy, New History, 205.  Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 18.

104

Benjamin G. Wright

σοῦ followed closely by ἀργυροῦ καὶ χρυσοῦ in §77. At the same time, however, Ps.-Aristeas evinces a concern for variatio, the stylistic variation of words or phrases, which is particularly evident in the symposia, where, because of the nature of the story, verbs of questioning and answering predominate. Thus, for example, we find the verbs ἐρωτάω, ἐπερωτάω, πυνθάνομαι, λέγω, φήμι, and collocations of κελεῦω or παρακαλέω with ἀποκρίνομαι or ἀπόφημι, all employed to express the king asking a question and the translators’ answers. Ps.-Aristeas also is fond of alliteration. Typical examples can be found in §155, μνείᾳ μνησθήση, and §182, ἐκέλευσε τὴν ἑτοιμασίαν, εἰς ἓκαστον ἐπιτελεῖν. He especially likes alliteration with words separated by καί as we see in §17, πολλακῶς καὶ ποικίλως, §26, μεγαλομερείᾳ καὶ μεγαλοψυχίᾳ, and §70, πεποιημένα καὶ προσηγμένα. We also encounter occasional examples of homoioteleuton, the repetition of word endings that create a rhyming pattern, such as we see in §70, τῆς ἐπειρίας καὶ ἐπειρίας καὶ τέχνης τὰς ὑπεροχάς. Figures of speech appear every now and again. So, for example, we see litotes, understatement made for effect especially by using double negatives. The best examples come in §16 and §107 in the phrases τοῦτο δ’ οὐκ ἀνοικείως, “not dissimilar to this,” and οὐκ ἀλόγως, “it was not without reason”; irony, which comes in §19, where, after the king hears that Aristeas is requesting manumission of approximately 100,000 slaves, he replies to Aristeas’s request for freedom for all these people with μικρόν γε, “indeed it is a small thing”; asyndeton, the elimination of conjunctions for effect, which we see in §11, where the clause ὑπολαμβάνονται Συριακῇ χρῆσθαι “the Jews are supposed to use Syrian,” does not follow the previous clause with any connecting conjunction; and anaphora, the use of the same words to begin successive lines, phrases, or clauses, as in §92, οἱ μὲν τὴν ξυλείαν, οἱ δὲ ἒλαιον, οἱ δὲ σεμίδαλιν, οἱ δὲ τὰ τῶν ἀρωμάτων. Ps.-Aristeas’s use of elements of the progymnasmata and other diverse literary forms, as well as literary devices and figures of speech, comprise the second thread that demonstrates that he not only had exposure to a basic Greek education but that he had progressed to the last stage of education, rhetorical training. While it is true that Aristeas never really rises to literary heights, as many scholars have noted, their frequent dismissal of the work on this account is unwarranted in my view.²⁹ Our author might not have gone to graduate school, but he seems to have had a decent enough university education. The fact that he had any formal rhetorical training at all places him among the elites of his

 See, for example, Oswyn Murray, “Aristeas and his Sources,” in Studia Patristica Vol. XII, ed. Elizabeth A. Livingstone (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1975), 123 – 28.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

105

time, since it seems clear that few people would have advanced as far in their educations as Aristeas suggests that its author had.

3. Ps.-Aristeas’s Sources As the recipient of a Greek education, Ps.-Aristeas would have been exposed to a variety of Greek works of literature, especially Homer. In fact, we can identify Greek sources that Ps.-Aristeas took over into his work. Somewhat curiously, and I cannot really account for this absence, Homer does not seem to have been one of them. Yet, among the sources that we can determine, we find both classical Greek works and Hellenistic literary influences. In most cases identifying specific sources carries with it some uncertainty, because our author freely paraphrases and adapts his source material. As I noted above, such adaptation of literary materials was an important feature of rhetorical education, and the practice itself in Aristeas provides evidence of his rhetorical aims. Ps.-Aristeas, perhaps showing off his literary knowledge, invokes several well-known Greek figures, both literary and philosophical. Except for one case, he does not quote them or otherwise depend on their literary works. Of course, Demetrius of Phalerum, the royal librarian, plays a highly visible role in the story. In §31, Ps.-Aristeas explicitly cites the fourth-century BCE writer Hecataeus of Abdera as a source of information about the sanctity of the Jewish scriptures, and he might indeed have known Hecataeus’s Aegyptiaca. In the first symposium, Ps.-Aristeas has the late fourth- to early third-century BCE philosopher Menedemus of Eretria praise the philosophical acuity of the Jewish translators (§201). After the translation of the law is accomplished, he produces the cases of Theopompus, a fourth-century BCE historian who had come to Egypt under Ptolemy I (§314), and Theodektes, a fourth-century BCE rhetorician (§316) —both students of Isocrates—as examples of people whom God afflicted when they tried to use the Jewish scriptures in their work. Other than his appeal to Hecataeus, all of Ps.-Aristeas’s Greek sources remain unnamed. Throughout the work, however, he draws on a wealth of Greek philosophical traditions—Peripatetic, Stoic, and Pythagorean—and these are particularly evident in the questions and answers during the symposia. These influences, however, might well have derived from more popular tradition than from classical Greek sources. So, for example, in §122 Ps.-Aristeas reveals familiarity with Aristotelian tradition when the translators are said to be “zealous for the middle way,” an obvious reference to Aristotelian ethical thought, especially as in the Nicomachean Ethics. This familiarity, however, need not derive

106

Benjamin G. Wright

from Ps.-Aristeas’s reading of Aristotle, since this is precisely the sort of idea that he might know from a range of cultural resources. Yet, in other places our author appears to have a closer connection to a specific text than simply being aware of popular philosophical tradition. Staying for the moment with Aristotelian ideas, the reference to waking and sleeping in §160 shows a remarkable convergence with Aristotle’s understanding of sleep and dreams as found in On Sleep and Sleeplessness and On Dreams. In the descriptions of Jerusalem, the temple, the citadel, and the surrounding countryside, several aspects of Ps.-Aristeas’s account parallel Aristotle’s recommendations for the ideal city as found in his Politics book 7, and it appears that this treatise served as one of Ps.-Aristeas’s sources for this section along with Hellenistic ethnography and the biblical accounts.³⁰ One particular feature of the comparison between Alexandria and Jerusalem bears a remarkable similarity to a passage about Peisistratus’s reign in Athens in the Ps.-Aristotelian treatise Athenian Constitution. And here I want to compare the two texts.³¹ First Aristeas §109 – 111, part of which we heard above: This is what happened to Alexandria, which surpassed all other cities in size and prosperity. For those from the country who dwelled abroad there and stayed for a long time brought matters of trade into decline. 110. Thus, so that they might not stay, the king commanded that no one could sojourn for more than twenty days. And to those who were in charge of business matters he similarly issued orders in writing that if it became necessary to summon anyone, a decision must be rendered within five days. 111. Considering it very important, he ordered judges and their staffs into the districts, so that the farmers and agents, who were pursuing making money, might not diminish the city’s storehouses—I mean the income from agriculture.

Next Athenian Constitution 16.2– 6: Peisistratus’s administration of the state was, as has been said, moderate and more constitutional than tyrannic; he was kindly and mild in everything, and in particular he was merciful to offenders, and moreover he advanced loans of money to the poor for their farming. In doing this he had two goals, to prevent their stopping in the city and make them stay scattered about the country and to cause them to have a moderate competence and be engaged in their private affairs, so as not to desire nor to have time to attend to public business. And also the land’s being thoroughly cultivated resulting in increasing his revenues; for he levied a tithe from the produce. And for this he organized the local justices and often

 Sylvie Honigman, “La Description de Jérusalem et de la Judée dans la Lettre d’Aristée,” Estratto da Athenaeum 92 (2004): 73 – 101.  Moses Hadas, Aristeas to Philocrates (Letter of Aristeas) (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1951), 144; and Hongiman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 87–88.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

107

went to the country on circuit in person, inspecting and settling disputes in order that people might not neglect their agriculture by coming into the city.

While Ps.-Aristeas has certainly reframed this passage, the central elements from the Athenian Constitution all appear in Aristeas: the ruler does not allow people from the country to stay in the city because of the economic disruption that such dislocation causes; the idea is to increase agriculture so that trade and thus revenues increase; the rulers send magistrates into the countryside in order to assure that proper trade continues. Admittedly, Ps.-Aristeas does not use the specific vocabulary of Athenian Constitution, but, then again, there is really no technical vocabulary in these texts, except perhaps the term for justice or magistrate. Athenian Constitution uses δικαστής, a general term for a judge, which Ps.-Aristeas understandably transforms into the χρηματιστής, the circuit judge of Ptolemaic Egypt.³² Nonetheless, it is difficult to think that Ps.-Aristeas did not know this Aristotelian work. In the symposia, Ps.-Aristeas appeals to many ideas about kingship that we find in Greek literature that discusses kings, and he may have drawn on contemporary treatises specifically on kingship, the so-called peri Basileus literature.³³ A good example is the claim that Ps.-Aristeas repeats on several occasions that the king’s character or habit of life does much to determine a successful rule. The relationship between character and successful or legitimate rule is an important theme in Greek kingship literature. So, Isocrates, whose works were often included in educational curricula, says in To Demonicus 36, “Obey the laws that have been set down by kings, but consider their character the mightiest law,” here using the noun τρόπος, the same word used several times in Aristeas to connote character. Of course, Ps.-Aristeas employs one other major source, the Septuagint itself.³⁴ Throughout the work, he displays his knowledge of the Greek translation of the Pentateuch, even if, as with his Greek sources, he rewrites and freely adapts it to suit his own purposes. From its vocabulary to the broader themes of the story, the Septuagint often lies in the background. When he deals with specifically Jewish objects and practices, he often employs terms found in the Sep-

 Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 87.  On this issue, see especially, Oswyn Murray, “Peri Basileias: Studies in the Justification of Monarchic Power in the Hellenistic World” (D. Phil. Thesis; Oxford, 1971); and idem, “Aristeas and Ptolemaic Kingship,” JTS 18 (1967): 337– 71 along with Günther Zuntz, “Aristeas Studies II: Aristeas and the Translators of the Torah,” JSS 4 (1959): 109 – 26.  For general comments on use of the Septuagint in Aristeas, see Wright, Letter of Aristeas, Introduction, section 7.

108

Benjamin G. Wright

tuagint. In his description of the high priest’s vestments, he refers to the robe (χιτών), the full-length robe (ποδήρης), the girdle (ζώνη), the oracle (λόγιον), the tiara (κίδαρις), and the mitre or turban (μίτρα). In §§158 – 159, he demonstrates an awareness of the use of mezuzot and tefillin, which accords with the commands in Deuteronomy 6 and 11, although there are some important differences, and in §160 his language maps closely onto Deut 6:7. In only a small number of cases, however, does Ps.-Aristeas actually point to the Septuagint as a source, either directly or indirectly, even when he lifts his verbiage from it. Paragraphs 155 and 228 provide the clearest examples. In §155, he gives a composite citation of Deut 7:18 and 10:21, which he introduces as coming from “scripture”: “Therefore, he [i. e., Moses] exhorts also through the scripture, when he says, ‘With remembrance remember the Lord who has done great and amazing things in you.’” This is one of two places in Aristeas to refer to the law as “scripture.” In §168, Eleazar asserts that “nothing has been set down through scripture without purpose or through legend.” Among the many pieces of advice in the symposia, in §228 the translator’s answer appeals to the Decalogue. When asked to whom the king should show favor, one of the translators replies, “Always to parents, since also God has given the greatest commandment concerning honor of one’s parents” (§228), a clear reference to the fifth commandment. On a larger scale, Ps.-Aristeas adapts the Exodus story and makes it the implicit frame for the giving of the Law on Greek.³⁵ The elements of the story shine through clearly but with important adjustments. As in Exodus, slaves are freed, but unlike the precursor narrative, the pharaoh is not oppressive. Rather he facilitates the entire transformation of the law into Greek for the Jews. When the translation is finished, the people as a community accept it, as in Exodus 34, and they place a curse against anyone changing the text in any way, which reflects Deut 4:2. The greatest difference from biblical story is the giving of the law in Egypt, and thus no real exodus has to take place. Thus, the entire Sinai episode becomes unnecessary, since this Jewish community resides in Egypt and has no apparent intention—nor need—to leave. The various sources that we can identify in Aristeas comprise the third body of evidence that points to our author having received a good Greek education in which he was exposed to a relatively broad range of Greek and Hellenistic literature and literary tradition along with the Septuagint.

 On the use of the Exodus narrative, see Wright, Letter of Aristeas; Honigman, Septuagint and Homeric Scholarship, 53 – 59; and Arkady Kovelman, Between Jerusalem and Alexandria: The Dynamic of Jewish and Hellenistic Culture, Brill Reference Library of Judaism 21 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), chap. 4.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

109

Aristeas and Greek Paideia: Ps.-Aristeas and the Alexandrian Jewish Community We have learned so far that the evidence of the text of Aristeas points to an author who has acquired a Greek education of at least sufficient sophistication that it enabled him to produce a Hellenistic Greek work that blends genres, that is expressed through Greek rhetorical forms, and that adopts and adapts Greek literary sources. Ps.-Aristeas’s ability to produce such a work immediately situates him among the educated elite of Alexandria, whether Jewish or non-Jewish. Certainly he had progressed beyond the enkyklios paideia or elementary levels of education to receive more advanced training in rhetoric. This level of literary education and sophistication would not have been a commonplace in Hellenistic Egypt. The only realistic institution where he could have acquired such an education was within the Greek educational system of Alexandria, where he would have read and worked with the kinds of Greek and Hellenistic sources that he employs in his work. The evidence from the work itself points to a Jewish Hellene or Hellenized Jew—depending on what kind of identifiers we might want to emphasize. Where do we imagine that Ps.-Aristeas received his education? Did he study with a private teacher or in a formal institutional context? The kind of advanced rhetorical education that Ps.-Aristeas received might be found within the gymnasium, although we know that private teachers were relatively abundant in Ptolemaic Egypt. Participation in this system, whether in an institution of learning or with a private teacher, “provided a means by which Greek culture could be identified and distributed and the Greek ruling class identified. Moreover, literate and numerate educations gave non-Greeks a channel of assimilation into (cultural, not legal) greekness,” as Teresa Morgan puts it.³⁶ In the case of Ps.-Aristeas, such a function for education seems to have been successful, if the Letter of Aristeas is anything by which to judge. Unfortunately, we can only speculate about the exact educational path that Ps.-Aristeas might have taken, even if its outlines are clear. What we can say, however, is that he was certainly not alone among his coethnics in having acquired such an education. Since his audience is almost certainly other Jews, we must presume that his intended readers could understand what he had written, both in its basic message and in the various nuances and stylistic elements that he used. The Letter of Aristeas also contains some clues to the relationship of these educated Jews to their Hellenistic environment. If Ps.-

 Morgan, Literate Education, 23.

110

Benjamin G. Wright

Aristeas wrote out of a concern for reinforcing ethnic boundaries while at the same time providing a rationale for Jewish participation in the larger Hellenistic environment as Jews, then Aristeas, along with the fragments of other Hellenistic Jewish authors, such as Aristobulus, Artapanus, or Ezekiel the Tragedian, and in a later period Philo, suggests that Jews experienced a high level of comfort within Hellenistic Alexandria but that at least some anxiety remained about how to maintain or even retain a Jewish identity within this larger environment. Ps.-Aristeas attempted to assuage that anxiety by answering that the Gentiles with whom Jews would interact understood the reason for distinctly Jewish practices and that educated, elite Jews and Gentiles shared a core set of moral values. In addition, the Septuagint constituted the rational and legal basis for Jewish practice, having been given by a lawgiver who ranked with the great lawgivers of the Greeks. The king’s patronage of the translation project, his relations with Eleazar, and his treatment of the translators all reinforce that point. Ps.-Aristeas’s strategy represents a “using and refusing,” to use John Barclay’s phrase—and Ps.-Aristeas advocated a broad “using,” while refusing on those aspects of ethnic identity that he considered most critical.³⁷ One question remains for us to consider, however, and that is Ps.-Aristeas’s knowledge and use of the Septuagint. One might be tempted to sing the Sesame Street song I used to sing with my children: “One of these things is not like the other … .” Obviously the Septuagint is not one of the standard texts that Ps.-Aristeas would have learned during his Greek rhetorical education. Yet, he learned it somewhere, somehow. Although he understands the Septuagint as the basis from which Jewish practice—and hence Jewish identity—derives, he does not treat it any differently in terms of his methods from his other sources, incorporating it, like his Greek sources, into his rhetorical agenda. He does not cite it, except on one occasion; he paraphrases and adapts Septuagint passages with little apparent concern for making changes to the text or its story in its new context; in his rewriting of the Exodus story, Sinai is absent because it is not necessary, and the Law is given under a benevolent pharaoh in Egypt itself, which not only changes the story but effectively inverts it. Thus, both his knowledge of the text and the way he treats it suggest to me that he learned it in some educational context. What was that educational context? Were there Jewish teachers who would have taught these texts? Were there “schools” attached to the proseuchai, the prayer houses that we hear about in Ptolemaic Alexandria? Was there some-

 John M. G Barclay, “Using and Refusing. Jewish Identity Strategies Under the Hegemony of Hellenism,” in Ethos und Identität: Einheit und Vielfalt des Judentums in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, ed. Matthias Konradt and Ulrike Steinert (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2002), 13 – 25.

Greek Paideia and the Jewish Community of Alexandria in the Letter of Aristeas

111

thing akin to a Jewish gymnasium that paralleled the Greek gymnasia and that would have Jewish teachers teaching Jewish texts—or Hellenistic and Jewish texts? Regrettably, we do not know anything about the nature of Jewish education in Alexandria in the later Ptolemaic period. The evidence of Aristeas and the other Jewish Hellenistic writers allows us to conclude that Jews were able to receive a Greek education but also that in some context they were educated in their own national literature. Ps.-Aristeas, Ezekiel the Tragedian, and others certainly had more than a haphazard or casual acquaintance with this literature. To produce something like Aristeas or Ezekiel’s tragedy based on the book of Exodus takes some kind of systematic engagement with the text. How and where that took place, we can only speculate. What we can say for sure, however, is that Ps.-Aristeas and other Jews like him had taken advantage of the Hellenistic cultural resources available to them in Greek paideia. That learning was supplemented by a close engagement with their own national literature, primarily the Septuagint. A bit earlier I called Ps.-Aristeas a Hellenized Jew or a Jewish Hellene. After my own close engagement with his literary product, I am more and more convinced that Ps.-Aristeas would have found that distinction puzzling. He was a Hellene who lived and moved in Hellenistic Alexandria and who happened to be a Jew. Retaining his ethnic identity as a Jew absolutely mattered to him, and he wrote in order to reinforce that identity for his fellow Jews. I do not think that for him, however, his greekness and his Jewishness were engaged in a battle for superiority. When read next to someone like Artapanus, the Letter of Aristeas paints a picture of commensality, of comfort and ease between educated, elite Gentiles and educated, elite Jews. Although I am not convinced by arguments that place Ps.-Aristeas within the Ptolemaic court—I do not think that we have enough evidence to make that claim—it would not surprise me at all, if he did move in those circles. But, the Letter of Aristeas is remarkable to me for precisely that level of comfort and ease. Even Philo in the first century CE, as well educated a Jew as we encounter in the Second Temple period, expresses his distaste and even disgust at certain elements of Hellenistic culture. In Aristeas we see one brief moment of that in Eleazar’s condemnation of idol worship, but even there, Ps.-Aristeas leaves room for enlightened Gentiles, like his versions of Ptolemy II and Aristeas, who presumably would understand and concur with such condemnations. As one of the most significant literary products from the Alexandrian Jewish community, indeed from Hellenistic Alexandria period—and perhaps a close second to the Septuagint itself—the Letter of Aristeas deserves attention for what we can learn about educated, elite Jews in second-century BCE Alexandria. That great city was both a home from which they apparently could not imagine an Exodus and a home where a second giving of the law, on which a quintessential-

112

Benjamin G. Wright

ly Jewish identity could be constructed, only this time in Greek, made complete sense.

Luca Arcari

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus: Between “Didactic” Hymnography and Alexandrian Exegesis The Versions of the Testament of Orpheus and Aristobulus The text known as the Testament of Orpheus was transmitted to us through: A. Eusebius of Caesarea-Aristobulus¹ B. Theosophia Tubingensis 55² C. Clement of Alexandria³ D. two texts included in the corpus of the works attributed to Justin Martyr, the Cohortatio ad Graecos and the De Monarchia ⁴ In the last years, the relationships between these texts were at the core of a vivid debate.⁵ According to Holladay, different reviewers enlarged a more ancient text,

 See Praep. ev. 13.12.5 (GCS Eusebius Werke 8.2:191– 4).  About this version, see Christoph Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation eines orphischen Hieros Logos—Beobachtungen zu OF 245 und 247 (sog. Testament des Orpheus), Classica Monacensia 7 (Munich: Münchener Universitätsschriften, 1993), 24. The version from the Theosophia Tubingensis can partially overlaps with that transmitted by Aristobulus-Eusebius; on the other hand, it can be also compared with the shorter version contained in the Justinian corpus. For the Greek text of the Testament of Orpheus transmitted by Teosophia Tubingensis, see Theosophorum Graecorum Fragmenta 55 ff. Erbse (Teubner).  See. Protr. 7.74.3 – 5; Strom. 5.12.78.4– 5; and 5.14.123.1– 124.1. Further fragments are quoted in Strom. 5.14.126.5; 127.2; and 133.2.  See Coh. Gr. 15.1 and Mon. 2.4 (SC 528:178 – 80.326 – 8). Further fragments congruent with D are in Theoph. Autol. 3.2; Cyr. C. Jul. 1.35; Theod. Aff. 2.30.  For the various texts, see the Appendix. For a scheme synthesizing the relationships between the different versions, see Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 24; Miguel Herrero de Jáuregui, Orphism and Christianity in Late Antiquity, Sozomena: Studies in the Recovery of Ancient Texts 7 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 180; and Fabienne Jourdan, Poème judéo-hellénistique attribué à Orphée: production juive et réception chrétienne (Paris: Les belles lettres, 2010). For accurate examinations, see Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 10 ff.; Carl R. Holladay, “The Textual Tradition of Pseudo-Orpheus: Walter or Riedweg?,” in Geschichte-Tradition-Reflexion. Festschrift DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-008

114

Luca Arcari

and their development would be more or less represented according to the following scheme: D—B—C—A. D probably had an Orphic origin and it was almost certainly composed in Alexandria; conversely, A is to be attributed to a slightly later time (under Ptolemy VI), and it probably was a re-elaborated version by the same Jewish philosopher. According to Riedweg and Bernabé, Clement was aware of both D and A.⁶ In the same way as Holladay, Riedweg and Bernabé believe that D was the most ancient version, the Urfassung,⁷ while A was a later reelaboration.⁸ According to Riedweg, the existence of a veritable Clementine review should be discarded, and Herrero de Jáuregui has recently supported such a thesis.⁹ Also, in light of this very schematic status quaestionis, identifying the “original” Testament of Orpheus among the known versions is certainly difficult. My intent in this article is to stress how this starting point can be misleading.

für M. Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag. Bd. 1: Judentum, ed. H. Cancik, H. Lichtenberger, and P. Schäfer (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 159 – 80; idem, “Pseudo-Orpheus. Tracking a Tradition,” in The Early Church in Its Context. Essays in Honor of E. Ferguson, ed. A. J. Malherbe and F. W. Norris, NovTSup 90 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 192– 220; and Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Dio unico, pluralità e monarchia divina. Esperienze religiose e teologie nel mondo tardo-antico, Scienze e Storia delle Religioni. N.S. 12 (Brescia: Morcelliana, 2010), 89 – 91. Walter’s thesis (see Nikolaus Walter, Der Thoraausleger Aristobulos. Untersuchungen zu seinen Fragmenten und zu pseudepigraphischen Resten der jüdisch-hellenistischen Literatur, TUGAL 86 [Berlin: Akademie, 1964]) is opposed by Riedweg and later by Holladay; for a close examination of Walter’s analysis, see Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 73 – 79.  See Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 15 ff. Recently, this scholar has reaffirmed his stance in “Literatura órfica en ámbito judio,” in Orfeo y la tradición órfica. Un reencuentro, ed. A. Bernabé and F. Casadesús (Madrid: Akal, 2008), 1.379 – 92.  See Sfameni Gasparro, Dio unico, 90 and Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 44.  Following Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 73, Alberto Bernabé speaks of Aristobulische Überarbeitung: see Poetae Epici Graeci (Pars II) 378 T Bernabé (Teubner).  See Herrero de Jáuregui, Orphism and Christianity, 180 – 83. This scholar believes that Clement obtained his excerpta of the Testament from an anthology used for apologetic purposes; this is the reason, in Herrero’s opinion, of the co-presence in Clement’s work of elements belonging to both the versions of the hieros logos: if in Strom. 5.123.2– 124.1 Clement refers to the version by Aristobulus, in Protr. 7.74.3 – 5 and Strom. 5.78.4– 5, 123.1, 126.5, 127.2 and 133.2 he seems to gather the De Monarchia and the Cohortatio ad Graecos versions together with some unidentified apologetic anthologies.

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

115

The Testament of Orpheus as a Didactic Hymn One element has been strongly emphasized by Riedweg:¹⁰ the use of dactylic hexameter and Homeric language in the different versions of the Testament of Orpheus. As is well known, the hexameter refers to a performance entirely based on the process of representative recollection.¹¹ A series of magical papyri quote out-of-context Homeric verses (see PGM VII. 1– 148 [Preisendanz]). From a chronological point of view, these texts are rather late, fourth–fifth cent. CE, and they are associated with the so-called homeromanteion, a list of 216 Homeric verses deriving from a handbook used to give answers. Apart from the chronological question, a recent study has pointed out that this type of documentation stresses “the communication that was overtly established with the early epic tradition” as well as “the status and use of the homeromanteion in late antiquity and early Byzantium. This opens up a larger question of the survival and use of early Greek epic verses by possible wider audiences that read and even performed them in a way that relates to popular culture of their time.”¹² As for the use of the hexameter in Jewish literature written in Greek, the hexametric fragments by Theodotus and Philo (respectively, 47 and 23 verses) quoted by Eusebius in the Praeparatio evangelica (by way of Alexander Polyhistor) are very well-known.¹³ The fragments by Theodotus deal with the city of Shechem and the kidnapping of Dinah, the daughter of Jacob, while those written by Philo deal with Isaac’s sacrifice and Jerusalem’s water system. Greek sources

 Riedweg, Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 64– 72.  For general reference, see Anna Bonifazi and David F. Elmer, “Composing Lines, Performing Acts: Clauses, Discourse Act, and Melodic Units in a South Slavic Epic Song,” in Orality, Literacy and Performance in the Ancient World, ed. E. Minchin, MnemosyneSup 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 89 – 109; important remarks are also in Ruth Scodel, “Works and Days as Performance,” in Orality, Literacy and Performance in the Ancient World, 111– 26. Useful comments about the concept of representative recollection, as applied to the structure of proto-Christian texts, are in April D. DeConick, Seek to See Him. Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas, VCSup 33 (Leiden: Brill, 1996) and eadem, Voices of the Mystics: Early Christian Discourse in the Gospel of John and Thomas and Other Ancient Christian Literature, JSNTSup 157 (Sheffield: Academic Press, 2001).  See Andromache Karanika, “Homer the Prophet: Homeric Verses and Divination in the Homeromanteion,” in Sacred Words: Orality, Literacy and Religion, ed. A. P. M. H. Lardinois and J. H. Blok, MnemosyneSup 8 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 255 – 56.  The most recent edition is edited by Thomas Kuhn, Die jüdisch-hellenistischen Epiker Theodot und Philon: literarische Untersuchungen, kritische Edition und Übersetzung der Fragmente, Vertumnus 9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012).

116

Luca Arcari

used by Theodotus and Philo are various: Thomas Kuhn has recently pointed out that while Theodotus seems to be closer to the Homeric model, Philo distances himself from it following the model of Lycophron’s Alexandra. The modern separation between literature and practical function is not useful to shed light on this typology of texts/documents. What we define as “literature” emerges as a practical tool of great impact in a context like the HellenicAlexandrian one, a context in which a specific re-invention of the “Greek” (or Atheno-centric) tradition and Ptolemaic politics seem to be inseparable. The 4th hymn by Callimachus (the so-called Hymn to Delos)¹⁴ takes its inspiration —like all the hymns of this author—from Homeric Hymns (Homeric language is used in hymns 1– 4, while the 5th and the 6th are written in Doric Greek). This element is particularly important in the 4th hymn. The Hymn to Delos praises the Egyptian reign of Ptolemy II Philadelphus and is connected to other texts of a “Homeric” nature originating from the same Egyptian background, for example the Hymn to Philadelphus by Theocritus (P.Lit.Goodspeed 2, a papyrus of the second cent. CE presenting hexametric carmina perhaps dating back to the Ptolemaic period)¹⁵ or fragment 1 of P.Oxy. XXVI. 2442.¹⁶ In Callimachus’s hymn, events of the city of Delos represent the traditional element through which Philadelphus’s victory against the Galatans is celebrated. I do not think that the theory of a public and ritual function of the 4th hymn should be discarded.¹⁷ Another question to be examined is the possible definition of what we mean by the word “hymn.” As is well known, this question is thorny and controversial. An instance emerges as particularly explanatory: Alcaeus’s melos dedicated to Apollo (frag. 142 Page) is defined by Himerius as a peana (Decl. 48.10), while Pausanias refers to it as “preface” (10.8.10), and Pseudo-Plutarch simply addresses it as “hymn” (Mus. 14). This different usage could suggest that the first two terms are related to specific functions of the canto, while the term “hymn” is more general (see Proclus, Chrest. = Photius, Bibl. 239, p. 320a). Moreover, epigraphic doc On this hymn, see Massimo Giuseppetti, “Mito e storia nell’Inno a Delo di Callimaco,” in Mythe et pouvoir à l’epoque hellenistique, ed. C. Cusset, N. Le Meur-Weissman, and F. Levin, Hellenica Groningana 18 (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 469 – 94.  See Claudio Meliadò, “Da Cos a Delo: nuovi scenari mitologici in P.Lit.Goodspeed 2,” in Proceedings of the 24th International Congress of Papyrology (Helsinki, 1 – 7 August, 2004), ed. J. Fröse´n, T. Purola, and E. Salmenkivi (Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica, 2007), 2.729 – 33.  See Gianbattista D’Alessio, “Il primo Inno di Pindaro,” in Lirica e teatro in Grecia. Il testo e la sua ricezione, ed. S. Grandolini (Perugia: ESI, 2005), 113 – 49; “Per una ricostruzione del primo Inno di Pindaro: la ‘Teogonia’ tebana e la nascita di Apollo,” Seminari romani di cultura greca 10 (2007): 101– 17.  On such an aspect, see Giuseppetti, “Mito e storia.”

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

117

umentation attesting to the use of poems within cults related to sanctuaries is not easily identifiable; if poems dedicated to Apollo can be defined as veritable peana, we could therefore argue that Philodamus wrote a hymn in honor of Dionysus (AnthLyrGraec II. 252 ff.) and that in Delphi fragments of a hymn dedicated to the Gods were found. As is known, the most ancient literary documents of Greek hymnography are the so-called Homeric Hymns, a collection of hymns attributed to Homer datable back to Thucydides’s period and transmitted in manuscripts with the Orphic Hymns, together with the hymns of Callimachus and Proclus. Hymns ascribed to Homer are thirty-three poems of variable length, while fragments of another poem are preserved by Diodorus Siculus (3.66.3). The period of creation of the collection is certainly late (between fourth–tenth cent. CE), but it is quite evident that the hymns which comprise it belong to different periods. Since they employ an epic meter (the hexameter), these documents are to be contextualized within the rhapsodic tradition and show a pronounced tendency to imitate Homeric language. During the post-Homeric period, the composition of hymns was largely performed for a specific ritual and/or practical purpose, often made clear by the name of the poem itself. Among the poets who, according to the tradition, wrote hymns in hexameters, we can mention Eumelus (eighth cent. BCE) and Terpander (seventh cent. BCE), while also some poems belonging to Aeolian lyric poetry are known with the name of “hymn” (one of the most famous is the one Alcaeus dedicates to Hermes: frag. 143 Page). Therefore, generally speaking, the hymn always has a practical purpose, often linked to specific ceremonies, as it clearly emerges from choral lyric poetry. What is more, some Orphic hymns have several common features with the inscriptions of the Temple of Demeter, found in Pergamon during excavations in 1910 (8th Hymn = inscription dedicated to Helios; 12th = inscription dedicated to Heracles; 17th = inscription dedicated to Asclepius; 30th, 31st, 32nd = inscription dedicated to the winds).¹⁸ A recent study by Matthew E. Gordley proposes a functional definition of “hymn” which takes into account the practical purpose of this type of documents: “Didactic hymns, prayers and religious poetry are those which employ the stylistic and/or formal conventions of praise and prayer, but whose primary purpose was to convey a lesson, idea, or theological truth to a human audience.”¹⁹ In his work, Gordley discusses the form, content, and strategies of  On these inscriptions, see Erwin Ohlemutz, Die Kulte und Heiligtümer der Götter in Pergamon (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1968), 218 – 9.  Matthew E. Gordley, Teaching through Song in Antiquity. Didactic Hymnody among Greeks, Romans, Jews, and Christians, WUNT 2.302 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 5.

118

Luca Arcari

what he calls didactic hymns. The features which may indicate a didactic purpose are, first, a poet’s invitation to his audience to learn from him. A second indicator is the presence of prominent instructional language in the hymn. When these explicit indicators are absent, Gordley notes other characteristics in the hymn that can point to a text with a didactic purpose: 1. the direct address of the audience by the author 2. the presence of direct claims about the deity being praised and/or explicit claims about the community offering the praise 3. the recounting of an event, in the form of a narrative, from the mythic past or recent past Not all of these elements emerge in the Testament of Orpheus. It is probably for this reason that Gordley decided not to include this in his comprehensive treatment. The fact that the Testament of Orpheus was transmitted to us as an excerptum from other authors with particular purposes and functions certainly implied a remarkable process of rewriting. In this regard, we have to consider the importance of the role fulfilled by Aristobulus in the transmission of the text. Nevertheless, if we postulate the existence of a particular version of the text not coinciding with the reviews transmitted to us, I believe that it is possible to include the Testament of Orpheus in the wider category of didactic hymnography. In fact, this form does not seem to have completely disappeared despite the fact that the text underwent a complex textual transmission.

Aristobulus as an Alexandrian Exegete I do not intend to consider the Testament as a literary work or a text written by a single author. Rather, the starting point of my analysis is that the different versions of the text might be re-adaptations and rereadings of a didactic hymn in hexameters by some Jewish communities of the Alexandria diaspora.²⁰ Apart from the use of the hexameter,²¹ the structure of the document itself reminds us of a work destined to ritual use. If the role of the re-writings of different authors cannot be disregarded, common features of the different versions seem similarly relevant.  This could be the classical example of a text featuring “authority without authors,” typical of orally transmitted traditions. See Carlo Severi, “Autorité sans auteur. Formes de l’autorité dans les traditiones orales,” in De l’autorité. Colloque annuel du Collège de France, ed. A. Compagnon (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2008), 93 – 122.  See Riedweg’s position about this matter: Jüdisch-hellenistische Imitation, 64– 65.

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

119

An element that, in my opinion, was disregarded by Roberto Radice in his important monograph on Aristobulus,²² is the role of the philosopher in the re-writing and the re-proposition of the Testament. Radice argues that Aristobulus elaborated an Urfassung of the hymn, faithfully reproduced by other authors, through which he was able to express his monotheistic ideas. Conversely, my idea is that we have to hold Aristobulus himself responsible for the differences between the transmitted texts. Therefore, I will examine the commentary modalities in relation to the Derveni Papyrus and the rereading of Homeric texts as it was practiced in Alexandria beginning from the Hellenistic period. In particular, I will concentrate on two cases that pinpoint the modalities through which Aristobulus intervenes on the Testament of Orpheus, especially in light of the comparison with similar elements of the Derveni Papyrus.

The θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε Formula The introductory formula of the Testament of Orpheus is mentioned by all the authors who have transmitted the text, and it is also found in the hymn commented on in the Derveni Papyrus.²³ This text provides us with a better understanding of the rereading method used for poems in specific ritual backgrounds. Datable to around the beginning of the fifth century BCE from a paleographical point of view, the Derveni papyrus is a charred document found among the remains of a funeral pyre. The text shows evidence of an exegetical practice of (probably) Stoic origin,²⁴ which will later be used also in Alexandria, even if enriched with important elements from Aristotelian methodological assumptions.

 See Roberto Radice, La filosofia di Aristobulo e i suoi nessi con il De mundo attribuito ad Aristotele. Con due appendici contenenti i frammenti di Aristobulo, traduzione a fronte e presentazione delle varianti, 2nd ed. (Milan: Vita e pensiero, 1994).  On the preliminary questions about the Derveni Papyrus, see Marisa Tortorelli Ghidini, Figli della terra e del cielo stellato. Testi orfici con traduzione e commento (Naples: D’Auria, 2006), 163 – 73. On the “mystery” formula, see Alberto Bernabé, “La fórmula órfica ‘cerrad las puertas, profanos.’ Del profano religioso al profano en la materia,” Ilu. Revista de ciencias de las religiones 1 (1996): 13 – 37. The verse is also parodied by Plato in Symp. 218b. On the esoteric background of the formula, see Jan Bremmer, “The Place of Performance of Orphic Poetry (OF 1),” in Tracing Orpheus: Studies of Orphic Fragments in Honour of Alberto Bernabé, ed. M. Herrero de Jáuregui, A. I. Jiménez San Cristobal, and M. A. Santamaria, Sozomena 10 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), 1– 6.  On the “Orphic” exegesis, see Maria Serena Funghi, “Esegesi di testi orfici,” in Corpus dei papiri filosofici greci e latini. III: Commentari (Florence: L.S. Olschki, 1995), 565 – 85.

120

Luca Arcari

From the VII column on, the text presents itself as a commentary on a preexisting hexametric, theogonical poem. The hymn is lost but, through the mending of the lines quoted in the commentary and thanks to the confrontation with the Rhapsodic and the Eudemian theogonies, Martin L. West has managed to reconstruct it as a hexametric hymn of fourty-seven verses, the model of which was probably later used by Empedocles, Pindar, and Parmenides.²⁵ Although the Derveni Papyrus is the most ancient example of a systematic commentary we have, it offers insight into the integration of different preexisting passages within an exegetical process. In VII. 3 – 11, the exegete states:²⁶ [κ]αὶ εἰπεῖν οὐχ οἷόν τ[ε τὴν τῶν ὀ]νομάτων [θέ]ϲιγ καίτ[οι] {ρ}ῥηθέντα. ἔϲτι δὲ ξ̣[ένη τιϲ ἡ] πόηϲιϲ [κ]α̣ὶ ἀνθρώ[ποιϲ] αἰνι̣ [γμ]ατώδηϲ. [κα]ὶ [Ὀρφεὺ]ϲ̣ αὐτ[ὸ]ϲ̣ [ἀό]ριϲτ’ αἰν[ίγμα]τα οὐ̣ κ ἤ̣ θελε λέγειν, [ἐν αἰν]ίγμαϲ̣ [ι]ν δὲ [μεγ]άλα. ἱερ[ολογ]ε̣ ῖ̣ ται μὲν οὖγ καὶ ἀ̣ [πὸ το]ῦ πρώτου [ἀεὶ] μέχρι 〈τ〉οῦ̣ [τελε]υτ̣ α̣ί̣ ου ῥήματοϲ. ὡ̣ [ϲ δηλοῖ] καὶ ἐν τῶι [εὐκ]ρινήτω̣[ι ἔπει· ‘θ]ύ̣ ρ̣αϲ’ γὰρ ‘ἐπιθέ[ϲθαι’ κελ]εύϲαϲ τοῖ̣ [ϲ [ὠϲὶ]ν αὐτ[οὺϲ οὔ τι νομο]θ̣ ε̣ τ̣ εῖμ φη[ϲιν τοῖϲ] πολλοῖϲ, [ἀλλὰ διδάϲκειν τοὺϲ τὴ]ν ἀκοὴν [καθαρεύο]νταϲ κατ̣ [ὰ]

5

10

The text conserved in the Derveni Papyrus is structured in two parts. Up to the VI column, the discourse of the exegete is based on a quotation by Heraclitus as well as on various references to religious beliefs and ritual practices somehow related to the exegesis of the following columns. From the VII column on, the anonymous exegete insists on the necessity to discover the hidden sense (αἰνιγματώδης) of a hymn, of a poem as well as of a hieros logos. He quotes and comments about twenty verses starting from VII. 9, wherein he interprets the famous verse “put doors [to their ears].” To this purpose, interpreting mythical events and theogonical figures from a physical point of view, the text “begins the transformation of traditional theogonical texts into accounts on the creation of the material world which includes and precludes the human one.”²⁷

 See Martin L. West, The Orphic Poems (Oxford: University Press, 1983).  Here I follow the new critical edition by Alberto Bernabé and Valeria Piano, The Derveni Papyrus. A New Commented Edition, in preparation for the Center for Hellenic Studies, “The Derveni Papyrus: An Interdisciplinary Research Project.” See http://chs.harvard.edu/CHS/article/ display/5418. Thanks are due to Valeria Piano for her invaluable input.  Tortorelli Ghidini, Figli della terra, 238. About this topic, see also Claude Calame, “Invocations et commentaires ‘orphiques:’ transpositions funéraires de discours religieux,” in Discours religieux dans l’Antiquité. Actes du colloque de Besançon, 27 – 28 Janvier 1995, ed. M.-M. Mactoux and E. Geny (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1995), 11– 30 (esp. 13).

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

121

The exegete’s comments seem to clarify some modalities through which Aristobulus re-proposes the line θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι. In the same way as the Derveni Papyrus, we are faced with a rereading and a re-proposition of an earlier text in and for a new context. The tool Aristobulus uses is allegory, an exegetical practice that had frequently been used in Alexandria for the reading of Homeric texts since the Hellenistic period. Likely adopting the same commenting system used by other Alexandrian Jewish intellectuals,²⁸ Aristobulus glosses the expression θύρας ἐπιθέσθαι adding φεύγοντες δικαίων θεσμούς, θείοιο τιθέντος πᾶσιν ὁμοῦ. The first remarkable aspect is the tendency to broaden the sense of the line by using similar terms. In this case, the mystery formula θύρας ἐπιθέσθαι is associated with the expression φεύγοντες δικαίων θεσμούς, where the term θεσμός lends to the formula a clearer ritual and mystery interpretation.²⁹ A similar methodological analysis is also found in the Homeric Questions by Heraclitus, where Homeric verses are fully quoted and commented on through the use of semantic spheres similar to the quoted text, thus amplifying their meaning.³⁰ The other term found in the text by Aristobulus-Eusebius is θείοιο, a very frequent footnote in Homeric hexameters.³¹ The epithet is frequently found in Alexandrian Homeric exegesis.³² Ancient intellectuals very often understood the term θείοιο as being of strictly ritual use,³³ while magical papyri also include Homeric clauses which contain the adjective.³⁴ Finally, it is interesting to notice how the expression πᾶσιν ὁμοῦ is not only found in the hexameters of the Sibylline Oracles (see Sib. Or. 11.178), but also in

 See Maren Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 58 – 73.  See similar procedures in Diod. Sic. Bibl. hist. 5.67.4.2; Aeneas Tact. Poliorcetica 4.8.4; Plut. Conj. praec. Proom. (Mor. 138b); Is. Os. 25 (Mor. 360e: ἄθεσμοι πράξεις); Fort. 1 (Mor. 568c).  E. g., see Quaest. hom. 12.2 – 3, where the verb “to resonate,” referring to arrows in Il. 1.46, gives the reader the chance to argue about the sounds produced by celestial spheres.  For example, see Il. 2.335; 9.214, 218; 10.243; 11.806; 13.694; Od. 1.65; 2.233, 394; 3.398; 4.395, 682, 799; 5.11, 198; 11.238; 15.63, 313, 554; 17.2, 230, 402; etc.  E. g., see Apoll. Soph. Lex. hom. 70.33; 103.26; 128.33; Arist. Gramm. De signis Odysseae, in Od. 1.65 (Schol. 1); De signis Iliadis, in Il. 11.802– 803 (Schol. 7); Porph. Quaest. hom. 2.370 ff. (10); Eustath. Comm. ad Hom. Il. 1.351.6 (34); 399.3; 619.9; 2.702.23; 3.55.10 (24); etc.  For example, see Lexica in Op. Gregorii Nazianzeni (e cod. Paris. Coislin. 394) 35.1, where θείοιο is explained as ἱεροῦ; or Schol. in Hom. Il. (Scholia Vetera) 9.214a.1; 214b.1; 10.136 – 247.4, 315a.4; 19.296.1.  For example, see PMG VII. 80 [Preisendanz].

122

Luca Arcari

ancient annotating literature as an element of the development and/or reinforcement of the exegetical argument.³⁵

The Uniqueness of the Divine Principle In Aristobulus’s version, the phrase Εἷς ἔστ’αὐτοτελής, αὐτοῦ δ’ ὕπο πάντα τελεῖται, and similar expressions and locutions, are indebted to the Stoic and Aristotelian idea of the uniqueness of the divine principle.³⁶ Based on this premise, Aristobulus inserts some typical traditions of Egyptian Judaism, such as: εἰ μὴ μουνογενής τις ἀπορρὼξ φύλου ἄνωθεν / Χαλδαίων· ἴδρις γὰρ ἔην ἄστροιο πορείης / καὶ σφαίρης κίνημ’ ἀμφὶ χθόνα ὡς περιτέλλει /κυκλοτερὴς ἐν ἴσῳ τε κατὰ σφέτερον κνώδακα, more or less also attested in Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 5.14.123.2– 124.1. The reference is probably to the tradition identifying Abraham³⁷ as the hoarder of Chaldean science due to the fact that he was the son of an astronomer: after the radical change that took place after the revelation of the existence of God, Abraham would have brought with him his scientific knowledge in the path towards the true faith.³⁸ Although weaved with epic forms (ποταμοὶ πολιῆς τε βάθος χαροποῖο θαλάσσης), the image of the mountains and the sea, as well as that of the extremities which tremble, derive from the Jewish Bible.³⁹ As for the consideration about the uniqueness of the divine principle, another interesting element comes from the Derveni Papyrus. Towards the end of Aristobulus’s version, we read ἀρχὴν αὐτὸς ἔχων καὶ μέσσον ἠδὲ τελευτήν, / ὡς λόγος ἀρχαίων, ὡς ὑδογενὴς διέταξεν / ἐκ θεόθεν γνώμῃσι λαβὼν κατὰ δίπλακα θεσμόν. Although similar to Aristobulus’s version, Clement’s parallel version quotes only the first part of the verse, ἀρχὴν αὐτὸς ἔχων καὶ μέσσην ἠδὲ τελευ-

 For example, see Simplicius, Theologia Platonica 3.33.11; Procl. Inst. theologica 67.6; Comm. Parm. 871.10; Comm. Tim. 3.8.9; Schol. in Hes. Op. (Scholia vetera), Proleg. Sch. 325.21, also quoted in Scholia vetera partim Procli et recentiora partim Moschopuli, Tzetzae et Joannis Galeni, Prolegom. Sch. 325.20.  See Sfameni Gasparro, Dio unico, 109 – 29, 131– 62, and 179 – 211.  Clement suggests a possible identification with the patriarch in Strom. 5.14.123.2.1: αὖθίς τε περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ, ἀόρατον αὐτὸν λέγων, μόνῳ γνωσθῆναι ἑνί τινί φησι τὸ γένος Χαλδαίῳ, εἴτε τὸν ᾿Aβραὰμ λέγων τοῦτον εἴτε καὶ τὸν υἱὸν τὸν αὐτοῦ, διὰ τούτων. On the relationship between Abraham and the so-called Chaldean science, see Annette Yoshiko Reed, “Abraham as Chaldean Scientist and Father of the Jews: Josephus, Ant. 1.154– 168, and the Greco-Roman Discourse about Astronomy/Astrology,” JSJ 35 (2004): 119 – 58.  See Philo, Virt. 211– 213. See also Sfameni Gasparro, Dio unico, 35 – 77.  See Job 26:5, Sir 16:19, Hab 3:10, Isa 41:5, and Nah 1:5.

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

123

τήν, omitting the last lines. These lines in the Aristobulus/Eusebius version are likely an exegetical addendum of Aristobulus himself. The verse in question appears as a quotation from the Hymn to Zeus, transmitted and commented on in the Derveni Papyrus (XVII. 1– 14):⁴⁰ π[ρ]ό̣ τερον ἦν πρ[ὶν ὀν]ο̣ μ̣α̣ϲ̣ θῆνα̣ι̣ · ἔ̣ π̣[ει]τα ὠ̣ νομάϲθ̣ η· ἦγ γὰρ καὶ πρόϲθεν ‘[ἐ]ὼν′ ἢ τὰ νῦν ἐόντα ϲυ̣ϲταθῆναι ἀὴρ καὶ ἔϲται ἀεί· οὐ γὰρ ἐγένετο, ἀλλὰ̣ ἦν· δι᾽ ὅ τι δὲ ἀὴρ̣ ἐκλήθη δεδ̣ ήλωται ἐν τοῖϲ προτέροιϲ. ‘γενέϲθαι’ δὲ ἐνομίϲθη ἐπείτ᾽ ὠνομάϲθη ‘Ζεύϲ’, ὡϲπερεὶ π̣ρότερον μὴ ἐών. καὶ ‘ὕϲτα̣τον’ ἔφηϲεν ἔϲεϲθαι τοῦτον, ἐπείτε̣ ὠνομάϲθη ‘Ζεὺϲ’ κ̣ αὶ τοῦτο αὐτῶι διατελεῖ ὄνομα ὄν̣ , μέχρι εἰϲ τὸ αὐτὸ ε̣ ἶ̣ δ̣οϲ τὰ νῦν ἐόντα ϲυνεϲτάθη ἐν ὧιπερ πρόϲθεν̣ ἐ̣ όντα ἠιωρεῖτο. τὰ δ᾽ ἐόντα [δηλοῖ] γενέϲθαι το̣ιαῦτ[α] δ̣ ιὰ τοῦτον, καὶ γενόμενα ε̣ [ἶναι] ___ ἐν τούτωι̣ [πάντα. ϲη]μαίνει δ᾽ ἐν τοῖϲ ἔπεϲι το̣ [ῖϲδε·] ___ ‘Ζεὺϲ κεφα⌊λή, Ζεὺϲ μέϲ⌋ϲ̣ α, Δ̣ιὸϲ δ’ ἐκ ⌊π⌋άντα τέτ̣ ⌊υκται’. ⌋

5

10

In VII. 4 ff., the commentator explains the lines by which Zeus’s sovereignty is validated. In XVII. 12, the exegete continues his speech about the father of the Gods. In fact, he quotes a verse from a hymn known prior the discovery of the Derveni Papyrus (thanks to the Platonic paraphrase in Laws 715e–716a), referring to an ancient logos also quoted in the pseudo-Aristotelian De mundo (401a25), as well as in a later version transmitted by Porphyry.⁴¹ The idea of a unique God as the beginning, the end, and the means of all things corresponds to the idea of God as the first and the last in the Derveni Papyrus XVII. 6 and XVIII. 12. Zeus is ὕστατος because he interrupts the genealogic succession from Uranus, but he is also πρῶτος because, by swallowing his father’s phallus, he becomes the origin of everything (see XXIII. 4).⁴² Aristobulus-Eusebius shares the basic idea of the Hymn to Zeus as it is reused by the Derveni exegete,⁴³ a universal principle that contains and produces all things. Not accidentally, this element is also found in the pseudo-Aristotelian treatise De mundo. Nevertheless, Aristobulus inserts comments meant to translate typical elements of the Jewish tradition in the name of the idea of a universal

 For the Greek text, see Bernabé and Piano, The Derveni Papyrus.  See Orphicorum fragmenta, frag. 168 Kern.  See Tortorelli Ghidini, Figli della terra, 241.  On similar questions, see Gabor Betegh, The Derveni Papyrus. Cosmology, Theology and Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 182– 277.

124

Luca Arcari

principle generating reality.⁴⁴ After having specified that the statement concerning God derives from a “discourse from the ancients” (a rather literal reference to Plato’s introduction to the verse from the Hymn to Zeus), Aristobulus explains that such an acquisition had been decided from what originated from water. Probably, he is referring to Moses, “the one who originates from water,” that is to say, the one who was taken from the Nile and raised at pharaoh’s court (see Exod 2:1– 10).⁴⁵ As Moses received the laws from God himself, they contain all that humankind is permitted to know about the world and its origin.

Concluding Remarks Starting from the analysis of the text by Aristobulus-Eusebius, Roberto Radice has argued that the version attributed to the Hellenic-Jewish philosopher illustrates a theological and cosmological doctrine similar to the cosmosophia of the pseudo-Aristotelian treatise De mundo. Radice has concluded that the wider version of the Testament would actually be contemporary to Aristobulus.⁴⁶ I recommend that we partly reconsider Radice’s interpretation, considering Aristobulus as the exegete of a previous hymn who attempts to lead the sense of the text towards a more explicit ‘Aristotelian’ direction (as it emerges from De mundo) by adopting an exegetical practice largely used in Alexandria⁴⁷ but already found in the allegory proposed in the Derveni Papyrus. In the Testament of Orpheus, Orpheus is never explicitly mentioned. The identification of the author with Orpheus is unanimous in the testimonia who transmitted the text as well as in the indirect references to a hieros logos more or less similar to a version of our testament.⁴⁸ However, it is possible that this association was a consequence of the mention of Moses/Musaeus in the incipit

 Even if the idea of YHWH as first and last is not accidental, it is expressed several times in different forms in the “biblical” tradition. E. g., see Isa 44:6 and 48:12 (MT and LXX). On such a question, see also Luca Arcari, “Tradizione orfica e cristianesimo antico: un bilancio,” Mythos N.S. 4 (2010): 167– 78 (esp. 174– 76).  About the diffusion and the reinterpretation of Moses’s life in Jewish traditions, see Caterina Moro, I sandali di Mosè. Storia di una tradizione ebraica, Studi biblici 167 (Brescia: Paideia, 2011).  See Radice, La filosofia di Aristobulo, 121– 24.  On Aristotelian texts and methodology in Hellenistic Alexandria, see references in Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis.  See Poetae Epici Graeci (Pars II) 368 – 376 T, 297– 299 Bernabé (Teubner).

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

125

of the poem.⁴⁹ It is also possible that the theory concerning Orpheus’ authorship derives from a subsequent ascription of a didactic hymn, linked to specific cultural practices in which Moses(/Musaeus?) was mentioned. About this hymn, Aristobulus (or his source) provided additional elements that were somehow ascribable to Orpheus, perhaps interpreting the references to the figure of a son (almost certainly a collective term or common testamentary formula) as allusions to Musaeus, Orpheus’s son. The passage mentioned by Aristobulus is not very clear. How could Musaeus be subjected to Orpheus, since in other Jewish-Hellenic contexts Musaeus is considered to be Orpheus’s guide and/or father? Moreover, Musaeus is also clearly identified as the son of the shining moon. Instead, it is a fact that in the subsequent Christian tradition, where Musaeus more clearly belongs to Orpheus’s lineage, there emerges an explicit identification of the persona loquens of the hymn with the protos heuretes of Greek poetry, a figure who is traditionally remembered as an author of hymns.⁵⁰

 On the association between Moses and Musaeus in Jewish Alexandrian traditions, see Erich S. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews Amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), esp. 203 – 12.  See Pindar, Pyth. 4.4.315: Orpheus as “the father of songs”; Strabo, Geogr. 7.7: Orpheus made money as a musician and “wizard” (ἀγυρτεύοντα); Pausanias, Descr. 9.30.2; P.Berol. 44; Schol. ad Lycophr. Alex. 3.29 Scheer; Aelius Aristides, Orat. 4.1.47.14 Dindorf; Cyr. Alex. C. Jul. 1.25.

126

Luca Arcari

Appendix. The versions of the Testament of Orpheus Clem. Protr... – ⁵²

φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί, θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι, / φεύγοντες δικαίων θεσμούς, θείοιο τιθέντος / πᾶσιν ὁμοῦ· σὺ δ’ ἄκουε, φαεσφόρου ἔκγονε Μήνης / Μουσαῖ’. Ἐξενέπω γὰρ ἀληθέα· μηδέ σε τὰ πρὶν / ἐν στήθεσσι φανέντα φίλης αἰῶνος ἀμέρσῃ, / εἰς δὲ λόγον θεῖον βλέψας τούτῳ προσέδρευε, / ἰθύνων κραδίης νοερὸν κύτος· εὖ δ’ ἐπίβαινε /

φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί· θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι /

Φθέγξομαι οἷς θέμις ἐστί· θύρας δ’ ἐπίθεσθε βέβηλοι /

πάντες ὁμῶς· σὺ δ’ ἄκουε, φαεσφόρου ἔκγονε Μήνης, / Μουσαῖ’, ἐξερέω γὰρ ἀληθέα· μηδέ σε τὰ πρὶν / ἐν στήθεσσι φανέντα φίλης αἰῶνος ἀμέρσῃ. / εἰς δὲ λόγον θεῖον βλέψας τούτῳ προσέδρευε, / ἰθύνων κραδίης νοερὸν κύτος· εὖ δ’ ἐπίβαινε /

Πάντες ὁμῶς. Σὺ δ’ ἄκουε, φαεσφόρου ἔκγονε Μήνης, / Μουσαῖ’, ἐξερέω γὰρ ἀληθέα, μηδέ σε τὰ πρὶν / ἐν στήθεσσι φανέντα φίλης αἰῶνος ἀμέρσῃ. / Εἰς δὲ λόγον θεῖον βλέψας τούτῳ προσέδρευε, / Ἰθύνων κραδίης νοερὸν κύτος, εὖ δ’ ἐπίβαινε /

    

GCS Eusebius Werke 8.2:191– 4. GCS Clemens Alexandrinus 1:56 – 7. GCS Clemens Alexandrinus 2:402.409 – 12.435. SC 528:178. SC 528:326 – 8.

Critical Critical Critical Critical Critical

edition edition edition edition edition

Clem. Strom.... –  + ... –  + ... – .⁵³

Coh. Gr. .⁵⁴

Eus. Praep. ev. ... – ⁵¹

(Strom.... – ) εἰς δὲ λόγον θεῖον βλέψας τούτῳ προσέδρευε, / ἰθύνων κραδίης νοερὸν κύτος· εὖ δ’ ἐπίβαινε /

Mon. .⁵⁵

Μουσαῖ’, ἐξερέω γὰρ ἀληθέα· μηδέ σε τὰ πρὶν / ἐν στήθεσσι φανέντα | φίλης αἰῶνος ἀμέρσῃ. / Εἰς δὲ λόγον θεῖον βλέψας τούτῳ προσέδρευε, / Ἰθύνων κραδίης νοερὸν κύτος, εὖ τ’ ἐπίβαινε /

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

ἀτραπιτοῦ, μοῦνον δ’ ἐσόρα κόσμοιο τυπωτὴν / ἀθάνατον. Παλαιὸς δὲ λόγος περὶ τοῦδε φαείνει· / εἷς ἔστ’αὐτοτελής, αὐτοῦ δ’ ὕπο πάντα τελεῖται· / ἐν δ’ αὐτοῖς αὐτὸς περινίσσεται, οὐδέ τις αὐτὸν / εἰσοράᾳ ψυχὴν θνητῶν, νῷ δ’ εἰσοράαται. / αὐτὸς δ’ ἐξ ἀγαθῶν θνητοῖς κακὸν οὐκ ἐπιτέλλει / ἀνθρώποις· αὐτοῖς δὲ κἔρις καὶ μῖσος ὀπηδεῖ· / καὶ πόλεμος καὶ λοιμὸς ἰδ’ ἄλγεα δακρυόεντα· / οὐδέ τίς ἐσθ’ ἕτερος. σὺ δέ κεν ῥέα πάντ’ ἐσορήσω, / αἴ κεν ἴδῃς αὐτόν· πρὶν δή ποτε δεῦρ’ ἐπὶ γαῖαν, / τέκνον ἐμόν, δείξω σοι, ὁπηνίκα δέρκομαι αὐτοῦ / ἴχνια καὶ χεῖρα στιβαρὴν κρατεροῖο θεοῖο. /

ἀτραπιτοῦ, μοῦνον δ’ ἐσόρα κόσμοιο ἄνακτα / ἀθάνατον. […]

ἀτραπιτοῦ, μοῦνον δ’ ἐσόρα κόσμοιο ἄνακτα / ἀθάνατον.

εἷς ἔστ’, αὐτογενής, ἑνὸς ἔκγονα πάντα τέτυκται· / ἐν δ’ αὐτοῖς αὐτὸς περινίσσεται, οὐδέ τις αὐτὸν / εἰσορᾷ θνητῶν, αὐτὸς δέ γε πάντας ὁρᾶται. /

(Str.... – ) […] οὐδέ τις αὐτὸν / εἰσοράᾳ θνητῶν, αὐτὸς δέ γε πάντας ὁρᾶται. […]

127

ἀτραπιτοῦ, μοῦνον δ’ ἐσόρα κόσμοιο ἄνακτα /

ἀτραπιτοῦ, μοῦνον δ’ ἐσόρα κόσμοιο ἄνακτα. /

εἷς ἔστ’, αὐτογενής, ἑνὸς ἔκγονα πάντα τέτυκται· / ἐν δ’ αὐτοῖς αὐτὸς περιγίνεται· οὐδέ τις αὐτὸν / εἰσοράᾳ θνητῶν· αὐτὸς δέ γε πάντας ὁρᾶται. / Οὗτος 〈δ’〉 ἐξ ἀγαθοῖο κακὸν θνητοῖσι δίδωσι, /

Εἷς ἔστ’, αὐτογενής, ἑνὸς ἔκγονα πάντα τέτυκται· / ἐν δ’ αὐτοῖς αὐτὸς περιγίνεται· οὐδέ τις αὐτὸν / εἰσοράᾳ θνητῶν, αὐτὸς δέ γε πάντας ὁρᾶται. /

καὶ πόλεμον κρυόεντα, καὶ ἄλγεα δακρυόεντα./ Οὐδέ τις ἔσθ’ ἕτερος χωρὶς μεγάλου βασιλῆος. /

καὶ πόλεμον κρυόεντα, καὶ ἄλγεα δακρυόεντα. / Οὐδέ τις ἔσθ’ ἕτερος χωρὶς μεγάλοιο ἄνακτος. /

Οὗτος 〈δ’〉 ἐξ ἀγαθοῖο κακὸν θνητοῖσι δίδωσι /

128

Luca Arcari

αὐτὸν δ’ οὐχ ὁρόω· περὶ γὰρ νέφος ἐστήρικται /

αὐτὸν δ’ οὐχ ὁρόω· περὶ γὰρ νέφος ἐστήρικται. / πᾶσι〈ν〉 γὰρ θνητοῖς θνηταὶ κόραι εἰσὶν ἐν ὄσσοις, / μικραί, ἐπεὶ σάρκες τε καὶ ὀστέα [ἐμπεφυῖα] ἐμπεφύασιν.

λοιπὸν ἐμοί· ’στᾶσιν δὲ δεκάπτυχον ἀνθρώποισιν. / οὐ γάρ κέν τις ἴδοι θνητῶν μερόπων κραίνοντα, /

εἰ μὴ μουνογενής τις ἀπορρὼξ φύλου ἄνωθεν / Χαλδαίων· ἴδρις γὰρ ἔην ἄστροιο πορείης / καὶ σφαίρης κίνημ’ ἀμφὶ χθόνα ὡς περιτέλλει / κυκλοτερὴς ἐν ἴσῳ τε κατὰ σφέτερον κνώδακα. / πνεύματα δ’ ἡνιοχεῖ περί τ’ ἠέρα καὶ περὶ χεῦμα /

(Str.... – .) εἰ μὴ μουνογενής τις ἀπορρὼξ φύλου ἄνωθεν / Χαλδαίων· ἴδρις γὰρ ἔην ἄστροιο πορείης, / καὶ σφαίρης κίνημ’ ἀμφὶ χθόνα [θ’] ὡς περιτέλλει / κυκλοτερὲς ἐν ἴσῳ τε κατὰ σφέτερον κνώδακα, / πνεύματα δ’ ἡνιοχεῖ περί τ’ ἠέρα καὶ περὶ χεῦμα. /

Αὐτὸν δ’ οὐχ ὁρόω· περὶ γὰρ νέφος ἐστήρικται. / Πᾶσιν γὰρ θνητοῖς θνηταὶ κόραι εἰσὶν ἐν ὄσσοις, / ἀσθενέες δ’ ἰδέειν τὸν διὰ πάντων μεδέοντα. /

Αὐτὸν δ’ οὐχ ὁρόω· περὶ γὰρ νέφος ἐστήρικται. / Πᾶσιν γὰρ θνητοῖς θνηταὶ κόραι εἰσὶν ἐν ὄσσοις, / ἀσθενέες δ’ ἰδέειν τὸν διὰ πάντων μεδέοντα. /

The Testament of Orpheus, Aristobulus, and the Derveni Papyrus

νάματος· ἐκφαίνει δὲ πυρὸς σέλας ἰϕιγενήτου. / αὐτὸς δὴ μέγαν αὖθις ἐπ’ οὐρανὸν ἐστήρικται / χρυσέῳ εἰνὶ θρόνῳ· γαίη δ’ ὑπὸ ποσσὶ βέβηκε· / χεῖρα δὲ δεξιτερὴν ἐπὶ τέρμασιν Ὠκεανοῖο / ἐκτέτακεν· ὀρέων δὲ τρέμει βάσις ἔνδοθι θυμῷ / οὐδὲ φέρειν δύναται κρατερὸν μένος. ἔστι δὲ πάντως / | αὐτὸς ἐπουράνιος καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ πάντα τελευτᾷ, / ἀρχὴν αὐτὸς ἔχων καὶ μέσσον ἠδὲ τελευτήν, / ὡς λόγος ἀρχαίων, ὡς ὑδογενὴς διέταξεν, / ἐκ θεόθεν γνώμῃσι λαβὼν κατὰ δίπλακα θεσμόν. / ἄλλως οὐ θεμιτὸν δὲ λέγειν· τρομέω δέ γε γυῖα· / ἐν νόῳ· ἐξ ὑπάτου κραίνει περὶ πάντ’ ἐνὶ τάξει. /

129

[…]

αὐτὸς δ’ αὖ μέγαν αὖτις ἐπ’ οὐρανὸν ἐστήρικται / χρυσέῳ εἰνὶ θρόνῳ, γαίη δ’ ὑπὸ ποσσὶ βέβηκεν. / χεῖρα 〈δὲ〉 δεξιτερὴν περὶ τέρμασιν ὠκεανοῖο / ἐκτέτακεν· ὀρέων δὲ τρέμει βάσις ἔνδοθι θυμῷ / οὐδὲ φέρειν δύναται κρατερὸν μένος. ἔστι δὲ πάντῃ / αὐτὸς ἐπουράνιος καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ πάντα τελευτᾷ, / ἀρχὴν αὐτὸς ἔχων καὶ μέσσην ἠδὲ τελευτήν. /

ἄλλως οὐ θεμιτόν σε λέγειν· τρομέω δέ τε γυῖα / ἐν νόῳ. ἐξ ὑπάτου κραίνει.

Οὗτος γὰρ χάλκειον ἐς οὐρανὸν ἐστήρικται, / Χρυσέῳ εἰνὶ θρόνῳ, γαίης δ’ ἐπὶ ποσσὶ βέβηκε, / Χεῖρά τε δεξιτερὴν ἐπὶ τέρματος Ὠκεανοῖο /

Οὗτος γὰρ χάλκειον ἐς οὐρανὸν ἐστήρικται, / Χρυσέῳ εἰνὶ θρόνῳ, γαίης δ’ ἐπὶ ποσσὶ βέβηκε, / Χεῖρά τε δεξιτερὴν ἐπὶ τέρματος ὠκεανοῖο /

130

Luca Arcari

ὦ τέκνον, σὺ δὲ τοῖσι νόοισι πελάζευ, γλώσσης / εὖ μάλ’ ἐπικρατέων, στέρνοισι δὲ ἔνθεο φήμην. Πάντοθεν ἐκτέτακεν· περὶ γὰρ τρέμει οὔρεα μακρὰ / Καὶ ποταμοὶ πολιῆς τε βάθος χαροποῖο θαλάσσης. /

Πάντοθεν ἐκτέτακεν· περὶ γὰρ τρέμει οὔρεα μακρὰ / Καὶ ποταμοὶ πολιῆς τε βάθος χαροποῖο θαλάσσης. /

Patrick Pouchelle

Discipline, Transmission, and Writing: Notes on Education in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs Studying how important people, such as Moses, Abraham, and Enoch, are said to have been educated is interesting because their education demonstrates what was considered an ideal Jewish education. However, the education received by children is not often described in biblical narratives. We know nothing about the youth of Abraham (Gen 11:26 – 32). All that we know about the upbringing of Isaac is that “[T]he child grew, and was weaned” (Gen 21:8)¹ until the so-called sacrifice of Isaac (Gen 22).² The story of Jacob and Esau follows the same pattern; the text only lets readers know that “they grew up” (Gen 25:27). The education of the children of Jacob is also neglected: whereas their births are detailed because they occur in the context of the rivalry between Rachel and Lea, the children’s actual childhoods are not described. Indeed, the narrative returns to Joseph when he is seventeen (Gen 37:2). Finally, even the early years of Moses are summarized this way: “The child grew up” (Exod 2:10).³ More important in the biblical narratives is, for example, the love that a father feels for his son.⁴ Obviously, the lack of interest found in the Masoretic Text to the education of the patriarchs does not mean that there was no education in early Israel.⁵ The rewriting of biblical narratives from later Hellenistic and Roman times pays more attention to the education of the patriarchs.⁶ In Ps. Eupolemus, frag. 2, Abram learned astrology and taught it to the Phoenicians, whereas

 Unless specified, the translation of the MT comes from the NRSV.  As for Ishmael, the text let us know about his circumcision (Gen 17:25). It does not mention his formative years.  See also Samuel (1 Sam 2:21). The upbringing of Saul (1 Sam 9:2) and David is not mentioned (1 Sam 16:11); nor is the youth of Solomon (compare 2 Sam 12:24 to 1 Kgs 1:10). Elijah (1 Kgs 17:1) and Elisha (1 Kgs 19:19) are adults when they appear in the Biblical narratives.  Abraham certainly loves Ishmael (Gen 17:18), Isaac loves Esau more than Jacob (Gen 25:28), and Jacob loves Joseph more than his other sons (Gen 37:3).  See, for example, J. Crenshaw, “Education in Ancient Israel,” JBL 104 (1985): 601– 615, or H. Delkurt, “Erziehung nach dem Alten Testament,” JBTh 17 (2002): 227– 253.  See, for instance, E. Koskenniemi’s “Moses—A Well-Educated Man: A Look at the Educational Idea in Early Judaism,” JSP 17 (2008): 281– 296, H. Najman, “Text and Figure in Ancient Jewish Paideia,” in Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism, ed. M. Popović, JSJSup 141 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 253 – 265. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-009

132

Patrick Pouchelle

Moses is said to have received an Egyptian education: “So Moses was instructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians and was powerful in his words and deeds” (Acts 7:22). This evolution is hardly a coincidence. Indeed, the emphasis on education noted in the texts of the Hellenistic and Roman periods shows that education is an issue during this era. Obviously, this is due to the influence of Greek culture, to which Jewish society had to react.⁷ However, the education of such honored persons can only cautiously be used to describe daily Jewish education because such exceptional people likely received exceptional educations with little connection to ordinary reality. On the contrary, a text like the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs presents the patriarchs as fathers rearing their children without emphasizing the exceptional education they receive. This process may well have been the pattern for a motivated father to follow. Of course, one should be reminded that an education is not given by the father only⁸ and that the origin of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs is debated.⁹ However, I am convinced that these texts can give us new insights into what could have been a Jewish education during the Second Temple period. In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, I have found three patterns of paternal education: 1. discipline or warnings 2. the passing down of commandments, history, and identity 3. the teaching of writing

 See S. J. D. Cohen, From the Maccabees to the Mishnah, LEC 7 (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1987), 12– 123. See also R. Doran, “Jewish Education in the Seleucid Period,” in Studies in Politics, Class, and Material Culture, ed. P. Davies and J. M. Halligan, vol. 3 of Second Temple Studies, JSOTSup 340 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 116 – 32; M. F. Mach, “Lerntradition im Hellenistischen Judentum unter besonderer Berücksictigung Philons von Alexandrien,” in Religiöses Lernen in der biblischen, frühjüdischen, und frühchristlichen Überlieferung, ed. B. Ego and H. Merkel, WUNT 180 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 117– 39. However, L. H Feldman’s “Diaspora Synagogues: New Light from Inscriptions and Papyri,” in Studies in Hellenistic Judaism, AGJU 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 577, asserts that Philo does not shed light on education in daily life. Finally, one can also study the corpus of Qumran; see A. Steudel’s “Bereitet den Weg des Herrn Religiöses Lernen in Qumran,” in Religiöses Lernen in der biblischen, frühjüdischen, und frühchristlichen Überlieferung, 99 – 116.  Clearly, a similar study could be conducted focusing on the education by the mother (e. g., 4 Macc 15:4) or on the educational function of both parents or a professional.  Of course, taking the hypothesis that the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs is mainly a Jewish work. This is a disputed issue, as the Greek final form of these testaments is Christian and the availability to distinguish what is “specifically Jewish” from what is “specifically Christian” remains hypothetical (if this question is even meaningful). See, notably, H. W. Hollander and M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs. A Commentary, SVTP 8 (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 85; and H. C. Kee, “Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” OTP 1:177.

Discipline, Transmission, and Writing

133

Discipline and Warnings In the MT, this pattern is mainly expressed with the verb ‫ ָיַסר‬.¹⁰ The verb ‫ ָיַסר‬links two people: the first person who exerts authority over the wayward second person to alter the behavior of that second person.¹¹ Accordingly, the law dealing with rebellious children (Deut 21:18) stipulates that a child who does not heed his parent’s discipline shall be put to death. This law is perhaps alluded to in 1 Sam 3:13: “For I have told him that I am about to punish his house forever, for the iniquity that he knew, because his sons were blaspheming God, and he did not discipline ¹² them.” Eli is blamed for not disciplining his sons. The duty of the father to discipline his sons is common in many ancient civilizations.¹³ Indeed, sapiential texts like Proverbs frequently allude to it: “Discipline (‫ ) ָיַסר‬your children while there is hope; do not set your heart on their destruction” (Prov 19:18). This discipline is not necessarily corporal chastisement. For example, Adonijah’s arrogant pretentions results from his lack of oral rebukes from his father¹⁴: “His father had never at any time disciplined ¹⁵ him by asking, ‘Why have you done thus and so?’” (1 Kgs 1:6). The orality of the rebuke develops into the concept of an oral rebuking given by the father to his son. This

 According to M. Ogushi in Der Tadel im Alten Testament. Eine formgeschichtliche Untersuchung, Publications Chercheurs Européennes 23/115 (Francfort: Peter Lang, 1978), other verbs are ‫ָעַצב‬, ‫ ָיַכח‬, ‫ָכָהה‬, and ‫ ָגַער‬.  For a more recent study limited to the verb ‫ ָיַסר‬, see P. Pouchelle, Dieu éducateur. Une nouvelle approche d’un concept de la théologie biblique entre Bible Hébraïque, Septante et littérature grecque classique, FAT 2/77 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 78 – 114; and W. L. Widder’s “To teach” in Ancient Israel. A Cognitive Linguistic Study of a Biblical Hebrew Lexical Set, BZAW 456 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 166 – 195.  The translation here departs from the NRSV, which has “restrain them.” As for the meaning of the verb ‫ ָכָּהה‬, see HALOT and Ogushi, Der Tadel im Alten Testament, 33.  See, for example, these similar sentences: Papyri Insiger 9.9, Ahiqar C1.1 12, 176 – 179, and Prov 23:13 – 14: “Do not withhold discipline from your children; if you beat them with a rod, they will not die. If you beat them with the rod, you will save their lives from Sheol.” In Greek literature, the relationship between a son and his father was also described with this theme of rebuke: “If you rebuke (νουθετέω) us again with your fists…” (Aristophanes, Vesp. 254).  See also Jacob’s reaction to Joseph’s dream: “But when [Joseph] told it to his father and to his brothers, his father rebuked (‫ ) ָגַּער‬him, and said to him, ‘What kind of dream is this that you have had? Shall we indeed come, I and your mother and your brothers, and bow to the ground before you?’” (Gen 39:10).  Here, the NRSV has “displeased.” As for the meaning of the verb ‫ָעַצב‬, see HALOT. In the Rahlfs edition, ἀποκωλύω “to prevent from doing” occurs here, corresponding to the verb ‫ָעַצב‬.

134

Patrick Pouchelle

concept occurs, for instance, in Proverbs: “Listen, children, to a father’s instruction” (Prov 4:1). In the Septuagint, this concept is mainly expressed by παιδεύω and the cognate. In classical Greek, this word is well known to mean “to educate” without any disciplinary nuance. However, the choice of the translators of the Septuagint does not mean that the Hebrew concept of discipline evolved into one of the concepts of a Greek education.¹⁶ On the contrary, in the Septuagint, the use of παιδεύω and the cognate, when it corresponds to ‫ ָיַסר‬, conveys the same nuance of an oral rebuke. This nuance may also occur in a few Greek works in which only adults are “rebuked” (παιδεύω).¹⁷ In the LXX of 1 Sam. 3:13, as well as in the Old Greek of Job, νουθετέω and its cognates are found, rather than παιδεύω and its cognates: ὅτι κακολογοῦντες θεὸν υἱοὶ αὐτοῦ, καὶ οὐκ ἐνουθέτει (corr. to ‫ ) ָכָּהה‬αὐτοὺς. (1 Kgdms [1 Sam] 3:13) because his sons were reviling God, and even so he would admonish them. (NETS) νουθέτημα (corr. to ‫ )מוָּסר‬δὲ παντοκράτορος μὴ ἀπαναίνου (Job 5:17) do not reject the admonition of the Almighty. (NETS)

Contrary to its etymology¹⁸ “to put in mind,” νουθετέω develops nuances of discipline and rebuking in classical Greek; thus, the use of it to render ‫ ָיַסר‬or to develop similar ideas is natural.¹⁹ In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, all the occurrences of παιδεύω and its cognates and of νουθετέω and its cognates correspond to the nuance of discipline or rebuking, but not for parental education only. For example, in T. Benj. 4:5, God is presented as rebuking people to make them repent,²⁰ whereas in T. Jos. 6:8, Joseph rebukes (νουθετέω) Potiphar’s wife so that she renounces her impiety. Still in the Testament of Joseph, Joseph urges his brothers to give up their bad intentions by granting them the same rights as their father, possibly

 Pace G. Bertram, “παιδεύω, παιδεία, κτλ.” TDNT 5:608 – 611; see Pouchelle, Dieu éducateur, 327– 332.  See Pouchelle, Dieu éducateur, 198 – 200.  See J. Behm, “νουθετέω, νουθεσία,” TDNT 4:1019.  See also P. Pouchelle, “The Use of νουθετέω in the Old Greek of Job and its Consequences,” XV Congress of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies: Munich, 2013, ed. W. Kraus, M. N van der Meer, and M. Meiser, SBLSCS 64 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016).  τὸν ἀθετοῦντα τὸν ὕψιστον νουθετῶν ἐπιστρέφει: “him who rejects the Most High, he admonishes and turns back” (Hollander and de Jonge).

Discipline, Transmission, and Writing

135

according to Deut 21:18:²¹ “And if indeed I have sinned, with chastening (ἐν παιδείᾳ), chastise me (παιδεύω), but do not lay your hand (on me) for the sake of Jacob our father” (T. Zeb. 2:3).²² However, here, the author may well go beyond a reference to paternal education. This sentence may be an allusion to Ps 117 [118]:18,²³ where it is God who disciplines but does not kill the psalmist. This secular paternal discipline occurs once only: “And so every young man perishes, darkening his mind from the truth and not understanding the law of God nor obeying the admonitions²⁴ (νουθεσίας) of his fathers” (T. Reub. 3:8). Here the substantive νουθεσία is used as a synonym for παιδεία,²⁵ and Hollander and De Jonge²⁶ are right in comparing this sentence with T. Jud. 13:1 and T. Zeb. 10:2, where the children are exhorted to follow the law, to obey their father, and to keep his word. This concept derives from the book of Proverbs (e. g., Prov 4:1). This is probably less an allusion to a corporal chastisement and more an oral rebuking that is transmitted from the father to his son. In that respect, the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs do not convey new nuances of disciplining or warning.²⁷

Teaching and Imparting Knowledge In this pattern, a father is said to impart knowledge to or teach his son. In Proverbs, the verb ‫( ָי ָרה‬hiphil stem) expresses the fact that a father teaches his son the way of wisdom, which also could be considered a kind of warning. It seems the

 Ἐὰν δέ τινι ᾖ υἱὸς ἀπειθὴς καὶ ἐρεθιστὴς οὐχ ὑπακούων φωνὴν πατρὸς καὶ φωνὴν μητρὸς καὶ παιδεύσωσιν αὐτὸν καὶ μὴ εἰσακούῃ αὐτῶν… (Now if someone has a disobedient and contentious son who does not obey the voice of his father and the voice of his mother, and they discipline him, and he does not listen to them… NETS).  Unless otherwise specified, the translation of the Testaments of Twelve Patriarchs are from Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarch. Such fraternal discipline is alluded to in T. Gad 6:3 – 4 (see also Matt 18:15 – 16 and par.).  παιδεύων ἐπαίδευσέν με ὁ κύριος καὶ τῷ θανάτῳ οὐ παρέδωκέν με… (In disciplining the Lord disciplined me and to death he did not surrender me… NETS).  Kee, OTP 1:783 uses here “advice,” though νουθεσίας is plural.  This could be nuanced as νουθεσία is here in plural, whereas παιδεία is never used in plural, except in Prov 25:1, where it corresponds to ‫ָמ ָ ׁשל‬, “proverbs.” However, the context of wayward young people, influenced by bad spirits seems to imply the meaning “admonitions.”  Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 96.  This is also true for the other texts from the so-called Pseudepigrapha. There are a few examples: e. g., the reworking of 1 Sam. 3:13 according to Deut 21:18 in LAB 52:4.

136

Patrick Pouchelle

only attestation of this verb is to descriptions of education given by a father:²⁸ “[My father] taught (‫ ) ָי ָרה‬me, and said to me, ‘Let your heart hold fast my words; keep my commandments, and live’” (Prov 4:4). Psalm 34:12 uses the verb ‫ ָלַמד‬to describe a similar relationship: “Come, O children, listen to me; I will teach (‫ )ָלַמד‬you the fear of the LORD.” In Jer 9:13, fathers are said to have taught the cult of Baal to their children, whereas in Deut 11:19, they are asked to continue the task of the prophet by teaching (‫ )ָלַמד‬their children the word of Moses:²⁹ “Teach them to your children.”³⁰ In the Septuagint, all these occurrences correspond to the verb διδάσκω, which conveys the same nuance. In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, this pattern is mixed with the literary genre of the benediction.³¹ In the MT, there are two important benedictions, that of Jacob (Gen 49:1– 27) and that of Moses (Deut 33:1– 29). Jacob and Moses gather together the tribes of Israel and utter benedictions and maledictions for the tribes according to the deeds of their eponymous ancestor. The Pseudepigrapha frequently use this pattern but with a more didactic nuance: the benediction becomes a last teaching with many commandments.³² For instance, in Jub. 20 and 21, Abraham gives his last commandments to both his sons (20) and to Isaac alone (21).³³ In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, each son of Jacob gathers his own sons and recalls his life, gives commandments, and utters prophecies before his death:³⁴ “I teach you; listen to Ruben your father” (T. Reub. 3:9); and “Now therefore observe the commands which I give to you children because whatever things I have heard from my fathers I have declared (ἀναγγέλλω) to you” (T. Levi 10:1). Otherwise, the biographical portions of the Testament of Levi depict Isaac instructing his grandson Levi and giving him  This verb might essentially mean “to indicate, to show the way” (G. Liedke and C. Petersen, “‫ ֹּתו ָרה‬tôrâ instruction,” TLOT, 1415; see also Gen 46:28). When it is not used to refer to God’s instruction, it is used to describe the teaching of a priest (Deut 17:10 – 11; 24:8), a prophet (1 Sam 12:23), or a man of God (Judg 13:8). This verb also links Job with various teachers: his friends (Job 6:24; 27:11), bygone generations (Job 8:8), animals, and plants (Job 12:7– 8).  Otherwise, ‫ ָלַמד‬mostly has Moses as its subject (Deut 4:1, 5, 10, 14; 5:31; 6:1; 31:19).  ‫ ָי ַדע‬, hiphil, is used similarly in Deut 4:9—“make them known to your children and your children’s children”—(see also Ps 78:5; Isa 38:19), and ‫ שׁנן‬in Deut 6:7—“Recite them to your children.”  See also Hollander and De Jonge, 29 – 41.  The old pattern can still be detected. For instance, in T. Jud. 1:6: “And it happened that as I matured, my father declared to me: ‘You shall be king, achieving success in every way.’” This pattern was also used for apocalyptic revelations: “These are the revelations which Adam made known to Seth his son, and his son taught his seed about them. This is the secret knowledge of Adam which he imparted to Seth” (Apoc. Adam 1:1; 8:16 – 17).  See also 2 En. 2:1– 5. Such a pattern can also be found in John 13 – 17, where Jesus states his last commandments during the Last Supper before his Passion.  See Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 29 – 41.

Discipline, Transmission, and Writing

137

the commandments and law: “And [Isaac] taught me the law of the priesthood, of cereal offsprings, burnt offerings, first fruits, freewill offerings, and peace offerings. And each day he was instructing me and was busy on my behalf before the Lord” (T. Levi 9:7– 8). Isaac is said to have given to Levi the priestly laws and some sapiential commandments, which explains the Levites’ specific function as teachers of the people. Accordingly, the wisdom bestowed upon Levi is dedicated to teaching the Law:³⁵ “Therefore also, counsel and understanding have been given to you to instruct your sons concerning him” (T. Levi 4:5). More relevant to the topic at hand are the patriarchs’ orders to their children to instruct their own children. T. Levi 13:2, which deals with teaching letters, is studied in the next section of this paper. Otherwise, such an injunction occurs four times in the Testament of the Twelve Patriarchs. The first time is in the Testament of Simeon: “Therefore, I give you all these commands, that you may command your children that they may observe them through their generations” (T. Sim. 7:3). The phrase “in their successive generations” is usually associated with observance of the law.³⁶ Lexicographically, this sentence is not directly connected to the semantic field of education because no word belonging to this semantic field is present. Fathers are only asked to command commandments to their children. The occurrence in the Testament of Dan is clearer: “And the things which you have heard from your father, do you also impart (μεταδίδωμι³⁷) to your children, so that the Saviour³⁸ of the Gentiles may receive you” (T. Dan 6:9). This exhortation comes at the end of the Testament of Dan and recapitulates all the teachings of Dan. As a patriarch, he warns his sons (and readers) against anger (T. Dan 2– 4) and emphasizes ethics.³⁹ Another example is found in the Testament of Gad: “And do you also tell these things to your children, that they honor Judah and Levi; for from them the Lord will raise up a saviour to Israel” (T. Gad 8:1). As in Simeon, Dan, and Gad, this exhortation is found in the conclusion of the testament. However, the Testament of Benjamin places this injunction in a different context:

 See Hollander and de Jonge’s The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 142. See also T. Levi 18:6 and the “fatherly voice” that the divine Glory will surely have to instruct the people.  See Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 126.  See Wis 7:13. The other occurrences of this word in T. Iss. 7:5 and T. Zeb. 6:6 are closer to the Septuagint’s meaning: “to give part to the needy” (Job 31:17; Prov 11:26).  Or “father of nations” (Kee, OTP 1:810), see Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 291, n. 26.  See also Kee, OTP 1:779 – 780.

138

Patrick Pouchelle

For I teach you these things instead of an inheritance (κληρονομία). And do you also, therefore, give them to your children for an everlasting possession, for so did Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob did. They gave us all these things for an inheritance, saying: “Keep the commandments of God until the Lord will reveal his salvation to all the nations.” (T. Benj. 10:4– 5)

This saying belongs to a discourse of Joseph, which has the pattern of a testament. After predicting that he will die (T. Benj. 10:2), Joseph states specific commandments before the testament goes into an apocalyptic section: “Therefore, you must do truth and righteousness each one to his neighbor and justice unto preservation and keep the law of the Lord and his commandments” (T. Benj. 10:3). At the beginning of this section in the Testament of Benjamin, Joseph’s exhortation to teach the children seems to have more importance than in the Testament of Dan or Gad. Teaching is given in place of an inheritance (κληρονομία). This Greek word, used in the LXX, denotes a heritage (e. g., Gen 31:14) and could be used here to insinuate that teaching is more precious than gold. However, the same word also refers to the land allotted to the tribes (e. g., Num 26:54) and even the Promised Land (e. g., Deut 2:12 and in Hellenistic texts, such as Jdt 4:12). In this context, the reference to the “eternal possession”⁴⁰ in the Testament of Benjamin could be understood in the context of the diaspora or the aftermath of the loss of independence: what constitutes the identity of an Israelite is not the possession of the promised land but the transmission of the law generation by generation.⁴¹

Learning Writing The learning of writing is a subject not even alluded to in the biblical narratives (see the introduction). It becomes more important in some Pseudepigrapha which evoke and detail the childhood of heroes.⁴² For example, concerning Abraham, the book of Jubilees explains that: “His father taught him writing” (Jub. 11:16).⁴³ Jubilees does not allude to the education of Isaac but states that Jacob “learned writing” (Jub. 19:14), unlike Esau, and this is precisely why

 See also Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 439.  See also Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 51.  See also J. C. Endres, Biblical Interpretation in the Book of Jubilees, CBQMS 18 (Washington D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1987).  Translation O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees,” OTP 2:79.

Discipline, Transmission, and Writing

139

Jacob was chosen over Esau. Later, Moses is also described as having been taught writing by his father (Jub. 47:9). The reason why the teaching of writing is important is not stated explicitly. For Jacob, it seems to serve as a symbol of his personality’s opposition to Esau’s. At least, it appears essential for educated persons to know their letters. The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, however, clearly link the teaching of writing to the study of the law: “And do you, too, teach your children letters that they may have understanding all their life reading unceasingly the law of God” (T. Levi 13.2). Unlike other injunctions in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs for fathers to instruct their children, the son of Levi is not asked to teach commandments or the law but, rather, to teach letters so that the children can read the law. In a sense, transmission depends more on the ability of children to learn letters than the ability of parents to teach them. This instruction is justified: “For everyone who knows the law of God will be honoured and he will not be a stranger wherever he goes, yea, he will gain many friends, more than his parents, and many men will desire to serve him and to hear the law from his mouth” (T. Levi 13:3 – 4). Such justifications are usually associated with wisdom.⁴⁴ However, the mention of “a stranger” appears to be out of context⁴⁵ and might allude to the diaspora⁴⁶ or to the significance of the loss of the country. In fact, this exhortation could recall the description of Daniel in Dan 1:4 as a learned and religious person and sapiential works like Proverbs and Sirach that link wisdom and the fear of God,⁴⁷ although none of these works directly links literacy with knowledge of the law.

Conclusion The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs does not insist on the concept of secular discipline. Instead, the work insists on imparting knowledge of the law. This education is developed but is not altogether new, as it occurs as well in Deuteron-

 These associations include the following: to be honored (e. g., Sir 10:30), to have friends (Sir 20:16), to be served (Prov 11:29), and to be heard (Prov 10:11, 31).  See G. Stählin, “ξένος, ξενία, κτλ.” TDNT 5:27 n. 186.  See, for example, Stählin, TDNT 5:27, who quotes Esth 3:13e: “We understand that this people, and it alone, stands constantly in opposition to every nation, perversely following a strange (ξενίζω) manner of life and laws.” In T. Levi 13:4, the Israelite in a foreign country would not be a stranger.  Hollander and de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, 166.

140

Patrick Pouchelle

omy (Deut 6:7). It is striking, however, that this imparting is qualified as an inheritance in T. Benj. 10:3. What is rather new is that, according to the Testament of Levi, the aim of parental education is to teach children writing so as to provide the conditions for them to learn the law. This link between literacy and Jewish culture, then, may well open the path to a study of a potential Jewish paideia.

Gregory E. Sterling

The School of Moses in Alexandria: An Attempt to Reconstruct the School of Philo One of the most remarkable events in the history of the transmission of the Philonic corpus was the decision by a group of Christians in the sixth century to incorporate twelve of the works of Philo and two pseudo-Philonic works into the school curriculum. This led to the translation of the works into Armenian so that the students could follow their Greek-speaking teachers and the works that they read more easily.¹ Philo’s works were arranged in a series of seven

 For details see on the Hellenizing School see Abraham Terian, “The Hellenizing School: Its Time, Place and Scope of its Activities Reconsidered,” in East of Byzantium: Syria and Armenia in the Formative Period, ed. Nina G. Garsian, Thomas F. Mathews, and Robert W. Thomson (Washington, D. C.: Dumbarton Oaks, Center for Byzantine Studies, 1982), 175 – 186. The twelve works consist of six that are also preserved in Greek, four that are only preserved in Armenian (apart from Greek fragments), and two fragments. The six that are also preserved in Greek (Leg. 1– 2; Abr.; Decal.; Spec. 1.79 – 161, 285 – 345; 3.1– 7, 8 – 64; Prov. 1– 2; Contempl.) are available in Garegin Zarbhanalean, P‘iloni Hebrayec‘woy cark‘ t‘argmanealk‘ i naxneac‘ meroc‘ oroc‘ hellen bnagirk‘ hasin ar mez (Venice: Mechitarist Press, 1892). The four that are preserved only in Armenian (QG 1– 4; QE 1– 2; Prov. 1– 2; Anim.) are printed in Johannes B. Aucher, Philonis Judaei sermones tres hactenus inediti, I. et II. De Providentia et III. De animalibus, ex Armena versione antiquissima ab ipso originali textu Graeco ad verbum stricte exequuta, nunc in Latium fideliter translati (Venice: I. Lazarus, 1822) and idem, Judaei paralipomena Armena (Libri videlicet quottuor In Genesin, libri duo In Exodum, sermo unus De Sampsone, alter De Jona, antiquissima ab ipso originali textu Graeco ad verbum stricte exequuta saeculo v. nunc primum in Latium fideliter translate) (Venice: I. Lazarus, 1826). There is a modern edition of Anim. by Abraham Terian, Philonis Alexandrini De animalibus: The Armenian Text with an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, Studies in Hellenistic Judaism 1 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981) and a reprint of Aucher in Frederick C. Conybeare, Philo, The Contemplative Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1895), 156 – 180. The fragment on the Decad is printed in Abraham Terian, “A Philonic Fragment on the Decad,” in Nourished with Peace: Studies in Hellenistic Judaism in Memory of Samuel Sandmel, ed. Frederick E. Greenspahn, Earle Hilgert, and Burton L. Mack, Homage Series 9 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), 173 – 182, while the fragment De Deo is in Aucher, Judaei paralipomena Armena, 613 – 619; Folker Siegert, Philon von Alexandrien Über die Gottesbezeichnung ‘wohltätig verzehrendes Feuer’ (De Deo): Rückübersetzung des Fragments aus dem Armenischen, deutsche Übersetzung und Kommentar, WUNT 46 (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1988); Abraham Terian, “Philonis de visione trium angelorum ad Abraham: A New Translation of the Mistitled De Deo,” SPhiloA 28 (2016): 77– 93. The Armenians also included two works that were incorrectly attributed to Philo (De Sampsone and De Jona). On these see Aucher, Judaei paralipomena Armena, 549 – 611 and Folker Siegert, Drei hellenistisch-jüdische Predigten, 2 vols.; WUNT 20, 61 (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1980 – 1992). DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-010

142

Gregory E. Sterling

blocks set out in Grigor Abasean’s The Book of Causes. ² The seven blocks were providence (Prov. 1– 2), creation (QG 1– 3), allegory (Leg. 1– 2), the lives of the patriarchs (Abr.), the appearance at Mamre (QG 4), the Exodus (QE 1– 2; Spec. 1.79 – 81, 131– 161, 285 – 345; Spec. 3.1– 7; Decal.; Spec. 3.8 – 63; Samp.; Iona; Deo), and contemplation (Contempl.).³ The selection of seven blocks was influenced by the concept of the encyclical subjects that consisted of the trivium and the quadrivium. The Book of Causes states that Philo “was skillful and educated in the encyclical external subjects, and was guided by the divine laws.”⁴ Philo thus provided a model of how philosophy could be used in the interpretation of Scripture and the formation of theology. The translators recognized that Philo’s works were devoted to virtue and arranged them in a sequence that moved from the beginning presupposition that God guides the world to our contemplation of God, a progression that Philo would have approved.⁵

 For a discussion of this work see Manea Erna Shirinian, “Philo and the Book of Causes by Grigor Abasean,” in Studies on the Ancient Armenian Version of Philo’s Works, ed. Sara M. Lombardi and Paola Pontani, SPhiloA 6 (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2011), 155 – 189.  For a similar but slightly different construction see Olga Vardazaryan, “The ‘Armenian Philo’: A Remnant of an Unknown Tradition,” in Studies on the Ancient Armenian Version of Philo’s Works, 191– 216, esp. 199 – 200, who based her reconstruction of the seven blocks on the scholiasts. The scholiasts reversed the order of allegories and the patriarchs.  MS Erevan, Matenadaran 1879, 154r cited and translated by Shirinian, “Philo and the Book of Causes by Grigor Abasean,” 178.  Grigor and others were explicit about the formation of the seven blocks: “But as we already said, he created seven books of compositions and although that in the first investigation of causes he told about it briefly but however here one should also know why the 5th book–Apparition [was written]. Indeed, the book of Genesis, which was told by Moses, is the only one before the Exodus from Egypt. So, it should be examined why he arranged the other books in the 5 places before it. The concept of it, as it seems, is as follows: because in the beginning he wrote the book De providentia to Alexander and Lysimachus who used to say that there is no Providence. But his 2nd book called Genesis begins with the worlds: ‘This is the book of creation of earth and heaven,’ for he takes that history as he chooses, not by sequence of all the stories but as requiting the debts to the searcher, he stops in this place. And afterwards he does not place the Apparition but put the other composition between these two–the Contemplativa, which is on the Patriarchs, because it was necessary in the same book of Genesis to prescribe special praises to the righteous by nature and those who have ‘seen’ without laws, the marvelous men of God: Enos, Enoch, Noah, Abraham and the others. And then follows the composition on terrestrial creatures (=Opif.?) and it should not be omitted the plantation in the paradise (=Plant.?), where firstly Moses put by his speeches, and in spirit of that he puts it as the fourth in the order and calls [Legum] Allegoriae, i. e., immaterial (incorporeal) contemplation as, for example, everything in paradise is immortal; by the same sense the great Philo takes his concept (contemplation).” MS Erevan, Matenadaran 1879, 149v-150r cited and translated by Shirinian, “Philo and the Book of Causes by Grigor Abasean,” 176 – 177.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

143

This little known and seldom studied moment in the history of Philonic scholarship is one of the few occasions when we have a concrete idea of how the works of Philo were used in an educational setting in the ancient world. I would like to raise the question of how they were used in their original setting. In two previous publications I argued that Philo operated a school that was similar to the private schools of philosophers.⁶ There are two basic arguments. The first argument is based on the transmission of Philo’s works. The Alexandrian Jewish community was destroyed by the Romans in 115 – 117 CE.⁷ Philo’s works must have moved into another setting prior to this. While there are different options, the most probable explanation is that they passed into Christian hands since Clement and then Origen knew them and the latter preserved them when he took them to Caesarea where Eusebius eventually catalogued them.⁸ Given the size of Philo’s corpus and the fact that other Jewish works such as Aristobulus also made their way along the same path, it appears that Philo’s library passed into Christian circles prior to 115 – 117 CE. The best explanation is that the library was attached to a private school that became Christian. The second argument is the social location of commentaries. Schools were the settings in which commentaries were written and used in the ancient world. This is true for the Homeric commentaries of Aristarchus, the Anonymous Theaetetus Commentary, and the pesharim at Qumran. Philosophical schools made routine use of commentaries in the Hellenistic and Roman periods.⁹ These lines of reasoning have led me to conclude that Philo operated a private school of Jewish exegesis in Alexandria. While the evidence is indirect and does not prove that Philo operated a school, a school setting is the best explanation that we have for the production of Philo’s corpus given the evidence available. If this is the case, how were his treatises used in the school? Can we reconstruct the curriculum? Unfortunately, we once again run up against the problem that Philo did not provide any direct evidence that would enable us to answer

 Gregory E. Sterling, “‘The School of Sacred Laws’: The Social Setting of Philo’s Treatises,” VC 53 (1999): 148 – 164 and idem, “Philo’s School: The Social Setting of Ancient Commentaries,” in Sophisten in Hellenismus und Kaiserzeit: Orte, Methoden und Personnen der Bildungsvermittlung, ed. Beatrice Wyss, STAC (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 123 – 142.  On this war see William Horbury, Jewish War under Trajan and Hadrian (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014).  Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.18.1– 8.  This is widely recognized. It became true for the Platonists in the Old Academy and again with the rise of Middle Platonism. It was common in the Peripatetic and Stoic traditions as well. It became a hallmark of the Neoplatonic tradition.

144

Gregory E. Sterling

this question. However, we can reconstruct the way that other schools operated and then ask how the works of Philo might fit within the broader practice.

Hellenistic and Late Antique Schools We will begin with what we know about the curricula in Hellenistic and late antique philosophical schools.¹⁰ I propose to sketch the practices of three schools before returning to Philo: two private and one an official school.¹¹ We will attempt to reconstruct the curricula of each school through lives of the major teachers.

Epictetus The first is the school of the Stoic philosopher Epictetus (ca. 50 – 130 CE) in Nicopolis. Epictetus was the slave of Epaphroditus in Rome who set him free. He studied with Musonius Rufus and then taught in Rome until Domitian banished philosophers from the capital. He moved to western Greece where he set up a school in Nicopolis.¹² We are fortunate that one of his students, Arrian, copied

 There are a number of recent treatments of philosophical schools. In particular see Tiziano Dorandi, “Organization and Structure of the Philosophical Schools,” in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, ed. Keimpe Algra, Jonathan Barnes, Jaap Mansfeld, and Malcolm Schofied (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 55 – 62, that concentrates on the schools in Athens; David Sedley, “The School from Zeno to Arius Didymus,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, ed. Brad Inwood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 7– 32; Christopher Gill, “The School in the Roman Imperial Period,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, 33 – 58; and Thomas Bénatouïl, “Philosophic Schools in Hellenistic and Roman Times,” in A Companion to Ancient Philosophy, ed. Mary Luise Gill and Pierre Pellegrin, Blackwell Companions to Philosophy (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 415 – 429.  Bénatouïl, “Philosophic Schools in Hellenistic and Roman Times,” 415, offered a definition of a school: “it was in the first instance a set of received teachings (diatribe) and above all a ‘school of thought’ (hairesis) as well as a succession (diadoche) of teachers–a continuous tradition of thinkers who had cultivated and transmitted to students a doctrine and a method specific to a first teacher, the founder of the school.” I am using school for Philo in the sense of hairesis. For details see David T. Runia, “Philo of Alexandria and the Greek Hairesis-model,” VC 53 (1999): 117– 147. In this case, the founder is Moses. The school was thus the school of Moses, but it was operated by Philo in a private home.  He refers to the school as the place where he lectured on a number of occasions, e. g., Epictetus, Diatr. 1.30.2; 2.1.35; 2.8.15; 2.21.15 – 16; 4.1.18, 142. I have used the edition of W. A. Oldfather, Epictetus, The Discourses as Reported by Arrian, the Manual, and Fragments, 2 vols., LCL

The School of Moses in Alexandria

145

down his lectures¹³ and preserved them along with a summary (Ἐγχειρίδιον). While we do not have a full description of the operation of the school, Arrian recorded enough to provide a rough idea. Epictetus appears to have begun his day by reading a text that would later be discussed in the school. He said: “The very first thing, when day breaks, I remind myself a little whom I must read.”¹⁴ This statement suggests that like modern professors, Epictetus reviewed the material that he would cover later that day. Perhaps he reread a text of Chrysippus or a commentary on it or both. It is not entirely clear whether Epictetus divided the day into separate activities or whether he allowed them to flow naturally. When the students were present, a student was selected to read and comment on the text that had been selected for that day.¹⁵ These must have included exercises in logic since Epictetus mentioned them explicitly.¹⁶ Epictetus also expected students to write; a requirement that suggests that students may have read their compositions which must, at times, have been commentaries on the text.¹⁷ Epictetus corrected the students by pointing out the problems in their comments.¹⁸ It may be that at this point, Epictetus would give a lecture on the topic raised by the text or on a point raised by the student.¹⁹ Alternatively, the lectures Arrian recorded could have come at a different point in the day and not been directly related to the exchange that Epictetus had with the students, although some organic connection makes sense. Epictetus thought that the lectures should challenge the students, principally by urging them to live the life of a philosopher. He once famously declared: “men, the lecture hall of a philosopher (τὸ τοῦ φιλοσόφου σχολεῖον) is a hospital: you should not leave in a state of pleasure but in pain.”²⁰ If the notes of Arrian are accurate, the length of the lectures could vary considerably. Some are very brief,²¹ while a few are quite long.²² It may be that Epictetus gave more than one lecture on a particular day or altered the

(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925 – 1928). There is a problem with the placement of the pages in the 1979 printing of Vol. 1. Pp. 389 – 392 are inserted between pp. 360 and 361. It was corrected in later printings, at least by the 1995 printing.  Epictetus, Diatr. Pref. 2. Students took notes. See Epictetus, Diatr. 3.16.9.  Epictetus, Diatr. 10.7– 10, the quotation is from §7.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.26.13; 2.1.30; 4.4.8 – 18, 30.  Epictetus, Diatr. 2.13.21, 26; 2.28.1– 3.  Epictetus, Diatr. 4.4.8 – 18, 30  E. g., Epictetus, Diatr. 1.26.13.  Epictetus, Diatr. 3.23.6, 27.  Epictetus, Diatr. 3.23.30.  The three shortest are 2.25 (3 paragraphs); 1.24 (four paragraphs); 2.3 (five paragraphs).  The three longest are 4.1 (177 paragraphs); 3.24 (118 paragraphs); 3.22 (109 paragraphs).

146

Gregory E. Sterling

balance of the activity between his lectures and his own interactions with students. It is also possible that Arrian’s notes reflect both responses to students and more formal lectures. Perhaps this would explain the difference in length. Epictetus appears to have had an assistant, an advanced student (?), who selected the student to read. On one occasion, Epictetus rebuked the assistant for selecting a student who was unprepared to read and follow the hypothetical arguments in the reading.²³ This may reflect a common practice of making a distinction between beginning students and those who were more advanced. He once rebuked the students for being like children rather than adults. He said: “What did you do at school (ἐν τῇ σχολῇ)? What did you hear? What did you learn? Why did you inscribe yourself as a philosopher when you should have inscribed the truth?” He then gave the inscription: “I studied certain introductions and read Chrysippus, but I never made it past the door of a philosopher. For what part did I have of this profession in which Socrates who died and lived so nobly had a part or in which Diogenes had a part?”²⁴ Whether he made a formal distinction between the beginning and the advanced students, he did recognize the beginning character of some students. The reference to reading Chrysippus makes an important point. A basic feature of Epictetus’s school and that of other schools in this period is the reading of and commenting on authoritative texts composed by figures in the past.²⁵ The mention of Chrysippus is no accident. Epictetus mentioned the “second founder of the Stoa” or referred to his works at least 23 times,²⁶ more frequently than any other Stoic. Students would have been expected to read his treatises, in spite of their notorious obscurity!²⁷ More than that, since Chrysippus was the interpreter of nature par excellence, it was not enough to explain him accurately, one had to live according to nature as explained by Chrysippus!²⁸ Chrysippus was not the only Stoic mentioned by Epictetus. He explicitly referred to Zeno,²⁹ Cleanthes,³⁰ Antipater of Tarsus,³¹ Archedemus of Tarsus,³² Diogenes of Babylon,³³ Eu-

 Epictetus, Diatr. 1.26.13. Cf. also 2.1.30, where a student who has read a text and explained it, addresses Epictetus.  Epictetus, Diatr. 2.16.34– 35.  See Bénatouïl, “Philosophic Schools in Hellenistic and Roman Times,” 421.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.4.6 – 7, 14, 28 – 29; 1.10.10; 1.17.13, 15 – 18; 2.6.9 – 10; 2.16.34; 2.17.34, 40; 2.18.18; 2.19.5, 7, 14; 2.23.44; 3.2.6, 13; 3.5.14; 3.9.21; 3.21.7; 3.24.81; 4.9.6; frag. 9.  See Epictetus, Diatr. 1.4.9; Ench. 49. Cf. also Diogenes Laertius 7.180; 10.27.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.4.5 – 9; 1.17.15 – 18.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.17.11; 1.20.14– 16; 2.13.14– 15; 3.21.19; 3.23.32; 3.24.38; 3.26.37; 4.8.12; 4.9.6.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.17.11; 2.19.2, 9; 2.23.42; 3.22.95; 3.23.32; 3.26.23; 4.1.131, 173; 4.4.34.  Epictetus, Diatr. 2.17.40; 2.19.2, 9 – 10; 3.2.13; 3.21.7.  Epictetus, Diatr. 2.4.1; 2.17.40; 2.19.9; 3.2.13, 15; 3.21.7.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

147

phrates,³⁴ and Helvidius³⁵ in his discourses. Students were expected to have read and to know major works by Stoics³⁶ and to know who these figures were. Epictetus did not, however, restrict his references to Stoics. The figure whom he mentioned most frequently was Socrates, whom he named or alluded to at least 51 times.³⁷ Like other Stoics, Epictetus viewed himself as an heir of Socrates and held him out as the greatest exemplum. ³⁸ He also thought that Diogenes the Cynic was a model.³⁹ In addition he knew some of the companions of Socrates, including Antisthenes,⁴⁰ and, most importantly, Plato, to whom he routinely referred, cited, paraphrased, or made an allusion.⁴¹ He also mentioned Xenocrates.⁴² On the other hand, he regularly criticized Epicurus⁴³ and delivered at least three lectures against the Epicureans.⁴⁴

 Epictetus, Diatr. 2.19.14.  Epictetus, Diatr. 3.15.8; 4.8.17– 20. See Pliny, Ep. 1.10.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.2.19 – 24; 4.1.123.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.29.156, could refer to the “books of the Stoics.”  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.2.33, 36; 1.4.24; 1.9.1, 22– 24; 1.12.3, 23; 1.17.12; 1.19.6; 1.25.31; 1.26.18; 1.29.16 – 18, 29, 65 – 66; 2.1.15, 32; 2.2.8 – 9, 15; 2.4.8; 2.5.18 – 19; 2.6.25; 2.12.5 – 8; 2.13.24; 2.16.35; 2.18.22; 2.26.6 – 7; 3.1.19 – 21; 3.5.14; 3.7.34; 3.12.15; 3.14.9; 3.16.5; 3.18.4; 3.21.19; 3.22.26; 3.23.20 – 26; 3.24.60, 99; 3.26.23; 4.1.41, 123, 159 – 169; 4.4.21– 22; 4.5.1– 5, 33; 4.7.29; 4.8.22– 23; 4.9.6; 4.11.19 – 21; frags. 11, 28a.  On the role of Socrates among Stoics see Anthony A. Long, “Socrates in Hellenistic Philosophy,” in Stoic Studies, ed. Anthony A. Long (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 1– 34; idem, “The Socratic Legacy,” in The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, 617– 641; and Fernanda Decleva Caizzi, “Minor Socratics,” in A Companion to Ancient Philosophy, 119 – 135.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.24.6 – 10; 2.3.1; 2.13.24; 2.16.35; 3.1.30; 3.2.11; 3.12.2; 3.21.19; 3.22.24– 25, 57– 58, 60, 63, 80, 88, 91– 92; 3.24.40, 64– 70; 3.26.23; 4.1.30 – 31, 114– 118, 152– 158; 4.5.14; 4.7.29, 31; 4.9.6; 4.11.21. He also referred to Crates (3.22.63, 76).  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.17.12; 2.17.36; 3.22.63; 3.242.67; 4.1.114; 4.6.21.  Epictetus sometimes mentioned Plato by name when introducing a reference or a story and, at other times, quoted, paraphrased, or alluded to Plato without an explicit reference. In these instances, the student was expected to recognize the reference. Here is an incomplete list with the Platonic texts listed after the reference to Epictetus when there is a reference to a Platonic dialogue or work: Diatr. 1.8.11– 13; 1.9.22– 24, Apol. 29C and 28E; 1.26.18, Apol. 38A; 1.28.4– 5, Soph. 228C; 2.1.15, Phaed. 77E and Crit. 46C; 2.5.18 – 19, Apol. 26Eff.; 2.12.5 – 8, Gorg. 474A and Phileb. 48Bff.; 2.17.5 – 6, 11, 35; 2.18.20, Leg. 9.854B; 2.18.22, Symp. 218D; 2.22.36, Soph. 228C; 3.1.18, Apol. 28E; 3.1.20, Apol. 29C, E, 30A; 3.12.15, Apol. 38A; 3.12.17 (?); 3.23.26, [Cleitophon] 407A-B; 3.22.95, Crit. 43D; 3.23.21, Apol. 30C; 3.23.25, Apol. 17C; 3.23.22; Crit. 46B; 3.24.98 – 99, Apol. 28D29A; 4.1.120, Soph. 222B; 4.1.172, Phaed. 64A and Resp. 2.361E; 4.4.21, Crit. 43D; frag. 15; frag. 18, Symp. 207B.  Epictetus, Diatr. 3.1.14; 4.11.30.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.12.2; 1.20.17– 19; 1.23.1– 10; 2.9.19, 20; 2.20.6 – 29; 2.22.21; 2.23.20 – 22; 3.7.8 – 9; frag. 14.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.23; 2.20; 3.7.

148

Gregory E. Sterling

The references suggest that the students were required to read the works of Stoics and Plato as well as to know the basic philosophical tradition. But in what sequence did they read them? We do not know.⁴⁵ One possibility is to consider Epictetus’s division of progress into three topoi: desire and avoidance (ὄρεξις καὶ ἔκλλισις), impulse and repulsion (ὁρμὴ καὶ ἀφορμή), and assent and refusal (πρόσθεσις καὶ ἐποχή).⁴⁶ It is possible that he organized readings around these, just as later philosophers organized readings psychagogically–although this is only a guess. We can say that students read introductions and the major authors, but we do not know the specifics of the curriculum or even if there was a systematic course of reading.

Plotinus The second school that we will consider is that of the founder of Neoplatonism, Plotinus (205 – 269/270 CE). We are fortunate to know something about his life and school through the work of one of his students. Porphyry wrote a life that served as an introduction to the Enneads. ⁴⁷ According to Porphyry, Plotinus did not begin practicing philosophy until he was 28 when he began working with Ammonius Saccas and continued with him for eleven years.⁴⁸ The long period of study was typical for serious philosophers. Plotinus’s two most famous students spent extended periods with him: Porphyry studied with Plotinus for five years⁴⁹ and Amelius was with him for twenty-four years!⁵⁰ In 242– 243, Plotinus joined the fateful campaign of Gordian III (emperor in 238 – 244) against

 Epictetus, Diatr. 2.14.7– 22, discusses instruction, but provides no real hint about a curriculum.  Epictetus, Diatr. 1.4.11; 1.17.20 – 26; 2.17.14– 28; 3.2.1– 18; 3.9.18; 3.12.7– 17; 4.4.13 – 18, esp., 16. Cf. also Seneca, Ep. 75.8 – 18. For a discussion of the three topics see Robert Dobbin, Epictetus, Discourses Book 1, Clarendon Later Ancient Philosophers (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 92– 94.  I have used the edition of A. H. Armstrong, Plotinus, Enneads, 7 vols., LCL (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1966 – 1988). The editio major is Paul Henry and Hans-Rudolf Schwyzer, Plotini Opera (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer; Bruxelles: Édition universalle, 1951– 1973). There is a helpful new English translation with notes: Mark Edwards, Neoplatonic Saints: The Lives of Plotinus and Proclus by their Students, Translated Texts for Historians 35 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000). Porphyry was an admirer who was concerned to present himself and his own role in the best possible light!  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 5.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

149

Persia that ended with Gordian’s death in early 244. Plotinus escaped to Antioch and made his way to Rome where he began lecturing as a philosopher.⁵¹ He soon began attracting students.⁵² Plotinus had a similar pedagogical practice to Epictetus: he let the students take the lead. In fact, Porphyry reported that Amelius complained that “since he urged those who were present to ask questions, the seminar inquiry was full of disorder and a great deal of nonsense.”⁵³ Plotinus had the students read before making his own comments: “in his seminars he used to have commentaries read to him which might be from Severus or from Cronius or Numenius or Gaius or Atticus or among the Peripatetic the works of Aspasius, Alexander, Adrastus or any other who were available.”⁵⁴ It thus appears that Plotinus had students read from major authors. The difference between this list and most of the authors mentioned by Epictetus is that Plotinus may have had students read more contemporary philosophers in the seminars. This does not mean that they did not also read more ancient authors such as Plato and Aristotle. The Enneads make Plotinus’s view of Plato clear: he was the master. The works of various authors including some from the East—most notably Numenius—unquestionably were read in Plotinus’s school. It is even possible—although not provable—that some of the works of Philo of Alexandria made their way into Plotinus’s hands.⁵⁵ Readings probably also included the works of students. At least this would explain the confusion that Amelius noted if students offered explanations of what they read or read

 Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3.  On the school of Plotinus see Marie-Odile Goulet-Cazé, “L’arrière-plan scolaire de la Vie de Plotin,” in Porphyre, Le Vie de Plotin. Vol. 1: Travaux préliminaries et index Grec complet, ed. Luc Brisson, Marie-Odile Goulet-Cazé, Richard Goulet, and Denis O’Brien, Historie des doctrines de l’antiquité classique 6 (Paris: J. Vrin, 1982), 229 – 327.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 14.  There has been a debate over this. Arthur Hilary Armstrong, The Architecture of the Intelligible Universe in the Philosophy of Plotinus: An Analytical and Historical Study, Cambridge Classical Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940), 70 – 74, 107– 108, suggested that Plotinus used Philo for his understanding of νοῦς and λόγος. John Rist, Plotinus: The Road to Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 101, took exception. More recently, David T. Runia, “Witness or Participant? Philo and the Neoplatonic Tradition,” in The Neoplatonic Tradition: Jewish, Christian, and Islamic, ed. Arie Johan Vanderjagt and Detlev Pätzold, Dialecta minora 3 (Köln: Dinter, 1991), 50 – 51, suggested that Plotinus may have known the works of Philo, perhaps indirectly through Numenius. I have argued that Numenius knew the works of Philo. See Gregory E. Sterling, “The Theft of Philosophy: Philo of Alexandria and Numenius of Apamea,” SPhiloA 27 (2015): 71– 85.

150

Gregory E. Sterling

some of their own work. The two most famous students, Amelius and Porphyry, became well known for their own writings.⁵⁶ Plotinus eventually inserted himself into the confusion and explained the text that was read. Porphyry said that he was original in his response: “he would say nothing straight from these books, but was his own person and independent in his thinking.” Further, “he processed everything quickly and after giving his sense of a profound concept in a few words, got up.”⁵⁷ His speaking was thus like his writing: concise and to the point.⁵⁸ When he began to unfold a line of reasoning his face lit up: “But when he used to speak there was evidence of his mind lighting up his face; attractive as he was to see, at these moments he was even more lovely to behold.”⁵⁹ While we should discount Porphyry’s adulation, Plotinus was able to draw a number of significant people to him and probably had a degree of charisma when speaking.⁶⁰ Plotinus did not compose treatises at first. Porphyry said that he held seminars for ten years before he wrote. In the early years, Amelius took notes from Plotinus’s lectures and compiled one hundred books of them.⁶¹ Later Plotinus began to write and wrote twenty-one treatises before Porphyry joined him;⁶² he went on to write another thirty-three. He asked Porphyry to edit his written treatises,⁶³ although Porphyry appears to have worked from copies of the autographs that were in the hands of Amelius.⁶⁴ The Enneads appear to be separate lectures from the responses that Plotinus made to his students. Porphyry suggests this in his comments about Plotinus’s response to the Gnostics: “Plotinus made many rebuttals in his seminars and wrote the book that we have entitled Against the Gnostics;⁶⁵ he left it to us to pronounce on what he had not covered.”⁶⁶ This statement does not mean that there was no relationship between what Plotinus wrote and his interactions with his students: there must have been some correlation. However, it does suggest a line of separation. The Enneads must have been delivered to the school or some of the polemics would

 Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 15, 20, 21, mentions the writing of students; 16, 17, 20 – 21, refer to the writing of Amelius; and 15, 16, 18, to Porphyry’s own writing.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 14.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 13.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 13.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 7, 9 – 10.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 3.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 4.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 4– 6, 19, 24– 26.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 20.  Plotinus, Enn. 2.9.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 16.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

151

not make sense, but soon moved well beyond the circles of the school. Longinus wrote a response to Plotinus and Amelius.⁶⁷ Later a group from Greece accused Plotinus of plagiarizing Numenius, perhaps on the basis of Longinus’s criticisms.⁶⁸ When Porphyry edited the treatises,⁶⁹ he gave them titles⁷⁰ and grouped them into six Enneads ⁷¹ and placed them in three books:⁷² the first book contained the ethical, physical, cosmological treatises (Enneads 1, 2, and 3 respectively);⁷³ the second had the treatises that addressed the soul and the intellect (Enneads 4 and 5 respectively);⁷⁴ and the third included the treatises that dealt with the One (Ennead 6).⁷⁵ He thus took the rather sporadic collection that Plotinus had composed over a period of years and gave them an order that led the reader psychagogically from the initial stages of philosophy until they contemplated the One. There are a number of parallels between the school of Epictetus and the school of Plotinus. It appears that both had students read texts, comment on them, and then correct them. They also delivered lectures that were, in part anyway, separate from the corrections they gave the students in the seminars. Each had a library and expected students to read the major works of philosophy and to be able to explain them, although we do not know the specifics about what was read or the order.

Proclus We now turn to the third philosopher, Proclus (410/412– 485). As was true for Epictetus and Plotinus, a student is responsible for most of what we know about

 Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 20.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 17.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 26. This was apparently real editing, including punctuation and the correction of words.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 26.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 24. He says that he imitated Apollodorus the Athenian who edited the works of Epicharmus, the fifth century Sicilian dramatist who was thought to be a source of thought for Plato (Diogenes Laertius 8.3.73), and Andronicus the Peripatetic who edited the works of Aristotle and Theophrastus.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 26.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 24 and 25.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 25 and 26.  Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 26

152

Gregory E. Sterling

Proclus, in this case his successor Marinus.⁷⁶ Like Plotinus, he went to Alexandria to study. He worked with Olympiodorus, a Peripatetic philosopher, and Hero, a mathematician.⁷⁷ Marinus depicted Proclus as a gifted student who, after a session with Olympiodorus, “recalled the entire proceedings to his companions, in the very same words, even though the proceedings were long.”⁷⁸ He also claimed that Proclus mastered the first step in philosophy by reading the logical treatises of Alexander and understanding them on his own!⁷⁹ After Proclus had exhausted his options in Alexandria, he set out for Athens where he met the aged scholarch Plutarch and his assistant Syrianus. Proclus attached himself to Plutarch and then to Syrianus when the older man died.⁸⁰ Before he died, Plutarch encouraged Proclus to write out what he had learned about Aristotle’s De anima and Plato’s Phaedo, treatises on which Plutarch had himself written commentaries.⁸¹ With Plutarch’s death, Syrianus became Proclus’s teacher. In less than two years, Proclus mastered the works of Aristotle or the lesser mysteries. He then turned to Plato or the greater mysteries. He not only mastered the dialogues, but wrote his own treatises including his commentary on the Timaeus—at least according to Marinus.⁸² He remained with Syrianus until his death when he succeeded him as the head of the school. Fortunately, Marinus gave us an idea of how Proclus spent a day in his school.⁸³ He began each day at sunrise with a prayer to the sun, a practice that he repeated at noon and at sunset.⁸⁴ He spent the early morning giving lessons to his students on philosophical texts. Marinus said that “in his seminars also he worked through each point capably and clearly, and wrote everything down in treatises.”⁸⁵ He may have written after his seminars, writing up to 700

 The standard edition is Rita Masulio, Vita di Procio. Marino di Neapoli: testo critico, introduzione, traduzione e commentario (Naples: M. D’Auria, 1985). There is a relatively new English translation with notes: Edwards, Neoplatonic Saints.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 8 – 9.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 9.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 9.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 10 – 12.  For the fragments see Daniela Taormina, Plutarco di Atene (Rome, 1989). I have not seen this book.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 13.  For an analysis of Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22, see Philippe Hoffmann, “What was Commentary in Late Antiquity? The Example of Neoplatonic Commentaries,” in A Companion to Ancient Philosophy, 600 – 601.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

153

lines a day!⁸⁶ After his noon prayer, he conferred with other philosophers and held additional seminars, totaling as many as five per day.⁸⁷ Some of these sessions must have been occasions when he delivered his philosophical works like Elements of Theology, Platonic Theology, Elements of Physics, On providence, On fate, and On evil. Following his evening prayer, he spent some of the night writing.⁸⁸ He appears to have been indefatigable. For the first time we have a clear idea of the curriculum used in the school in Athens.⁸⁹ Following preliminary studies, there were two major divisions, the lesser mysteries of Aristotle and the greater mysteries of Plato.⁹⁰ The juxtaposition and the order were deliberate: the task was to demonstrate the unity of the two, but to give pride of place to Plato. Marinus’s description of Proclus’s course of study with Syrianus matches what we know from the introductions that were common in Peripatetic and Neoplatonic circles.⁹¹ The study began with an introduction, including Porphyry’s Isagoge and preliminary instruction on reading an Aristotelian treatise. According to Marinus, Proclus studied the works of Aristotle in the following sequence:⁹² the logical, ethical, political, physical, and theological treatises,⁹³ largely the sequence in Andronicus’s arrangement of the Aristotelian corpus.⁹⁴ A comprehensive grasp of the Stagirite’s treatises was followed by a reading of select treatises from Plato. Marinus does not provide details, but the Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy does. Following the lead of Iamblichus, it suggested that there were two cycles. We can summarize the two in the following:⁹⁵ First Cycle Alcibiades  Gorgias

 Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 24.  On the Neoplatonic school in Athens see H. D. Saffrey, Recherches sur le Néoplationsime après Plotin, Histoire des doctrines de l’antiquité classique 14 (Paris: J. Vrin, 1990), 127– 226.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 13.  For a brief treatment see L. G. Westerink, Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy: Introduction, Text, Translation and Indices (Amsterdam: North Holland, 1962), xxv-l and Hoffmann, “What was Commentary in Late Antiquity?,” 605 – 615.  On the place of Aristotle in the thought of Syrianus see Saffrey, Recherches sur le Néoplationisme apes Plotin, 131– 140.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 13.  On the role of Andronicus, see Plutarch, Sull. 26.1– 2.  Anon. Proleg. Plat. Phil. 26.

154

Gregory E. Sterling

Phaedo Cratylus Theatetus (Sophist) (Stateman) Phaedrus Symposium Philebus Second Cycle Timaeus Parmenides The anonymous author went on to discuss Plato’s political philosophy in the Laws and the Republic. These were, however, secondary to the two cycles.⁹⁶ With Proclus and the later Neoplatonists the role of commentaries is better attested. Commentaries could be composed as a result of listening to a teacher or of composition in private. Proclus may have done both. As we have seen, Plutarch urged him to take down notes when they met: “The great man (Plutarch) urged him to write down what was said, making the zeal of his youth an instrument, and saying that when these notes were completed, there would be treatises on the Phaedo bearing Proclus’s name.”⁹⁷ On the other hand, Proclus wrote in private following his seminars when he served as the head of the school.⁹⁸ There is a degree of continuity in the patterns of instruction in the schools of Epictetus, Plotinus, and Proclus. There were two types of activities: seminars and lectures. The seminars were true seminars in which the students freely participated and may have taken the lead. They read texts and then explained them. The teacher corrected them and “worked through each point capably and clearly.”⁹⁹ Students took notes during the seminars and lectures. Some made these available to others, e. g., Arrian and Amelius. Proclus may have used his notes of Plutarch’s explanation of Plato’s Phaedo to begin his own commentary. Students also composed their own works and read some of their works before the teacher. Some of the advanced students became assistants: Epictetus had at least one, Plotinus had at least two, and Marinus made it clear that Syrianus and Proclus

 We should also note the importance of the Orphic Hymns and the Chaldean Oracles to numerous Neoplatonists, including Proclus. See Hoffmann, “What was Commentary in Late Antiquity?,” 606 – 607.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 12.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.  Marinus, Vit. Procl. 22.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

155

were assistants in turn. The teachers prepared for the seminars and lectures in advance, either by reading or composing a commentary (e. g., Epictetus and Proclus) or composing a lecture (e. g., Plotinus and Proclus). The main focus of the school was in the explanation of the views of past authorities, even when the exposition offered a new perspective, e. g., Plotinus and Proclus. These were often through explanations of the major texts or through synthetic treatises.

Philo of Alexandria Does this overview of the curricula in these schools help us understand the works of Philo? In order to answer this question, we will work through four of the five groups of his treatises and ask how each might have functioned. Philo’s works are typically grouped into five major collections by contemporary scholars: the three commentary series, the philosophical treatises, and the apologetic treatises.¹⁰⁰ We will set the last aside since they may have functioned in the political and social realms and only consider the first four. Philo wrote three sets of commentaries.¹⁰¹ These are not modern constructs but authorial arrangements. There are at least four lines of evidence that suggest that Philo created the structures of the commentaries. First, the three series have different but overlapping scopes: the Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus are a running commentary on Gen 2:4– 28:9 and Exod 6:2– 30:10 with gaps; the Allegorical Commentary is a running commentary on Gen 2:1– 18:2; and the Exposition of the Law is a thematic treatment of the entire Pentateuch. The fact  Some of the most useful introductions to the Philonic corpus are Jenny Morris, “The Jewish Philosopher Philo,” in Emil Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, 3 vols., rev. by Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Martin Goodman (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1973 – 1987), 3:819 – 870 and James R. Royse, “The Works of Philo,” in The Cambridge Companion to Philo, ed. Adam Kamesar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 32– 64. I have written a number of short introductions on which I will draw for some of the material here. Among these see “Philo of Alexandria,” Eerdmans Dictionary of Judaism and “The Interpreter of Moses: Philo of Alexandria and the Biblical Text,” in A Companion to Biblical Interpretation in Early Judaism, ed. Matthias Henze (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 415 – 435.  French scholarship since Valentin Nikiprowetzky has combined the Allegorical Commentary and the Exposition of the Law. See Nikiprowetzky’s Le commentaire de l’écriture chez Philon d’Alexandrie, ALGHJ 11 (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 192– 202, 241– 242; idem, “Brève note su le Commentaire Allegorique et l’Exposition de la Loi chez Philon d’Alexandrie,” in Mélanges bibliques et orientaux en l’honneur de M. Mathias Delcor, ed. André Caqout, Simon Légasse, and Michel Tardieu (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker/Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981), 321– 329. For a contemporary representative of this perspective see Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Philo of Alexandria: A Thinker in the Jewish Diaspora, SPhiloA 7 (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2012), 117– 121, 149.

156

Gregory E. Sterling

that all three cover the same section of Genesis makes it clear that the Alexandrian approached the same text repeatedly. The simplest explanation for the repetition is that he dealt with the same text in different works. Second, Philo handled the biblical text in each series quite differently: QGE poses questions that cite the biblical text and then answers them with literal and allegorical readings but with very few secondary texts; the Allegorical Commentary is lemmatic and incorporates secondary and tertiary lemmata in expansive allegorical readings; the Exposition paraphrases the biblical text and then provides a commentary on the paraphrase that is often allegorical. The difference in the way that Philo handled the biblical text, his authoritative text, and his consistency of approach in each of the series suggests that they are different commentary series. Third, Philo used secondary prefaces in the Allegorical Commentary¹⁰² and Exposition of the Law¹⁰³ to link the treatises together into larger unified wholes. By secondary preface I mean a preface that belongs to a work in a series and serves as a bridge between one scroll and the next within the series. The practice began with the historian Ephorus and became commonplace in the Hellenistic and Roman periods.¹⁰⁴ Philo used secondary prefaces to link the treatises of the Allegorical Commentary and the treatises of the Exposition of the Law together as unified literary works. Finally, Philo gave an explicit plan for the Exposition on three different occasions (see below).¹⁰⁵ He did not do the same for QGE or the Allegorical Commentary—at least in the preserved treatises; the plans cover only the Exposition. The plan suggests that the Exposition was a separate work with its own agenda. The distinct character of the three series raises an important question. Why did Philo write three separate commentary series on the same text? Perhaps someone else wrote multiple commentaries on the same Aristotelian or Platonic treatises, but I am not aware of anyone who attempted to do so on the same scale as Philo; he is sui generis in this regard. The simplest explanation is that the three series have different purposes and, probably, different audiences, a fact

 Philo, Plant. 1; Ebr. 1; Sobr. 1; Her. 1; Fug. 2; Somn. 1.1.  Philo, Abr. 1– 6; Ios. 1; Decal. 1; Spec. 1.1; 2.1; 3.7; 4.1, 132– 135; Praem. 1– 3. Note that every treatise in the Exposition has a secondary preface except Opif. that opens the series and Mos. 1 that serves as a general introduction to the Pentateuch or the Exposition (see below).  Ephorus, FGrH 70. See also Diodorus Siculus who consistently used secondary prefaces. They are present in every full book that we have except for 2, 3, and 11. Josephus used them regularly—although not consistently—in A.J. See 8.1; 13.1; 14.1; 15.1; 20.1.  Philo, Mos. 2.45 – 47; Abr. 2– 5; Praem. 1– 3.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

157

that has not always been appreciated fully by scholars.¹⁰⁶ We will take each series and attempt to situate it within or outside the practices of schools.

The Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus The first series that we will consider is the Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesin et in Exodum. Apart from some Greek fragments and a partial Latin translation, this series has only come down to us in the literal Armenian translation that was used to assist students with their Greek in the sixth century. Unfortunately, the Armenian translation has not preserved the full work. The Armenian has four books for Genesis and two for Exodus; however, Codex Vindobonensis Theologicus Graecus 29 states that there were six books on Genesis and Eusebius knew five books for Exodus.¹⁰⁷ This has led to different reconstructions of the text.¹⁰⁸ Before we look at one of these, we need to summarize the basis nature of the work. The commentaries are a running commentary on Gen 2:4– 28:9 and Exod 12:2– 28:4, although there are gaps. The format is straightforward: each unit opens with a question that cites the primary lemma. The questions are generally based on a textual conundrum or an issue that requires a philosophical explanation and open with the standard why (διὰ τί) or what is (τί ἐστιν). The answers work through different explanations beginning with literal answers and moving to allegorical interpretations. Philo typically restricted his exegesis to the primary lemma and only cited a secondary lemma in about 100 instances.¹⁰⁹

 There have been significant efforts in recent years to explore the different audiences of the series. The most important of these are Ellen Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought: Israel, Jews, and Proselytes, BJS 290 / SPhiloM 2 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 17– 21, 221– 222 and throughout the monograph; Maria Bohm, Rezeption und Funktion der Vätererzählungen bei Philo von Alexandria. Zum Zusammenhang von Kontext, Hermeneutik und Exegese im frühen Judentum, BZNW 128 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005); and Maren R. Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 169 – 185, esp. 176 – 177.  Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.18.5.  The most important treatments are Enzo Lucchesi, “La division en six livres des Quaestiones in Genesim de Philon d’Alexandrie,” Muséon 89 (1976): 383 – 395; James R. Royse, “The Original Structure of Philo’s Quaestiones,” SPhilo 4 (1976 – 1977): 41– 78; and idem, “Philo’s Division of His Works into Books,” SPhiloA 13 (2001): 76 – 85.  David T. Runia, “Secondary Texts in Philo’s Quaestiones,” in Both Literal and Allegorical: Studies in Philo of Alexandria’s Questions and Answers on Genesis and Exodus, ed. David M. Hay, BJS 233 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1991), 47– 79.

158

Gregory E. Sterling

What role did this commentary series play? We should consider at least two possibilities. First, Ralph Marcus noted that there was a degree of correspondence between the structure of the books and the parashiyyot or weekly reading cycles of the Babylonian lectionary.¹¹⁰ James Royse picked up this suggestion and reconstructed six books in Genesis and six books in Exodus rather than the four in the Armenian for QG and the two in the Armenian or the five mentioned by Eusebius for QE. ¹¹¹ If Marcus and Royse are correct that the structure of QGE is based on a lectionary cycle, it raises the possibility that there is a direct relationship between QGE and the houses of prayer (προσευχαί) in Alexandria. It might be that the work gave interpreters options for reading the text. It may, however, be too easy to assume a direct connection. The lectionary cycle would be how most readers would experience the text. It could also be the case that this was simply a way to structure the biblical text in a well-known way. There is a second option. The practice of posing questions and answers began with Aristotle who applied the technique to the Homeric poems. The practice became common in the Hellenistic, Roman, and Early Christian worlds, e. g., Plutarch’s Platonic Questions. ¹¹² Jews used it at an early date. Demetrius employed the technique in the third century BCE¹¹³ as did Aristobulus in the next century.¹¹⁴ In these instances, the technique was employed in exegetical contexts. Philo is the first Jewish author to produce a zetematic commentary. Was it for his school? One possibility is that it was intended for beginning students. It would have oriented students to the questions that they needed to raise when reading the text and to the interpretative options. It is worth remembering that the works had a similar introductory function for the Armenian students in the Hellenizing School of the sixth century: three of the seven blocks consist largely or exclusively of the QGE. The question and answer format was common in philosophical schools.¹¹⁵ The format of the commentary might reflect one way in which instruction took place in Philo’s school. At least it is easy to imagine a student who has been given a section of the biblical text to read and then asked

 Francis H. Colson, George H. Whitaker, Ralph Marcus, eds., Philo, 10 vols. with 2 supplementary vols., LCL (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1929 – 1962), Sup 1:xiii-xv.  Royse, “The Original Structure of Philo’s Quaestiones,” 42– 43, 52– 53.  Plutarch’s work differs from Philo’s by addressing ten separate texts rather than working through a single Platonic text. For a recent treatment see Annelie Volgers and Claudio Zamagni, eds., Erotapokriseis: Early Christian Question and Answer Literature in Context, Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 37 (Leuven/Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2004).  Demetrius, frags. 2 and 5.  Aristobulus, frag. 2.  E. g., Epictetus, Diatr. 1.7.3 – 4, 36, 33.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

159

to explain it. The student would need to identify the issues in the text and address them. If the student did not raise the aporia posed by the text (the quaestio), the instructor could pose the question and ask for an answer. There is probably a direct correspondence between the procedure in a seminar and the literary form of the genre. The QGE may have served to orient students in Philo’s school to the nature of exegesis. The two options that we have considered are not necessarily mutually exclusive. If students in the school had a relationship with one of the houses of prayer in Alexandria, they may have had an interest in learning the text in structures that would allow them to relate to it within both the social context of the school and the house of prayer. Presumably there was some relationship between houses of prayer and some students in Philo’s school, and perhaps with Philo himself.

The Allegorical Commentary The second commentary series we will consider is Philo’s magnum opus. We call it by the traditional name first attested by Eusebius, the Allegorical Commentary. The name is drawn from the initial treatises in the work, but accentuates the dominant hermeneutic of the series.¹¹⁶ Like all of the groups of Philo’s works, we do not have the full commentary series. We have nineteen treatises¹¹⁷ and a fragment of another¹¹⁸ out of at least thirty-two treatises that he wrote in the series.¹¹⁹ The series that we have is a running commentary on Gen 2:1– 18:2. The final treatises break the pattern and treat a series of dream texts scattered throughout Genesis. The exegesis is lemmatic and uses the question and answer, although

 Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.18.1. Cf. also Origen, Comm. Matt. 17:17; idem, Cels. 4.51; Photius, Bibliotheca col. 103.  Philo, Leg. 1 (= the extant Leg. 1– 2), 3; Cher., Sacr., Det., Post., Gig., and Deus (originally one treatise but now two), Agr., Plant., Ebr. 1; Sobr., Conf., Migr., Her., Congr., Fug., Mut., Somn. 2 and 3 (=Somn. 1 and 2). The standard critical edition is Leopold Cohn, Paul Wendland, Sigofred Reiter, and Ioannes Leisegang, eds., Philonis Alexandrini opera quae supersunt, 7 vols. (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1896 – 1930; second ed., Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1962).  Philo, De Deo. For a modern edition of the Armenian see Folker Siegert, Philon von Alexandrien, Über die Gottesbezeichnung “wohltätig verzehrendes Feuer” (De Deo) (see n. 1); idem, “The Philonian Fragment De Deo: First English Translation,” SPhiloA 10 (1998): 1– 13; Terian, “Philonis de visione trium angelorum ad Abraham,” (see n. 1).  These can be detected through either a gap in coverage or by a reference in an existing treatise or in Eusebius’s catalogue.

160

Gregory E. Sterling

not as the key structural feature as in QGE. The treatises of the Allegorical Commentary are structured by the lemmata. The difference between the Allegorical Commentary and the QGE is that the Allegorical Commentary regularly uses secondary and even tertiary lemmata to explain the text. Philo drew connections between the levels of lemmata through catchwords (gezerah shavah) or thematic connections. The relationship is typically self-evident, but readers sometimes struggle to keep the layers of the lemmata straight. As the name of the series suggests, Philo was not concerned with the literal meaning of the text but with the allegorical. In particular, he focused on the ascent of the soul to God. Philo read Genesis as a means to reflect on the ways in which souls can rise to the experience of God through the cultivation of virtue. He probably focused on Genesis because it offered him the opportunity to think without the constraints of the particularism that began with the covenant at Sinai.¹²⁰ How did the Allegorical Commentary function? The most plausible answer is that it was for advanced students in Philo’s school. I say this for two reasons. First, the implied audience of the Allegorical Commentary is sophisticated. A great deal is expected of the reader in terms of the command of the biblical tradition and the philosophical tradition; an uninitiated reader will struggle with these treatises. It is not an accident that only Leg. 1– 2 were included in the curriculum of the Hellenizing School. This is not a place to begin reading Philo or, more correctly from an ancient perspective, to use Philo to read Moses. Second, the form of the commentaries is closest to those in the philosophical tradition, especially the Middle Platonic and Neoplatonic.¹²¹ I suggest that Philo wrote these for his students to read along with other exegetes. Presumably students who had already worked through the QGE would read the Allegorical Commentary. They may have read these prior to a seminar or on their own.

 On the role of Genesis for Philo see Gregory E. Sterling, “When the Beginning is the End: The Place of Genesis,” in The Book of Genesis: Composition, Reception, and Interpretation, ed. Craig A. Evans, Joel N. Lohr, and David L. Petersen, VTSup 152 (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2012), 427– 446.  See the analyses of John Dillon, “The Formal Structure of Philo’s Allegorical Exegsis,” in Two Treatises of Philo of Alexandria: A Commentary on De Gigantibus and Quod Deus Sit Immutabilis, ed. David Winston and John Dillon, BJS 25 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 77– 87; David T. Runia, “The Structure of Philo’s Allegorical Treatises: A Review of Two Recent Studies and Some Additional Comments,” VC 38 (1984): 209 – 256; idem, “Further Observation on the Structure of Philo’s Allegorical Treatises,” VC 41 (1987): 105 – 138 (both essays were reprinted in Exegesis and Philosophy: Studies on Philo of Alexandria, CSCS 332 [Aldershot: Variorum, 1990]); and Sterling, “Philo’s School: The Social Setting of Ancient Commentaries.”

The School of Moses in Alexandria

161

The Exposition of the Law The third and final commentary series is the Exposition of the Law, a modern term to describe a set of commentaries on the entire Pentateuch. As we noted above, on three different occasions Philo provided the plan for the series.¹²² While the three texts differ in the details of their schema, they indicate the integrity of the series and the design to cover the entire Pentateuch.¹²³ According to the final statement among the three texts,¹²⁴ the Pentateuch consisted of three types of material: creation (Opif.), history (Abr., Ios.), and legislation (Decal., Spec., Virt., and Praem.). Fortunately, we have twelve of the original fifteen treatises.¹²⁵ This series is significantly different than the QGE or the Allegorical Commentary in format. Instead of working with lemmata, Philo paraphrases or retells the biblical text and then provides a commentary on his summary. This led Peder Borgen to suggest that we should consider this to be an example of rewritten Bible.¹²⁶ I prefer to think that Philo used the technique of rewritten Bible to summarize the text. The addition of a commentary on the rewritten text makes it a commentary rather than a text like Jubilees, the Genesis Apocryphon, or Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities. The Exposition is similar to QGE in one important regard: it includes both literal and allegorical interpretations. The literal is the retelling and the allegorical is often the commentary. In a treatise like On Abraham, it is possible to see the shift between the two clearly as Philo moves from summary to commentary.¹²⁷  Philo, Mos. 2.45 – 47; Abr. 2– 5; Praem. 1– 3.  For an analysis of the three texts see Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Prolific in Expression and Broad in Thought’: Internal References to Philo’s Allegorical Commentary and the Exposition of the Law,” Euphrosyne 40 (2012): 67– 69.  Philo, Praem. 1– 3 is the final work in the series.  Philo, Mos. 1– 2, Opif., Abr., (Isaaco), (Jacobo), Ios., Decal., Spec. 1– 4, Virt., (De passionibus), and Praem. The lost treatises are in parentheses.  Peder Borgen, Philo of Alexandria: An Exegete for his Time, NovTSup 86 (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 1997), 46 – 79, esp. 63 – 79.  Compare the two alternating sections between the literal and allegorical in Philo’s Abr.: Literal Allegorical 60 – 67 68 – 88 89 – 98 99 – 106 107– 118 119 – 132 133 – 146 147– 166 167– 199 200 – 204 208 – 216 217– 224 225 – 235 236 – 244

162

Gregory E. Sterling

There is one peculiar text that we should mention. The role of The Life of Moses is not entirely clear. The work was probably an introductory bios that provides the reader with an introduction to the writings of Moses in much the same way that Porphyry wrote his Life of Plotinus to introduce the Enneads. ¹²⁸ This seems clear. The issue is whether it was an introduction to the Exposition of the Law or independent. The fact that it gives one of the three plans of the Exposition and there are cross-references to the Exposition suggests to me that it was part of the Exposition.¹²⁹ If this is the case, then it suggests that the Exposition as a whole had a broad introductory character and that Philo thought of it as a point d’appui for a reader. How would the Exposition have functioned in a school setting? If we use the framework that we have found in Epictetus, Plotinus, and Proclus, then these might have been intended for the broadest possible audience. Epictetus often refers to someone who has come to a lecture. In the cases of noted philosophers, older persons, foreigners, and visitors attended lectures on occasion. My guess is that these were not the seminars where the philosopher corrected the students, but the occasions in which the philosopher gave a lecture. While it is speculative, I suggest that Philo gave lectures along these lines. If he divided his day like Proclus, he may have given these lectures in the afternoon. The audience would have consisted of students, other Jews, and even interested non-Jews. It was an occasion when he served more in the role of a public intellectual than a philosophically-minded exegete.

The Philosophical Treatises In addition to the three commentary series, we should also consider the philosophical treatises. These treatises use genres common in the philosophical tradition and cite non-Jewish authors rather than the biblical text. Some are doxographic in nature and set out the views of the philosophical schools; they routinely take a position and oppose the view of others. We know that Philo wrote seven such treatises of which we have four and a fragment of a fifth. We have two dialogues that remind us of Cicero’s dialogues in their form

 See Albert C. Geljon, Philonic Exegesis in Gregory of Nyssa’s De vita Moysis, BJS 333 / SPhiloM 5 (Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2002), 7– 46.  Gregory E. Sterling, “Prolific in Expression and Broad in Thought,” 72– 74.

The School of Moses in Alexandria

163

(Prov. 1– 2 and Anim.),¹³⁰ a thesis that argues a case by setting out the arguments and counter-arguments for it (Aet. 1, 2 [lost]),¹³¹ a discourse that explores a Stoic paradox (Prob. and Improb. [lost]),¹³² and fragment of an arithmology (On the decad).¹³³ The role of these treatises is one of the easiest to place in a school setting. They must have been intended for students who needed philosophical grounding. Philo knew Hellenistic philosophy firsthand.¹³⁴ He probably offered instruction to his students in it. This may have involved the reading of some texts like Plato’s Timaeus, perhaps along with Genesis 1. At least this would explain the heavy use of the Timaeus in De opificio mundi. ¹³⁵ It would also have involved reading some of Philo’s philosophical treatises. The point is that philosophy along with Scripture was studied in Philo’s school.

Conclusion We are now ready to draw some conclusions based on the evidence that we have considered. For anyone who has visited the remains of a home of a wealthy individual in the Mediterranean world, it is not hard to envision how Philo could have operated a school in his home. The library could have been kept in a room off the main courtyard and a room equivalent in size to a dining room could have

 Theses are only preserved in full in the Armenian. See n. 1. On the dialogues as a literary category in Philo, see Abraham Terian, “A Critical Introduction to Philo’s Dialogues,” ANRW 2.21.1 (1984): 272– 294.  We are missing book 2. See Philo, Aet. 150, that anticipates a second scroll. On the genre of this treatise and its authenticity see David T. Runia, “Philo’s De aeternitate mundi: The Problem of its Interpretation,” VC 35 (1981): 105 – 151. Kåre Fulgseth, “The Reception of Aristotelian Features in Philo and the Authorship Problem of Philo’s De Aeternitate Mundi,” in Beyond Reception: Mutual Influences between Antique Religion, Judaism, and Early Christianity, ed. David Brakke, Anders-Christian Jacobsen, and Jörg Ulrich, Early Christianity in the Context of Antiquity 1 (Frankfurt am Main/New York: Peter Lang, 2006), 57– 67, has recently reissued a challenge to the authenticity of the treatise. I am unconvinced by his challenge.  We are missing the second half of the paradox (Quod omnis improbus servus sit). See Prob. 1, where Philo referred to it.  This is only preserved in Armenian. See n. 1.  For a summary of what he knew see Gregory E. Sterling, “‘The Jewish Philosophy’: Reading Moses via Hellenistic Philosophy according to Philo,” in Reading Philo: A Handbook to Philo of Alexandria, ed. Torrey Seland (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014), 129 – 154, esp. 137– 148.  On the close relationship between the two in Philo see David T. Runia, Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato, PhilAnt 44 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1986).

164

Gregory E. Sterling

been used as a gathering spot for Philo and his students. Philo’s wealth, attested through his family, makes this feasible. If we can assume that Philo operated such a private school, what can we say about its daily routine? Philo, like Proclus, was prolific. In fact, his corpus is one of the largest Greek corpuses that have come down to us from the ancient world. He must have devoted a good part of his day to composition. The parallels with Plotinus and Proclus are the best guides to his practice, although we do not know how he divided his day. He appears to have built a significant library for his purposes. The library would have included scrolls of the Pentateuch, the works of Jewish interpreters, and select works of key philosophers as well as perhaps literary works. His careful use of Scripture in the QGE and the Allegorical Commentary suggests that he had a scroll–at least of Genesis–in front of him when he worked. He knew the work of Jewish interpreters like Aristobulus, Pseudo-Aristeas, and a large group of anonymous Jewish exegetes.¹³⁶ In addition, he knew the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian and may have known other tragedians, although it is difficult to know whether this was by attending the theater or by reading.¹³⁷ It is also clear that he knew some works in Greek philosophy quite well. He must have had several of Plato’s dialogues, the work of Heraclitus, as well as works by key figures from other traditions. There is evidence that he built a quite respectable library.¹³⁸ This would have been for his purposes as well as his students. If students spent significant portions of their day at Philo’s house, they could have consulted his library. If the presence of multiple copies of single works in other libraries suggests the possibility of loaning, Philo may have had multiple copies of key works.¹³⁹ Here we can only speculate based on analogies.

 For a summary of the evidence see Sterling, “‘The Jewish Philosophy,’” 131– 136.  See Gregory E. Sterling, “From the Thick Marshes of the Nile to the Throne of God: Moses in Ezekiel the Tragedian and Philo of Alexandria,” SPhiloA 26 (2014): 115 – 133.  For a comprehensive summary see David Lincicum, “A Preliminary Index to Philo’s NonBiblical Citations and Allusion,” SPhiloA 25 (2013): 139 – 168 and idem, “Philo’s Library,” SPhiloA 26 (2014): 99 – 114, who concluded: “it is reasonable to suppose that, in addition to his own works, Philo will have owned a modest philosophical library that included many works of Plato, but also perhaps works by Empedocles, Heraclitus, Posidonius, and Zeno, as well as others who he did not find occasion to cite as often. Less certain is whether Philo might have also owned copies of the literary works whose words pepper his prose, but his broad familiarity with the works of Homer and Hesiod suggest it is not improbable.”  There is a need to investigate the use of libraries more fully, as Sean Adams pointed out to me when he responded to this paper. I am grateful for his observation on this point in particular, but on his other comments as well. One recent work of importance is George W. Houston, Inside

The School of Moses in Alexandria

165

If our analysis of the three commentary series is cogent, Philo offered both seminars and lectures, much like Epictetus, Plotinus, and Proclus. The seminars would have been led by his students. He would have assigned readings from the Pentateuch—there is no evidence that he would have assigned texts beyond Moses—and asked students to read and explain the text. He might have done the same for select philosophical works or expected the students to attend the lectures of a local philosopher in Alexandria. The philosophical treatises suggest that he offered some philosophical instruction within his own school. Perhaps he offered philosophical lectures to his own students when the topic arose within the exegesis of the biblical text. Presumably he also offered lectures on the ascent of the soul related to the Allegorical Commentary as well. The Exposition suggests more exoteric addresses. If the Exposition was written late in his life— and there are good reasons to think that it was¹⁴⁰—then he may have devoted more time to broader audiences late in life than earlier in his career. We have almost no evidence for his students; the only direct evidence is the names of his larger family in the dialogues, i. e., Tiberius Julius Alexander and Lysimachus. It may be that his brother, Gaius Julius Alexander, had his sons and other members of the family attend Philo’s school. Other of his students must have come from the massive Jewish community. It is possible that he refers to some of his former students in his anonymous references to other exegetes, although this is purely conjectural.¹⁴¹ It is also possible that some students came from abroad, in much the same way that philosophers attracted students. This would help to explain how Philo’s works began to circulate outside of Alexandria.¹⁴² Wherever the students originated, we should not assume a large operation, but a relatively small group of five to perhaps fifteen students. Of these some would have been beginners and other would have been more advanced, at least the presence of beginners and advanced students in other schools and the difference between QGE and the Allegorical Commentary suggest this distinction. We cannot say how Philo treated them. However, it is likely

Roman Libraries: Book Collection and their Management in Antiquity, Studies in the History of Greece and Rome (Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press, 2014).  On the late dating of the Exposition see Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria, 169 – 185 and Sterling, “‘Prolific in Expression and Broad in Thought,’” 67– 75.  On the references to other exegetes see Montgomery J. Shroyer, “Alexandrian Jewish Literalists,” JBL 55 (1936): 261– 284; David M. Hay, “Philo’s References to Other Allegorists,” SPhilo 6 (1979 – 1980): 41– 75, who collected 74 references to other allegorists; and idem, “References to Other Exegetes,” in Both Literal and Allegorical, 81– 97.  This would explain how the works might have made their way to Apamea where Numenius probably came to know them. See Sterling, “The Theft of Philosophy,” 79 – 85.

166

Gregory E. Sterling

that he insisted that they not only know concepts intellectually, but also practice virtue and cultivate the ascent of the soul. It is likely that one of his prize students inherited his library and the school. Eventually, this appears to have become the property of Christians who learned how to think theologically from Philo. His most famous students were thus separated by more than a century, but they ensured that his legacy did not end.

Sean A. Adams

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum It is regularly claimed that Philo’s Questions and Answers “were written for beginning students in his school who needed to learn the range of possible readings,”¹ although there has yet to be a full investigation into how this might have looked for Philo in particular and in antiquity in general. This paper seeks to reinvestigate this claim, first, by tracing the history of this theory in scholarship. Second, we will seek to locate Philo’s Questions within the Greek curriculum and scholastic practice by comparing it to extant works and school texts, particularly those used in philosophical education. The purpose of this section is to explore the relationship between Philo’s text and those of antiquity to determine what changes (if any) Philo might have made to this text’s genre (in addition to applying it to a Jewish subject). Based on these findings we will explore the likeliness of the original assertion and consider how this might have looked in Philo’s classroom.

History of Scholarship Philo’s Questions and Answers, as is suggested by the title, belongs to a genre of literature known as ζητήματα or quaestiones, which existed throughout the classical and Hellenistic periods. In his now-classic encyclopaedia article, “Λύσεις,” Gudeman argues that there are two types of quaestiones literature: one that provides an exposition of a text and another that, independent of a text, addressed philosophical questions.² It is the former branch that we will be focusing on in this paper, although the latter division is helpful for understanding the full range of this literary form, particularly as it relates to philosophical schools. However, before we discuss this genre form in depth we will begin with a brief overview of the scholarly theories that seek to understand the purpose of Philo’s Questions and its possible school setting.

 G. Sterling, “Series Introduction,” in A. C. Geljon and D. T. Runia, On Cultivation: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, PACS (Leiden: Brill, 2013), xi.  A. Gudeman, “Λύσεις,” PW 13/2 (1927): 2511– 29. See also more recent investigations, though all have strong ties to Gudeman: H. A. Gartner, “Zetema,” DNP 12/2 (2002): 778 – 79; O. Dreyer, “Luseis,” KP (1975): 832– 33. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-011

168

Sean A. Adams

One of the first modern authors to argue for the existence of a Jewish school of allegorical exegesis was Bousset, who claimed that a critical analysis of Philo’s treaties reveals strong similarities between his works and sources from previous authors found in Alexandria.³ Bousset concluded that Philo made substantial use of oral and written traditions that had incorporated elements of Hellenistic philosophy and culture, but were mediated through a Jewish exegetical school.⁴ Bousset’s theory of Philo’s thorough dependence on prior (Jewish) authors has not been embraced by scholars, though it is clear that Philo sees himself as part of an existing tradition.⁵ Philo, in his corpus, makes a few passing references to schools (διδασκαλεῖα) in which the Jewish people came to study. These he identified with synagogues, claiming that every seven days the people came together to study wisdom and acquire virtues (Mos. 2.215 – 16; Spec. 2.62). Wolfson, extrapolating from these passages, suggests the strong likeliness that separate Jewish schools were associated with the synagogue and that Philo likely taught advanced education in a synagogal school that convened on days other than the Sabbath.⁶ According to Wolfson, these schools addressed problems concerning nature, but also provided a space for the instruction of the “philosophy of their fathers.” Wolfson’s theory was criticised by Valentin Nikiprowetzky, who rightly argued that there was no textual basis for applying Philo’s synagogue references to separate institutions. Nikiprowetzky, therefore, preferred to speak of “Écoles de Sagesse” which he identified with synagogues.⁷ Nevertheless, some scholars continue to posit some sort of relationship between Philo and teaching associated with the synagogue,⁸ though not all explicitly develop the idea of a school.⁹

 W. Bousset, Jüdisch-christlicher Schulbetrieb in Alexandria und Rom: Literarische Untersuchungen zu Philo und Clemens von Alexandria, Justin und Irenäus, FRLANT 6 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1915), 8 – 14.  Bousset, Jüdisch-christlicher Schulbetrieb, 43 – 44, 83.  Cf. Mos. 1.4; Spec. 1.8; 3.178.  H. A. Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947), 1:79 – 80; Cf. also R. A. Culpepper, The Johannine School: An Evaluation of the Johannine-School Hypothesis Based on an Investigation of the Nature of Ancient Schools, SBLDS 26 (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 197– 214 and N. G. Cohen, Philo Judaeus: His Universe of Discourse, BEATAJ 24 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1995), 29 – 31, who argues that Philo was a midrashist and heavily influenced by the traditions circulating in Beth Hamidrashim.  V. Nikiprowetzky, Le commentaire de l’Ecriture chez Philon d’Alexandrie, ALGHJ 11 (Leiden: Brill, 1977), 178 – 79.  “… while Philo was probably associated with a synagogue, his writings were probably used in a synagogue-school where Philo taught the higher vision of scripture to a select group of ini-

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

169

In contrast to the above theories that posit a more public setting, Greg Sterling has proposed that, “Philo had a private school in his home or personally owned structure for advanced students which was similar to schools of higher education run by individuals throughout the Greco-Roman world.”¹⁰ Philosophers who educated advanced students did so in several different contexts; however, the majority appear to have taught in a home or rented a structure rather than in an institution with a permanent place in society.¹¹ Looking at Philo’s vocabulary and imagery, Sterling has identified specific instances in Philo’s work that suggest some sort of school setting. For example, he highlights the image from De Animalibus 6 which depicts a formal school setting with Philo in the role of philosophical teacher, though it is still unclear as to whether or not this is a picture of an historical school scene or just an idealised presentation by Philo: “So I sit here quietly, modestly, and with restored humility as is proper for a student; and here you are seated in front of me on a platform looking dignified, respectable, and erudite, ready to begin to teach your teachings.”¹² David Hay, who studied Philo’s engagement with other allegorists, went further and suggested that these classroom scenes point to a specific school setting.¹³ More important for our study is the reference to a book brought in by a slave that was to be the object of the following discussion (Anim. 9) (see further below). So far we have seen that there is wide agreement among scholars that Philo was part of a school, though the precise details of its meeting space and operations are disputed. As of yet there has been no discussion of the Questions; the tiates whose ears were purified.” Culpepper, The Johannine School, 211. V. Nikiprowetzky, “L’exégèse de Philon dans le De Gigantibus et le Quod Deus sit Immutabilis,” in Two Treatises of Philo of Alexandria: A Commentary on “De Gigantibus” and “Quod Deus sit Immutabilis”, ed. J. Dillon and D. Winston, BJS 25 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 5 – 75, esp. 5 – 9, 53 – 54; and P. Borgen and R. Skarsten, “Questiones et Solutiones: Some Observations on the Form of Philo’s Exegesis,” SPh 4 (1976 – 77): 1– 16.  M. Hadas-Lebel, Philo of Alexandria: A Thinker in the Jewish Diaspora, trans. R. Fréchet, SPA 7, (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 128; Sze-kar Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim: A Synoptic Approach,” SBLSP 32 (1993): 22– 53 (38).  G. Sterling, “‘The school of sacred laws’: The social setting of Philo’s treatises,” VC 53 (1999): 148 – 164 (150). See also Sterling’s paper in this volume.  Even in antiquity Philo was viewed as a philosopher (e. g., Eusebius, Hist. ec. 2.4.2– 3) and so it is not a stretch to think that he might have acted in the ways of his contemporary philosophers. Cf. M. R. Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 152– 68.  A. Terian, Philonis Alexanrini De Animalibus: The Armenian Text with an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, SHJ 1 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981).  D. M. Hay, “Philo’s References to Other Allegorists,” SPhilo 6 (1979 – 80): 41– 75 (60 – 61).

170

Sean A. Adams

work that we had set out to discuss. Those who posit a relationship between the Questions and Philo’s school typically suggest that the work was designed for beginning students. A good example of this perspective comes from Sterling, The implied audience of the Allegorical Commentaries is a sophisticated audience who know the biblical text exceptionally well and are capable of appreciating extended philosophical expositions of it. The implied audience of the Quaestiones et Solutiones is not as sophisticated. Perhaps the latter was for beginning students and the former for the advanced.¹⁴

This quote from Sterling touches on a number of topics we will be discussing, but the important point at this time is that he posits a direct relationship between the Questions and Philo’s school. It is this relationship between philosophical education and texts that we will investigate in the next section.

Questions Literature in Advanced Education As mentioned above, the most commonly applied genre category for Questions on Genesis and Exodus is ζητήματα καὶ λύσεις, a literary form that goes back to pre-classical times when philosophically orientated readers found “problems” in the works of Homer. Other readers responded by defending Homer (and other authors) by providing “solutions” to proposed questions. The earliest extant and likely best known example of this literary form is Aristotle’s Poet. 25, which discusses the possible types of faults a poet might make. This form of commentary and engagement became the model for many Hellenistic scholars.¹⁵ There is little discussion of the question and answer literary form. This is not because scholars are uninterested in the topic, but that the genre form seems to be readily understandable. Two items are required: a question and an answer. The questions are on a specific philosophical perspective or literary work and the answers seek to justify in some way the perceived “problem.” This is a work of prose, generally composed by literary critics and philosophers, and is

 Sterling, “‘The school of sacred laws,’” 159 – 60, who references Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim,” 37– 38, 53, and Ellen Birnbaum, The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought: Israel, Jews, and Proselytes, SPM 2 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996), 17– 21. Cf. P. W. Van der Horst, “Philo and the Rabbis on Genesis: Similar Questions, Different Answers,” in Erotapokriseis: Early Christian Question-and-Answer Literature in Context. Proceedings of the Utrecht Colloquium, 13 – 14 October 2003, ed. A. Volgers and C. Zamagni (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 55 – 70 (57).  Aristotle also wrote ᾿Aπορήματα Ὁμηρικά (Diogenes Laertius, Lives 5.26), but this work, sadly, has not survived.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

171

often applied to minute points in sacred and popular texts. Outsiders regularly use the first half of this genre to undermine the position of a rival group, while those questioned respond in order to defend the veracity of their position.¹⁶ One issue for understanding the full diversity of this literary form is the fragmentary nature of many extant examples.¹⁷ Very few texts have survived in their entirety; rather, a majority have come to us through quotations, whether in literary works or in the scholia. An important consideration for this paper is the nature of ancient lectures and teaching, particularly those in philosophical schools. If, as proposed, Philo’s Questions and Answers were used in a school setting, what might that have looked like? In my quest to determine the use of comparable texts, it came as somewhat of a surprise to me to learn how infrequently texts were explicitly mentioned in the training of the philosopher.¹⁸ It is well known that philosophers would speak in public lectures and private classes and that they would expect their listeners/disciples to learn the material. These narratives would regularly say that the philosopher taught/lectured, but rarely would the texts outline specifically how and by what means the sages did so. The following discussion brings together the different references to texts used in higher-level education and what we might be able to infer from them. We know that books played an important role at the elementary levels of education.¹⁹ Homer in particular, but other authors too, are regularly read, memorized, and discussed in the class setting. In fact, (Ps.‐)Plutarch explicitly says, despite the fact that he thought it was self-evident, that the works of early writers are “like a set of tools in farming” (Lib. ed. 10). An important question for us is

 H. Dörrie and H. Dörries “Erotapokriseis.” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum 6 (1966): 342– 70; A. Kamesar, Jerome, Greek Scholarship, and the Hebrew Bible: A Study of the Quaestiones Hebraicae in Genesim (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 84– 86.  For a list of many such works, see Grudemann, “Λύσεις,” 2511– 22. See also the various sayings in Homeric scholia.  Marrou and others lament the lack of direct and precise evidence for understanding the daily workings of philosophical schools. H. I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. G. Lamb (London: Sheet and Ward, 1956), 415 n. 46. On the other hand, we know that the question and answer format was used in elementary school settings because of PSI I 19, which reads, “Who were the gods on the side of Troy? Who was the king of the Trojans? [Who was] their general? …” These questions, however, strongly differ from Philo’s as they are basic in nature; whereas Philo’s presupposed a substantial amount of knowledge.  Cf. T. Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds, CCS (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); R. Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001).

172

Sean A. Adams

whether or not this emphasis on texts continues in the tertiary levels of education and if the tools forged in lower levels were employed at later stages. In all cases of philosophical learning the student would spend time with the master and hear him or her²⁰ discourse on subjects.²¹ Oftentimes students would make notes of the lectures, which would be for personal use and sometimes disseminated as the teachings of the master.²² Sometimes the lecture notes were published without the permission of the teacher; a well-known example is the circulation of some of Quintilian’s ideas and speeches by his students and other listeners (Inst. or. 1.praef.7; 7.2.24).²³ Also common was the publishing of lecture notes by the philosopher or the philosopher’s successors/students. These treatises would be produced often at the request of the student, who wanted to further reflect on the master’s teachings and have the philosopher’s authoritative position.²⁴ A recurring motif for particularly bright students was that they were able to read philosophic works (e. g., Aristotle’s Organon) on their own, without the assistance of a teacher.²⁵ This reading would be an achievement as the writings of Aristotle and other philosophers were thought to be sufficiently difficult that they would have to be learned in a class setting with the use of a manual (e. g., Epictetus, Disc. 1.4.6 – 9). For example, Porphyry’s Isagoge provides a basic introduction to Aristotle’s Categories, identifying and defining key terms and offering short summaries of the different sections.²⁶ Similarly, Plutarch wrote a work for two of his sons who still did not understand Plato’s Timaeus despite having read many works that tried to interpret it (An. procr. 1), while Seneca attempted to compile a set of books for Lucilius on moral philosophy (Ep. 108.1). Galen specifically wrote a series of books for beginners in order to

 E. g., Sosipatra (Eunapius, Vit. soph. 466 – 70).  Plutarch, Rect. rat. aud. 3. Iamblichus (Pyth.71– 72) speaks of different stages of initiation during which time a potential “hearer” would only be allowed to hear, but not see, Pythagoras.  Cf. Seneca, Ep. 108.6; Epictetus, Disc. 1.praef. 2; 3.16.9; Philostratus, Apol. 1.3.1; 1.19.2; Iamblichus, Pyth. 104, 152, 158; Porphyry, Plot. 3. See also the texts titled “From the lectures of Zeno” found at Herculaneum (P.Herc. 1003, 1385, and 1471).  Cf. Galen, My Own Books, 19.33, 42– 43 (Kühn).  Cf. Diogenes Laertius, Lives, 1.16; 2.24; 4.4, 13, 24; 5.23, 49, 60; 7.163; Porphyry, Plot. 4– 6; Marinus, Proc. 12, 22. Some philosophers, famously, did not write at all (e. g., Socrates) and some charged their disciples to keep their teachings secret. Cf. Porphyry, Pyth. 19; Iamblichus, Pyth. 71– 75; Eunapius, Vit. soph. 467, 484.  E. g., Marinus, Proc. 9; Augustine, Conf. 4.2.  Other examples of introductory works include Porphyry’s Plot. and Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

173

help introduce them to certain medical topics.²⁷ These examples show that there was a clear market and need for introductory texts in higher education.²⁸ Also common was the idea that the philosopher would engage with important texts in lectures, and we have a few examples of philosophers reading with their students,²⁹ providing a running commentary on the work in focus.³⁰ The exegesis from this communal reading would possibly be written down in a commentary and published as a means by which other students or interested parties would learn from the master.³¹ It is not beyond possibility that some aspect of the master’s commentary would be in a question and answer format, with the teaching pointing out potential issues in the text and addressing them. It is also possible that the author addressed his questions to his students to test their knowledge of the text. At later points in the life of a philosopher we have reports of them giving their writings to students who would make progress through them, rather than through lectures (which the master might be too old to give), and this might include questions and answers.³² Challenging this perspective is Marrou, who is somewhat sceptical of the amount of reading actually done within a school setting, stating, “As the rhetors expounded their canon of orators, so the philosophers ‘read’—i. e. expounded and analysed—classical works.”³³ This perspective, though understandable as philosophical thought was not necessarily tied to the evaluation of a text, does not adequately grasp the importance of addressing physical texts within philosophical discussion and the explicit references to engaging with texts found in depictions of philosophical schools. For example, one of the most well-known examples of the use and development of texts in advanced discussions comes from Porphyry who claims that, “In the Museum at Alexandria, it was a custom to propound questions and record the solutions that were being given” (Schol. Hom. Il. I.682.1).³⁴ In the Museum

 Cf. Galen, My Own Books, 19.11, 23 (Kühn); Order of my Books, 2 (19.54, Kühn).  For examples, see L. G. Westerink, Anonymous Prolegomena to Platonic Philosophy: Introduction, Text, Translation and Indices (Amsterdam: North Holland, 1962).  Iamblichus, Pyth. 99. In some cases, such as Libanius’ lecturing in the baths (Or. 1.55), the use of books would not be possible. Epictetus (Disc. 1.4.6 – 9; 1.26.1; 2.17.34; 3.26.3; 4.5.36; 4.4.14, 17) mentions students reading Chrysippus and other authors.  Marinus, Proc. 13.  Marinus, Proc. 27 (ὑπομνηματίσασθαι), 38.  Marinus, Proc. 26.  Marrou, History of Education, 208 (italics original).  Some scholars have questioned if Porphyry could have an accurate picture of what went on in Alexandria centuries before he lived. See P. M. Fraser, Ptolemaic Alexandria (Oxford: Claren-

174

Sean A. Adams

the analysis of texts and the tendency towards erudition by some philosophers was criticised as it sometimes resulted in the blurring of the line between philosophy and philology.³⁵ This tendency, however, highlights the primary role that texts held even at the highest educational levels and the function that questions and answers had in an educational setting. An interesting comparison with Philo comes from the Plotinus, who also studied and taught philosophy in Alexandria (Porphyry, Plot. 3). Although separated in time, there are some unique insights into how scholarly materials were used in lectures. The most informative example comes from his student Porphyry (Plot. 14), who recalls that, In the meetings (ταῖς συνουσίαις) [of the school] he used to have the commentaries (τὰ ὑπομνήματα) read, perhaps of Severus, perhaps of Cronius or Numenius or Gaius or Atticus, and among the Peripatetics of Aspasius, Alexander, Adrastus, and others that were available. But he did not just speak straight out of these books but took a distinctive personal line in his consideration, and brought the mind of Ammonius to bear on the investigations in hand.³⁶

The most important aspect of this quotation for our present study is the explicit use of written material in a philosophical school setting, specifically in lectures. In particular, Porphyry indicates that commentaries (τὰ ὑπομνήματα) were read and expanded upon and that they provided the platform from which his teacher, Plotinus, would lecture.³⁷ Another example comes from Libanius, who in his autobiographical oration regularly talks about his career: the challenges he received and the struggles he had to endure. Often when recounting some of his misfortunes Libanius balances his experiences by noting a success. In one instance he has Fortune speak to him highlighting her single greatest gift to him: … you have one thing from me that makes up for them all, your composition of so many orations and their reputation for excellence, so that even in your lifetime the copyists of your works, many though they may be, have yet proved to be too few for the number of your admirers. … But every school of rhetoric reveals that your works are thumbed by pupils and teachers alike (Or. 1.155).

don Press, 1972), 2.471 n. 86. Cf. Hist. Aug. Hadr. 20.2: “Apud Alexandriam in musio multas quaestiones professoribus proposuit et propositas ipse dissolvit.”  Seneca, Ep. 108.23 – 24, 35. Cf. Suetonius, Gramm. 11.  Cf. Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6.19.8, who mentions similar texts in Origen’s study.  Similarly, the Therapeutae reportedly drew on the writings of the founders of their school in their expositions. Philo, Contempl. 29.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

175

Although this example does not speak to philosophical schools, it does show that texts written by famous contemporaries were part of the dialogue and training at advanced levels of education.³⁸ A third example comes from Epictetus who, according to Sterling, assigned texts which he and his students read in advance of a lecture and on which he commented for those in attendance.³⁹ Sterling claims that, “In these settings commentaries on the texts functioned as guides to explain the text and provide orientation to the larger conceptual framework of the tradition. They were written by and for members of the school.” However, upon a close reading of these passages, there is no specific reference to the reading of texts in a classroom setting. True the texts speak about reading Chrysippus, the difficulties in doing so, and Epictetus’ practice of reading other interpreters, but these passages do not provide good support for understanding commentary use in the classroom. On the other hand, Disc. 1.26.13 does recall how texts were read in class and evaluated by the teacher or a senior student who would assign the passage. Disc. 2.1.30 reinforces this by implying that the main way for a teacher to know what his student has been doing was to have them read to him, for example, Chrysippus (Disc. 2.16.34– 35). This, no doubt, would have included asking the student questions to ascertain their level of proficiency and knowledge, though the ultimate test is whether or not they could live by the ideas they have read (e. g., Disc. 1.4.1– 32). So far we have discussed the use of texts in higher education, for which there appears to be good evidence. More pressing in this paper is determining whether or not quaestiones literature is also to be considered among educational texts.⁴⁰ Of the above examples one in particular (Porphyry, Plot. 14) explicitly identifies the use of commentaries in the classroom.⁴¹ Similarly, both Aristotle’s ᾿Aπορήματα Ὁμηρικά in particular and his Poetics as a whole appear to be associated with the Lyceum and his school.⁴² For instance, within the Peripatetic school there is substantial continuity between the questions posed by Aristotle

 Cf. Theon (Prog. 59), who explicitly mentions the relationship between philosophy and rhetoric.  Cf. Sterling, “‘The school of sacred laws,’” 159, citing Epictetus, Disc. 1.10.7– 8; Encheir. 49. In Disc. 1.10.8 there is some discussion over whether or not με should be changed to μοι and so indicate the reading of the text by the student to Epictetus. Although this is a possibility, I find the retention of με to be preferable.  Questions and answers, even when they were not written down, were part of philosophical education. E. g., Epictetus, Disc. 1.7.3 – 4, 26, 33.  Cf. also the Anonymous Theaetetus Commentary.  S. Halliwell, Aristotle: Poetics, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 4.

176

Sean A. Adams

and those by Heraclides, with some identical examples found in the surviving fragments.⁴³ The collection and transmission of specific questions suggests institutional support and that they were part of the intellectual makeup of the school.⁴⁴ A literary parallel to Philo’s Questions is the series of zetematic works composed by Plutarch.⁴⁵ In the surviving corpus of Plutarch we find his Platonic Questions, which are divided into ten sections. There is no introduction or conclusion and there are no transitions or internal references to link the questions together. Unlike Philo, there is no clear organizational pattern to be discerned (i. e., by Platonic work or topic). Rather, the apparently random structure potentially suggests that the questions were not written at one time, but were later brought together.⁴⁶ In these questions Plutarch hints at other proposed solutions and so provides a window, albeit small, into the range of possible answers/interpretations (e. g., Quaest. plat. 5.1 [1003c]; 9.1 [1008b]). Unfortunately, Plutarch never mentions those he disagrees with by name; however, he does identify specific works and authors in other sections of his corpus.⁴⁷ Plutarch’s Questions are good examples of the role Zητημάτων literature played in philosophical inquiry, though unfortunately they do not inform us how they were employed. It is unlikely, though, that Plutarch’s Questions are school related and more likely that they come from his own reading. However, it is possible that Plutarch might have learned the question and answer form at school and continued to use it throughout his life. One of the best examples for understanding the role of Questions within an advanced educational setting is from Porphyry, who recounts a time when his teacher Plotinus asked him to respond to questions sent by another philosopher: “Now when Eubulus, the incumbent of the Platonic school, wrote to [Plotinus] from Athens and sent him writings on some Platonic Questions (Πλατωνικῶν ζητημάτων), he made these to be given to me, Porphyry, to look over them and bring to him my writings of worth” (Porphyry, Plot. 15). Not only does this  E. g., frag. 171 Wehrli = Aristotle, frag. 146 (Rose); frag. 172 Wehrli = Aristotle, frag. 147 (Rose).  Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim,” 26.  Although collections of questions are recognized as a type of literary work (i. e., Zητημάτων), they are not limited to Zητημάτων literature, but are regularly found in symposia. For example, Plutarch explicitly references Zητημάτων in his Quaestiones convivales, highlighting their appropriateness for dinner conversation (e. g., 3.praef.; 3.8.1; 4.1.1; 9.praef.; 9.13.1; cf. Athenaeus, Deip. 5.186e). These are outwith the purview of this paper, but it is important to realise that formal questions are not exclusively limited to Zητημάτων literature.  H. Cherniss, Plutarch: Moralia 13.1, LCL (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976), 4.  E. g., Chrysippus’ Φυσικῶν Ζητημάτων (Stoic. rep. 43; Comm. not. 37, 45) and Ἠθικῶν Ζητημάτων (Stoic. rep. 26 – 27), of which the latter consists of at least six books.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

177

passage indicate the interconnected nature of philosophers in the ancient world, the fact that Eubulus sent Platonic Questions to Plotinus shows that this literary form was not just used by those learning philosophy, but also by those who were already established in it. Plotinus does not respond himself to this correspondence, but entrusts his disciple Porphyry to engage with the questions.⁴⁸ Porphyry’s writing was subsequently checked for quality (τὰ γεγραμμένα ἠξίου) in order to ensure that he performed adequately.⁴⁹ This might indicate that learning how to respond to ζητημάτων was part of the more advanced training an aspiring philosopher would receive. Finally, there is one example from Oxyrhynchus (P.Oxy. XV 1808) of a philosophical text with shorthand marginalia. The text that was commented on is the “nuptial numbers” of Plato’s Republic 8.546b-c, a notoriously difficult passage. In the papyrus we see shorthand marginalia providing interpretations of the text and even referring to another text of Plato (ii.1– 5, citing Meno). The important aspect for our discussion is not the existence of marginal notes, though this is not common, but that the notes are in shorthand. This unique feature has lead McNamee to posit that the notes might have been made during a lecture.⁵⁰ The content of the notes addresses key interpretive issues and problematic readings in the text. Unfortunately, there is no explicit reference to questions and answers; however, this text and its notes do suggest that texts were brought into the classroom and that the lecturer sought to address specific issues in the text. Overall, there is some evidence for the use of questions and answers literature in school contexts. On the other hand, many of our Questions texts are not explicitly tied to an educational setting.⁵¹ For example, the anonymous P.Herc. 1670 contains answers by an Epicurean to questions/arguments from a Stoic perspective.⁵² Important for our consideration is the fact that the papyrus is written on both sides, an unusual feature for papyri found in the Villa of the Papyri library.⁵³ The use of both sides of the papyrus suggests that this text was not professionally copied, but was copied/penned for a more personal  Porphyry does claim (Plot. 15) that Plotinus was not afraid to refute challenges and questions from outsiders in writing.  For Longinus’s view on the quality of Plotinus’s responses to ζητημάτων, see Porphyry, Plot. 19.  K. McNamee, “A Plato Papyrus with Shorthand Marginalia,” GRBS 42 (2001): 97– 116 (115).  E. g., Plutarch; P.Oxy. XXXIV 2688, 2689.  M. Capasso, “I papiri ercolanesi opistografi,” in Atti del V Convegno nazionale di egittologia e papirologia: Firenze, 10 – 12 dicembre, ed. S. Russo (Florence: Istituto Papirologico G. Vitelli, 2000), 5 – 25.  G. W. Houston, Inside Roman Libraries: Book Collections and Their Management in Antiquity (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2014), 105 – 11.

178

Sean A. Adams

nature. It is possible that this text could have had its origin in a classroom setting, though it is more likely that it arose through typical communications between philosophical schools or even from the personal reading and note taking by the author. As a result, although we have a greater number of Questions texts only a few of them are explicitly situated in classroom.

Philo and Other Jewish Authors’ Use of Questions Literature Returning to Alexandria, we know that Philo was not the first Jewish author to pen answers to challenging questions, but was preceded by Aristobulus. In his Commentaries, Aristobulus attempts to clarify for King Ptolemy potentially confusing aspects of Jewish scripture, such as why God is presented in anthropomorphic language or why the images used to describe the divine appearance at Mount Sinai should not be taken entirely literally (frag. 2). Prior to Aristobulus, Demetrius also engaged in addressing certain textual issues, though again his text was not specifically created for that purpose. For example, in his discussion of the Joseph narrative Demetrius explains why Joseph did not call for his family during the time of plenty (frag. 2.13) and why (διὰ τί) Joseph gave five portions to his brother Benjamin knowing that he would not be able to eat it all (frag. 2.14). Although neither text was used in a school setting, it shows that there was a history of Jews using the question and answer format to engage in explanatory practices.⁵⁴ More importantly for this paper are the distinct differences among these texts. Although it is difficult to get the full perspective of Aristobulus and Demetrius’s works, as they are fragmentary, it is apparent from the sections we do have that there was greater internal structure to their works than that of Philo’s and that they did not go systematically through the biblical text nor did they do so to the same length as Philo.⁵⁵ Another difference is the intended audience of the work; while Aristobulus and Demetrius write for outsiders, it is nearly certain that Philo writes for those who are Jewish. Furthermore, Aristobulus and Demetrius appear to only have given one explanation for each issue, whereas Philo regularly provided multiple options. These multiple explanations occasionally create tensions and inconsistencies within the text, which would not have

 J. Freudenthal, Alexander Polyhistor: Hellenistische Studien I (Breslau, 1874), 44– 46.  There is greater evidence that Demetrius’s work was more anchored to the scriptural text, but not in the same way that Philo’s is.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

179

been desirable for providing specific interpretations to outsiders. It is these tensions, along with the assumed Jewish audience, that led Bousset and others to argue that the Questions is a school text.⁵⁶ Although Bousset highlights Philo’s preservation of traditional material, his inclusion of multiple, sometimes conflicting answers to questions suggests that he was not attempting to impose his views on his predecessors. Rather, as Sterling suggests, his willingness to allow them to speak for themselves provides a range of interpretive options that would work well within a school setting.⁵⁷ It is important to note that Philo’s writings, though having a number of similarities to other Question works, have some significant differences. The most prominent similarity is that Philo predominantly uses “why” (διὰ τί) and occasionally “what is” (τί ἐστιν) to introduce his question. Such a tradition is found in many other authors (e. g., Aristotle’s Problems, Plutarch’s Roman Questions and Greek Questions). These are not the only ways that Philo and others initiate questions (e. g., τί, πῶς, τίς, πόθεν, ἀπὸ τίνος), but they are the most common, and Philo follows other authors in this pattern. Where Philo differs is the way that he constructs his questions. As Wan has shown, Philo is distinct in the manner that he asks his question.⁵⁸ Typically, in the question section the author would identify the problem that was to be discussed.⁵⁹ Philo, in contrast, regularly provides a quotation of the biblical lemma without identifying the problem, forcing the reader to search the answer to determine what issue Philo was seeking to address.⁶⁰ According to Wan, this type of ambiguous question accounts for

 Bousset, Jüdisch-christlicher Schulbetrieb, 5 – 7.  Sterling, “‘The school of sacred laws,’” 160. The inclusion of multiple opinions could potentially be used as a didactic method, although it is clear that not all options are equally valid. For example, despite the fact that Philo regularly provides both literal and allegorical interpretations, there are times in which the allegorical is given preference to the sometime nearly complete downplaying of the literal (e. g., QG 1.10, 11, 12, 39). Bousset (Jüdisch-christlicher Schulbetrieb, 134– 52) has suggested that treatises that are on the margins of Philonic authorship (e. g., Eternity of the World, the two books of On Provenance, On the Soul of Animals, and, possibly, Every Good Man is Free), should be understood as class notes, teachings that he received and outlined to his students.  Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim,” 33 – 34.  E. g., Plutarch, Quaest. rom. 12: “Why do they consider Saturn the father of Truth?”; Quaest. rom. 26: “Why do women in mourning wear white robes and white head-dresses?”; Quaest. rom. 54: “Why do they call the meat-markets macella and macellae?.”  E. g., QG 1.36: “What is the meaning of the words, ‘You will be as gods, knowing good and evil?’”; 2.8: “Why does scripture say, ‘There shall be a flood to destroy all flesh in which there is living breath under heaven?’”; 4.37: “What is the meaning of the words, ‘Bring them out to us that we may know them?’”

180

Sean A. Adams

53.4 % of all questions asked by Philo.⁶¹ This is not to claim that other authors (e. g., Aristotle) did not cite passages of Homer in their questions, though these quotations were short and sufficiently explained to the reader. Philo also explicitly introduces issues in many of his questions (46.6 %), but his strong habit of not signalling to the reader what will be discussed is atypical for the genre. Regarding Philo’s answers, he is similar to every other writer of Questions literature in that he provides an answer for every question that is raised.⁶² Oftentimes Philo provides multiple answers to a question and, although this is not witnessed in every author, it is not unique as a similar practice is found in Plutarch’s Roman Questions and Greek Questions. More distinctive is the fact that Philo’s answers are typically much longer than the pithy sayings found in Aristotle and show greater similarities to Plutarch’s Platonic Questions. This length might be a result of the answer’s content, which often provides detailed textual commentary in addition to philosophical insights and are not simply explanatory. The major difference in Philo’s answers, however, is his incorporation of both allegorical and literal explanations. Out of the 636 answers provided in QG and QE, 226 (35.5 %) contain only literal interpretations, 188 (29.6 %) contain only allegorical interpretations, and 211 (33.2 %) have both literal and allegorical answers.⁶³ Overall, it is clear that both allegorical and literal interpretations are important for Philo. The use of allegory as an interpretive technique is not consistently employed by any pre-philonic quaestiones writer, which suggests that this might be an original adaptation and central to Philo’s method of modelling textual interpretation. Another distinctive feature is the lack of a problem in many of Philo’s question and answer pairings. As mentioned above, a number of Philo’s questions did not identify a specific issue, forcing the reader to look to the answer to determine what was problematic with the biblical lemma. However, there are a

 This number is arrived at by combining “rhetorical” questions and “periphrastic” questions, both of which are built on the citation or paraphrase of scriptural lemma for the question. Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim,” 34.  Plutarch might be unique in this regard as he regularly answers a question with another question (“Is it because … or rather, is it …”), without any further explanation or evaluation of the answers. Cf. Roman Questions 1, 2, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17, 18, 36, 48, 66, 88, 89, 94, 95, 100, 104, 106, 108; Greek Questions 31, 36, 39, 46, 50, 52, 53.  Wan, “Philo’s Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesim,” 35. The remaining examples are somewhat ambiguous in that they reject the literal meaning and only support the allegorical. In these cases both interpretations are offered, though it is clear that one is to be preferred.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

181

number of instances in which the answer portion does not explicitly outline a problem, accepting the literal meaning while also providing a deeper, allegorical interpretation.⁶⁴ In contrast, there are only seven instances in which Philo rejects the literal reading in favor of the allegorical.⁶⁵ The lack of an actual problem in many questions indicates a deviation from the standard use of this genre form and suggests that for Philo the explanation of issues was not of primary concern. Rather, the use of the question and answer structure provided a platform from which he could provide textual interpretations. Finally, the organizational principle of Philo’s Questions is unlike the other extant texts that we have, in that Philo provides systematic comments for Genesis and Exodus (with some significant gaps in our extant tradition),⁶⁶ whereas other ancient writers (e. g., Aristotle, Plutarch, etc.) do not exhaustively cover the text, but provide notes to isolated problems.⁶⁷ This is a major difference between Philo and other authors and is a great example of a Jewish author adapting a standard Greek literary form to meet personal needs. We cannot be sure that Philo is the first to have adapted quaestiones literature in such a manner, although we know with certainty that he was not the first to apply the question and answer method to Jewish scripture. Philo’s changes indicate that he thought that the texts of Genesis and Exodus required greater and more comprehensive coverage than what we witness in all extant manuscripts prior to him, both comments on Jewish scripture and Greek literature.⁶⁸ As a result, the Questions for the first time serves as a framework for organizing and transmitting a coherent body of teaching.⁶⁹ David Runia, recognizing a number of unique features in the format of Philo’s commentaries, has concluded that Philo was a sui generis writer.⁷⁰ Although Runia is no doubt correct when he highlights the unique aspects of Philo’s writings, he goes too far in claiming that Philo was sui generis. Not only do we lack a majority of ancient literary works in order to make such a

 E. g., QG 2.34; 3.32; 4.176, 241.  QG 1.39; 2.79; 3.33; 4.88, 168, 175; QE 1.16.  For discussion, see J. Royse, “The Original Structure of Philo’s Quaestiones,” SPhilo 4 (1976 – 77): 41– 78.  Dörrie and Dörries, “Erotapokriseis,” 344.  The closest comparison would be the Anonymous Theatetus Commentary, which provides a running commentary of Plato’s Theatetus, but much less thoroughly. Cf. H. Diels and W. Schubart, Anonymer Kommentar zu Platons Theatet (Papyrus 9782) (Berlin, 1905).  Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis, 160.  D. T. Runia, “The Structure of Philo’s Allegorical Treatises: A Review of Two Recent Studies and Some Additional Comments,” VC 38 (1984): 209 – 56 and idem, “Further Observations on the Structure of Philo’s Allegorical Treatises,” VC 41 (1987): 105 – 38 (120).

182

Sean A. Adams

claim accurately, it also downplays the points of contact between Philo and other writers. At the very least the differences indicate the diversity of this genre form,⁷¹ but are likely a result of Philo tailoring his work to his personal situation and his practice of combining exegesis with an exhortatory, almost homiletic emphasis.⁷² These unique features provide insight into the purpose of the text and allow us to posit what Philo was trying to accomplish through its construction. Namely, Philo was not content to limit his work to solely addressing “problems” in the text, but was interested in providing a thorough interpretation of Jewish scripture. Such a comprehensive and detailed level of interpretation would not be applicable in every situation or environment, but would be more relevant to those who sought to acquire a deep knowledge of scripture and the range of possible interpretations. Such a population would most likely be found in an educational setting. Additionally, the confidence by which he speaks of his position in Questions, as opposed to his discussions of the same topics in the Allegorical Commentary,⁷³ provides a substantially different tone and suggests a greater level of authority.⁷⁴ That the text was likely written for insiders also assists in understanding why certain changes to the genre form might have been made. Although quaestiones literature had a relationship with philosophical schools, it was regularly used to address concerns or problems raised by outsiders and not only as an educational text for pupils (e. g., Porphyry, Plot. 15).⁷⁵ Philo’s work addresses issues, but this does not appear to be the primary function of the work, which is to provide a deep and wide-ranging set of interpretations to Genesis and Exodus. This marked change from the original purpose of the genre indicates that Philo might be using a text form for related but atypical reasons. The selection of the quaestiones genre strongly indicates that this literary form was most suited to Philo’s intended purpose. Intentionally composing the Questions as a school text would account for the change in function (which would be different from using an established document for educational purposes) and allow for a literary form related to philosophic education to be adapted to a new, but related need.

 In the case of the philosophical haireseis there was considerable variation in the commentaries they wrote. D. T. Runia, “Philo of Alexandria and the Greek hairesis model,” VC 53 (1999): 117– 47 (130).  Runia, “Philo of Alexandria and the Greek hairesis model,” 130.  E. g., QG 3.11 and Her. 280 – 81; QG 1.18 and Leg. 2.9 – 10; QG 1.69 and Det. 57– 60.  Niehoff, Jewish Exegesis, 155 – 58.  The question and answer format to discuss scripture, however, was reportedly used in colloquia by the Therapeutae. Cf. Philo, Contempl. 75.

Philo’s Questions and the Adaptation of Greek Philosophical Curriculum

183

An important consideration when suggesting that the Questions is a school text is determining how it came to be and what role it might have played in the educational process. Although it is possible that Philo created all of the questions and answers himself, it is more likely that he drew many of them from a common reading tradition. We know from Philo that there were a number of Jewish exegetes and it is possible that Philo might have taken some of his questions and solutions from them.⁷⁶ It is also possible that Philo learned some of these questions and answers during his own education, making them part of a Jewish learning tradition. I would suggest that the origin of the Questions is a combination of these three options, although there is no specific evidence to provide certainty to this perspective. A related question is how the Questions was used in the classroom setting. Again we cannot be certain, but we can be sure that Philo as a teacher would have asked questions of his students and expected them to provide answers. It is very possible that Philo would have asked one of his students to exegete a passage and, if his student overlooked an issue, would have stopped him and posed him/her a question.⁷⁷ This procedure is not explicitly tied to a physical text of questions and answers, but would most likely be oral. It is possible, however, that the Questions might be a compilation of some/most of the questions raised in the class and possible answers to them and that Philo drew on this work later in his teaching career. Although we are not sure if Philo’s text had a specific role within the classroom, we do know that Philo’s Questions was used in this way by later readers. For example, Grigor Abasean’s classroom text, The Book of Causes, incorporates Philo’s Questions (along with select other treatises) as part of his Christian curriculum.⁷⁸ Although this example does not tell us how Philo might have used his text, it does show that other ancient readers saw it as compatible with educational curricula.

 E. g., Philo, Leg. 3.203 – 208; Conf. 190; Migr. 44– 45, 89 – 93; Somn. 1.39, 92– 102.  I would like to thank Greg Sterling for highlighting this point for me in a recent conversation.  The Book of Causes is explicitly divided into seven blocks: providence (Prov. 1– 2), creation (QG 1– 3), allegory (Leg. 1– 2), the lives of the patriarchs (Abr.), the appearance at Mamre (QG 4), the Exodus (QE 1– 2; Spec. 1.79 – 81, 131– 61; 285 – 345; Spec. 3.1– 7; Decal.; Spec. 3.8 – 63; Samp.; Iona; Deo), and contemplation (Contempl.). The treatises of De Sampsone and De Jona were wrongly attributed to Philo. For further discussion of this work, see M. E. Shirinian, “Philo and the Book of Causes by Grigor Abasean,” in Studies on the Ancient Armenian Version of Philo’s Works, ed. S. M. Lonbardi and P. Pontani, SPA 6 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 155 – 89. For an alternate, though somewhat similar reconstruction of the curriculum, see O. Vardazaryan, “The ‘Armenian Philo’: A Remnant of an Unknown Tradition,” Studies on the Ancient Armenian Version of Philo’s Works, 191– 216, esp. 199 – 200.

184

Sean A. Adams

Conclusion Overall, it is highly likely that Philo employed the question and answer format in his classroom and it is plausible (and I think likely) that Philo’s Questions could have been used as a school text in this regard, though there is no concrete evidence for this position. As we have seen above, there are examples of quaestiones literature being employed in educational settings, though not all of our extant examples have clear school associations. One of the reasons for viewing Philo’s Questions as a school text is its length and comprehensive nature. The examples of quaestiones literature provided by other ancient writers (e. g., Plutarch, Aristotle, Heraclitus) are much shorter than those of Philo’s and are not as systematic in their treatment of a text. This does not militate against the position that they are educational in nature, but it does place some distance between Philo’s texts and our other examples. Similarly, some of the aspects of Philo’s Questions, such as the inclusion of multiple, sometimes contradictory explanations, strongly suggest an educational purpose to the text. These notable differences suggest that Philo adapted a recognized aspect of Greek education to better meet the curriculum need for his (presumably) Jewish students. These findings also suggest other questions of Philo’s historical setting, such as: was Philo educated through the use of questions and answers? what was the relationship between Philo’s school and other education “institutions”? and is Philo’s approach representative of other Jewish learning communities in Alexandria and further abroad? Although we lack sufficient data to answer these questions fully, similar studies can help provide new perspectives on Philo and his school.

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia: Wisdom of Solomon, 4 Maccabees, and Philo Philosophy and religion are commonly understood to represent different realms of reality that have given rise to two contradictory modes of discourse. The tradition to think about them in antagonistic terms dates as far back as antiquity. Among the early representatives of the viewpoint, Tertullian is probably the most prolific example. He is herostratically famous for conjuring the incongruity between Athens and Jerusalem, between the disciple of Greece and of heaven (Apol. 46:18; De Praescrip. 7:9). Although he focused on the incompatibility between the Greek philosophical tradition and Christianity, his avowal has subsequently been taken as an epitome of the conflict between philosophy and religion in general. There have, of course, been prominent opposing voices like Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, to name just a few who have argued for the complementarity of (Christian) religion and (Platonic) philosophy, but in the contemporary scholarly debate the two traditions are generally understood to be hostile to each other. The conflicting nature between them was exacerbated during the Enlightenment, when religion came to be identified with superstition and irrationality, whereas philosophy came to designate rationality and human thinking par excellence. Here I shall argue that the time-honored dichotomy between the two trajectories is problematic when applied to the study of the ancient world.¹ In order to avoid misunderstandings I shall accentuate that I am not claiming that philosophy and religion were indistinguishable in antiquity. Yet, if we think of the them as being categorically different from each other already at the time of the emergence of philosophical discourse in ancient Greek culture, we are not only run-

 Cf. Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “What Has Apocalypticism to Do with Platonism?,” Apocalypticism and Mysticism. The Eight Enoch Seminar, Milano, Villa Cagnola, June 21– 26, 2015. See also my two essays “Plato’s Philosophy—why not just Platonic Religion?,” and “Philosophy, Religion, and Their Interactions in 4 Maccabees: Wie Alles sich zum Ganzen webt, eins in dem Anderen wirkt und lebt,” in Religio-Philosophical Discourses in Antiquity: From Plato, through Jesus, to Late Antiquity, ed. A. K. Petersen and G. van Kooten, Ancient Philosophy and Religion 1 (Leiden, Brill 2017), 9 – 36, 126 – 158. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-012

186

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

ning the risk of retrojecting an anachronistic point of view that stems from a considerably later stage in intellectual history onto antiquity but also of overlooking the close historical relationship between the appearance of philosophical discourse and other religious currents of antiquity. In the Western part of the world we are accustomed to think that the emergence of philosophy was a Greek phenomenon only; but such a view is demonstrably parochial. Simultaneous with the appearance of philosophical discourse in Greece a reflexive form of thinking in China developed. We need to take that into account as well. It is obvious that philosophical discourse came into existence partly in opposition to previous forms of religion from which it emancipated itself and against which it to some extent revolted. This transformation has often been designated as the transition from mythos to logos, but we need to be careful not to exaggerate the degree of revolt against previous forms of religion. Plato for instance took the dominant polis-religion of his day, involving prayers, sacrifices, temples, priests, etc., for granted. Rather than seeing him as engaged in an uncompromising attack on archaic religion, it is more appropriate to understand him as a religious reformer. By placing emphasis on the proper inner disposition as a prerequisite for engaging in prayers and partaking in sacrifices to the gods, Plato should be seen parallel to so many other religious reformers during the history of religion. That said, however, it is also fair to argue that Plato, thereby,—together with other exponents of axial age religion—came to pave the way for a type of religion that ultimately made animal sacrifice obsolete.² To focus the discussion on the emergence of philosophical discourse in ancient China and Greece, however, is also historically fallacious. In that case we would ignore a number of comparable developments that took place in the context of what we now understand as religion. A number of transitions that occurred in ancient India and Israel should also be included in those processes of cultural evolution among which the emergence of philosophy was only one. If we direct our attention exclusively on the emergence of philosophical discourse, we ignore that from an etic point of view ancient philosophy should also be thought of as religion which I—in continuity with Jeppe Jensen—take to constitute “semantic and cognitive networks comprising ideas, behaviors and institutions in relation to counter-intuitive superhuman agents, objects and posits.”³ From such a comprehensive perspective we shall be able to see striking resemblances between discourses that are understood as being different and opposing

 See Mark L. McPherran, “Platonic Religion,” in Blackwell Companions to Philosophy. A Companion to Plato, ed. H. H. Benson (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), 244– 259 (246).  Jeppe Sinding Jensen, What Is Religion? (London: Routledge, 2014), 8.

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

187

to each other. In the context of late Second Temple Judaism it may also help us to gain a better understanding of the emergence of philosophical discourse in a Jewish setting which has often been thought to represent a foreign element over and against previous and contemporaneous forms of Judaism. This may also give us a better grasp on the time-honored and ideologically loaded Hellenism-Judaism debate. The entailments of this discussion often amount to thinking of those Jewish texts that do not correlate with our pre-formed understanding of what a genuine religious Jewish text should be that they have succumbed to foreign influence. In the history of scholarship on late Second Temple Judaism, such a view does not only apply to particular texts and bodies of texts but also to cultural entities such as Alexandrian Jewry which frequently has been turned into a paragon of a Judaism falling victim to foreign influence and, thereby, renunciation of one’s true Jewish identity.⁴ The three texts I use in this essay are of a different nature. 4 Maccabees and the Wisdom of Solomon represent two concrete manifestations of late Second Temple Jewish identity, whereas Philo’s oeuvre constitutes a whole body of internally different kinds of texts, from political ones at the one end of the spectrum to philosophical and exegetical ones at the other end. In addition, whereas it is relatively easy to anchor Philo in terms of time and space, the two other texts represent floating signifiers in the sense that we know little about their exact provenance in terms of date, location of origin, and authorship. It is noticeable to see the feeble foundation on which scholarship has attempted to situate these two texts. Yet, instead of considering the diversity of the texts as problematic, it may be advantageous to look at them from a more comprehensive, theoretical perspective through which they all come out as different materializations of the transformation from archaic to an axial or post-axial age type of religion.⁵ We may discuss the appropriateness of designating Wisdom as a proper philosophical discourse, but the philosophically protreptic nature of 4 Macc and the philosophical tenor of Philo’s works are undoubtable. By being juxtaposed with Philo and 4 Macc, the slightly different nature of Wisdom may help us to gain a better understanding of what philosophical discourse implied in the centuries

 Anders Klostergaard Petersen “Alexandrian Judaism: Rethinking a Problematical Cultural Category,” in Alexandria. A Cultural and Religious Melting Pot, ed.G. Hinge and J. Krasilnikoff (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2009), 115 – 143 (128 – 35).  I prefer to restrict the use of axial age to the centuries from the seventh to the third century BCE, and to use post-axial pertaining to the subsequent centuries in which we also see an increasing merger between axial forms of religion with features belonging to the previous archaic stage. I use the term axiality to designate those elements in subsequent forms of religiosity which ultimately originated during the axial age.

188

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

around the beginning of Common Era. The alert reader will have noticed that I do not speak about Jewish philosophical discourse in the title of my essay but about Jewish paideia which has a broader ring to it. This widening of scope may also reduce our temptation to understand Philo’s work and 4 Macc as examples of a Jewish appropriation of Graeco-Roman philosophical thought. Ultimately, however, the debate pertaining to the relationship between different cultural entities cannot be solved by any close reading of the texts. It will have to be decided by the underlying cultural theory.⁶

Cultural Evolution and the Understanding of Culture Prior to approaching the chosen texts, I shall begin by taking a look at the theoretical perspective through which I shall illuminate them. Two elements are crucial. The first relates to the question of cultural evolution. The second regards the understanding of culture. Needless to say, it remains contentious to advocate a cultural evolutionary perspective given the strongly negatively loaded past of this view. Unlike previous forms of evolutionary thinking, however, I do not discuss it in light of either truth or ethics. I do not claim that one culture is superior to another in terms of truth, nor do I argue that one culture or type of culture is ethically better than another. I endorse the theory from an aesthetic perspective only, that is, with respect to the question of higher or lesser degrees of cultural complexity. In that regard, the contemporary discussion is not a resuscitation of the former debate; but it would be problematical and scholarly unsatisfactory if we are not able to make distinctions between different forms of culture in terms of complexity. The emergence of philosophical discourse introduced a form of thinking that, compared to previous types of religion, was more complex by virtue of the fact that it added onto them and yet was unthinkable without them. Similarly, the appearance of various types of Judaism subsequent to older and more archaic forms of Israelite religion was inconceivable without the existence of the precedents which in a simultaneous process they presupposed and against which they polemicized. To this I should add that nobody in the current debate is advocating a teleological, irreversible, and unilinear understanding of cultural evolution.

 Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “Reconstructing Past (Jewish) Cultures,” in With Wisdom as a Robe. Qumran and Other Jewish Studies in Honour of Ida Fröhlich, ed. K. D. Dobos and M. Kőszeghy (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 367– 383 (375 – 78).

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

189

First, things do not happen from the one day to the other. Changes take time. In fact, one may see the emergence of post-axial age cultures as a spread of axial age cultures to wider social segments. Secondly, it is not always certain that things move in one particular direction. A transition towards heno- or monotheism, for instance, may at a later time reintroduce polytheism at another level of cultivation as is evident from, for example, Roman-Catholic and Orthodox Christian worship of saints. New and vibrant research in the fields of cognitive science, neuropsychology, and evolutionary biology has made it inevitable for the humanities and social sciences to reflect upon the relationship between nature and culture and their interactions.⁷ Especially in the humanities we still tend to think of the correlation in a dichotomous manner as expressed in time-honored dualisms like nature and nurture, instinct and learning; but such a view is outdated. In current biology, epigenetics, cognitive science, and neuropsychology, scholars are advocating a new paradigm based on the insight that there are multiple levels of interacting influence, resources, and coactions between genes and behavior.⁸ In fact, even to think of culture as something different from nature is erroneous. We should understand it to constitute an inherent part of a biological continuum which implies a view of culture as genetically evolved psychological adaptations for learning from and teaching other people.⁹ I envisage that some colleagues will understand this perspective to result from a natural science usurpation of the humanities; but that would be a misunderstanding. In fact, an increasing number of scholars in the natural and social sciences now appreciate how culture can even exert influence on our genes, hormones, etc., just as there are cultural differences that amount to biological differences, but are not necessarily genetic differences.¹⁰ In terms of brain size, not much has changed during the past two million years according to Merlin Donald. He divides the evolution of humankind into a three-stage theory that allows for gradual transitions occurring between the four phases. The first decisive change took place when our bipedal apelike an-

 Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “The Indispensability of Cognitive Science for a Genuine History of Religion,” in Religion Explained? The Cognitive Science of Religion After 25 Years, ed. L. Martin and D. Wiebe (London: Bloomsbury Academic, forthcoming).  Robert Lickliter and Hunter Honeycutt, “Biology, Development, and Human Systems,” in Handbook of Child Psychology and Developmental Science. Volume 1. Theory and Method, ed. W. F. Overton and P. C. M. Molenaar (London: Wiley Blackwell 2015), 162– 207 (172).  Joseph Henrich, The Secret of Our Success: How Culture Is Driving Human Evolution Domesticating Our Species and Making Us Smarter (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016), 35.  Henrich, The Secret of Our Success, 263, 277 ff.

190

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

cestors acquired the ability to communicate via voluntary motor acts, that is, the transition from episodic to mimetic culture. The next significant transition took place with the emergence of mythic culture, approximately 500,000 years ago, and culminated when our predecessors, homo sapiens sapiens, obtained the ability to communicate by spoken language. The final crucial leap occurred only 40,000 years ago with the appearance of literate or symbolic culture which enhanced the possibilities of external memory storage considerably.¹¹ This biocultural evolutionary development has been a process of increasing acceleration that has not yet come to an end. Important in Donald’s theory, which constitutes the framework for Robert Bellah’s work on cultural evolution, is the insight that the modern mind comes forward as a hybrid structure built from vestiges of earlier biological stages as well as new external symbolic memory devices that have radically altered its organization. This has given rise to Bellah’s tenet pertaining to cultural evolution that “nothing is ever lost,” that is, nothing decisive.¹² Bellah’s and Donald’s assumption implies that all human culture should be understood in relation to and built upon older biocultural layers of memory. Implicit in their view is also the fact that cultural evolution is not of an irreversible nature. By virtue of being built on older strata, things may be rolled back, just as the cultural development Bellah envisaged is based on the Durkheimian idea that symbolic culture can only persist by means of the underlying layers. But what has this to do with the dissolution of the philosophy-religion dichotomy? Much, indeed, if the discussion is situated in the wider context of the emergence of axial age culture which denotes a profound intensification of theoretic culture. Thereby, much of the difference between philosophical and religious discourse fades away. The development in ancient Greece and Israel may be seen as embedded in larger and more widespread processes of transition that occurred in a number of Eurasian cultures from the seventh century BCE and onwards in China, India, Israel, and Greece. In China the change was personified by renouncers, social entrepreneurs,¹³ and thinkers like Laotse, Confucius, and later Mencius and Xunzi. In India the development was embodied by Gautama Siddharta and the subsequent evolution of the two non-brahminical currents Buddhism and Jainism as well as the broad and many-sided phenomenon which we

 Merlin Donald, A Mind So Rare. The Evolution of Human Consciousness (New York: Norton, 2001), 260 – 62.  Robert N. Bellah, “What Is Axial about the Axial Age?,” European Journal of Sociology 46/1 (2005): 69 – 89 (72, 83); and idem, Religion in Human Evolution: From the Paleolithic to the Axial Age (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press, 2011), xviii, 65.  Cf. Seth Abrutyn, “The Institutional Evolution of Religion: Innovation and Entrepreneurship in Ancient Israel,” Religion 45/4 (2015): 505 – 531.

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

191

classify as Hinduism. In Israel the transition was marked by the prophets and in Greece by the pre-Socratic philosophers and slightly later by Socrates and Plato. The development was not of an intellectual character only, but was dependent upon and fostered by socio-material evolution. As Jared Diamond has argued there were good reasons why the development took place in precisely this geographical area.¹⁴ Natural presuppositions contributed to social processes like growth in population density with related increase in urbanization, social stratification with enhanced status differentiation, scientific inventions and better exploitation of natural resources that simultaneously fostered new forms of thinking. Although these various intellectual emergences were individually very different, there are also conspicuous similarities between them. They all mark an important transition in terms of thinking with respect to previous forms of religion, which continued as dominant but at the same time were added the new types of discourses which led to continuous interchanges between the two in both positive and negative manners. There are eight key elements in the transition from archaic to axial age religions: 1) The latter exemplify the emergence of a “thinking about thinking.” Contrary to previous forms of religion, they pay witness to an increased degree of selfreflexivity formulated as second-order concepts and by the ability to look upon one’s own thinking from an ostensibly externally situated perspective. 2) They are built upon a foundational epistemology formulated in spatial categories. Differences between opposing views are projected onto a vertical structure expressed as the contrast between heaven and earth. Congruent with this dualistic staging is its projection onto an axis of depth, whereby the difference is articulated as a distinction between interiority and exteriority, soul and body, corresponding to the location of heaven and earth on the vertical scale. 3) The transition is frequently characterized by the development towards henoor monotheism, that is, a reduction of the divine pantheon of archaic types of religion. 4) They are typified by a strong awareness of the existence of rival claims to truth stemming from other worldviews that need to be denigrated in order to substantiate the truth of one’s own worldview. This also explains a transition to a higher degree of universalism and a downgrading of biological kinship.

 Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs and Steel. The Fates of Human Societies (London: Norton, 1997). See also Arnaldo Momigliano, Alien Wisdom. The Limits of Hellenization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 8 ff.

192

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

5) They enjoin their adherents to emulate the godhead to such an extent that they are understood to transgress the ontological differentiation between the divine and the human. Contrary to archaic types of religion, adherents of the axial forms are conceived to be transformed into the same material as the deity and in some cases to be translocated to the place of God. 6) They place emphasis on the element of askēsis, understood in the Greek sense of training. By engaging in self-exercises, imitators of the different axial worldviews undergo various forms of privations relevant to what they consider false values. At the same time they strive to inculcate the principles of their new worldview in order to embody them. 7) They testify to a shift in emphasis from immediate ritual observance of religion to various forms of inner disposition as a prerequisite for proper cultic observance. 8) The emergence of axial age religion took place in a situation of social competition involving religious entrepreneurs’ dissociation from the ruling elite —whether political or religious or both—and defiance against traditional kinship structures and political power. In light of these considerations the question of the relationship between philosophy and religion should not be confined to Graeco-Roman and Israelite culture only. We need to situate the development of the two types of discourse in the wider axial age context. Thereby, the dualism between philosophy and religion disappears, since the new axial age modes of discourse are preferably understood as alternative forms of cultural-evolutionary development in some ancient Eurasian religions. I shall now proceed to the second theoretical horn relating to the understanding of culture. What is important here is the break with an essentialized and homogenous concept of culture; but that does not render the notion superfluous. That culture is an intrinsic messy affair does not invalidate the need for a concept. In that regard, the notion of culture is not different from the concept of religion of which numerous modern scholars also would like to get rid.¹⁵ It is only on the premise that third-order concepts should be seen as one-to-one renderings of the phenomena they are meant to capture that they fall short. If, however, we acknowledge the philosophical aspiration underlying concepts, that is,  See Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013), 157– 59, for the problems relating to the use of religion as a first-order (secondorder in my terminology) concept. Throughout the book, however, one misses a clear-cut distinction between concept and phenomenon, just as Nongbri is incapable of distinguishing between second- and third-order concepts.

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

193

that they are meant to encapsulate a particular segment of reality, the problem of third-order concepts of culture and religion vanishes.¹⁶ We use concepts as maps to capture a particular area of the world, but as Jonathan Z. Smith in the wake of Korzybski has emphasized, we should not conflate map with territory.¹⁷ The concept of culture is not a given entity but is theory-dependent, wherefore we must explicate the underlying theoretical assumptions in order not to fall victim to prejudicial thinking about culture. I find it advantageous to think about culture in Peircian categories of infinite semiosis. Thereby, we shall simultaneously be able to account for a relative form of cultural stability and perpetual change, that is, a dynamic view of culture that allows for acknowledging persistence and continuity. Through such a lens, culture and religion (during most of human history the two have been identical. It is only during the last two centuries that religion in parts of the world has become a separate entity identifiable from the rest of culture) might be identified on the basis of a given number of signs that in a particular context appears as a configuration. The signs may appear in other cultural contexts as well, but it is on the basis of the sign patterns that they can be locally recognized as particular entities. The interpretants may vary widely across time and space, but they presuppose the same relationship between the sign and the object of which the sign is a sign of a particular type. One important consequence of this view is the abandonment of a static model of culture whereby cultural changes are understood in terms of influence or contamination. First, even the staunchest opponent of Greek culture in the ancient Jewish world was culturally and socially inevitably enmeshed in what he opposed.¹⁸ Secondly, the use of the notion “foreign” is always contextually bound. It relates to particular elements and clusters of signs within one’s own culture as well as that of the others. It never constitutes a comprehensive term that refers to the entire plethora of phenomena of the two cultures in question.¹⁹ Thirdly, the decision to identify something as the quintessence of a particular culture is deeply embedded in an ideological game which often conceals a yearning for genuineness, authenticity, and truth. Fourthly, there is no culture which is of an inherently intrinsic character, since any cul-

 Cf. Jensen, What Is Religion?, 7.  Jonathan Z. Smith, “Map is not Territory,” in idem, Map is not Territory. Studies in the History of Religion, SJLA 23 (Leiden: Brill, 1978), 289 – 309.  Cf. Gideon Bohak, “Ethnic Continuity in the Jewish Diaspora in Antiquity,ˮ Jews in the Hellenistic and Roman Cities, ed. J. R. Bartlett (London: Routledge, 2002), 175 – 192 (184).  Cf. Erich Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), ivx.

194

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

tural sign or clusters of signs infinitely may be deduced from previous chains of signs. These points may sound rather distant from the discussion of three ancient Jewish texts, but a modern example will demonstrate their relevance. The fast food chain McDonald’s originated in the United States in 1940. It came to Denmark in 1981, but due to its late introduction in Denmark should we understand it as an encroachment on Danish culture or due to its Danish location as part of Danish culture? After all, there are noticeable differences in food, service and employment conditions between McDonald’s in the US and in Denmark. Marshall Sahlins has endorsed the view that “cultures are largely foreign in origin, but distinctively local in pattern.”²⁰ On such an understanding, it becomes difficult to see the introduction of McDonald’s in Denmark as a surrender of Danish culture to foreign influence. By virtue of the same logic, however, the introduction of philosophical thinking in a Jewish context does not make these forms of Judaism less Jewish or a paragon of submission to foreign influence.

Wisdom, 4 Macc, and Philo as Jewish Paideia At long last, I have approached the discussion of the Jewish texts in question. How can we understand them to be involved in the transition from archaic to axial or post-axial forms of religiosity? How do the characteristics previously emphasized as pertinent to the difference between axial and archaic types of religiosity relate to them? Although Wisdom comes out as the least “philosophical” book of the three texts, it nevertheless pays witness to the transition that a number of Jewish religious currents underwent from the seventh century BCE onwards. In particular, it testifies to a form of Jewish sapiential thinking that is as much at home in streams of thought of Hellenistic paideia as it is in the traditional scholarly-reckoned types of Jewish wisdom. The text is replete with thoughts about God’s wisdom permeating the universe in a manner similar to Stoic notions of the pneuma pervading the universe. At the same time, it places strong emphasis on God’s creation of the world and human beings. Rather than playing these two currents of thought out against each other, Wisdom should be seen as an instantiation of cultural amalgamation. This can be seen from an etic point of view, but was hardly recognizable to the author and his intended audience. In terms of

 Marshall Sahlins, “Two or Three Things that I know about Culture,” The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 5/3 (1999): 399 – 421 (412).

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

195

genre, the book constitutes an encomium of wisdom, but this eulogy does not preclude that a great part of the text constitutes rewritten Scripture (Wis 10 – 19). Formally, the book—as an encomiastic invocation of wisdom—is directed to the rulers of the earth (hoi krinontes tēn gēn, 1:1, cf. 6:1 ff.). They are summoned to adopt the wisdom used by Solomon in his governing over Israel. In actuality, however, the intended audience consisted of learned Jews. They were encouraged to take wisdom as their governing principle and not to despair over experiences that seemingly defied their belief in God’s wisdom as the ultimate ruling principle of the world. The fact that the book aims to overcome this cognitive dissonance and strengthen the audience’s trust in God points to its philosophical character. The paideutic nature of the text is evident from Wis 3:1– 5. It encourages the recipients to adopt a heavenly yardstick in their interpretation of the world. At face value the righteous fare awfully. The unwise who are not in possession of the heavenly insight only see how the righteous die and fall victim to destruction. Readers who have gained wisdom, however, are capable of following the argument. It is only seemingly (edoksan, 3:2) that the righteous perish. In fact, they are in the hand of God and no torment shall touch them (3:1). Only in the sight of men (en opsei anthropōn), that is, unwise men, do the righteous appear to be punished. And even if they are chastised a little (kai oliga paideuthentes), they shall be endowed with great gifts (megala euergetēthēsontai), since God has proved them and found them worthy (3:5). This idea is subsequently elaborated on with respect to Israel, which in the same manner has been prone to sufferings, but by its reliance on God has overcome them (cf. 11:10; 12:22; 16:3). We are not far away from popular Graeco-Roman lists of sufferings and the Stoic notion of the sage as being especially prone to trials by the god. In a famous saying in his Discourses, Epictetus states that: “It is difficulties that show what men are” (I.24.1). He proceeds to say: “Consequently, when a difficulty befalls, remember that God, like a physical trainer, has matched you with a rugged young man. What for? someone says. So that you may become an Olympic victor (Olumpionikēs); but that cannot be done without sweat” (I.24.2).²¹ Stoic texts are full of such ideas about the sage being chastised by God in order that he may show his worth as a genuine sophos. ²² But even more foundational, with respect to the question of proximity between philosophical discourses and Wis LCL translation of Oldfather.  See Martin Ebner, Leidenslisten und Apostelbrief. Untersuchungen zu Form, Motivik und Funktion der Peristasenkataloge bei Paulus, FB 66 (Würzburg: Echter, 1991); and John T. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel: An Examination of the Catalogues of Hardships in the Corinthian Correspondence, SBLDS 99 (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1998).

196

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

dom, is the indirect injunction to the recipients to embrace a view that their share in heavenly wisdom will enable them to see through things in order to recognize their true nature (cf. 7:21 ff.). By means of such a gaze, the audience is enabled to penetrate beyond seeming reality and see the world and humans as they really are. The inculcation to adopt such a view runs as a red thread through all the texts under consideration. It is the basic epistemological scheme of 4 Macc, Philo’s philosophy, and Wisdom. Although this structure is not formulated in abstract language in Wisdom, the text, by virtue of this underlying logic, comes out as resembling philosophical texts proper. This is also seen in the correlation of the scheme with a parallel structure spatialized in the difference between human exteriority and interiority. The soul is congruent with the heavenly wisdom, whereas the body drags humans down towards this world: “For the perishable body weighs down the soul, and its frame of clay burdens the mind so full of thought” (9:15). It is the same structure that we find in Plato’s thinking. One may think of his famous Parable of the Cave in the opening of the seventh book of the Republic or the myth of the soul in the Phaedrus in which souls not capable of beholding true being will be weighed down and, by growing in heaviness, eventually lose their wings and fall to the ground (248c). In the Republic Plato recounts how a group of people since their childhood have been captivated in a cave. The interior of the cavern is located at considerable distance from the opening to the light outside. The captives have their necks and legs chained, so that their bodies are entirely locked and they can only look towards the end wall of the cave. Behind them a fire is burning, and between the fire and the prisoners there is an ascending path with a small wall across the cavern. At the other side of the wall, people are carrying different objects sticking up over the edge of the wall. The prisoners can only see the shadows reflecting the objects projected onto the back wall of the cave which they take for reality. At one point, however, a prisoner succeeds in liberating himself from the cave. He becomes seriously confused when realizing that what he previously understood to be reality constitutes a charade of shadows only. Although he is inclined to return to his former existence as captive, he continues to climb up the precipitous slope towards the opening of the cave, where he finally comes to see the sun. Although its radiance hurts his eyes, he realizes the deceit of his previous existence and feels pity for his former co-prisoners. Yet, when returning to the cavern in an attempt to convey his new insight to his fellow captives he is met by opposition and ridicule. Plato has Socrates explain to Glaucon that it is to the benefit of the city that the true philosopher devotes himself to enlighten those citizens who have not yet come to see the light. True education does not consist in the transmission

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

197

of knowledge but in turning the soul away from the visible world to the real world. The same line of thinking permeates Wisdom, 4 Macc, and Philo. It is indicative of the eight points I previously highlighted as pivotal in the transition from archaic to axial forms of religiosity. Wisdom also testifies to a form of thinking about thinking although it is not formulated in abstract language per se. Throughout the work wisdom constitutes the contrast to a deficient form of thinking that satisfies itself with identifying sense perceptions with true reality. Wisdom in contrast represents a heavenly view over an earthly one. The text conveys a strong monotheism that refutes the existence of other gods. Throughout the text there is a similar awareness of the existence of truth claims from rivalling worldviews which the book fervently denigrates to substantiate its own truth. It is replete with inculcations to the audience to emulate God’s wisdom, whereby they will finally obtain the same essence of God by being made immortal. 4 Macc exhibits a philosophical discourse which compared to Wisdom is located at a higher level of paideia, a fact also seen in the Greek language of the text. In terms of genre, 4 Macc represents the logos protreptikos, but it also borrows features from the encomium and the epitaphios logos. The protreptic discourse is aimed to document how reason is the master of the passions, and how reason ultimately is identical with the Torah.²³ Similar to Wisdom, the author of 4 Macc does not belong to any particular philosophical school. The text exemplifies the wider context of paideia commonly designated GraecoRoman popular philosophy. At the same time, the book exemplifies rewritten Scripture, since it rewrites the accounts of the martyrs in 2 Macc but transposes the narratives to a philosophical frame of reference. The rewriting takes a particular form in several rhetorically staged contests in which the author discursively plays out his understanding of the relationship between Jewish and gentile traditions. He often does this through concepts and narrative orchestrations full of pathos that belong to the Greek agōn-tradition. The sixth of the young men, for instance, shortly before his martyr death exclaims: “How sacred and seemly is the agony (hieroprepēs agōn) to which so many of my brothers and I have been summoned as to a contest in sufferings for piety’s sake, and yet we have not been vanquished” (11:20).²⁴ Correspondingly, the oldest of the brothers before his death encourages his brothers: “Imitate (mimēsasthe) me, my brothers,

 Cf. Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees, JSJSup 57 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 270 – 94.  I use Hugh Anderson’s translation in Charlesworth, OTP 2:531– 564.

198

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

do not become deserters in my trial nor forswear our brotherhood in nobility. Fight the sacred and noble fight (hiera kai eugenē strateia) for true religion (eusebeia) and through it may the just providence that protected our fathers become merciful to our people and take vengeance on the sacred tyrant” (9:23 – 24). The narrative staging of the agōn-motif serves to inculcate those virtues on the recipients which the author holds quintessential of the Torah; but they happen to be ascribed similar importance in Graeco-Roman popular philosophy. They are prudence (phronēsis), manliness or courage (andreia), endurance (hupomonē), justice (dikaiosunē), and temperance (sōphrosunē). The tyrant Antiochus’s dialogues with the future martyrs are an orchestration of a rhetorical agōn in which he and they metonymically represent paganism and Judaism. Interestingly for our topic, the book sometimes has recourse to staging the conflict as a confrontation between philosophy and Judaism. Already at the outset, the author rejects the idea that Judaism and philosophy are contradictory entities: “Highly philosophical is the subject (philosophōtatos logos) I propose to discuss, namely whether devout reason (ho eusebēs logismos) is absolute master of the passions (autodespotos tōn pathōn), and I would strictly counsel you to give earnest attention to my philosophical exposition (hē philosophia)” (1:1). The point of the book is to document how Judaism in the form of the Torah manifests the truest form of philosophy (cf. 5:22– 24). The use of encomiastic elements in the protreptic discourse of 4 Macc serves to encourage the audience to adhere to the Torah in the same manner as the martyrs held on to the Law as the means for obtainment and observance of the virtuous and god-fearing life. The noble deaths of the martyrs for the sake of virtue (aretē) have a close parallel in Plato’s use of Socrates and in Graeco-Roman popular philosophy.²⁵ Similar to Socrates who died for his conviction, obedient to the virtues to which he, according to Plato, devoted his life, the martyrs in 4 Macc die for their conviction. It echoes the famous maxim of Graeco-Roman philosophy attributed to Socrates: “Anytus and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot harm me” (cf. Apol. 30c-d; see 4 Macc 5:38). Figuratively speaking, it is not misleading to take the end of Gorgias and make it a description of the overall purpose of 4 Macc: “Let us, then, take the story as our guide which has made it clear to us that the best way of life (houtos ho tropos aristos tou biou) is to practice justice and every other virtue in life and death. Let us pursue this and exhort all men to follow, not in the way to which you put your trust and in which you exhort me to follow you; for that way, Callicles, is nothing worth,” and Antiochus, I hasten to

 Cf. David A. deSilva, 4 Maccabees, Guides to Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 80 – 97.

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

199

add (Gorgias 527e; cf. 508c-e; Epictetus, Disc. IV.1.123; Seneca, De Constantia 16.4). 4 Macc is a Jewish manifestation of Graeco-Roman moral philosophy. Through protreptic discourse the author summons his audience to embrace the Torah as the true philosophy. Confronted with rivalling worldviews that deny the Torah the status of superior philosophy and piety (eusebeia), the author strives to strengthen the recipients’ adherence and commitment to the Torah. He does so by documenting how the Torah is the means to master passions and by displaying the martyrs as an exemplum to be imitated. Ultimately, he asserts that the Torah is not only the truest but, in fact, the only true form of philosophy. Only when measured against Palestinian forms of Judaism does 4 Macc come out as less “Jewish”; but on the basis of my previous reflections on the concept of culture there is no reason to argue this. Like Wisdom, 4 Macc may appear to us as a cultural amalgam of different currents of thought, but to the author and his audience this, in fact, constituted true Judaism. With respect to the key elements characteristic of the transition from archaic to axial or post-axial age types of religion, several of them are present in 4 Macc. The book exemplifies a thinking about thinking already evident in its opening lines. Throughout the work devout reason is praised as the master of passions and constitutes the cognitive skill one should adhere to if one is not to fall victim to desires. Pious reason represents the heavenly perspective over the earthly one. True insight is available in the Torah only. Contrary to competing forms of philosophy, the Jewish law originates in and is given by God. Although it is not a prominent feature of 4 Macc, the text exemplifies monotheism in the sense that only the god of the Torah is understood to provide true insight. Throughout the book there is a strong awareness of rivalling worldviews that threaten the author’s worldview by appropriating the philosophical status he ascribes to his own. The textual and ideological world of 4 Macc is digital in the sense that there can only be one true worldview of the Torah. Everything else is false. Unlike its predecessor 2 Macc, 4 Macc does not advocate any prolific view on the transformation of the martyrs’ bodies into immortal beings. Although some verses might indicate such an understanding, it is noticeable that 4 Macc omits those passages in which 2 Macc endorse the idea of bodily afterlife (2 Macc 7:9, 11, 14, 23; cf. 14:46). 4 Macc, however, advocates a firm belief in the immortality of the soul (7:19; 9:8, 22; 13:13 – 17; 14:5 ff.; 15:3; 16:13, 25; 17:5, 12, 18; 18:23). In addition, the deaths of the martyrs are said to result in ransom for suffering, purification of the fatherland, propitiation for Israel, and peace for the people (1:11; 6:29; 17:22; 18:4). Similar to Wisdom, the inculcation to imitate plays an important role in 4 Macc. By emulating the martyrs’ uncompromising obedience to the

200

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

Torah, the recipients will experience deliverance from their bodies and transformation into immortal souls by God. Philo’s philosophical work is notably enormous, and it is impossible to do justice to it within the limited space of this essay. Therefore, I shall concentrate on the eight characteristics highlighted as quintessential for the transition from archaic to axial and post-axial types of religion. Additionally, I limit my exposé to one text which I consider paradigmatic for Philo’s oeuvre, that is, On the Migration of Abraham. ²⁶ By proceeding to Philo we are reaching the top of the philosophical scale of the Graeco-Roman world. His Middle Platonic philosophy is of a school and elite kind. Philo wrote different types of works in which scriptural exegesis, philosophical argument, and allegorical interpretations were deeply intertwined. We have his Exposition of the Laws of Moses of which the majority of books have survived. Additionally, there are his various Allegorical Interpretations which—although an infelicitous label given that his other works are permeated with allegorical interpretation as well—designate a group of writings focused on specific passages (mostly Pentateuchal) which he expanded into shorter essays on specific themes. Finally, there are his thematic works and the two political books, Against Flaccus and On the Embassy to Gaius. Here I confine myself to On the Migration of Abraham. It is not easy to gain an overview of the book, but essentially the text is an allegorical interpretation of Gen 12:1– 4, 6 on Abraham’s migration from Haran to Canaan. It consists of two main parts. The first is an interpretation of God’s speech to Abraham in Gen 12:1– 3 (1– 126), and the second consists of an exegesis of the journey 12:4, 6 (127– 255). The two parts have several subsections that relate to the particular units of the textual passage. Each of them is made the object of individual allegorization. By means of allegorical interpretation the book strives to demonstrate how Abraham’s journey from Haran to Canaan exemplifies a cognitive movement from sense-determined to genuine reasoning, thereby, projecting the Platonic epistemology onto a horizontal axis. According to Philo the progress was not only exemplary of Abraham’s migration but it also applies to scriptural narrative in general and is testified by the Exodus (14 ff., 44, 76), Laban (28), Isaac (29), Joseph (20, 203), Lot (13, 148), Jacob and Esau (15,; 214), Samuel and Saul (196), etc. In this manner Abraham’s migration is a condensed version of the scriptural story at the macro-level. The ultimate purpose of the book is to reveal  For discussion of the text with special emphasis on Philo’s polemic against the “radical allegorizers” (89 – 93), see my essay: “Filon som apologet—en læsning af De migratione Abrahami,” in Perspektiver på jødisk apologetic, ed. A. K. Petersen, J. Hyldahl, and K. Fuglseth (Copenhagen: Anis, 2007), 233 – 262.

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

201

the true meaning of Scripture and, thereby, to urge its recipients to embark on the same cognitive journey as the fathers from deficient to perfect understanding of reality. As is evident from several passages, there is also an important aspect of ethos that pertains to the journey (cf. 24, 53, 37, 70). Shortly before the second main part, Philo summarizes the essence of the book: Let us pray then that, like a central pillar in the house, there may constantly remain for the healing of our maladies the righteous mind (nous) in the soul and in the human race the righteous man; for while he is sound and well, there is no cause to despair of the prospect of complete salvation, for our saviour God holds out, we may be sure, the most all-healing remedy, his gracious power, and commits it to his suppliant (hiketēs) and worshipper (therapeutēs) to use for the deliverance of those who are sickly, that he may apply it as an embrocation to those soul-wounds which were left gaping by the sword-edge of follies and injustices and all the rest of the horde of vices. (124)²⁷

The idea is to move the audience to the point at which they, subsequent to their reading, will undergo the same cognitive transformation which the allegorical interpretation of the book unfolds. From the introduction Philo makes it clear that the wording of Gen 12:1– 3 allegorically describes God’s purification of the human soul which reflects the start towards perfect salvation (eis sōtērian pantelē). The presupposition for salvation consists in the cleansing of the soul from the body, sense-perception, and speech. The three injunctions on Abraham to depart from his country, his kindred, and his father’s house correlate to the three elements of which the soul shall be purged to obtain salvation. In section nine the injunction to depart from the body is repeated. The body is like a prison in which the soul is incarcerated by the lusts and desires of the imprisoner. Similar to 4 Macc and Wisdom, the recipients are enjoined to embark on a fight against desires in order to become true selves liberated from the elements that bind them to the illusory world.²⁸ The two subsequent sections correspondingly exhort the audience to leave behind sense-cognition represented by “your kindred” in order to take possession of one’s true property, that is to proceed beyond estrangement to return to one’s true haven in which the soul in noetic perpetual seeing of God rests in itself (cf. Philo’s self-depictions of his visions 34 ff.). There is nothing here and in the other sections that is not simultaneously found in important trajectories of contemporaneous moral philosophy. The only difference, crucial albeit, is

 The LCL translation of Colson and Whitaker.  Martha Nussbaum has identified the battle against desire (epithumia) as the core idea of Hellenistic forms of philosophy, see The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994).

202

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

that Philo, like Wisdom and 4 Macc, inscribes this system of values and its basic epistemology into the universe of meaning of Jewish Scripture. If we proceed to the end of the treatise, the concepts of the introduction reappear. As the creator is superior to his creation so the father is superior to his son, but the son shall obtain full growth under the protection of the father. The same applies to cognition which through continuous progress eventually shall reach the father of piety and holiness (194). When by noetic seeing cognition beholds things as they truly are and not as they appear to the senses, one has advanced as far as one possibly can in this world (191; cf. 34 ff.). At the same time the sight has practical consequences, since the progress also involves the soul’s compliance with the divine ordinances (131 ff.; cf. 55). Based on this cursory reading of the text, we shall briefly look at the eight elements underscored in relation to Wisdom and 4 Macc. How do they pertain to Philo? 1) In Philo there is an even stronger demonstrable emphasis placed on the element of thinking about thinking. 2) This form of self-reflexivity is also in Philo expressed in spatial categories which are projected both onto the vertical axis (the difference between the heavenly and the earthly or sense-determined view), the axis of depth (the differentiation between interior and exterior, soul and body), and the horizontal axis (Abraham’s journey from Haran to Canaan). 3) There is a strong acknowledgement of God as sole god. 4) Although it is not particularly prominent in On the Migration of Abraham, there is also in Philo a strong awareness of the existence of rivalling worldviews that need to be denigrated (cf. not least the polemic against the radical allegorizers in 89 – 93). 5) Also in Philo the idea that the adherents shall imitate the godhead to such an extent that they eventually transgress the ontological differentiation between the divine and human realms features prominently. 6) Adherents shall give up those elements that bind them to this world and engage in a form of cognition that unites them with the divine world, that is, ascetic training. 7) Philo places considerable emphasis on one’s inner disposition as a prerequisite for relating to God. 8) Although originating in elite Alexandrian Jewry, by his engagement in philosophy Philo represents a religious entrepreneur promoting a form of religion dissociated from the ordinary one.

Conclusion Due to constraints of space I have had to condense an argument that requires considerably more elaboration. Yet, I hope to have indicated some reasons for abandoning the time-honored dichotomy between philosophy and religion when applied to the ancient world. From an etic point of view, philosophy con-

Dissolving the Philosophy-Religion Dichotomy in the Context of Jewish Paideia

203

stituted a sub-category of religion. That does not preclude philosophical criticism over and against other forms of religion, but it is pivotal to understand that this criticism was formulated from the perspective of what we, from a contemporary scholarly view, interpret as religion. On the basis of biocultural evolutionary considerations, which have long been neglected, if not directly disavowed, in the humanities and social sciences, we have noted how the emergence of philosophical discourse in ancient China and Greece closely resembles parallel developments in the field of what we are more accustomed to think of as religion proper, in the context of ancient Indian and Israelite religion. In that regard, the three textual examples chosen here for comparison may be advantageous in opening our eyes to a greater fluidity and blurriness between what we commonly understand as philosophical and religious discourses in the ancient world. The examples represent different locations on the scale of ancient Jewish paideia. By their share in Graeco-Roman philosophical traditions, these texts have frequently been understood as a surrendering of Judaism to foreign culture or exemplifying a Graeco-Roman veneer fundamentally determined by an underlying Jewish foundation. Contrary to such a view, whether formulated as “Judaism light” and “Hellenism heavy” or, alternatively, “Hellenism light” and “Judaism heavy,” I endorse—in the wake of Sahlins—an understanding of culture according to which it is predominantly foreign in origin but distinctively local in pattern. Thereby, I avoid the problematical game of making the gain of Hellenism a loss of Judaism and vice-versa. Although the Jewish textual manifestations looked upon here closely resemble traditions found in Graeco-Roman philosophy may appear to us as a form of cultural blending, they were hardly understood in this manner by their adherents. Rather, they were conceived to represent the truest forms of Judaism. The examples are representative of three highly specific and internally different manifestations of Jewish paideia. Although it may be difficult to designate Wisdom as philosophy proper, it reflects the same fundamental epistemological structure that we find in the genuine philosophical discourses. The text constitutes a borderline phenomenon that enables us to see the ambiguity pertaining to our distinction between philosophy and religion with regard to the ancient world. Yet, the text testifies to several of the characteristics highlighted as particularly prominent in the transition from archaic to axial religiosity. When we proceed to 4 Macc, we find a philosophical protreptic discourse aimed to demonstrate how devout reason is the master of passion, and how this reason finds its only true expression in the Torah. Similar to the results of Wisdom, 4 Macc pays witness to key features in the transition from archaic to axial and postaxial age religiosity. Unlike the Philonic corpus, however, 4 Macc is not an

204

Anders Klostergaard Petersen

elite philosophical text belonging to a particular school, but rather one that should be ascribed to the more elusive category of popular philosophy. At the same time, it is representative of a form of philosophy located at a higher point on the scale of Jewish paideia than Wisdom. With Philo we reach the highest point of paideia not only in the Jewish but also in the Graeco-Roman world. Philo was a school thinker who exemplifies a Middle Platonic stance. Given the diversity and immenseness of his philosophical and exegetical oeuvre, I have chosen to concentrate on On the Migration of Abraham which in terms of worldview I take as representative of his work in general. In this text we have found several of the same characteristics as in Wisdom and 4 Maccabees. The three examples point to the blurriness and ambiguity of the philosophyreligion dichotomy in the Jewish context. By their share in Graeco-Roman philosophical traditions they force us to dissolve the traditional dualism between philosophy and religion in the wider context of the ancient world. Philosophical discourse was intrinsic of Graeco-Roman paideia, but this paideia was deeply enmeshed in what we, from an etic, third-order perspective, understand as religion. However, it is representative of the type of religion that developed with the transition from archaic to axial age types of religion and beyond. Therefore, the eight characteristics featured in this transformation may also be found in the predominant forms of Graeco-Roman philosophy like Platonism and Stoicism. Finally, we have observed how all three examples testify to a relationship with Graeco-Roman paideia that does not detract from their Jewish character. The use of paideutic traditions in the examples do not in any way make them less Jewish.

David A. deSilva

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia: Facets of the Formation of a Hellenistic Jewish Rhetor The author of 4 Maccabees famously praises education in and practice of the Jewish Torah as the kind of παιδεία (4 Macc 1:15 – 17; 5:23 – 24) that produces people of the highest virtue, embodiments of the Greek ideal of the virtuous person —the person of καλοκἀγαθία (1:10; 3:18; 11:22; 13:25; 15:9) and ἀρετή (1:8, 10; 7:22; 9:8, 18, 31; 10:10; 11:2; 12:14; 13:24, 27; 17:23), the person who walks in line with the cardinal virtues of justice, courage, moderation, and prudence (1:18; 5:23 – 24).¹ This study explores rather the author’s own experience of παιδεία, examining the “effects” visible in the text known as 4 Maccabees that plausibly point to a “cause,” namely the Jewish author’s experience of a formal education reflective of the curriculum typical of Greek education in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. It is this formative education that allowed his work to be such a “remarkable creation, in which the Greek philosophy current in the Roman empire … blended with a parade of rhetoric and a serious Jewish ideology.”² This study seeks to create a profile of the author in terms of his level of education as a case study in the degree to which one member of an ethnic subculture was formed by the kind of training associated with the formation of citizens of a Greek city while still remaining explicitly committed to the convictions, practices, and cultural knowledge of his ethnic subculture.

Mastery of the Greek Language The author of 4 Maccabees has had enough training in Greek grammar and syntax to demonstrate absolute mastery of the language. He does not write as one who has acquired Greek as a second language. His Greek is free from Semitisms, the exception being “giving glory” (δόξαν διδούς) in 1:12, a Septuagintalism and

 An earlier version of this paper appeared in BBR 26 (2016): 501– 531. The author wishes to thank his colleagues at the Fifth Nangeroni Meeting for their suggestions and criticisms, on account of which this is hopefully a stronger analysis.  Tessa Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 111. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-013

206

David A. deSilva

an echo of Jewish liturgical expression.³ He writes periods exhibiting the complex subordination of clauses rather than the paratactic sentence structure typical of those who lack facility in Greek or have acquired it imperfectly as a second language.⁴ His text includes a striking number of hapax legomena (e. g. μιαροφαγῆσαι, 5:3; ἀντιρρητορεύσαντα, 6:1; περιαγκωνίσαντες, 6:3; παθοκρατεῖσθαι, 7:20; προσεμειδίασεν, 8:4; ἀντεφιλοσόφησα, 8:15) many of which may be neologisms as they reflect common patterns of formulating new compound words, demonstrating again his level of facility in Greek.⁵ He also uses poetic forms (like προυφάνησαν for προεφάνησαν in 4:10), and makes frequent use of the optative mood against the general trend of moving away from such forms in favor of the subjunctive mood.⁶ Dupont-Sommer could therefore claim with justification that “Notre auteur s’est exprimé en grec et il a pensé en grec.”⁷ The level of his language suggests not only successfully undertaking primary and secondary studies in grammar, but also extensive reading in Greek literature, such that its subtleties were internalized through broad acquaintance with its exemplary writers. This is not to suggest that the author is himself a model stylist, by any means, but rather that he has learned to imitate a broad array of linguistic skills and syntactic structures from model stylists.

Mastery of Elementary Exercises in Composition The author gives evidence of having been trained in the elementary exercises in composition that were introduced toward the end of secondary education and the beginning of tertiary education.⁸ The details concerning these elementary exercises survive in several training manuals (Progymnasmata), notably those of

 R. B. Townshend, “The Fourth Book of Maccabees,” in The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament. Volume II: Apocrypha, ed. R. H. Charles (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913), 653 – 685 (667); A. Dupont-Sommer, Le Quatrième Livre des Machabées (Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 1939), 57; S. K. Stowers, “4 Maccabees,” in The HarperCollins Bible Commentary, ed. James L. Mays (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000), 844– 855 (845).  Urs Breitenstein, Beobachtungen zu Sprache, Stil und Gedankengut des Vierten Makkabäerbuchs (Basel/Stuttgart: Schwabe, 1978), 177– 78.  Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 57– 58; Breitenstein (Beobachtungen, 28 n.2) lists 26 hapax legomena.  Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 59; Breitenstein, Beobachtungen, 53 – 56; on vocabulary and style, see further Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 57– 66.  Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 57.  H. I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity, trans. by George Lamb (New York: Mentor, 1964), 238 – 241.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

207

Aelius Theon (a rhetor from Alexandria active in the late first century CE) and Hermogenes (a rhetor from the late second century CE).⁹ These manuals incidentally correspond quite closely to the descriptions of the elementary exercises found in Quintilian, Inst. 2.4, suggesting a certain universality in regard to this portion of the curriculum at least from the Eastern Mediterranean as far as Italy. The skills and forms of writing learned at this stage would become the building blocks of prose composition and, thence, declamation for the course of a speaker’s lifetime. 4 Maccabees reflects just such a foundation.

Narrative The most basic exercise in the Progymnasmata is the recounting or invention of a fable in the style of Aesop and others. The author of 4 Maccabees makes no use of fables in this particular text, so we have no direct evidence that this would have been part of his curriculum, though we also have no reason to doubt it.¹⁰ Nevertheless, the first elementary exercise that has made a discernible contribution to the author’s skill set is the “narrative” (διήγημα), the ability to recount an episode (whether mythical, fictitious/dramatic, historical, political, or private) with clarity, conciseness, and credibility.¹¹ Hermogenes distinguishes between the creation of a narrative episode (a διήγημα, the schoolbook exercise) concerning “one thing” (i. e., event) and a narration (a διήγησις), referring to a longer narrative work concerned with “many things.” One gets the impression from Hermogenes’s analogous distinction between a “poem” (ποίημα) like the “Making of the Shield” (Iliad 18), “Descent into the Underworld” (Odyssey 11), or “Killing the Suitors” (Odyssey 22) and a “poetic work” (ποίησις) like the Iliad or the Odyssey, that the ability to craft a narration (a διήγησις) is essentially the ability to craft a series of related narratives (διηγήματα) and bind them together into a larger whole.¹² 4 Maccabees contains extensive narration which represents a skillful deployment of the more basic skills of writing episodes (“narratives”), vivid description

 Translations are readily found in George A. Kennedy, Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 1– 88.  We should not surmise that, as a Jewish author, he would have had no use for the fable in general; even the apocalyptist who wrote 4 Ezra invented a fable in the course of his writing (i. e., the fable of the forest and the waves of the sea in 4 Ezra 4:13 – 19).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 2.4 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 75); Theon, Exercises 5.79 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 29).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 2.4 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 75).

208

David A. deSilva

(“ekphrasis”), and ethopoeia (“speech in character”). As an individual narrative —and one that remains disconnected from the longer narration created by the martyr episodes—we might consider the author’s retelling of the story of David’s thirst (4 Macc 3:6 – 18). The episode has all the essential elements of a narrative identified by Theon: the person (David); the action done by the person (suffering an irrational craving, yet nevertheless pouring out the drink as a libation); the place where the action was done (army encampment); the time at which it was done (evening, after a long day of battle); the manner of the action (the various actions of the narrative); and the cause of these things (natural thirst from heavy exertion, the workings of irrational desires, piety). According to Theon’s rubric (“a complete narration consists of all of them and of things related to them and one lacking any of these is deficient”), the author would have scored high marks.¹³ A close comparison of this narrative and the classical sources on which it is based (2 Sam 23:13 – 17; 1 Chr 11:15 – 19) also shows the author’s creativity in regard to his retelling of the episode, shaping it to serve the argumentative ends to which he puts the story.¹⁴ The author also shows his ability both to abridge and to expand narratives in his retelling of the narration of his source. He conflates characters and developments in order to state more concisely episodes that are of secondary importance to his oration (providing an abridged version of 2 Macc 3:1– 6:17), while amplifying and embellishing that part of the story that is most germane to his topic (providing expansive retellings of the episodes constituting 2 Macc 6:18 – 7:42). The episode of David’s thirst is also a noteworthy expansion of the story as known from the older, classical texts.

Ekphrasis Within his creation of narratives, the author of 4 Maccabees also exhibits facility in ekphrasis, the vivid description of a scene. A good ekphrasis “should almost create seeing through the hearing.”¹⁵ The scene could be static, as in the ekphrasis of the Shield of Achilles in Il. 18.478 – 608, or dynamic, as in the depiction of an action. The author of 4 Maccabees gives significant attention to bringing the

 Theon, Exercises 5.78 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 28).  See D. A. deSilva, “‘And Not a Drop to Drink’: The Story of David’s Thirst in the Jewish Scriptures, Josephus, and 4 Maccabees,” JSP 16 (2006): 15 – 40.  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 10.23 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 86); this is also stressed in Theon, Exercises 7.119 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 47): “The virtues of an ekphrasis are as follows: most of all, clarity and a vivid impression of all-but-seeing what is described.”

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

209

scenes before the eyes (and other senses) throughout his work. His engagement in ekphrasis is particularly evident when his material is compared with that of his source. David was then in the stronghold; and the garrison of the Philistines was then at Bethlehem. David said longingly, “O that someone would give me water to drink from the well of Bethlehem that is by the gate!” (2 Sam 23:14– 15 NRSV) David was attacking the foreigners all day long, killing many of them with the help of his nation’s soldiers. When evening came, he returned to the royal tent, drenched with sweat and completely exhausted. Now the whole army of his nation was encamped around him, and all the others were having supper. The king, however, was extremely thirsty. Even though there were plentiful springs of water in the camp, he was unable to satisfy his thirst from them. Instead, he was utterly possessed by an irrational desire for the water in the camp of the enemy. (4 Macc 3:7– 11)

Here the author of 4 Maccabees carefully describes the scene, provides a credible motive for David’s thirst (the “cause” being an important feature of the exercise in “narrative”), and adds vivid details about the king’s being “drenched with sweat and completely exhausted” from a day in battle and about the layout of the camp and its surrounding terrain. The Three broke through the camp of the Philistines, and drew water from the well of Bethlehem that was by the gate, and they brought it to David. (2 Sam 23:16) Two strong, young soldiers, embarrassed for the king on account of his desire, put on their armor, grabbed a pitcher, and went out behind enemy lines. They sneaked past the guards at the gate and began searching through the whole camp. They found the spring and boldly carried off a drink for the king. (4 Macc 3:12– 14)

Again the author (aside from also supplying a motive) creates a more vivid picture of the soldier’s preparation and movements through the enemy camp on the way to their objective. But David would not drink of it; he poured it out to the Lord. (2 Sam 23:16 NRSV) But David, even though he was on fire with thirst, understood the terrible danger that this drink, being of equal value to the blood of the men who risked their lives to fetch it, posed to his soul. Wherefore, setting reason against desire, he poured out the drink as a libation to God. (4 Macc 3:15 – 16)

The author adds the vivid detail of David being “on fire with thirst” as he performs his pious act of honoring God with the drink as a libation (incidentally also representing the king’s speech in the original as a paraphrase in the form of David’s mental deliberations; cf. 2 Sam 23:17).

210

David A. deSilva

Of course, it is the scenes of torture wherein the author’s facility in ekphrasis fully and famously emerges.¹⁶ Despite the amount of space devoted to Eleazar in 2 Maccabees, that author said very little about the nature of his torments: “he … went up to the rack of his own accord, spitting out the flesh” (2 Macc 6:19); “he went at once to the rack” (2 Macc 6:28); “when he was about to die under the blows” (2 Macc 6:30). Compare to this the author of 4 Maccabees’ portrayal of Eleazar’s torments: The soldiers who were standing by hauled him off to the instruments of torture. First they tore off the old man’s clothes, though he remained decently clad in his mindfulness of God. They tied his arms behind him and began to flog him from both sides while a herald kept calling out, “Obey the king’s orders!” But Eleazar, that noble-minded and virtuous man, experiencing the truth in his name, was not shaken from his resolve. He seemed to experience the tortures as if in a dream. The old man kept his eyes raised toward heaven, while the whips tore into his flesh, shredded his sides, and released fountains of blood. His body fell to the ground because of the unendurable pain, but he kept his mind upright and unbending. One of the pitiless guards rushed up to him and starting kicking him in his side to make him stand up again. But Eleazar bore up under the pains, rose above the attempts at coercion, and endured the tortures. … His face drenched in sweat and gasping for air, he amazed even the torturers by his unyielding spirit. (4 Macc 6:1– 9, 11)

The author of 2 Maccabees is more generous with details concerning the sufferings of the first few sons than he was in regard to Eleazar. After the seven were subjected first to “torture with whips and thongs” (2 Macc 7:1), The king fell into a rage, and gave orders to have pans and caldrons heated. These were heated immediately, and he commanded that the tongue of their spokesman be cut out and that they scalp him and cut off his hands and feet, while the rest of the brothers and the mother looked on. When he was utterly helpless, the king ordered them to take him to the fire, still breathing, and to fry him in a pan. The smoke from the pan spread widely, but the brothers and their mother encouraged one another to die nobly. (2 Macc 7:3 – 5)

After this the author again becomes more sparing. Regarding the second, he relates that “they tore off the skin of his head with the hair” (7:7) and that “he in turn underwent tortures as the first brother had done” (7:8). Regarding the third, we are told only that “When it was demanded, he quickly put out his tongue and courageously stretched forth his hands” (7:10). No details are given in 2 Maccabees of the manner of tortures applied to the fourth through seventh sons (except

 Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 63 – 65 especially highlights 4 Macc 9:19 – 20; 10:5 – 8; 15:14– 21 as examples of ekphrasis.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

211

the vague statement in regard to the latter that “the king … handled him worse than the others,” 2 Macc 7:39). The author of 4 Maccabees has clearly exercised his ingenuity in his descriptions of the varied tortures experienced by the first six brothers (9:10 – 11:27), once again giving significant attention to the level of detail that would qualify these episodes as exhibiting ekphrasis: They spread fiery coals below him. They fanned the flames and tightened the wheel even more. By this point, the wheel was covered in blood, the burning coals were being extinguished by the drippings, and chunks of flesh were falling off the axles of the machine. Even with all the ligaments of his bones severed, the high-minded young man did not cry out. (4 Macc 9:19 – 21) They put on iron gloves equipped with sharp claws and bound the young man to the torture device. … The leopard-like beasts ripped out his muscles with their iron claws, tore his flesh all the way up to his chin, and scalped him. (4 Macc 9:26, 28) They used instruments to pull his hands and feet out of joint, and pried his arms and legs out of their sockets. Then they broke his fingers, arms, legs, and elbows. For all this, they weren’t strong enough to break his resolve, so they put away their tools and tore off his scalp in the Scythian way—using their fingernails. Then they dragged him to the wheel. As they were pulling his spine apart, he saw his own flesh falling off his bones and his blood flowing out. (4 Macc 10:5 – 8) The guards tied him up and dragged him to the “catapult.” They forced him down onto his knees, bound him to the machine, and fitted iron clamps on his thighs. They began to work the wheel, drawing him backwards around a wedge until he was curled back all the way like a scorpion. With all his bones pulled out of joint, gasping for air and racked by pain in his body, he said. … (4 Macc 11:9 – 12) When he said this, they marched him up to the wheel. They stretched him tight upon him until his back broke, and they roasted him from underneath with fire. They skewered his back with sharp spits heated in the fire, piercing his ribs and burning through his organs. (4 Macc 11:17– 19)

The author’s motive in employing ekphrasis in these scenes of torture is, of course, to assist the shuddering audience to begin to fathom what is truly possible for them to withstand where piety and virtue are at stake, and thus to understand the depth of virtue and moral firmness that training in the Torah nurtures. The mother is a major character in 2 Maccabees as in 4 Maccabees, but the former tells only of her bravery (2 Macc 7:20), her encouragement of her sons in general (2 Macc 7:21– 23), her encouragement of her last surviving son (2 Macc 7:25 – 29), and her death (“Last of all, the mother died, after her sons,” 2 Macc 7:41). Here the author of 4 Maccabees shows his greatest inventiveness, for every detail concerning the mother’s sufferings is his own creation. He accom-

212

David A. deSilva

plishes this chiefly by combining the seven episodes narrated in 4 Macc 9:10 – 12:19 into a single, accumulated experience, presenting before the readers/hearers the scenes that the mother herself witnessed and the impact that these scenes had upon her: She looked on as her children’s flesh was eaten up by fire, their fingers and toes scattered all over the ground, the flesh of their faces down to the chin torn off like masks. How terribly that mother was being tested, experiencing pains far worse than the labor pains she suffered for them! … You did not cry out when you looked into each one’s eyes, transfixed upon their own agonies, or when you saw on their faces the signs of approaching death. You did not burst into tears when you saw the burnt flesh of one child piling up on the burnt flesh of the others, severed hands upon severed hands, severed heads beside severed heads, remains piled up on remains, nor when you gazed out at the crowd of spectators that had gathered to witness your sons’ sufferings. The children’s voices calling out to their mother from the midst of their agony held her attention more powerfully than the Sirens’ singing or the song of swans capture their hearers’ attention. How many, how great, then, were the torments that this mother suffered, while her sons were being tortured by the wheels and hot irons?! (4 Macc 15:15 – 16, 19 – 22)

The author also creates a window into the mother’s inner turmoil through a vivid and figurative depiction of “her soul … as a courtroom, and many frightfully persuasive voices were speaking out—nature, family, parental love, and the instruments of torture set out for her children. This mother held two ballots in her hand: the first sentenced her children to death, the second brought deliverance for them” (4 Macc 15:25 – 26). The author of 4 Maccabees may thus be justified in his confidence in his abilities in regard to bringing scenes powerfully before the eyes and impacting the audience’s senses through ekphrasis: “We shudder even now as we merely hear about the trials of these young men. They, however, looked on; they heard the word of threat directed against their own selves; they had to endure these sufferings first hand, even the agonies of being burned by fire” (4 Macc 14:9). Indeed, audiences still squirm when attentively reading or hearing the text.

Elaboration of a Chreia or a Maxim The exercise known as elaboration or ἐργασία was particularly important in terms of teaching students the basic gamut of argumentation.¹⁷ After a brief in-

 Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 3.6 – 4.10 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 77– 78; compare Rhet. Her. 4.43.56 – 4.44.57); Theon does not treat this exercise as systematically, although the

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

213

troduction to or commendation of the saying or its originator, the student offers a statement of the chreia or maxim and then proceeds to support the speech (or the appropriateness of the action in “action chreiai”) with a rationale for the saying or action, an argument from the contrary, an argument from analogy, an historical example, and a supportive quotation from ancient authority before offering a concluding statement or exhortation. There would be little incentive for a mature speaker to reproduce a complete schoolbook elaboration in the course of a larger speech (though some authors have been found to include this, as, for example, Heb 12:5 – 11).¹⁸ Nevertheless there are several passages in 4 Maccabees where the author appears to have used the beginning of the elaboration pattern as a means of “getting his start” in regard to new sections. The opening paragraph exhibits something of this pattern: 1:1– 2 states the maxim upon which the author intends to elaborate, amplifying the importance of this subject for his hearers (the equivalent of a brief word of praise or other commendation); 1:3 – 4 offers an expanded restatement of the maxim; 1:5 introduces an objection that allows a statement from the contrary (“reason does not master those passions”) and a restatement of the position in the positive (“but reason masters these passions”). Similar patterns may be seen at transitions from martyr narratives to encomiastic reflections on the martyrs. 4 Maccabees 6:31– 33 follows the pattern of a statement of the thesis (6:31), statement from the contrary (6:32), and two restatements of the thesis with embedded rationales (6:33, 34). 4 Maccabees 13:1– 3 provides a statement of the thesis, argument from the contrary (using a mixed contrafactual conditional sentence), and restatement of the thesis. One can readily find the author using other building blocks taught in the “elaboration” exercise throughout his oration. Central is his use of historical example: Joseph (2:2– 3); Moses (2:17); Aaron (7:11– 12); Jacob (2:19 – 20); David (3:6 – 18); Abraham and Isaac (13:12; 16:20); Daniel (16:21); the three youths (13:9; 16:21); the martyrs themselves (1:7– 8; 6:1– 35; 7:16 – 23; 8:1; 9:10 – 13:5; 14:11– 12; 15:11– 28; 16:1– 4). He also employs, with surprising reserve, quotations from ancient authority (2:5 – 6; 17:19; 18:14– 19). He does not appear to utilize true arguments from analogy, though he does employs a rich variety of analogies qua

basic elements are also present in his treatment of the chreia and the thesis (Exercises 3.101– 102, 11.121– 125 [Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 19 – 23, 55 – 59]).  D. A. deSilva, “How Greek Was the Author of ‘Hebrews’?” in Christian Origins and GrecoRoman Culture: Early Christianity in Its Hellenistic Context, 2 vols., ed. Stanley Porter and Andrew Pitts (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 1.629 – 650 (651– 655), offering some correctives to the earlier analysis in B. L. Mack, Rhetoric and the New Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 77– 78.

214

David A. deSilva

simile or metaphor, which may often function as compressed arguments from analogy (agriculture: 1:29; government: 2:22– 23; athletics: 3:5; 6:10; 11:20; 12:14; 14:5; 15:29; 16:16; 17:11– 16; nautical images: 7:1– 3, 5; 15:31– 32; military images: 7:4, 24; 11:22, 27; 13:13, 16; architecture: 13:6 – 7; 17:3; musical and dramatic images: 13:8; 14:3, 7– 8; judicial images: 15:25 – 28; 16:16; astronomical images: 17:5; cultic images: 6:28 – 29; 17:21– 22). Rationales and other signs of enthymematic-argumentative reasoning in 4 Maccabees are too numerous to list.

Common-places (τόποι or κοινοὶ τόποι) The exercise involving “common-place” is not an element of demonstration (for example, that so-and-so committed murder) but rather of elaboration (so-and-so being [allegedly] a murderer, what more can be said about so-and-so). The elaboration depends more upon the type than the particular instance, with the particular instance (so-and-so) being painted in all the colors of the type (murderer).¹⁹ According to Hermogenes, elements of amplification might include a proem (a generalization about the type), presentations of the contrary (e. g., in the case of a murderer, the provisions of the law for the safeguarding of life or the virtues of saving a life) to make the case at hand seem all the more vicious (or virtuous, if common-place is used to praise), comparisons, etiology (how the subject came to be the person now before us, whether good or bad), relevant maxims, appeals to emotions (e. g., arousing indignation or emulation), and final topics (the legal, the just, the beneficial, the possible, the appropriate).²⁰ Theon directs the student to amplify the common-place by dwelling upon the moral choice of the doer, the magnitude of the action, the consequences to others and themselves, comparison, analysis of the parts of the crime or achievement, arguments from opposites (if the opposite action merits honor, this action merits punishment or shame), and opinions of ancient authorities.²¹ The author’s presentation of the brothers and their love for one another, of the mother and her affection for her children, and even of the martyrs in general might be seen to develop facets of common-places. The portrait of harmonious siblings, loving mothers, and brave philosopher-sages had become quite well es-

 Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 6.12 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 79); see also Theon, Exercises 6.106 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 42– 43).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 6.12– 14 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 80 – 81).  Theon, Exercises 6.107 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 44– 45).

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

215

tablished, even stereotyped, by the time of the composition of 4 Maccabees.²² Here we will dwell only on the author’s presentation of Antiochus IV as a tyrant—a type so well known it is even listed by Theon as an example.²³ Lucian of Samosata provides a snapshot of the stereotypical tyrant in “The Downward Journey, or, the Tyrant.” The charges on which the tyrant Megapenthes is arraigned before Minos for eternal judgement (Cat. 26) are almost all applied to Antiochus IV in 4 Maccabees. He uses his position to enrich himself (4 Macc 4:16 – 17); he corrupts boys, here not sexually, but morally (4 Macc 8:12– 14), trying to lead them away from the way of life so carefully instilled in them by their parents (cf. 4 Macc 18:10 – 19);²⁴ he exudes pride and haughtiness (4 Macc 4:15; 5:7, 9 – 11; 9:30; 12:11– 14); he uses enticements to undermine resistance (4 Macc 8:7; 12:5);²⁵ he is savage in his invention of tortures (4 Macc 10:16; 11:23; 18:20);²⁶ and he overturns the long-respected laws and customs of the lands he rules (4 Macc 5:27).²⁷ Amplification of this common-place proceeds more along the lines prescribed by Theon in his exercises than those prescribed by Hermogenes. The author speaks of the consequences of Antiochus’s tyranny, not least in his destruction of a state of stable order and peace under Onias III (contrast 4 Macc 3:20 with 4 Macc 4:16) and in his execution of nine virtuous people (not to mention the other martyrs passed over briefly in 4 Macc 4:23 – 25). In the voice of the youngest brother, the author engages in something like amplification based on a consideration of the parts of the crime that Antiochus IV has perpetrated in this arena:

 Seen especially in regard to the author’s presentation of the first two types in comparison with Plutarch’s treatises “On Brotherly Love” (De fraterno amore) and “On Affection for Offspring” (De amore prolis).  “Topos is language amplifying something that is acknowledged to be either a fault or a brave deed. It is of two kinds: one is an attack on those who have done evil deeds, for example, a tyrant, traitor, murderer, profligate; the other in favor of those who have done something good: for example, a tyrannicide, a hero, a lawgiver” (Theon, Exercises 6.106 [Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 42– 43]). On the depiction of Antiochus as a stereotypical tyrant, see Bernard Heininger, “Der böse Antiochus: Eine Studie zur Erzähltechnik des 4. Makkabäerbuchs,” BZ NF 33 (1989): 43 – 59, esp. 50 – 53.  Heininger (“Der böse Antiochus,” 52) reminds us, however, that the brothers’ handsome appearance does not escape Antiochus’s notice (4 Macc 8:3 – 5).  This trait emerges earlier in Lucian’s satire (Tyrant 11).  On the use of torture by tyrants, who rely on force rather than legitimate authority, see Seneca, Ira 2.23.1; Thucydides, Hist. 6.57.4; Aristotle, Ath. pol. 18.4; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 9.26, 58 – 60; Cicero, Tusc. 2.52; Lucian, Phal. 11– 12; Cat. 26; and Heininger, “Der böse Antiochus,” 50 – 51.  On this last trait, see Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. rom. 4.41.2; Xenophon, Mem. 4.6.12; and Lucian, Tyr. 10. The restoration of law that follows the death of tyrants also notably follows the martyrs’ defeat of Antiochus (4 Macc 18:4).

216

David A. deSilva

he has disregarded the common humanity that ought to bind him with his subjects, such that he can brutalize them without feeling (4 Macc 12:13); he has similarly disregarded the greater power of Providence that ought to combat arrogance and excess in the exercise of power (4 Macc 12:11). Elevating his own authority to the highest level, the tyrant treats piety and obedience to laws long regarded to be divine as something worthy of torture and punishment, when it ought rather to be honored, making himself the “enemy of virtue” rather than its enforcer, as a good ruler would be (4 Macc 9:15; 11:4– 6). In this regard, we may find elaboration not only from the topic of moral choice, but also from the topic of the opposite: if a good ruler would honor the pious Judeans for their commitment, Antiochus must be a vicious ruler indeed for punishing them for the same. The attention the author gives to Antiochus’s motives for action also contribute to the amplification of his tyranny, all the more as he is repeatedly shown to be driven by his passions—his unmeasured, emotional responses, to the stimuli in Judea (4 Macc 8:2; 9:10 – 11).

Encomium and Syncrisis An encomium involved “an exposition of the good qualities of a person or thing, in general or individually” or “language revealing the greatness of virtuous actions and other good qualities belonging to a particular person.”²⁸ It was a particularly useful exercise, as public speakers could count on giving full-fledged encomia throughout their careers. The author of 4 Maccabees, indeed, considers himself to be writing a text that is part “demonstration” of a thesis (ἐπιδείκνυσθαι, 1:1; ἀπόδειξιν, 3:19) and part encomium, offering a “praise” of the highest virtues (ἔπαινον, 1:2) and “praising” the nine martyrs who embodied the verity of the thesis (ἐπαινεῖν, 1:10). If the subject of the encomium was a person, Theon directed the student to develop any laudatory traits under several headings. A person’s “external goods” or qualities would be praised first, including “good birth, … education, friendship, reputation, official position, wealth, good children, a good death.” This would be followed by the “goods of the body,” which include “health, strength, beauty, and acuteness of sense,” and by “ethical virtues,” which are the “goods of the mind and the actions resulting from these; for example, that a person is prudent, temperate, courageous, just, pious, generous, magnanimous, and the

 Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 7.14 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 81); Theon, Exercises 9.109 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 50).

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

217

like.” Attention is then given to “fine actions,” which are “those done for others rather than ourselves; and done for the sake of the honorable, not the expedient or the pleasant; and in which the toil is that of the doer but the benefit is common; and through which the populace experiences benefits and which are done for benefactors and even more for those who are dead.” Noble actions include those “actions … beyond what was characteristic of his age.” These “actions and successes” are to be discussed in such a way as exemplifies the specific virtues possessed and evidenced in action by the subject, even being arranged under the headings of the virtues.²⁹ The author of 4 Maccabees includes many of these elements as he praises the martyrs (as well as recounts their trials in ways that redound to their credit). We learn of Eleazar’s good birth (as a member of the priestly line, 7:6, 12), his education (5:23 – 24), his reputation (5:18; 6:18), and his official position and altruistic use of his office (7:6, 8). The author praises the soundness of Eleazar’s mind for its steadfastness in virtue in the face of torrents of pain (6:7; 7:1– 5) and the strength of his body, renewed in youthful vigor by “right thinking,” despite his physical age (5:31; 7:13 – 14). Eleazar is thus praised for “actions … beyond what was characteristic of his age.”³⁰ He is a model of the virtue of courage, particularly in the form of endurance (6:5, 9 – 11, 13, 17); of justice, honoring the commitments of the ancestors and the demands of piety (5:20 – 21, 29, 33 – 34); and of living and dying consistently with the values that he had praised throughout his lifetime (5:35 – 36; 7:9). His death may have been a degrading one in the estimation of Antiochus, but the author speaks of it as a noble death and a crowning deed in a life well lived: it is a death endured to benefit others by providing an example of courage in the face of coercion (6:18 – 19) and offering to God the obedience that might turn God’s wrath against the nation to mercy (6:27– 29), contributing thus to the overthrow of the tyrant and purification of the homeland (1:11; 17:20 – 21; 18:4– 5). The seven brothers and their mother are also praised in regard to many of the typical, specific topics of encomia, particular in connection with the virtues that their stalwart resistance unto death demonstrates.³¹ Syncrisis is an exercise in which students perform an extended comparison between one subject and another, chiefly for the purpose of demonstrating the

 Theon, Exercises 9.110, 112 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 50 – 52).  The Greek here (ἡλικία) is as ambiguous as the English translation: age as “period of life” or age as “epoch.” Marrou (Education, 273) understands this as “period of life,” to judge from his representation of this topic as “old head on young shoulders” in his outline of Theon’s prescriptions for an encomium.  See, further, D. A. deSilva, 4 Maccabees (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 76 – 98.

218

David A. deSilva

honor of the subject through favorable comparison with another, honored figure. It is closely related to the exercise in encomium since it also “proceeds by use of encomiastic topics” and since “the best source of argument in encomia is derived from comparisons, which you will use as the occasion may suggest.”³² The author of 4 Maccabees does not engage in any well-developed syncrises, but he does use brief comparisons as appropriate within encomium.³³ Thus Eleazar merits comparison with Aaron (7:11– 12); the brothers’ courage is comparable to that of Isaac, Daniel, and the three young men as they all faced death for the sake of God’s commands (13:9 – 10, 12; 16:20 – 21); the mother shows fortitude equal to that of Abraham (14:20; 15:28) and also of Daniel and the three (16:3). These brief syncrises work in two ways: they show that the subjects of the encomium have not “fallen short of the fair fame of … their sires” (Quintilian, Inst. 3.7.10), and also that they stand as “part of a long, glorious tradition which showed the extraordinary character” of the citizenry to which they belong—here, notably, the citizenry of the Jewish people.³⁴

Ethopoeia (Prosopopoeia) The exercise in ethopoeia involves the “introduction of a person to whom words are attributed that are suitable to the speaker and have an indisputable application to the subject discussed; for example, What words would a man say to his wife when leaving on a journey? Or a general to his soldiers in time of danger? Also when the persons are specified; for example, What words would Cyrus say when marching against the Massagetae? Or what would Datis say when he met the king after the battle of Marathon?”³⁵ The exercise could focus on displaying the character of the speaker (an ethical ethopoeia), the feelings of the speaker

 Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 8.19 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 83); idem, Preliminary Exercises 7.17 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 82).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 8.18 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 83). See also Theon, Exercises 8.111: “It is not without utility also to make mention of those already honored, comparing their deeds to those of the persons being praised” (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 51).  On the parallels between 4 Maccabees and Athenian funeral orations, see J. W. van Henten, “The Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People,” in Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective, ed. M. Lamberigts and P. van Deun (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1995), 303 – 322 (308).  Theon, Exercises 8.115 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 47); similarly, Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 9.20 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 84). Unlike Theon, who treats all such exercises under the heading of “prosopopoeia,” Hermogenes observes a distinction between ethopoeia and prosopopoeia: “in ethopoeia we imagine words for a real person, in prosopopoeia we imagine a non-existing person” (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 84).

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

219

(pathetical ethopoeia; “for example, what Andromache would say over the dead Hector”), or both.³⁶ The speech must be crafted in such a way as to be appropriate to the speaker in regard to many variables—age, social status, occupation, gender, frame of mind, nationality, audience, occasion, and subject.³⁷ The author’s genius shines through in his ability to create speeches appropriate to his characters. He expands considerably upon his source in this regard,³⁸ crafting a number of ethopoeiai: 1. A speech by Antiochus urging Eleazar to acquiesce to eating pork (5:6 – 13). 2. A speech by Eleazar refuting Antiochus’s exhortations and arguments (5:16 – 38). 3. A speech by Antiochus urging the seven brothers to acquiesce (8:5 – 11, 14). 4. A hypothetical speech in which the seven brothers accept Antiochus’s arguments (8:17– 26). 5. A speech by the seven brothers rejecting Antiochus’s exhortation (9:1– 9). 6. A hypothetical lament by the mother, having been bereaved of her children (16:6 – 11). 7. A speech by the mother inciting her children on to fidelity in the face of death (16:16 – 23). 8. A second speech by the mother recalling her own virtue and the lessons her husband taught their children (18:7– 19). The narratives are also strewn with briefer instances of speech-in-character (Antiochus: 12:3 – 5; Counselors: 6:14– 15; Eleazar: 6:17– 23, 27– 29; one or another of the brothers: 9:15, 17– 18, 23 – 24, 29 – 31; 10:2– 3, 10 – 11, 14– 16, 18 – 21; 11:2– 6, 12, 14– 16, 20 – 27; 12:8, 11– 18; 13:9 – 18; guards: 6:4; 9:16; 10:13). It is immediately evident to the reader or hearer that all of these speeches are appropriate to the occasion and situation in which they are imagined being uttered. The author is also careful to make them “age-appropriate” (for example, Eleazar speaks as a man with the majority of life-experience behind him; see 5:31, 33 – 34, 36; 6:18 – 20; while the brothers give voice to their awareness of standing much nearer the start of life, and also from within a certain birth order; see 8:20, 26; 9:2, 6, 18; 10:2; 11:14– 15, 24). The mother’s hypothetical lament would be recognized as a “pathetical” ethopoeia, depicting through speech the emotions of the speaker; the other instances are all largely “ethical” ethopoeiai,  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 9.21 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 85); Theon (Exercises 8.117) also recognizes these as principal foci (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 49).  Theon, Exercises 8.115 – 116 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 47– 48); Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 9.21 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 85).  See the comparative tables in Breitenstein, Beobachtungen, 92– 93.

220

David A. deSilva

reflecting the character of the speakers in large measure in the display of their decision-making processes and the values that serve as “final topics” in those processes. Character is also displayed in how the speaker addresses or assesses those to whom he speaks. For example, Antiochus’s arrogance is evident in his dismissive attitude toward a foreign way of life that he does not take the trouble to understand (5:7, 9 – 11). Several of the longer speeches incidentally reveal the author’s facility in crafting basic deliberative speeches (speeches promoting or dissuading from a particular course of action). Standard deliberative topics overlap with the “final topics” of the Progymnasmata, as is evident from Theon’s advice concerning the creation of a hortatory ethopoeia: “In exhorting, then, we shall say that what we are urging is possible and easy and noble and appropriate; that it is beneficial, just, reverent—and the latter is of two sorts, either toward the gods or toward the dead—; that it is pleasant; that we are not the only ones doing it or the first … if dissuading we shall use the opposite arguments.”³⁹ The lists of categories of persuasion (or motives of choice) in advanced handbooks on rhetoric and ethics overlap with this list to various degrees. Aristotle, for example, identified the noble, beneficial, and pleasant (καλoῦ συμφέρovτoς ἡδέoς) as the considerations that moved people to choose a course of action, while the shameful, harmful, and painful (αἰσχρoῦ βλαβερoῦ λυπηρoῦ) dissuaded people from a course of action (Aristotle, Nic. Eth. 1104b31– 32). Anaximenes expanded this list to that which is right (δίκαιov), lawful (vόμιμov), expedient or beneficial (συμφέρov), honorable (καλόv), pleasant (ἡδύς), easy (ράδιov), feasible (δυvατόv), and necessary (ἀvαγκαῖov; Anaximenes, Rhet. Alex. 1.1421b21– 1422b12). In his protreptic deliberative (in Greek, symbouleutikos, or “advisory”) speeches, Antiochus gives advice (συμβουλεύσαιμ᾽ ἄν σοι, 5:6) relying on the topics of what is pleasant (5:9; 8:5, 8), just (5:9), advantageous (5:11; 8:6 – 7), and necessary (5:13; 8:14; “necessary” reflects the same Greek root as those words frequently translated as “compulsion” or “coercion” in 4 Maccabees).⁴⁰ In their rebuttals—and since Eleazar is really addressing the crowd (ἤρξατο δημηγορεῖν, 5:15) as well as Antiochus, his is also a protreptic speech in favor of remaining steadfast in the Jewish way of life—Eleazar and the seven brothers invoke the

 Theon, Exercises 8.116 – 117 (in Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 48 – 49).  Antiochus’s assurance of forgiveness by the Deity for sins committed under compulsion emerges by analogy with how violations of laws are treated by human authorities, who “punish and exact redress from those who do evil except when it is done under compulsion” (Aristotle, Nic. Eth. 1113b24– 29; see also Rhet. 1.10.3, which limits “injustice” to voluntary violations of law).

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

221

topics of the “just” (5:20 – 21, 29, 34; 9:1b),⁴¹ the “honorable” (5:18, 27– 28, 35; 6:18 – 21; 9:2), the “necessary” (5:16), the “lawful” (5:27; 9:1, 4), and the virtuous, particularly the courageous (5:31– 32, 37– 38; 6:21; 9:5 – 6), as well as the advantageous, where advantage is reckoned in terms of eternity (9:8 – 9). The appeals to examples invoke implicitly the topic of not being the first to be called upon to undertake such a course of action (13:9, 12; 16:20 – 21). The mother notably appeals to the topic of what is just in her protreptic speech to her sons (repaying their divine Benefactor for the gift of life, 16:18 – 19; keeping faith with their Benefactor, 16:22). Within his evident facility in the exercise of ethopoeia, therefore, the author also shows himself adept in the confirmation and refutation of a hypothesis, here specifically of deliberative hypotheses, perhaps a sign of higherlevel training in rhetoric.⁴²

Thesis One of the more advanced of the progymnastic exercises is the proposition and confirmation of a thesis. In this exercise, the student takes up a question, whether theoretical (e. g., “whether or not the gods exist,” “whether the sky is spherical”) or practical (e. g., “whether one ought to marry,” “whether one should teach rhetoric”), and argues for or against.⁴³ The subject is “viewed apart from any specific circumstance; for thesis seems to take the place of a general piece of advice, not directed to any specific person but with quite general application to any person.”⁴⁴ The position taken (especially in regard to practical theses) is then supported by arguments appealing to the principal “final topics” or “final headings”— those values upon which decisions tend to be made. Among these, Hermogenes

 Preserving “ancestral customs and institutions and the established laws” was identified as a component of justice (Aristotle, Vir. 5.2), as was honoring one’s obligation to his nation (here, by preserving it from disgrace, 4 Macc 5:18; also by keeping faith with the agreements made by one’s ancestors, 4 Macc 5:29, 33 – 34; see Rhet. Her. 3.3.4; Aristotle, Vir. 5.2; Josephus, B.J. 7.357).  The “hypothesis” differed from the “thesis” in that the latter was general (e. g., whether war was an advantageous or justifiable policy) while the former was specific (e. g., whether we, the Athenians, should go to war with Sparta on this particular occasion). See Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 11.24– 25 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 87).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 11.25 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 87). On “theoretical” versus “practical” theses, see also Theon, Exercises 11.121 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 56).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 11.24 (in Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 87); see also Theon, Exercises 11.120 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 55).

222

David A. deSilva

lists “justice, advantage, possibility, appropriateness.”⁴⁵ Theon gives a more extensive sampling, listing arguments “from what is necessary and what is noble and what is beneficial and what is pleasant,” as well as “what … is possible, … is in accordance with nature and according to the common manners and customs of all mankind, is easy, and … is just. Then that it is reverent; this is twofold, either pleasing to gods or to the dead. Next that it is necessary, … honorable, … profitable, … contributes to security, … that it is pleasant, and that if it is not done it brings regret and it is hard to correct the omission.”⁴⁶ Refutation of a position comes from the opposites. Theon instructs the “more advanced student” to further develop his supporting arguments using the judgments of “famous men, poets and statesmen and philosophers” as well as proofs from historical examples.⁴⁷ The confirmation of a thesis can become quite the advanced exercise, as the student may also “compose amplifications and digressions as the parts of the thesis permit” as well as “make use of emotions and characterizations and exhortations and nearly all the kinds (ἰδέαι) of discourse.”⁴⁸ Particularly if the thesis is a “practical” one, “at the end there will be exhortations” to allow that thesis to impact one’s audience’s commitments and practices in meaningful ways.⁴⁹ In terms of its form, 4 Maccabees is straightforwardly the confirmation of a thesis, executed very much in line with (although at a greatly advanced level in regard to) the progymnastic exercise. The opening sentence states the author’s position and uses the specific language of demonstration: “I am about to prove (ἐπιδείκvυσθαι) a supremely philosophical principle, namely that God-centered thinking is absolute master over emotions and cravings” (1:1), the descriptor “pious” or “God-centered” (ὁ εὐσεβὴς λογισμός) providing a key element in this thesis.⁵⁰ Historical examples provide the lion’s share of proof for the truth of this proposition. Joseph’s mastery of lust (2:1– 4), Moses’s mastery of anger (2:16 – 18),⁵¹ David’s mastery of his craving (3:6 – 18), but above all the martyrs’ mastery  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 11.25 – 26 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 87).  Theon, Exercises 11.121– 122 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 56 – 57).  Theon, Exercises 11.122 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 57).  Theon, Exercises 11.128 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 61).  Hermogenes, Preliminary Exercises 11.26 (Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 88).  The language of demonstration recurs at important junctures in the work (τὴv ἀπόδειξιv, 3:19; ἀπέδειξα, 16:4).  Moses’s example is balanced by an “argument from the contrary” focused on Simeon and Levi’s failure to control their anger—if they had not been capable of exercising control (if it were not possible for pious reason to master the passions), Jacob would have been wrong to curse their anger (2:19 – 20).

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

223

of fear, pain, and natural love of life and one another (5:1– 17:6) demonstrate that the proposition is “possible” or “feasible,” even if not “easy.”⁵² The author returns to the thesis after recounting each history of martyrdom (6:31– 35; 7:16 – 23; 13:1– 5; 16:1– 4),⁵³ exploring also the relevance of each specific example for his thesis (e. g., the ability of pious reason to master the emotions of fraternal affection in 13:19 – 14:1 or love for offspring in 14:13 – 20; 15:4– 10, sections that include [relevant] “digressions” developing those particular emotions). From another perspective, the fact of God’s commandments concerning covetousness— rendered in Greek more baldly as “you will not desire …” (οὐκ ἐπιθυμήσεις, 2:5, 6, reciting Exod 20:17; Deut 5:21)—demonstrates the thesis to be “possible,” the unstated premise being that God would not command what is impossible to perform. The author also employs the topic of “appropriateness” in 4 Macc 2:21– 23 vis-à-vis the manner of God’s design of the human being, this being a Jewish equivalent of the topic of being “in accordance with nature.” Major constellations of topics, however, fall under the headings of the “noble” or “honorable” and the “advantageous” or “beneficial.” The thesis that the author treats is not essentially a theoretical one (though it may seem thus from the statement in 1:1), but rather a practical one: “we should pursue the Torah-nurtured piety that allows our rational faculty to master emotions, desires, and sensations.” This is evident above all from the exhortation (appropriate for the development of the “practical thesis”) that stands at the climax of the speech, following the author’s most effusive praise of the exemplars of the thesis: “Israelite children, all you who have been born from Abraham’s stock, obey this law and give God his due (“exercise piety,” εὐσεβεῖτε) in every situation,

 4 Maccabees 3:19 – 17:24 provides the “narrative demonstration” (3:19) of the philosophical thesis, which is precisely the function of the martyr stories for which the author prepares the audience in his exordium (1:7– 12). See Klauck, “Exordium,” 461– 64; J. W. van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviors of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 69; and Stowers, “4 Maccabees,” 844– 845.  Scholars of a previous generation might regard the two parts of 4 Maccabees (i.e., 1:1– 3:18 and 3:19 – 18:24) as originally separate units (a “philosophical discourse” and an “encomium”; so J. C. H. Lebram, “Die literarische Form des vierten Makkabäerbuches,” VC 28 [1974]: 81– 96 [82– 83]) or treat them as functioning essentially independently (so Breitenstein, Beobachtungen, 132– 33; Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 19). Such views ignore the author’s explicit claims about how the discursive and narrative sections will work together (1:12), as well as the obvious signs of the integration of the two parts in passages such as these. Scholars who understand the book as a unified whole include P. D. Redditt, “The Concept of Nomos in Fourth Maccabees,” CBQ 45 (1983): 249 – 70 (262– 63); H.-J. Klauck, 4 Makkabäerbuch, JSHRZ 3.6 (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1989), 648; van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 69; deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 25 – 28, 46 – 49; and Stowers, “4 Maccabees,” 844– 45.

224

David A. deSilva

knowing that God-centered thinking is the master of the emotions, not only of cravings and feelings arising from inside, but also of sufferings inflicted from outside” (18:1– 2). The martyrs’ own deliberations (see discussion above under “ethopoeia”) align with the thesis of the just course of action (the course that renders to one’s benefactors—here, the Divine Benefactor—what is due, and that honors the commitments previously made when doing so becomes costly), the courageous course of action (the course that endures hardship for the sake of virtue or noble ends), and the wise course of action (the course that weighs relative advantages and disadvantages correctly, here in terms of temporary versus eternal losses and gains).⁵⁴ The author’s encomia upon the martyrs for their choices, their commitments, and their endurance function to commend the thesis (qua life-principle) on the basis of the “honorable” in terms of that which leads to a praiseworthy remembrance. The author has indeed skillfully combined many “kinds (ἰδέαι) of discourse” (ethopoeia, encomium, digression) in his demonstration of his thesis.

Contradiction (or Refutation) Theon lists contradiction (ἀντίρρησις) at the end of his Progymnasmata as an exercise for “advanced students.”⁵⁵ As its name suggests, this exercise sets the student to creating “a discourse that attacks the credibility of another discourse” by showing the latter to be “unseemly or inexpedient or inopportune” and by formulating arguments in refutation of those in the discourse being undermined.⁵⁶ Eleazar’s first speech is clearly conceived of as such a refutation, the author referring to it using a neologism fashioned from the name of the exercise: “When Eleazar had in this manner refuted (ἀντιρρητορεύσαντα) the counsels of the tyrant …” (4 Macc 6:1). Eleazar answers the material in Antiochus’s discourse point for point. The king had twice called into question the value of Judaism as a viable philosophy (“you do not seem to me to think like a philosopher as long as you embrace the Jewish religion,” 5:7; “Wake up from your foolish philosophy!” 5:11). Eleazar refutes the claim by explaining the formational fruit of the Torah-observant life in terms of the virtues of its practitioners (5:22– 24). Antiochus claimed that the

 This last point is especially foregrounded in 13:14– 17; 15:2– 3, 8, 27.  Theon, Exercises 17; Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 72.  Kennedy, Progymnasmata, 72.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

225

Jewish law involves its adherents in acts of injustice against nature (by rejecting her bounty, 5:8 – 9). Eleazar refutes this claim by calling attention to the source of the Torah being the Creator of nature (5:25 – 26), and thus all the more able to determine what is “suitable” for God’s creatures (thus what alignment with nature really looks like). Antiochus appealed to his power to exert compulsion (5:13); Eleazar more nobly retorts that “nothing [is] more compelling than our obedience to the law,” with the result that he will not accept any excuse to transgress (5:16 – 17). Antiochus urges Eleazar to “take pity on [his] old age” (5:12); Eleazar rejects this appeal as an insufficient excuse to tear down the ancestral law by his own actions (5:33 – 35). It is thus a complete “refutation,” leaving no element of Antiochus’s case unanswered, and evidence of a firm grasp even of this exercise on the part of the author.

Indications of rhetorical training beyond the Progymnasmata The author reflects a degree of training that falls beyond the scope of the Progymnasmata. Some of these skills may reflect education not “beyond,” but rather simply indicate “outside” these preliminary exercises at the secondary level. However, it seems on balance more likely that some of these features do, in fact, reflect post-secondary education. The author is skilled in the use of several literary devices that might more properly be learned as facets of “style” at an advanced stage of training, though it remains possible that the author learned these inductively from material read at an earlier stage. These include the use of metaphor and simile, particularly in the encomiastic sections of his discourse (e. g., the figure of the ship in a tempest, 7:1– 3; 13:6 – 7; 15:31– 32; the athletic contest, 6:10 – 11; 17:12 – 16; the besieged city, 7:4; architectural figures, 17:3);⁵⁷ the device of apostrophe (5:34– 35; 7:6 – 7, 9 – 10, 15; 11:20; 14:2– 3, 7; 15:1, 13, 16 – 17, 29 – 30; 16:14; 17:2, 4– 6);⁵⁸ the figure of “correction” (“O how bitter that day was, and not bitter,” 18:20), the latter phrase correcting first impressions about the carnage and horror with a reminder of the praiseworthy remembrance and the eternal honor and life granted to the martyrs as a result of that day. Of special interest is the author’s familiarity with devices such as the proposed epitaph in 17:9 – 10 and other topics reminiscent of the Athenian funeral  Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 65; Breitenstein, Beobachtungen, 129.  Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 61.

226

David A. deSilva

oration (the ἐπιτάφιος λόγος), a form of encomium not discussed in the Progymnasmata. ⁵⁹ Alongside typical encomiastic elements, these commemorative addresses often highlight the heroes’ liberation of the homeland from tyranny or its threat,⁶⁰ urge the audience to cherish their own laws rather than submit to the laws of any other group, and contrast the short span of mortal life with the eternal praise that the virtuous receive.⁶¹ The proposition of a suitable epitaph to commemorate the fallen is a defining feature of the genre (see Demosthenes, Or. 60.1; Lysias, Or. 2.1). Each of these features is apparent in 4 Maccabees as well (1:11; 17:2, 5, 8 – 10, 20 – 21; 18:1– 2, 4– 5).⁶² More clearly indicative of education at the tertiary level is the author’s knowledge of the conventions of “arrangement” in terms of the construction of a complete speech (i. e., beyond the scope and length of a secondary-level exercise). The opening twelve verses have been shown to possess all the necessary qualities of a formal exordium.⁶³ The author states his principal theme, providing the “keynotes” of the speech (1:1; cf. Aristotle, Rhet. 1414b), employs amplification to augment audience attention and contribute to rendering them “willing, attentive, and docile” (1:1b-2; see Quintilian, Inst. 4.1.5), and prepares the hearers for the blend of ἐπίδειξις (“demonstration”) and ἔπαινος (“praise,” “encomium”) that will occupy the remainder of the discourse. He gives an overview of the plan for his discourse, identifying the ways in which his extended examination of historical examples will contribute to the demonstration of the thesis (1:7– 11), then supplying a clean segue into the opening of speech’s body (1:12). A proper division or enumeration of the points to be addressed by the speech, frequently a formal element of the arrangement of a speech, appears at the outset of the body (1:14). The author is just as artful in his peroration, typically an opportunity for the orator to let “all the streams of eloquence” pour out (Quintilian, Inst. 6.1.51). He

 Examples include Thucydides, Hist. 2.34– 46; Lysias, Or. 2; Demosthenes, Or. 60; Hyperides, Or. 6; the form is satirized in Plato, Menexenus. See Lebram, “Literarische Form,” 82, 84– 85; van Henten, “Jewish Epitaph,” 58 – 59; idem, Maccabean Martyrs, 64– 65.  J. W. van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 18, citing Hyperides, Or. 6.38 – 40; Lysias, Or. 2.21, 41, 57, 59; Plato, Menex. 239d-240a.  Redditt, “Concept of Nomos,” 263.  The figure of the proposed epitaph appears outside of the genre as well, as for example in Euripides Tro. 1188 – 1191. There, as part of her lament over the executed Astyanax, infant son of Hector, Hecuba says: “what word shall poet inscribe of thee upon thy tomb? ‘This child the Argives murdered in times past, dreading him’—an inscription disgracing Greece!”  H.-J. Klauck, “Hellenistiche Rhetorik im Diasporajudentum: Das Exordium des vierten Makkabäerbuchs (4 Makk 1.1– 12),” NTS 35 (1989): 451– 65.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

227

provides an accumulation of images designed to make a strong parting impression: the figure of the portrait, “if it were possible” (17:7); the proposed inscription for the martyrs’ epitaph (17:8 – 10); the extended athletic image with the lists of the combatants and the crowning of the victors (17:11– 16); the enumeratio of the accomplishments of the martyrs in both religious and political terms (17:20 – 22; 18:4– 5). As is also appropriate to the peroration, a customary place for the arousal of emotions in the hearers, the author also gives attention to rousing pity, admiration, and (as it is a protreptic speech) emulation (e. g., 17:7, 16; 18:1– 2, 20 – 21).

Acquaintance with philosophical ethics The thesis of 4 Maccabees, that “pious reason is supreme master over the passions” (1:1), stands well near the center of Greco-Roman philosophical ethics (thus perhaps justifying his claim that his topic was “supremely philosophical,” φιλοσοφώτατον). Plato had spoken of the virtuous person being thus distinguished because his or her soul opposed and withstood the feelings and drives of the body rather than giving way to them (Phaedo 93 – 94). The Hellenistic Jewish author of Letter of Aristeas identified “the highest rule” of philosophy to be “to rule oneself and not be carried away by the passions” (Let. Aris. 221– 22). Plutarch would write that ethical virtue consists in reason’s subjection of “the emotions of the soul” to itself (Virt. mor. 1 [Mor. 440d]). The essential goal of ethical philosophy is “self-mastery,” in which “the better part [of a human being] is master of the worse part,” while the opposite condition is censurable (Plato, Rep. 431a; see also Gorg. 491; Cicero, Tusc. 2.22.53). The author shows an awareness of the philosophical debates concerning whether the philosopher’s goal is mastery or elimination of the passions (see especially 4 Macc 2:21– 22; 3:3 – 18), aligning himself with the position of Poseidonius, the Peripatetics, and Plutarch (Virt. mor. 4 [Mor. 442c]) in setting “mastery and guidance” of the emotions as the sage’s goal.⁶⁴ He is also aware of discus-

 Seneca (Ep. 116.1) and Cicero (Tusc. 3.22; 4.57) favored the hardcore Stoic line of striving after ἀπαθεία, the elimination of the experience of emotions and passions from one’s life. Plutarch regarded it as “neither possible nor expedient” for reason to uproot the passions entirely, since the passions, properly moderated, can even become allies in the quest for virtue as one accustoms oneself to experience the joys of virtuous choices and turn these into habit (Virt. mor. 4 [Mor 443d]). The author of 4 Maccabees also would regard the uprooting of the passions to be impossible and inexpedient, since God planted them within the human person to be moderated, not uprooted (4 Macc 2:21– 23). See, further, Robert Renehan, “The Greek Philosophic

228

David A. deSilva

sions concerning the limits of reason’s ability to master the passions, with the result that the individual is not responsible for the “passions” to which the reasoning faculty is itself liable, such as forgetfulness and ignorance (4 Macc 1:5 – 6; 2:24– 3:2).⁶⁵ He is knowledgeable also about Greek philosophical discussions concerning the classification of the passions (τὰ πάθη), as well as discussions about the inclinations (τὰ ἤθη) peculiar to the various developmental stages of life.⁶⁶ He follows Aristotle’s classification of the passions primarily in terms of “pleasure and pain” (Aristotle, Rh. 2.1.8: λύπη καὶ ἡδovή; 4 Macc 1:20: ἡδovή τε καὶ πόvoς), even adopting Aristotle’s analysis of “anger” as a mixture of the two (Aristotle, Rh. 2.2.1– 2; 4 Macc 1:24). The author is also highly conversant with the philosophical ideal of the wise man or woman as the genuinely “free” person. He has inherited the plot of a tyrant seeking to coerce obedience through torture and execution from his source material (2 Macc 6:18 – 7:42), but he has thoroughly re-imagined the story as that of a tyrant confronting philosopher-sages, applying argument, enticement, and coercion to defeat the will of the sages while the latter prove the worth of their philosophy by their steadfast resistance to any assaults.⁶⁷ In the course of the “narrative demonstration” of his thesis, the author introduces a host of commonplaces familiar from Greco-Roman philosophical literature concerning the wise person: philosopher-sages are “free” (4 Macc 14:2; see, e. g., Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.152); their wills cannot be overcome through enticements, tortures, or exploitation of internal weakness (4 Macc 9:17; 10:4; see Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 9.28; 9.59; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.25.21; 3.24.71; 4.1.1, 60 – 87; Cicero, Parad. 5.1.34; Seneca, Constant. 5.6 – 6.8); they remain masters of themselves and, therefore, “kings” (4 Macc 14:2; see, e. g., Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 7.122; Stobaeus,

Background of Fourth Maccabees,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 115 (1972): 223 – 38 (226 – 27).  See, further, deSilva, 4 Maccabees, 67– 71, 76 – 77, 104– 106. Cicero (Fin. 5.13.36) distinguished between voluntary and involuntary virtues. Memory ranks among the latter, and thus forgetfulness would be an “involuntary” defect (so also Philo, Migr. 206), whereas the cardinal virtues fall under the power of the will (Breitenstein, Beobachtungen, 140).  See deSilva, 4 Maccabees, 87– 90.  Historical or fictive versions of this scenario appear in Seneca, De constantia; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. 9.26 – 28, 58 – 59; Cicero, Tusc. 2.22.52; Philo, Prob. 106 – 107; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.19.7– 10; 1.29.5 – 8; 4.1.132– 135; and Iamblichus, Vit. Pyth. 215 – 222. The motif persists in the resistance literature of Christian and non-Christian authors of late antiquity. See the discussion of Christian martyrologies in Ton Hilhorst, “Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts,” in Ultima Aetas: Time, Tense and Transience in the Ancient World, ed. Caroline Kroon and Daan den Hengst (Amsterdam: VU University Press, 2000), 107– 121 (111– 112); and the presentation of the Acts of the Alexandrian Martyrs in van Henten and Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death, 38 – 41.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

229

Eth. 2.222); they suffer no injury beyond that which they can inflict upon themselves by acting contrary to virtue (4 Macc 9:7; 13:14; see Plato, Apol. 18 [30c]; Epictetus, Ench. 53.4; Diatr. 1.29.18; 2.2.15; 3.23.21; Plutarch, Tranq. an. 17 [Mor. 475e]; Seneca, Constant. 2.1, 3); they remain invincible (4 Macc 9:18; 11:21, 27; Seneca, Ep. 67.16); the hardships they suffer only demonstrate their achievement of virtue (4 Macc 11:12; Seneca, Constant. 3.4; 9.3; Prov. 5.10; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.6.37).⁶⁸ The author is also thoroughly familiar with Greco-Roman ethical conversations about “brotherly and sisterly love” (φιλαδελφία) and “love for offspring” (φιλοστοργία). His digressions on these two subjects (4 Macc 13:19 – 14:1; 14:13 – 20; 15:4– 10) read like summary statements of Plutarch’s treatises on the same, expertly adapted to serve the author’s goal of demonstrating the power of Torah-trained piety to overcome even these feelings.⁶⁹ Fourth Maccabees as a whole most resembles philosophical protreptic literature along the lines of Seneca’s treatise “On the Constancy of the Wise Person” (De Constantia sapientis) and Epictetus’s discourse on the true Cynic (Diatr. 3.22). Seneca’s text is a particularly instructive parallel: he also writes in favor of an ethical thesis (“the wise person cannot receive insult or injury”) and combines discursive argumentation, historical examples of the principle-in-action (specifically the examples of Stilbo of Megara and Cato the Younger), and encomium on these “perfect men” who render the Stoic philosophy credible by their example. The author of 4 Maccabees holds his ground well alongside Seneca in this regard, writing a comparable λόγος προτρέπτικος promoting continued observance of the Jewish philosophy. The author of 4 Maccabees has, in previous generations, been disparaged as a philosophical dilettante,⁷⁰ but closer examination of the author’s acquaintance and interaction with the philosophical κοινή of his period has overturned this

 Rajak (Jewish Dialogue, 121– 22) insightfully draws attention to echoes of Socrates’s refusal to make use of an opportunity to avoid execution that would also involve him in harming his own reputation for virtue and destroying his spotless example in 4 Macc 6:17– 23, but she is also correct that this is something the author has inherited from his source (2 Macc 6:24– 28) and thus not a basis for inferring the author’s familiarity with the Crito.  See Plutarch, De fraterno amore (Mor. 478a-492d) and De amore prolis (Mor. 493a-497e). These are discussed in relation to 4 Maccabees in H.-J. Klauck, “Brotherly Love in Plutarch and in 4 Maccabees,” in Greeks, Romans, Christians, ed. D. L. Balch, E. Ferguson, and W. A. Meeks (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1990), 144– 156; D. A. deSilva, “The Perfection of ‘Love for Offspring’: Greek Representations of Maternal Affection and the Achievement of the Heroine of 4 Maccabees,” NTS 52 (2006): 251– 268; idem, 4 Maccabees, 210 – 224.  E. Schürer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.—A.D. 135). A new English version, 3 vols., ed. Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Martin Goodman (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1986), 3.1.590.

230

David A. deSilva

verdict, showing the author to be an eclectic philosopher in his own right.⁷¹ The study of philosophy was, in some way and at some stage, a part of his formation, his παιδεία.⁷² But at what stages and in what venues did he pursue this study? Here we lack the transparent windows into classical Greek education that are provided, for example, in textbooks like the Progymnasmata. The papyrus school texts studied by Teresa Morgan indicate that collections of gnomic wisdom texts were an important resource in Egyptian Greek curricula.⁷³ The author might well have come by his material about the sage as the truly free person, for example, through exposure to (and reflection upon) gnomic sayings or excerpts from philosophical texts such as “Anytus and Meletus can kill me, but they cannot injure me” (Plato, Apol. 18 [30c]; cited frequently as an abbreviated chreia or proverbial saying in, e. g., Epictetus, Ench. 53.4; Diatr. 1.29.18; 2.2.15; 3.23.21; Plutarch, Tranq. an. 17 [Mor. 475e]). His knowledge, however, is sufficiently rich and dense in other areas to suggest more formal exposure to philosophical ethics. A dominant view of tertiary education in the ancient world is that the student would choose between advanced studies in rhetoric or advanced studies in philosophy, with these studies being pursued in different venues: It is sometimes, though not always, acknowledged that philosophy may have been available at the higher levels of education; if so philosophy is variously treated as the business of the ‘university’ stage of education after the ‘secondary school’ of the rhetor, or as one of two competing disciplines between which pupils may choose. Almost all commentators agree in discussing the teaching of rhetoric or rhetoric and philosophy to the exclusion of all other subjects in the later stages of enkyklios paideia. ⁷⁴

Philosophy could also have been read at the secondary level, were the local curriculum to include writers like Plato, Xenophon, or Aristotle,⁷⁵ or as a discipline ancillary to the advanced study of rhetoric “to the extent that these subjects might prove useful.”⁷⁶ Plutarch’s essays on reading poetry and listening to lec-

 Renehan, “Greek Philosophic Background,” 232– 238.  As Renehan (“Greek Philosophic Background,” 238) concludes: “The author of Fourth Maccabees has indeed studied and used formal philosophical literature.”  This is, in fact, the largest body of literature cited in papyrus schoolbook exercises; see Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 120 – 144, 313.  Morgan, Literate Education, 193. See also Marrou, History of Education, 283 – 84, who envisions tertiary education in philosophy as taking place in one of the established philosophical schools or through personal acquaintance with an independent or itinerant philosopher-teacher.  Quintilian 1.1.36; Morgan, Literate Education, 146.  Koester, History, 98.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

231

tures attest to the importance, at least in some circles, of attending to philosophy as part of a literate education.⁷⁷ Ultimately, we cannot say how the author of 4 Maccabees came by the philosophical knowledge that he evidences. It is significant, however, that he exhibits the high level of acquaintance and facility that he does, perhaps all the more if he pursued this study on his own initiative rather than as a part of the curriculum laid out for him during his formative years.

Acquaintance with the Greek poets The speech representing the response to her calamities that the mother could have uttered, but did not, merits special attention. It, too, is a speech appropriate to the character’s role (a mother), age (beyond childbearing years), and situation (tragic bereavement). But it is also clearly modeled after other laments of bereaved mothers known from the poets, particularly Euripidean drama. Ah, wretched me (ὦ μελέα) and many times thrice-unhappy, who, having borne seven children, have become a mother of not even one. Ah, seven empty (μάταιοι) pregnancies, and seven profitless (ἀνόνητοι) ten-month periods, and fruitless nursings, and miserable (ταλαίπωροι) breast-feedings! For nothing (μάτην), O children, I endured many pangs for you and the more burdensome concerns of rearing you. Ah, my unmarried children and my married ones without progeny (ἀνόνητοι)! I will not see (οὐκ ὄψομαι) your children nor be blessed with being called “grandmother.” Ah, me, a woman with many and beautiful children (πολύπαις καὶ καλλίπαις), now a widow (χήρα) and alone, wailing bitterly! Nor will I have any of my sons to bury me when I die. (4 Macc 16:6 – 11)

Almost every phrase, every detail here has a parallel in a Euripidean lament, suggesting that the author has patterned his character’s hypothetical lament after those found especially in Trojan Women and Hecuba (all the more appropriate as Hecuba and the mother in 4 Maccabees were both celebrated as having especially numerous offspring).⁷⁸ The mother’s lament begins with the self-referential vocative ὦ μελέα—“O wretched person that I am!”—so common in Greek tragedy (see Euripides, Tro. 144, [ὦ μελέαι]; 165 [μελέαι]; 601 [ὦ μελέα]). At the beginning and end of the lament, she draws attention to the dramatic and sudden reversal of fortune that has befallen here as, in a single day, she has gone from having seven children to having “not even one” (16:6), from “having many children” (πολύπαις) to  Morgan, Literate Education, 194.  See the list in Klauck, 4 Makkabäerbuch, 747– 48.

232

David A. deSilva

having much to grieve (πολύθρηνος, 16:10). Such sudden reversals are the essence of Greek tragedy, highlighted also by Euripides’ bereaved mothers and those who comment upon them (see Tro. 101, 474– 499, 1203 – 1206; Hec. 55 – 58, 282 – 285, 956 – 960). The author’s artful use of language (seen, for example, in the contrasting compound words πολύπαις … πολύθρηνος) also elevates this prose above ordinary speech to the level of the poetic and dramatic. Like the mother of the seven, Hecuba uses compounds of -παις in her lament: “I was blessed with children (εὔπαις) once, but now I am both old and childless (ἄπαις)” (Hec. 810; cf. 4 Macc 16:10). Cassandra speaks of Achaean women also “dying in widowhood (χῆραι), while others died childless (ἄπαιδες) in their houses, having reared children all for nothing,” (Tro. 380 – 381; compare 4 Macc 16:10). Lamenting one’s investment in children who die prematurely as “fruitless” and “purposeless” is a common element. Andromache exclaims, “It was for nothing (διὰ κενῆς) that this breast of mine suckled you … and all in vain (μάτην) was my labor!” (Tro. 758 – 760; compare 4 Macc 16:8). Similarly, Hecuba laments Polydorus, “born to no purpose (ἀνόνητα)” (Hec. 766; compare 4 Macc 16:7, 9). Hopelessness is expressed in terms of what will never be seen because of these untimely deaths: “No hope have I of being seen of them, no, nor of seeing them for evermore (ὀφθήσομαί … ὄψομαί ποτε)” (Tro. 487– 488; compare 4 Macc 16:9). Loss of help in old age (including burial) is another common element (Tro. 382, 504– 505, 1180 – 84; compare 4 Macc 16:11). The author’s familiarity with Euripidean tragedy plausibly reflects the prominence of Euripides in his own education, as this classical tragedian was typically featured in the curricula of Greek schools. Helmut Koester writes that Homer and Euripides were the most prominent authors to be studied during the course of secondary education, even as they were well represented in the holdings of public libraries in cities, as well as libraries in gymnasia and schools.⁷⁹ This claim has been substantiated by Teresa Morgan in her study of papyri classified as school exercises: “Of the roughly 150 other texts by known authors, 97 are extracts from the Iliad and the Odyssey. The next most popular author is Euripides, with 20 texts. After him come Isocrates with seven (all gnomic, however) and Menander with seven.”⁸⁰ Formulating a kind of “independent study” for a

 Helmut Koester, History, Culture, and Religion of the Hellenistic Age, 2nd ed. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1995), 97, 99; so also Marrou, History of Education, 227– 28. Koester (History, 99) notes that in libraries “in both east and west the same works constituted the standard holdings: the classical Greek authors, with the poets—especially Homer and Euripides—more fully represented than prose writers and philosophers; textbooks; florilegia; and compendia.”  Morgan, Literate Education, 69. A full table of data appears on p. 313. Also interesting are the tabulations of recitations of classical literature in Plutarch as a reflection of the relative impor-

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

233

friend, Dio Chrysostom gives advice that also incidentally highlights the prominence of Euripides as an educational standard: So let us consider the poets: I would counsel you to read Menander of the writers of Comedy quite carefully, and Euripides of the writers of tragedy. … The suavity and plausibility of Euripides, while perhaps not completely attaining to the grandeur of the tragic poet’s way of deifying his characters, or to his high dignity, are very useful for the man in public life; and furthermore, he cleverly fills his plays with an abundance of characters and moving incidents, and strews them with maxims useful on all occasions, since he was not without acquaintance with philosophy. (Or. 18.6 – 7)

The tragedies of Euripides would also be available continually through the regular performance of the Classical tragedians in the theaters of Greek cities (in preference to new works).⁸¹ This same text from Dio Chrysostom tells us that, of course, “Homer comes first and in the middle and last” (Or. 18.8). The author of 4 Maccabees includes one unmistakable allusion to Homer when he compares the power of the cries of the sons over the mother to the power of the Sirens’ song to compel attention and response (15:21), a reference to the story of Odysseus’ encounter with these figures (Homer, Od. 12.158 – 200). He also speaks of the death of the oldest brother in terms of the image of the “thread of life”: as this martyr was being tortured to death upon the rack, the author fittingly writes that “the saintly youth snapped the thread of life” (9:25). The image of the Fates measuring out and cutting the thread of life to determine the length of life is not peculiarly Homeric, but the poet does speak of the “Spinners” work in determining a person’s fate, figured as a thread (see Od. 7.198; Il. 24.209).

Formative education with regard to the Jewish ethnic subculture Alongside elements of the formative education typically associated with Greek παιδεία, the classic texts of Judaism clearly constituted another major focus of study for the author of 4 Maccabees. His oration is, in part, an encomium on

tance or prominence of authors in the work of a literate Greek (Morgan, Literate Education, 318 – 319): Euripides ranks third (359 quotations) after Plato and Homer (915 and 889 quotations, respectively), ahead of Herodotus (304 quotations), Hesiod (207 quotations), and Sophocles (140 quotations).  Koester, History, 99.

234

David A. deSilva

the formative potential of these texts (when reading these texts as prescriptive for one’s thinking and practice) based on the attainment of moral virtue and consistently virtuous practice that result from such nurture—that is, an encomium on Torah as the essential core of παιδεία qua moral formation: Right thinking, then, is the mind that, forming correct opinions, prefers the path of wisdom. Wisdom is the knowledge of divine and human behavior and their causes. This comes, in turn, from the formative education provided by the law (ἡ τοῦ νόμου παιδεία), through which we learn (μανθάνομεν) about the divine in a reverent manner and about human affairs in a way that gives us the advantage. (1:15 – 17) Our way of life, however, teaches us self-control (σωφροσύνην … ἐκδιδάσκει), with the result that we are not carried away by any pleasure or desire. It trains us in courage (ἀνδρείαν ἐξασκεῖ), with the result that we willingly endure any suffering. It educates us about justice (δικαιοσύνην παιδεύει), with the result that we give each person what is his or her due in all our dealings. It educates us in genuine religion (εὐσέβειαν ἐκδιδάσκει), with the result that we worship the only God that truly exists and show God due respect.⁸² (5:23 – 24)

One of the striking features of this author’s work is that he uses the fruits of the Greek elements of the παιδεία he has himself received solely to recommend the more particularistic παιδεία of immersion in the classic texts of Judaism and the practice of the way of life they prescribe and model as the path to attaining the (Greek) ideal of the virtuous person: the person of καλοκἀγαθία and ἀρετή who exhibits the cardinal virtues of “rational thought, justice, courage, and self-control” (φρόνησις καὶ δικαιοσύνη καὶ ἀνδρεία καὶ σωφροσύνη, 1:18).⁸³ The author of 4 Maccabees is fully conversant in the narrative and legal materials from the Pentateuch, references to which are interwoven throughout his opening discussion of how observance of the Torah’s specific commands works to restrain the impulses of particular passions. Its dietary regulations are proof of the Jews’ self-control (1:31– 35, referring in a general way to Lev 11:4– 23, 41– 42; Deut 14:4– 21); the tenth commandment restrains desire in general and, indeed, proves the feasibility of self-mastery (2:5 – 6, referring specifically to Exod 20:17; Deut 5:21); the regulations concerning lending and harvesting

 Eleazar also addressed the Torah, in an apostrophe, as his “educator” (παιδευτὰ νόμε, 5:34).  καλοκἀγαθία: 1:10; 3:17– 18; 11:22; 13:25; 15:9; ἀρετή: 1:8, 10; 7:21– 22; 9:8, 18, 31; 10:10; 11:2; 12:14; 13:24, 27; 17:12, 25. With the standard list of the four cardinal virtues in 1:18 compare 5:23 – 24, where the virtues highlighted are σωφροσύνην τε … καὶ ἀνδρείαν … καὶ δικαιοσύνην … καὶ εὐσέβειαν, as in Xenophon, Mem. 4.6. Philo (Mos. 2.215 – 16; Prob. 80) and the author of the Letter of Aristeas (144– 160) similarly focus on the educative and moral formative functions of Torah, justifying the distinctive law and practice of the Jewish subculture by the ethical fruits produced in the lives of its conscientious practitioners. See, further, deSilva, 4 Maccabees, 59 – 74, 80 – 85.

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

235

curb greed (2:8 – 9, referring specifically to Ex 22:25; 23:10 – 11; Lev 19:9 – 10; Deut 15:1– 2, 9; 23:19 – 20); it sets obedience to God above the affections natural to human relationships, whether love (2:10 – 13, referring in a general way to prescriptions such as Deut 13:6 – 11) or enmity (2:14– 15, referring to the specific rules of Exod 23:4– 5; Deut 20:19 – 20, 24).⁸⁴ He refers to the examples of Joseph and Moses as proof of the power of reason to master both lust and anger (2:1– 3, 17– 18, referring to the stories of Gen 39:7– 12 and Num 16:1– 35) and to Jacob’s censure of Simeon and Levi as proof from the contrary that they ought to have been able to master anger as well (2:19, reciting Gen 49:7 and referring to Gen 34:1– 31). The nature of his references to these texts and stories, incidentally, also presumes a high degree of familiarity with the Pentateuch on the part of his audience. The author looks beyond the Pentateuch at one point prior to his “narrative demonstration” of his thesis, and that is to the story of David’s thirst, which he develops at length as an example of pious reasoning’s power to oppose intensely burning, but irrational, desires (3:6 – 18, retelling the story found in 2 Sam 23:13 – 17; 1 Chr 11:15 – 19). The author’s knowledge of the whole spectrum of the canon of classic Jewish texts is evident in his treatment of the martyrs’ stories, particularly where he invents speeches for the martyrs and where he expands encomiastically on their achievements. The author is particularly interested in culling examples of people making decisions and choosing often unpleasant (or, at least, self-denying) courses of action for the sake of piety. Thus the figures of Abraham and Isaac (13:12, 14:20; 15:28; 16:20, referring to the episode of Gen 22:1– 19), Daniel (16:3, 21; 18:13, referring to Daniel 6), and Hananiah, Azariah, and Mishael (13:9, 16:3, 21; 18:12– 13, referring to Daniel 3) are prominent, especially in the exhortations that the martyrs give to one another. The author also has Eleazar refer to the historic oaths by which the wilderness generation committed themselves to the covenant (5:29, referring to Exod 24:3, 7; Josh 24:18, 21, 24); he similarly has the mother refer, among other lessons taught the sons by their father, to Abel and Joseph as exemplifications of the persecution that befalls the righteous (18:11, referring to Gen 4:1– 10; 39:1– 23), as well as to Phinehas, an example of zeal for the Torah leading to eternal recognition (18:12, referring to Num 25:1– 9, the story in which his “zeal” was quintessentially expressed). The author refers in his own voice to Aaron’s courageous rush into the thick of the plague to save the people as a point of comparison with Eleazar (7:11– 12, referring to Num  The specific regulations of Torah outline a form of ἄσκησις (4 Macc 13:22) comparable to that which was practiced by the Spartans or prescribed by Epictetus and Galen (discussed in Renehan, “Philosophic Background,” 235 – 36) for the mastery of particular vices or weaknesses of character.

236

David A. deSilva

16:41– 50 and possibly Wis 18:20 – 25) and to Noah’s endurance of the flood as a point of comparison with the metaphorical flood endured by the mother (15:31– 32, referring to the story of Genesis 6 – 9). Specific texts from Isaiah, Psalms, Proverbs, Ezekiel, and Deuteronomy are recited as a means of reinforcing the conviction that fidelity to God, though potentially costly in this life, leads to the experience of eternal reward beyond death (17:19; 18:14– 19, reciting Deut 33:3; Isa 43:2; Ps 34:19; Prov 3:18; Ezek 37:2– 3; Deut 30:20; 32:39). The author’s reading and study extends beyond the “classics” to more contemporary Jewish literature as well, most notably 2 Maccabees, his most pervasive resource.⁸⁵ This raises a question concerning the more precise nature of the author’s own formation. As a teenager, did he execute his progymnastic exercises in a secondary school alongside non-Jewish teenagers from his city, reading Homer and Euripides with them and then reading Torah in the synagogue, an ancillary Jewish school, or at home? Or did the Jewish community of his city create its own educational institutions patterned after and using the curriculum of the Greek institutions, but moving the core texts of the Jewish subculture to the center of the curriculum (still alongside the classic “canon” of Greek education)?⁸⁶ His oration does not give us the basis for a clear answer. One wonders, however, to what extent his depiction of the seven brothers’ formation is a projection of his own experience (or, at least, a projection of a paradigm familiar to him from his own community). Reflecting upon his heroes’ upbringing, he imagines their “brother-loving souls” growing more exceedingly “through nurture and daily habit and other educative formation (τῆς ἄλλης παιδείας) and our training in the law of God (καὶ τῆς ἡμετέρας ἐν νόμῳ θεοῦ ἀσκήσεως)” (13:22). What distinguishes “other educative formation” here from “our training in the law of God”? One is tempted to see in the former whatever degree of education an elite Jew might receive through the typical venues available to all of the more

 See Dupont-Sommer, Quatrieme Livre, 26 – 32; Hadas, Third and Fourth Maccabees, 92– 95; Klauck, 4 Makkabäerbuch, 654; deSilva, 4 Maccabees, xxx-xxxi; against J. Freudenthal, Die Flavius Josephus beigelegte Schrift über die Herrschaft der Vernunft (IV Makkabäerbuch), eine Predigt aus dem ersten nachchristlichen Jahrhundert (Breslau, 1869), 72– 90 and A. Deissmann “Das vierte Makkabäerbuch,” in Die Apokryphen und Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments, 2 vols., ed. E. Kautzsch (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1900), 2.149 – 176 (156), who argued that the authors of 2 and 4 Maccabees worked independently on the basis of the lost work of Jason of Cyrene.  Elias J. Bickerman, The Jews in the Greek Age (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988), 170 – 176, makes the interesting case that even the Torah-centric educational program of Ben Sira was a local manifestation of a Greek idea, namely that cultural and personal formation would come through “education based on a unique book.”

The Author of 4 Maccabees and Greek Paideia

237

elite and affluent residents of a Greek city and in the latter the particularly Jewish enculturation available through more private and parochial venues. The author lays significant stress on the education the seven brothers received at home from their father, as related in the second speech crafted for the heroine of the oration (18:10 – 19). The author envisions the home as the primary locus of training in the practices, stories, and convictions of the Torah and the Jewish canon (here in the sense of “classic texts for cultural knowledge and practice”). The third brother may reflect the same locus as he challenges the tyrant by asking: “Don’t you know that I come from the same father as those who have just died, that the same mother gave me birth, and that I was raised on the same teachings?” (10:2). The sixth brother similarly declares that he and his brothers “were born and raised to live by these principles, so we should die together on behalf of the same” (11:15). Both reminiscences appear to link the communication of Torah’s teachings and principles primarily with parental nurture (though this would surely include, for example, attendance at the regular events of public worship and sacrifice and any other regular community practices of Jewish life).⁸⁷ It may also be significant for this question that the author has nothing positive to say about Jason’s γυμνάσιον, speaking of it as negatively as did his source without any mitigating factors (2 Macc 4:12 – 15; 4 Macc 4:19 – 21), such as might have been the case had the author himself known a gymnasium that incorporated training in the Torah as part of its ἐγκύκλιος παιδεία (that is, a specifically Jewish gymnasium run primarily to integrate the typical Greek disciplines with the parochial knowledge and practice of Judaism). To the extent that the author projects his own experience onto that of his narrative, we might surmise that he experienced a formal, non-segregated Greek education in the “normal” venues within his city and received training in Jewish cultural knowledge and practice through private means, primarily through his parents and through the organs of Jewish community practice. If this is correct—and it remains quite conjectural given the nature of the “evi-

 Only at one point does the author hint at another venue for what we might anachronistically call “religious education.” In their response to Antiochus’s invitation to acquiesce to his demands, the seven declare that, “if the old men among the Hebrews fulfilled their duty toward God by enduring tortures for the sake of piety, it would be even more fitting for us who are young to die in contempt of the same tortures that our aged teacher (ὁ παιδευτὴς ἡμῶν γέρων) overcame” (9:6). This may reflect the author’s projection of a formal, pedagogical relationship between the priest and scribe Eleazar and the seven brothers, assuming a school setting in which educated Jews provided education in the cultural heritage of Judaism for the young. It may, however, simply reflect the “teaching” that Eleazar provided within the drama, choosing to die for the sake of piety rather than acquiesce (see especially 6:17– 22).

238

David A. deSilva

dence”—then he represents a Jewish community that was quite fully integrated into the life of its city from a social standpoint, but that worked hard and intentionally to maintain its distinctive cultural identity and practice. The author’s own experience of education alongside non-Jewish peers has not mitigated his commitment to (and zeal for nurturing commitment to) the distinctively Jewish heritage and way of life, nor tempered his convictions about its superiority to the Greek heritage and way of life.

Conclusion If smoke can be relied upon consistently to signal the presence of fire, then the author of 4 Maccabees received Greek education consistent with what has been described as “secondary education,” seen most clearly in his mastery of the exercises that comprised the Progymnasmata but also in his level of cultural literacy. There are also indications that he went on to pursue “tertiary education” to some degree, in the areas both of rhetoric and philosophy, though one must always leave open the possibility of his acquiring more advanced facility in the latter subject simply through personal study in the libraries of his city. The author’s work reflects a person in whom Greek παιδεία and Jewish cultural literacy and practice join together seamlessly and without contradiction—though, of course, on every point using the former to promote valuing and pursuing the latter among his hearers.

Kathy Ehrensperger

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations Paul is remembered as a teacher of the nations (διδάσκαλος ἐθνῶν) in 1 Tim 2:7, a role, even if it were fictional, which could obviously be envisaged by second generation Christ-followers. It indicates that aspects of Paul’s activities were considered educational, and although the term παιδεία is absent from his undisputed letters, and other specifically educational terms like διδάσκαλος, διδαχή, μανθάνω, are rare, there are indeed numerous passages where Paul can be seen as engaged in a teaching-learning discourse and as actually teaching his addressees, since they have to “learn to be a gentile in Christ.”¹ This teaching-learning discourse in the Pauline letters sheds fascinating light on the process of cultural translation in the earliest Christ-following groups from the nations. It is an aspect of high significance in my view when the notion of “Hellenism” is not envisaged as some uniform melting pot but rather as a label for a period during which Jews, Greeks, Romans, and other peoples and their respective traditions were in contact and interacted with each other in the eastern part of the Mediterranean, an interaction facilitated through the use of Greek as a lingua franca. The diverse traditions were not only linguistically different, but encompassed diverse practices and were embodied at numerous levels of social interaction.² Thus, the Pauline letters provide glimpses of a teaching and learning process between people who had been socialized partly in diverse, partly in shared, cultural, social, and linguistic traditions. Paul and his colleagues were deeply steeped in Jewish tradition, some expressed in Greek, some in other languages. The addressees were embedded in Greek, Galatian, Roman, and possibly a number

 Stephen Fowl, “Learning to be a Gentile,” in Christology and Scripture: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. Andrew T. Lincoln and Angus Pattison (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 22– 40. See also my Paul and the Dynamics of Power: Communication and Interaction in the Early Christ-Movement (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 117– 36.  Cf., e. g., Alex Mullen and Patrick James, eds., Multilingualism in the Graeco-Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); David J. Mattingly, Imperialism, Power, and Identity: Experiencing the Roman Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011); Christoph Markschies, Hellenisierung des Christentums: Sinn und Unsinn einer historischen Deutungskategorie (Leipzig: Evang. Verlagsanstalt, 2012); and Kathy Ehrensperger, Paul at the Crossroads of Cultures—Theologizing in the Space-Between (London: T&T Clark 2013), 63 – 101. DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-014

240

Kathy Ehrensperger

of other traditions, with some having been familiar to some extent with aspects of Jewish traditions.³ The communication process between peoples of different cultural contexts involves cultural translation processes. It is thus to be expected that aspects of cultural translation in the teaching-learning process are also discernible in the Pauline letters. My particular focus in this contribution is on the dimension of embodiment in this process.

Paul, the Teacher As mentioned above, in post-Pauline letters Paul is perceived in the role of a teacher. Although he never refers to himself as a teacher, there are numerous allusions to a teaching-learning process in his letters. There are some explicit references, such as 1 Cor 4:17 where he emphasizes that he is sending Timothy to the Corinthian Christ-followers to remind them of τάς ὁδούς μου τάς ἐν Χριστῷ καθὼς πανταχοῦ ἐν πάσῃ έκκλησίᾳ διδάσκω; or in 4:6 he clarifies that he had written to them ἵνα ἐν ἡμῖν μάθητε; and he admonishes the Philippians (4:9) to keep doing what they had learned (μάθετε). In addition to these few explicit uses of teaching-learning language there are further indications throughout that Paul considered his task as apostle to the nations as one of teaching the nations how to live life as Christ-followers. Jewish terminology of education, that is the transmission of tradition, is found e. g. in Phil 4:9 (ἅ καὶ ἐμάθετε καὶ παρελάβετε καὶ ήκούσατε καὶ εἴδετε ἐν έμοί ταῦτα πράσσετε; also 1 Cor 15:1, 3; 1 Thess 4:1). In addition, the terminology of nurturing indicates a teaching-learning process which is also found, e. g., in Philo.⁴ It should not come as much of a surprise to find trajectories of an education discourse in the Pauline letters for a number of reasons. Given the significance of

 I am of the view that most of the earliest non-Jewish followers of Christ had been familiar to some extent with Jewish traditions as sympathizers or “Godfearers”; irrespective of the historical existence of a group called godfearers, there is substantial evidence that sympathizers to Jewish tradition existed in the first century. Cf. Terence L. Donaldson, Judaism and the Gentiles: Jewish Patterns of Universalism (to 135 CE) (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2007), 473 – 75; Andrew Chester, “Jewish Inscriptions and Jewish Life,” in Neues Testament und jüdische Alltagskultur— Wechselseitige Wahrnehmungen, ed. Roland Deines, Jens Herzer, and Karl-Wilhelm Nieburn (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 383 – 441, 415 – 26; Paula Fredriksen, “If it Looks like a Duck, and it Quacks like a Duck: On Not Giving Up the Godfearers,” in A Most Reliable Witness: Essays in Honor of Ross Shepard Kraemer, ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey et al. (Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2015), 25 – 33.  Prob. 160; Cong. 15 – 19.

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

241

learning in Jewish tradition, it seems rather self-evident that people who wished to join a movement, which in the first century is located in a Jewish social and symbolic universe, are expected to “learn” how to live their way of life as part of this movement. If these Christ-followers from the nations were already familiar with Jewish tradition through their sympathies and occasional or frequent participation in synagogue gatherings in the diaspora, they would already have been familiar with this particular kind of learning process, or education. But as former pagans, that is, people who had not previously been socialized in a Jewish way of life, there certainly was a need for them to be inducted into the particularities of the way of life in Christ.⁵ Whether they had a formal Greek paideia or not, these Christ-followers from the nations had learned a way of life which differed from the way of life of Jews in many aspects, even if certain features were shared and communicated in the same language. Their primary socialization differed from that of their Jewish contemporaries in a number of ways, and I cannot address all of the aspects I consider relevant in the space of this paper. Not only would traditions and literature with which formally educated people were familiar have been different, but the cultural narratives—the narratives of belonging and of providing meaning—were different.⁶ Although some values and traditions were shared, significant discrepancies remained. What was considered accurate and appropriate in one discourse might be disregarded or even looked at with contempt in another. The fact that the dominating educational ideal, which transmitted the perceived ideal values and narratives of meaning, was the ideal of the dominating imperial power, decisively shaped the cultural, linguistic, and social interactions throughout the empire.⁷ The interaction between those who were different was asymmetrical; it was clearly dominated by a power imbalance, not an interaction between equals. These aspects must have impacted the educational process between Paul and his communities, as bridges between these diverse worlds would need to  This is not to say that Jewish Christ-followers had nothing to learn but their learning process would have differed from that of the gentiles. Paul does not address this issue in my view as his letters are addressed to Christ-followers from the nations, hence we do not know his views about a learning process for Jews in Christ. Cf. Paula Fredriksen, “‘Judaizing the Nations’: The Ritual Demands of Paul’s Gospel,” NTS 56 (2010): 232– 52.  Cf. Catherine Heszer, “The Torah versus Homer: Jewish and Graeco-Roman Education in Late Roman Palestine,” in Ancient Education and Early Christianity, ed. Matthew R. Hauge and Andrew W. Pitts, (London: T&T Clark, 2016), 5 – 24. Although dealing with Late Antiquity, some aspects also apply to the earlier period.  Cf. Kathy Ehrensperger, “Speaking Greek under Rome: Paul, the Power of Language and the Language of Power,” Neotestamentica 46 (2012): 9 – 28.

242

Kathy Ehrensperger

be built through a translation process which involved far more than mere linguistics. I have discussed difficulties involved in this learning process in previous publications.⁸ Here I will focus on an aspect I had only marginally considered previously, that is the bodily dimension in the educational process between Paul and the Christ-followers from the nations.⁹ Paul clearly conveyed content, a new message about Jesus as the Christ, which he expected to be grasped cognitively and which he expected to be cognitively transmitted (1 Cor 14:19). But this message, this trust in and loyalty to Christ, was not something to be merely cognitively understood or considered to be true; it was expected to be translated into the practice of everyday life. It was expected to be embodied.

Paideia—Embodied Body language in the self-presentation of Paul plays a significant role in his letters.¹⁰ This is in tune with the significance of body language and physical appearance as decisive aspects of communication in Greek and Roman culture. However, the ideals advocated in elite male education/paideia and the image Paul presents of himself differ fundamentally. Body language and physiognomy played an important and explicitly acknowledged role not only in Greece and Rome but in diverse cultures in antiquity.¹¹ The physical shape and movement of the body was interpreted as revealing the character of the person.¹² It mattered how one walked, held one’s hands and head, raised one’s voice, etc. These human expressions were not perceived to be mere addenda to other aspects but were seen as intrinsically interwoven with all

 Ehrensperger Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 117– 54.  I am informed here by contemporary pedagogical theories which emphasize the relevance of the emotional and bodily/physical dimension of teaching and learning in addition to the cognitive aspect as decisive for this process to be successful and on approaches which are informed by the “corporeal turn” in cultural studies and philosophy, e. g. Jean-Luc Nancy, Corpus, (New York: Fordham University Press, 2008); Emmanual Alloa and Miriam Fischer, Leib und Sprache.Zur Reflexivität verkörperter Ausdrucksformen (Weilerswist: Velbrück Wissenschaft, 2013).  Wenhua Shi, Paul’s Message of the Cross as Body Language (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008); Jennifer Glancy, “Boasting of Beatings (2 Corinthians 11:23 – 25),” JBL 123/1 (2004): 99 – 135; Davina Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered: Reimagining Paul’s Mission (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008); also Bernhard Oestreich, Performanzkritik der Paulusbriefe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012).  Cf., e. g., Mladen Popović, Reading the Human Body: Physiognomy and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic Early Roman Period Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2007).  Earliest occurrences concerning physiognomics with a specific focus on the face are Demosthenes and Aristotle. Cf. Popović, Reading the Human Body, 4– 6.

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

243

aspects of life. The interpretation of physical expressions was based on the notion that humans physically participated with their environment; thus body movements, when properly performed could influence the world around them, that is, the social world of human interaction, as well as the physical environment and the more than human world of the gods.¹³ My focus here will be on body language in Roman perception, but aspects of course pertain also to the Greek as well as other discourses, although they are not identical.¹⁴ Although there can be hardly any doubt that body language was a decisive aspect of social interaction in Roman society, explicit evidence that the education of the male elite included the learning of appropriate body language as intrinsic to the habitus of the male members of the Roman aristocracy only emerged by the time of the late Republic/early Principate. The values of the Roman elite were embodied and were decisive aspects of social interaction between peers as well as between elite men and non-elite or subordinate people, such as women, freedmen, slaves, or provincials. Teaching of this body language was for centuries a matter of practice rather than based on written codes. Only in Cicero and later Quintilian can we find detailed accounts to the appropriate gestures and bodily posture corresponding to the ideal of the elite man. Boys born into Roman aristocratic families acquired this body language through their primary socialization and in a secondary step through formal education. Since for elite men the ability to perform public speeches was a decisive aspect of gaining and asserting power, recognition, and authority among peers as well as in the wider population, Roman education in particular was dominated by learning how to perform as a rhetorician. This not only included the structuring of a speech but more importantly, as Quintilian asserts, the body language in which a speech is presented, that is, its performance.¹⁵ Every aspect was deemed important; every movement, gaze, and vocal expression was decisive for rendering the performance of a speech successful. Through his posture, eye movement, voice, handshake, etc., a young man had to prove that he was born to lead. Thus Cicero, in providing instruction to his son, warns him not to walk too quickly since this prompts “quick breathing, a changed facial expression, a misshapen

 Anthony Corbeill, Nature Embodied: Gesture in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 108.  A differentiated overview is beyond the scope of this paper. But see, e. g., Mladen Popović, “Networks of Scholars: The Transmission of Astronomical and Astrological Learning between Babylonians, Greeks and Jews,” in Ancient Jewish Sciences and the History of Knowledge in Second Temple Literature, ed. Jonathan Ben-Dov and Seth L. Sanders (New York: New York University Press, 2014), 153 – 93.  Inst. Orat. II.3.5

244

Kathy Ehrensperger

mouth” and thus renders it clear to any observer that one lacks in constantia. ¹⁶ However, an elite man should not walk too slowly as this would indicate a lack of effectiveness.¹⁷ It was of highest importance to get this balance right, as in movement and bodily expression, especially in facial expressions,¹⁸ the social status of a person could be “read” in public. To hurry was certainly the mark of a slave or an inferior person.¹⁹ The bodily expression is taken to refer directly to social status and to the moral quality of the person. A man’s style renders his morals visible, as Seneca powerfully asserted: “Everything has its own indicator, if you pay attention, and even the smallest details offer an indication of a person’s character. An effeminate man is revealed by his walk, from the way he brings his finger up to his head, and from his eye-movement” (Epist. 52.12).²⁰ Cicero notes that “gesture is used not merely to emphasize words, but to reveal thought—this includes the movement of the hands, the shoulders, the sides, as well as how one stands and walks.”²¹ This mattered because seeing and being seen were decisive aspects among the Roman male elite, and appearance (aspectus) was listed by Quintilian in one breath with wealth, influence, authority, and self-worth (pecunia, gratia, auctoritas, dignitias) as the features that render a person’s speech and action persuasive.²² Becoming a rhetorician and establishing one’s status in Roman elite society is bound to the ability to embody male elite values accurately. Education/paideia was the induction of boys and adolescents into this world. Rhetorical skill, which decisively encompassed the respective bodily expression, was the test of excellence. Significantly, accurate embodiment of these values included differentiating oneself not only in terms of status (e. g., not to move like a slave) but also in

 Off. 1.131.  Corbeill, Nature, 122.  This is an interesting aspect, as e. g. Pliny (Nat. II.145) asserts that the eyes are superior to any other part of the body as they indicate emotions in such a way that they actually are a mirror of the soul in that the soul lives in the eyes. Cf. Corbeill, Nature Embodied, 146.  Plautus, Poen. 522– 23, cited in Corbeill, Nature Embodied, 117.  Cf. Cicero Off. 1.184: anhelitus moventur, vultus mutantur, ora torquentur; ex quibus magna signification fit non adesse constantiam. See also Cicero Orat. 1.59; 3.220. For a more detailed discussion, cf. Corbeill, Nature Embodied, 122 – 23; Torsten Fögen, “Sermo Corporis: Ancient Reflections in gestus, vultus and vox,” in Bodies and Boundaries in Graeco-Roman Antiquity, ed. Torsten Fögen and Mireille Lee (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 15 – 44, 37.  Cicero, Orat. 3.216  Inst. Orat. II.15.6. On the role of perception in Roman ideology, Cicero’s claim is interesting: “we have surpassed all nations in piety and in knowledge that we have perceived (perspeximus) how everything is ruled and ordered by divine spirits” (Har. Resp. 19). Cicero attributes Rome’s success to the accuracy of their perception. Cf. also Corbeill, Nature Embodied, 150.

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

245

terms of gender and in relation to the subordinate provincial ἔθνη. Thus the guidance to masculine bodily expression included warnings not to appear feminine. Certain movements and gestures had to be avoided as they were deemed feminine, such as the way one brought a finger to one’s head, and the vocal expression had to be firm and strong, as a thin and feeble voice was deemed feminine.²³ As Maud Gleason so aptly described, paideia was about making men, Roman and Greek elite men.²⁴ Paideia aimed at differentiating Roman elite men not only from women or effeminate men but also from all “others.” Thus not only should the orator not be seen to move in an effeminate way, he should also not speak with an accent or move in a rustic way.²⁵ Provincials demonstrated their inferior status and the fact that they were not part of elite Roman society through their “accent, pronunciation, sense of humor, and speaking gestures.”²⁶ This was perceived as evidence of their lack of paideia and knowledge, possibly a high degree of emotionality and even immorality. People who did not conform to the ideal of Roman elite masculinity were not perceived as worthy of equal standing as they were not able to articulate themselves accurately or move in accordance with what was considered nature.²⁷ Through the embodiment of masculinity according to Roman elite values, an exclusivist, gendered discourse of “othering” was established.

Teaching Christ-followers from the Nations: Translating Body Language This elitist body discourse must have had implications concerning the perception of the role and status of Paul. He presents himself as flogged and generally as suffering which categorizes him as a low status person close to slaves;²⁸ com-

 Fögen, Sermo Corporis, 26.  Maud Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995).  Cicero, Off. 1.128 – 29.  Corbeill, Nature Embodied, 113.  Cf. Fögen, who notes that “According to some ancient authors, gestures and facial expressions can be employed as universal language because all human emotions have by nature corresponding expressions in the face, voice, and gesture—a hypothesis which is much disputed in modern research” (Sermo corporis, 19). Cf. also Cicero Orat 3.223.  Glancy notes “The whip teaches abasement and humiliation. Nonetheless, because his experiences of physical abuse unite him with Jesus, Paul presents his abject body as evidence of his authority. In order to make sense of Paul’s somatic rhetoric, we must learn to read the storytell-

246

Kathy Ehrensperger

bined with the fact that he is a member of a conquered people, this appears to be a reference to himself as a man who clearly does not conform to the prevalent masculinity ideal, and thus renders him susceptible to being perceived as an effeminate apostle.²⁹ Clearly Paul does not embody the Roman ideal of elite masculinity. He presents himself in the tradition of the fallible and vulnerable leader,³⁰ characteristics which in Roman perception would have rendered him unmanly, possibly feminine, and certainly a member of an inferior people.³¹ I have argued elsewhere that I see this self-presentation not as merely based on the message of the gospel, although it is certainly part of it.³² But it needs to be taken into account that Paul and his interpretation of the Christ-event are embedded in and part of Jewish tradition, that is, of an embodied tradition which had developed an alternative to the dominating masculinity and authority discourse of Greece and Rome. As Catherine Hezser notes, “Paul’s presentation of a weak body that was subject to inflictions may also be based on a particularly Jewish perception of the (male) body which was different from Roman views of manliness.”³³ Paul’s embodiment of alternative values differentiates him from

ing bodies of the Roman world.” Jennifer Glancy, Corporeal Knowledge: Early Christian Bodies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 27. Shi argues that “Paul’s decision to refrain from following the current social conventions in his proclamation of the gospel, especially as this included self-representation, is understood as a clear indication that he intended to act in a manner distinctly contrary to what society expected of an orator” (Paul’s Message of the Cross, 269). Both Shi and Glancy attribute this almost exclusively to the message of the cross which renders this a rather unique and isolated quality of Paul based on the notion that this alternative only came into being through the Christ-event. See also Kar Yong Lim, “The Sufferings of Christ are Abundant in Us”: A Narrative Dynamics Investigation of Paul’s Sufferings in 2 Corinthians, LNTS 399 (London: T&T Clark, 2009).  Davina Lopez, Apostle to the Conquered: Reimagining Paul’s Mission (Minneapolis: Fortress 2008), 141.  Cf. Ehrensperger, Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 98 – 116, 187– 91.  Cf. Cicero, De. Rep. 3.35 – 37.  Ehrensperger, Paul at the Crossroads of Cultures, 155.  Catherine Hezser, “Paul’s Fool’s Speech (2 Cor 11:16 – 32) in the Context of Ancient Jewish and Graceo-Roman Culture,” in Second Corinthians in the Perspective of Late Second Temple Judaism, ed. Reimund Bieringer, Didier Pollefeyt, and Peter Tomson (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 221– 44, 238. Daniel Boyarin notes with regard to the ideal of the rabbis that “those practices and performances that defined the rabbi as feminized from the point of view of the dominant culture were those that constituted masculinity within the dominated culture,” and “Rabbinic masculinity is significantly like Roman femininity in certain ways,” in Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997), 142. Boyarin also draws attention to the interwoven aspects of physical pain and political suffering as expressions of resistance against Roman imperial power, an alternative “masculinity”

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

247

Roman elites, but in this differentiation he is not so much an exception as an advocate of certain existing Jewish traditions. This to some extent alternative tradition was transmitted through its own set of educational literature through which the young men were inducted into their own distinctive ideals and practices.³⁴

The Addressees: From the Nations What are the implications of this alternative discourse when it comes to “teaching the Christ-followers from the nations” the ways in Christ? From a number of passages, it seems evident that Paul was not only aware of the relevance of body language as such (e. g. as in the context of leadership debates in 2 Corinthians), but specifically of its significance with regard to the educational process for Christ-followers from the nations. It can be assumed that these former pagans were socialized in their particular traditions and embodied these traditions in their primary habitus. Little is known about these provincial traditions beyond the Greek and Roman perceptions, which hardly reflect the self-perception of the provinces and conquered peoples, who in Roman sources predominantly serve the Roman imperial narrative.³⁵ The image of peoples from the provinces were used to enhance the image of Rome as the just and divinely ordained rulers of the oikoumene. Therefore, positive traits of the provincials, such as bravery in battle, served to depict Roman victory in an even more favorable light.³⁶ Subjugated peoples were typically depicted as inferior, thus providing the rationale for the conquest and the imposition of Roman rule. Greece was not exempt from this

which from a Roman perspective was “feminine” (93). Cf. also the critical discussion by Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “The Rise and Fall of Rabbinic Masculinity,” JSIJ 12 (2013): 1– 22.  Cf. David Carr, Writing on Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 267, who is of the view that Hebrew traditions emerged as a collection of literature partly as an alternative to the Greek traditions prevalent under the Seleucids. He argues that the Hasmonean monarchy “is the prime candidate for the sharp definition of purportedly pre-Hellenistic Hebrew Scriptures and the promotion of this sharply defined collection as a focal point for the education-enculturation in its broader, increasingly complex, and specifically Jewish kingdom.” Cf. also Tessa Rajak, Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible and the Ancient Jewish Diaspora (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 154– 156, who argues that especially Greek Jewish traditions constituted an alternative to the dominating discourse. Cf. my discussion in Paul at the Crossroads of Cultures, 143 – 49.  The situation for Greek sources is slightly but not substantially different. For the purpose of this paper I focus here mainly on the Roman context.  As e. g. in Tacitus, Germania.

248

Kathy Ehrensperger

perception, despite the fact that Greek paideia and aspects of Greek culture were held in the highest regard by the Romans. They could acknowledge that Greeks were superior in areas such as poetry and literature (Cicero, Tusc. Disp. 1.1), but since these areas were considered less relevant, it was beyond Roman dignity to compete with Greeks. In areas that mattered, Romans perceived themselves as far superior to the Greeks.³⁷ It can thus be assumed that Paul’s addressees would certainly have been exposed to Roman values and ideas of superiority, even if their own traditions and values might have differed. Although most of them were not part of the elite population (1 Cor 1:26 – 28) and thus not “made into men” through formal paideia, the ideals of Greek and Roman education most likely trickled down to the lower strata of the population since many of the related activities were performed publicly. Paul’s addressees certainly would have been able to “read” the body language of “running” or “walking in a moderate gait” as expressions of status differentiation through everyday encounters and as part of the necessity to “know their place” in this hierarchically stratified society. In addition, they would have learned the ideal of Roman elite body language indirectly through public speeches and the requirement upon them as members of the non-elite to be able to relate to elite body language with an accurate embodiment of their own inferior status.

Translating Body Language in Philippians and 1 Corinthians Paul seems to refer to elitist perceptions of “the other” when he reminds the Corinthians that God chose what is foolish, weak, low, and despised (1 Cor 1:27– 28) in the world (in worldly perception) and tries to teach the addressees a different perspective on the elitist qualifications. Although the addressees would have not likely received a Greek paideia, as non-elite members of Roman provinces they would have embodied some of the values of Greece and Rome as attributed to inferior peoples. The fact that Paul feels compelled to mention that he did not conform to the image of the ideal orator and did not display the required qualities, either in speech or body language (2 Cor 10:10), indicates that at least some in the Corinthian community challenged the legitimacy of his leadership and authority based on such Roman elitist values. It was evident that Paul did not embody these.  Cf. e. g. Cicero, Tusc. Disp. 1.1.2. See Ehrensperger, Paul at the Crossroads of Cultures, 76 – 90.

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

249

Paul’s teaching did not only encompass verbal guidance. In several passages Paul refers to embodiment and body language generally,³⁸ aspects which constituted a decisive part of his teaching of the nations. In Phil 4:9 he reminds the addressees to “Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me” (ἁ καὶ ἐμάθετε καὶ ἠκούσατε καὶ εἴδετε ἐν ἐμοί ταῦτα πράσσετε). The first three aspects could be seen as referring to traditional teaching of traditions; the last, however, “what you have seen in me,” refers to the dimension of embodiment. It is evident that in order to teach the Christ-followers the embodiment of the message, Paul has to embody it himself. This resonates with teachers of rhetoric who not only taught young boys persuasive speech but also the requisite body language. It is not quite clear what the Philippians would have seen in Paul. The admonishment “to do” what they have seen indicates that learning to be Christ-followers from the nations meant to learn to embody the message. Earlier in the letter Paul refers to a “struggle” the Philippians have seen in him (1:30), which he links with “suffering,” but in 4:9 no such specific link is made. So it seems that Paul does not restrict “what they have seen in him” to suffering. It seems that he admonishes them to consider for themselves which aspects of their lives correspond to what they have learned, received, heard, and seen in Paul: “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (4:9). This is not very precise guidance as to what should be embodied but leaves the addressees to their own assessment and judgement. They should work out for themselves what aspects of their own experience and possibly previously embodied traditions were compatible with what they have learned from Paul. This means that Paul considers them able to make such assessments without his detailed guidance, and moreover, that he presumes that aspects of their own non-Jewish traditions were compatible with being in Christ.³⁹ In 1 Corinthians there are passages with more details concerning the embodiment of the teaching the addressees had heard and seen in Paul. In 1 Cor 4:6 Paul explicitly notes that he had written about Apollos and himself “so

 Cf. Bernhard Oestreich, Performanzkritik der Paulusbriefe (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 74– 78.  For further discussion see William S. Campbell, “Gentile Identity and Transformation in Christ According to Paul,” in The Making of Christianity: Conflict, Contacts, and Constructions. Essays in Honor of Bengt Holmberg, ed. M. Zetterholm and S. Byrskog (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012), 23 – 55; J. Brian Tucker, Remain in Your Calling: Paul and the Continuation of Social Identities in Christ (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2011).

250

Kathy Ehrensperger

that they may learn through us (ἵνα ἐν ἡμῖν μάθητε).” Although the phrase “not beyond what is written” remains cryptic and cannot be discussed here, the reference immediately afterwards to “so that none of you will be puffed up in favor of one against another” indicates that learning from Apollos and Paul means learning how to relate to each other. The social behavior refuted here is very much what is expected of Roman elite men and what is promoted in the education of young members of Roman aristocracy. They were taught to embody competitive strife in order to outdo and surpass others.⁴⁰ This is the problem Paul feels urged to address in the opening verses of this letter where faction building and competition threaten to distort the social relationships among the Corinthian Christ-followers. The Corinthians had not yet understood and, thus, had not been able to embody core aspects of Paul’s teaching in their social interactions with each other. They appear to relate to each other as they had learned or seen in social interactions. Although not members of the elite, they related to each other according to the pattern of Roman elite competitiveness (and later in 2 Corinthians it is evident that this included the ideal of leadership and authority advocated particularly in Roman elite education). Paul clearly considers this to be a failure in the learning process he had expected of them, and so in 1 Cor 3:1– 2 he labels them infants in Christ, who could not yet be fed with solid food. This is educational language as noted above, as is Paul’s reference to them as children.⁴¹ The assertion of group membership via association with what were perceived to be people of status and authority is patterned on the pervasive patronage system prevalent in Roman society,⁴² a pattern Paul clearly considers to be incompatible with being a member of the Christ-movement. Paul tries to rectify the Corinthians’ misunderstood embodiment of the message by referring to Christ crucified, to himself as a messenger who does not conform to the ideal of the Roman elite orator (2:4), and to the cooperation between himself and Apollos as fulfilling different but equally important tasks in the service of the gospel without competing with each other (at least this is the image Paul depicts here). In addition, he had sent Timothy as an embodied reminder of the ways in Christ he “taught everywhere in every assembly (καθὼς πανταχοῦ ἐν πάσῃ ἐκκλησίᾳ διδάσκω)” (4:17). Paul’s appeal to imitate him needs to be seen in the context of his attempts to teach these former pagans “the ways in Christ,”

 Cf. Scott Bartchy, “‘When I’m Weak I’m Strong’: A Pauline Paradox in Cultural Context,” in Kontexte der Schrift II: Kultur, Politik, Religion, Sprache, Text. Wolfgang Stegemann zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Christian Strecker (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2005), 49 – 60, 54– 55; and Ehrensperger, Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 115.  Cf. Ehrensperger, Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 127– 36.  Cf. the discussion in Ehrensperger, Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 146 – 47.

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

251

as a teaching method. This teaching included the embodiment of the message and the values of the movement and thus had to include bodily dimensions of learning in analogy to, but at the same time different from, the paideia discourse of the dominating culture.⁴³

Conclusions The problems Paul tries to address in 1 Corinthians 1– 4 demonstrate the difficulties in translating the message of Christ, as a message thoroughly rooted and embedded in the diversity of the Jewish social and symbolic universe, into the social and symbolic universe of Christ-followers from the nations. This is particularly true with the embodiment of the message. It does not come as a surprise when we consider the imprint bodily socialization leaves on humans from a very early age, famously labeled the habitus by Bourdieu. Paul certainly tried to transform the habitus, that is the embodiment of values of Christ-followers from the nations. He faced an upward struggle. What is learned in the body is not easily left behind, if this is possible at all. However, according to Bourdieu the habitus, although durable, is malleable, hence the reshaping and transformation that happens throughout the human lifetime.⁴⁴ The human learning process is open and includes embodiment. But teaching Christ-followers from the nations the embodiment of values and behavior concerning social relations which differed significantly from the dominating elite male discourse obviously led to some fundamental misunderstandings. Teaching via his own body was decisive for Paul if there was to be any chance of a successful translation process. But it was also decisive that aspects of the social and symbolic universe with which these Christ-followers from the nations were familiar were incorporated in this teaching and translation process. In my view, it is significant that Paul referred to their world in Phil 4:8, providing them with a bridge to aspects of embodied values and experiences from the world they were familiar with in order to embed these in their life in Christ as far as they conformed to the values of the message of the gospel. Moreover, the fact that most of these early Christ-followers were not members of the elite themselves may have helped in that they themselves would have been perceived, as Paul reminds them, as not wise by human standards,

 On imitation as part of the educational discourse in Paul, see Ehrensperger, Paul and the Dynamics of Power, 137– 54.  Pierre Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000), 134.

252

Kathy Ehrensperger

not powerful, and not of noble birth. From the dominating, normative perspective they would have been perceived as deficient of the credentials of elite men, of lower standing, and thus despised and weak. Their low social status, combined with the fact that most of the early Christ-followers were members of conquered nations, meant that it was impossible for them to ever entirely overcome this perception of the elite. Even Josephus acknowledged that he could not speak Greek without an accent, a clear sign of his inferiority in the eyes of Rome.⁴⁵ Thus the addressees’ embodiment of the values of the elite possibly was aspirational and a mimicking game rather than an expression of an elite status; there was little they could do to change their actual status. Even if provincials or slaves aspired to join the elite or at least come close to them, their status as “other” would not substantially have changed.⁴⁶ Paul’s embodied teaching includes a transformation of the self-perception of Christ-followers from the nations. The perception of the dominating elite was not the perception of the God of Israel who also was the God of Christ and through him of the Christ-followers from the nations. Paul tries to teach them not to try to imitate the pattern of this world (Rom 12:1– 2) but to transform their perception so they could see and act differently. Humility and humbleness, support for others, even suffering at the hand of a dominating power are then not seen as the embodiment of inferiority, but rather of their relationship with the one God of Israel through Christ under the conditions of Roman domination. Thus, while it might be difficult to “translate” or transform body language, the perception or interpretation of body language could certainly be transformed. Paul’s teaching of the nations may be described as including a transformed perception of embodied practice in light of the Christ-event. To conclude, Paul embodies aspects of his own Jewish traditions and as such also of the Christ-event. At the same time he demonstrates awareness of and familiarity with the Greek ideals of paideia as appropriated by Rome, in relation to leadership issues, group dynamics, and social interactions within the Christ-movement. Paul is fully cognizant of the socio-political and cultural context of his addressees as their teacher in Christ. Most of his addressees were not

 J.W. 20.263 – 64.  In the first century even granting Roman citizenship to freedpersons or conquered peoples did not elevate them to the same status as free-born Roman citizens. Cf. Clifford Ando, Law, Language, and Empire in the Roman Tradition (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), 86 – 92, who notes that “the Romans were clearly capable of conceiving of citizenship as a means to embrace conquered populations within structures of domination, and hence of citizenship as entailing obligations—above all, taxation and military service—without any correlative privileges whatsoever” (88).

Embodying the Ways in Christ: Paul’s Teaching of the Nations

253

socialized through a process of formal education into Greek and Roman male elite values and behavior. Nevertheless, since the Roman elite ideal permeated all aspects of public life, it influenced all members of society, and the elitist patterns may well have been replicated in the social relations of the lower strata of the population. Through the bodily dimension of his teaching, Paul tries to translate alternative values and perceptions of his Jewish tradition, highlighted in his view through the Christ-event, into the world of his addressees. Paul refutes the dominant perception with the alternative interpretation of his own bodily experience and his respective teaching of the nations in Christ, which is embedded in the Jewish perception of the world as God’s creation. This alternative narrative of belonging and meaning challenges Roman claims that only their form of embodiment coheres to nature, rendering “others” subhuman or at least human in a secondary sense. Paul’s teaching through embodiment aims at translating the Jewish challenge to the hegemonial Roman claims via the message of the Christ-event into the world of these “others,” these former pagans, encouraging and empowering them not to replicate the patterns “of this world” as the ideal to embody, but instead to transform their perception and embody the values of the Christ-movement by presenting “their bodies as living sacrifices to God” (Rom 12:1).

Jason von Ehrenkrook

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity Quid ergo Athenis et Hierosolymis? Quid academiae et ecclesiae? Quid haereticis et Christianis? ~Tertullian, De Praescriptione Haereticorum 7

Tertullian’s well-known dictum, framed as a series of antitheses, certainly gives the impression of an impassable gulf between Christian and Greek, or pagan, paideia. ¹ Nevertheless, recent scholarship on paideia in Late Antiquity has demonstrated quite the opposite. Christian intellectual culture in the second through fourth centuries (and beyond) remained inextricably woven into the fabric of Greek learning.² Simply put, the vast majority of Christian and non-Christian elites, before and after the Milvian “watershed,” were participating in a common intellectual arena. And contrary to popular impression—an impression, not incidentally, fueled by some of the very texts under examination in the ensuing paragraphs—intellectual dialogue between pagans and Christians was not necessarily or inherently fraught with tension. Indeed, the intricate web of studentteacher networks throughout the Mediterranean bespeaks the extent to which a kind of “social cohesion” ensured “generally respectful and civil interactions between pagan and Christian students” and teachers alike.³ What Tertullian’s quip points to, however, is a fascinating discursive realm beyond this social reality. Notwithstanding the aforementioned social cohesion, discourses on paideia were often saturated with the language of competition, an The use of “pagan” is, of course, not without significant problems. Nevertheless, see especially the recent justification of its use in Alan Cameron, The Last Pagans of Rome (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 14– 31. Edward Watts, following the lead of Cameron, is surely correct in noting that “‘pagans,’ however imprecise the term, is preferable to … ‘non-Jewish devotees of traditional Mediterranean gods’”; Edward J. Watts, The Final Pagan Generation (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2015), 221 n. 2.  See, for example, Averil Cameron, “Education and Literary Culture,” in Cambridge Ancient History: The Late Empire, vol. 13 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 667– 73; Edward J. Watts, Riot in Alexandria: Tradition and Group Dynamics in Late Antique Pagan and Christian Communities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010).  Watts, Riot in Alexandria, 8. See also Raffaella Cribiore’s research on the school of Libanius, which demonstrates that the pagan sophist had a rather healthy mix of Christian and non-Christian students; Raffaella Cribiore, The Schools of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-015

256

Jason von Ehrenkrook

tagonism, and antithesis, fostering the distinct—though notably inaccurate—impression of an indestructible wall between Christian and pagan paideia. Especially noticeable in this discursive context is the appearance of numerous bioi, lives of prominent intellectuals, which, as Charles Talbert notes, often functioned as potent rhetorical “weapons” between rival intellectual schools.⁴ The present study examines the discursive practices of three representative samples—two Christian and one pagan—from this wider body of literature: Eusebius’s Life of Origen, the primary focus in Book VI of his Historia ecclesiastica; Athanasius’s Life of Antony (Vita Antonii); and Eunapius’s Life of Julian, snippets of which are preserved as a kind of excursus in his Vitae sophistarum. Analysis of these vignettes underscores the extent to which discourses on paideia played a crucial role in ongoing attempts to construct and negotiate boundaries of identity within a “world of entangled communities.”⁵

Eusebius: The Life of Origen Eusebius’s prolific literary output, which includes exegetical and theological works, apologetics, historiography, and biography, emerges within—and is surely shaped by—a remarkably transformative few decades: he survived the Diocletian persecutions; he witnessed a gradual administrative shift from Tetrarchy to a supreme Emperor ruling a unified Empire; he experienced the rise of an Emperor favorable to Christianity; and indeed, insofar as he was in close contact with Constantine’s court, Eusebius found himself instrumental in Christianity’s move from the margins to the center of imperial power. Eusebius’s account of Origen’s life is likely situated at the onset of Christianity’s shifting fortunes, perhaps shortly after the Edict of Tolerance in 311 (referenced in Hist. eccl. 8.16). Book VI of Hist. eccl. is something of a narrative oddity within its larger literary context, a kind of interruption or “extended biographical sub-narrative” focused on the figure of Origen.⁶ Clearly Eusebius, who portrays himself, along

 Charles H. Talbert, “Biographies of Philosophers and Rulers as Instruments of Religious Propaganda in Mediterranean Antiquity,” ANRW 1.16.2 (1978): 1619 – 51 (1645). See especially the recent study by Arthur P. Urbano, The Philosophical Life: Biography and the Crafting of Intellectual Identity in Late Antiquity (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University Press of America, 2013).  Raffaella Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality, and Religion in the Fourth Century (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press), 2– 3.  Elizabeth C. Penland, “The Historian of the Caesarean Present: Eusebius and Narratives of Origen,” in Eusebius of Caesarea: Tradition and Innovations, ed. Aaron P. Johnson and Jeremy M. Schott (Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies, Trustees for Harvard University, 2013).

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

257

with his teacher Pamphilus, as heirs and caretakers of Origen’s legacy, holds Origen in high esteem. Within these pages Origen emerges as an intellectual man-ofsteel (nicknamed Adamantius in Hist. eccl. 6.21.3), possessing a brilliance that was marked especially by his mastery of the “divine word” (Hist. eccl. 6.1.1).⁷ His early education, so Eusebius tells us, combined rigorous training in a conventional curriculum (ἡ τῶν ἐγκυκλίων παιδεία) along with significant attention devoted to the study of the divine scriptures (ταῖς θείαις γραφαῖς; Hist. eccl. 6.2.7). Indeed, it is precisely within this account of Origen’s formative education that Eusebius articulates a crucial contrast between two seemingly distinct types of paideia (Hist. eccl. 6.2.8): Origen’s father insisted that before immersing himself in his Greek lessons (πρὸ τῆς τῶν Ἑλληνικῶν μαθημάτων μελέτης) Origen should devote himself to sacred learning (τοῖς ἱεροῖς ἐνασκεῖσθαι παιδεύμασιν). There is here an implicit prioritizing in Origen’s childhood curriculum, with his Greek studies clearly situated in a subservient position to his sacred studies, i. e., the aforementioned divine scriptures. Nevertheless, Eusebius obviously wants his reader to admire Origen’s mastery of a Greek curriculum. Origen is presented as a polymath, an expert in a remarkably wide range of subjects (Hist. eccl. 6.18). After his father’s death he continues in his pursuit of Greek studies with a renewed vigor, gaining proficiency in grammatika (Hist. eccl. 6.2.15) and, in the natural course of things, becoming a teacher of grammatika (Hist. eccl. 6.3.8). Of particular note in Eusebius’s narrative, however, is Origen’s expertise in Greek philosophy. Citing the Neoplatonist Porphyry’s Adversus Christianos, on this rare occasion approvingly, Eusebius remarks that Origen was steeped in the writings of Plato, Numenius, Cronius, Apollophanes, Longinus, Moderatus, Nicomachus, Chaeremon, and Cornutus (Hist. eccl. 6.19.7– 8). Certainly, as even a cursory reading of Origen’s oeuvre indicates, Eusebius’s emphasis on a Greek, and especially philosophic, curriculum combined with the study of scriptures is accurate. As Timothy Barnes notes, no other early Christian thinker has presented such a sophisticated and “detailed synthesis of Platonism and Christianity.”⁸ Nevertheless, how Eusebius frames the relationship between these intellectual spheres points to a crucial feature in this narrative: Greek paideia is not just inferior to Christian paideia; it is in some sense incompatible with

 Anthony Grafton and Megan Hale Williams, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 21.  Timothy D. Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), 86 – 87.

258

Jason von Ehrenkrook

it. In other words, Origen’s grand synthesis is reformulated here in Book VI as a kind of curricular supersessionism. Hints of a more adversarial relationship between a Greek and Christian curriculum first appear in Eusebius’s description of Origen’s career trajectory. As noted earlier, Origen’s education soon prepared him for a career in Alexandria as a grammaticus, a teacher of Greek literature (Hist. eccl. 6.2.15). According to Eusebius, during his tenure as grammaticus, Demetrius, the Bishop of Alexandria, appointed Origen as a catechetical teacher, one in a succession of instructors at Alexandria’s catechetical school (Hist. eccl. 6.3.1– 3). He then continued as both grammaticus and catechist until he experienced something of a “conversion to asceticism,”⁹ which apparently led Origen to conclude that his profession as a teacher of Greek literature was incompatible (ἀσύμφωνος) with a career “training in divine studies” (πρὸς τὰ θεῖα παιδεύματα). As a consequence, Origen broke away from (ἀπορρήγνυμι) his role as a grammaticus, viewing it as “unprofitable (ἀνωφελής) and opposed (ἐναντίος) to sacred learning” (Hist. eccl. 6.3.8). The language here—especially the use of ἀσύμφωνος, ἀπορρήγνυμι, and ἀνωφελής—sets up a clear antagonism between Greek education and the sacred curriculum (ἱερά μαθημα). Indeed, Origen’s intellectual conversion pushes him to drastic measures: Origen sells his entire library of ancient writing, his Greek curriculum (Hist. eccl. 6.3.9). Origen’s radical act of intellectual castration is, as Eusebius frames it, a removal of anything that could potentially arouse “youthful desires” so that he could instead devote himself exclusively to the study of “divine Scriptures” (Hist. eccl. 6.3.9; see also 6.8.6). There are some serious historical problems with Eusebius’s suggestion that Origen’s intellectual conversion led to a rejection of Greek literature. Eusebius, of course, does not deny that Origen was impressively fluent in non-Christian writings, as is evidenced in the citation from Porphyry mentioned earlier. Yet Eusebius wants the reader to see this as a reflection of the early Alexandrian Origen, the Origen before his crucial ascetic turn that would ultimately lead him to take up residence in Caesarea. However, Porphyry includes Longinus, who was born around the time when Eusebius locates Origen’s rejection of Greek literature (ca. 213), in the list of authors that Origen studied. Thus, if Porphyry is to be believed, Origen was still immersed in current Neoplatonic writings well after his relocation to Caesarea.¹⁰ Moreover, Eusebius’s version of Origen’s intellectual journey seems to conflict with what can be gleaned from Origen’s own writings as well as that of

 Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius, 83.  Grafton and Williams, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book, 64.

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

259

his pupils. To be sure, Origen, along with numerous other Christian intellectuals, exhibits a certain unease with a curriculum that was saturated with stories and poems recounting the varied exploits of the Olympian gods. Yet he did not seriously consider it a viable option to simply replace this curriculum with a distinctly Christian one. In contrast with Eusebius’s curricular supersessionism, Origen’s approach—likely drawn from the deep well of the Alexandrian Jewish tradition— was to deploy the rhetorically charged concept of spoliation, the plundering of Greek learning for distinctly Christian purposes. For example, in his letter to his student Gregory Thaumaturgus, Origen encourages Gregory to follow the example of the Israelites in Egypt by snatching away “the philosophy of the Greeks” to aid in the interpretation of the Scriptures (Ep. Greg. 1– 2).¹¹ This strategy, and the foundational importance of a Greek curriculum, seems to be evidenced in Gregory’s own reflections on his experience sitting in the Caesarean classroom of Origen. According to Gregory in his farewell oration presented to Origen, a day in the life of a pupil of Origen involved exposure to a rather inclusive curriculum that included all of the most important Greek philosophers and poets (Oratio panegyrica 13). Clearly a robust Greek corpus of literature remained integral to Origen’s intellectual life and teaching well after his purported rejection of said corpus. Noting this discrepancy Anthony Grafton and Megan Williams suppose that Origen must have rejected “only the preoccupation with literature for its own sake” and that, if indeed he sold his library, he surely replaced it soon after.¹² In my estimation, however, it seems much more likely that we are dealing here with a Eusebian invention, a discursive strategy that aims to elevate a scriptural curriculum over against a classical curriculum.¹³ Clearly Eusebius does not go as far as the third-century Didascalia Apostolorum, which calls for a complete and absolute avoidance of non-scriptural writings in favor of a total immersion in the Law, Prophets, and the Gospel (1.6). And a careful examination of Eusebius’s writings demonstrates the extent to which he too, like his intellectual hero, was drinking deeply from a well of pagan (and Jewish) literature. Nevertheless, with the dark shadow of the Great Persecution still lingering in the air, and with a burgeoning Caesarean academy quickly developing a reputation as a

 This became quite a popular rhetorical maneuver in Late Antiquity, a useful mechanism to forge an intellectual other from which to differentiate Christian paideia. See, for example, Gregory of Nyssa’s classic expression of this concept in De vita Mosis 2.115.  Grafton and Williams, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book, 68.  On the ascetic retreat of a monk-philosopher as a rhetorical construct, see especially Susanna Elms, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 7– 8.

260

Jason von Ehrenkrook

haven for scriptural study, Eusebius articulates a curricular vision that places the conventional corpus of paideia in a preliminary, temporary, and subservient place in the formation of the Christian intellectual. To wade a bit into speculative waters, it is tempting to view Origen’s ascetic turn, and especially the image of Scripture’s triumph over a classical curriculum, as an expression of Christian triumph in the aftermath of Constantine’s rise to power. A conventional dating of Book VI, shortly after the Edict of Tolerance but still before the Edict of Milan, perhaps tempers this interpretation a bit. But by the mid-fourth century this trope of an ascetic rejection of Greek literature, exemplified in the numerous lives of monk-philosophers, certainly picks up considerable steam, perhaps in the process accruing a more pronounced political significance within this newly baptized Roman state. And prominent among these famous and powerful monk-philosophers is the figure of Antony.

Athenasius: The Life of Antony Christian asceticism begins to emerge as a significant social and cultural force in the Roman Empire during the fourth and fifth centuries.¹⁴ And within this context, literature that fostered an image of Christian simplicity over against elitist intellectuals functioned to disseminate portrayals of the uneducated holy man as a powerful social, cultural, and religious figure. The unlettered monk as a “rhetorical tool” emerges most clearly in the many biographies of Christian ascetics composed in this period,¹⁵ foremost of which is Athanasius’s Vita Antonii, whose asceticism features, among several attributes, the explicit “rejection of education and rhetoric.”¹⁶ The basic plotline of Vita, written in Greek perhaps sometime between 356 and 362, is animated by a dichotomy between Christian and Greek paideia, a festering “conflict between the Christian monk-philosopher”—here idealized—and “the Greek learned scholar,” who represents the monastic antithesis.¹⁷ The reader first encounters Antony’s resistance to Greek paideia in the opening paragraph

 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1981); idem, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982); idem, The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988); Patricia Cox, Biography in Late Antiquity: A Quest for the Holy Man (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983).  Cameron, “Education and Literary Culture,” 670.  Cameron, “Education and Literary Culture,” 669.  Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist, 67.

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

261

(Vit. Ant. 1), an account of his childhood education, in which the growing boy “did not wish to learn grammata” (γράμματα μὲν μαθεῖν οὐκ ἠνέσχετο). Grammata in this literary context is clearly not the rudimentary learning of early childhood—the introduction of the alphabet and basic reading skills. Rather grammata encapsulates the later stages of a classical education, in particular the more advanced study of Greek literature, rhetoric, and philosophy. Thus Antony, a few paragraphs later, mockingly derides the Greeks for—and here’s our very next appearance of the Greek phrase μανθάνειν γράμματα—“crossing sea to learn grammata” (Vit. Ant. 20). Athanasius here clearly alludes to the wellknown custom of young elite men traveling abroad to study rhetoric and philosophy under a reputable teacher.¹⁸ What thus sets Antony apart, by contrast, and what really initiates his life as a saint, is his rejection of grammata, which functions in part as a quintessence of his holiness. However, young Antony’s refusal to become entangled in the affairs of a classical curriculum does not bespeak a lack of intellectual or rhetorical prowess; nor is it a rejection of learning per se, just a particular kind of learning in a particular kind of setting. Indeed, Athanasius informs his reader that Antony had no need “to cross the sea for the sake of perfection,” in part due to his status as a man taught directly by God (θεοδίδακτος; Vit. Ant. 66). Elsewhere, Athanasius praises his subject for his remarkable skills of memory, which, as the author notes, effectively dissolved any need for books (Vit. Ant. 3). Instead, Antony is a kind of walking library, albeit a library of Christian Scriptures. It is precisely his exceptional knowledge of the Scriptures that thus marks Antony as a potent intellectual force, on par with any Greek philosophical rival. It thus should not surprise the reader when the unlearned and simple Antony encounters and confounds a coterie of pagan philosophers. As Athanasius summarizes this exchange, Antony’s interlocutors leave his presence utterly “astounded, because they had seen such understanding in an unlearned man” (ἐν ἰδιώτῃ σύνεσιν; Vit. Ant. 73). After recounting Antony’s death, Athanasius’s closing summary of the life of this remarkable monk nicely underscores this contrast between pagan and Christian paideia: Antony’s renown was not found in his writings (συγγραμμάτα), or “foreign wisdom” (ἡ ἔξωθεν σοφία), or any other skill (τέχνη), but in his piety (εὐσέβεια) alone (Vit. Ant. 93). The dichotomy between the values of Greek intellectuals and this monk-philosopher is unmistakable. And as was evident in Eusebius’s life of Origen, the portrayal of Antony as an unparalleled intellectual force functions in part to establish, at least rhetorically, a scriptural curriculum

 Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist, 68.

262

Jason von Ehrenkrook

in a superior position vis-à-vis a classical Greek curriculum, a canonical competition aimed at identifying which textual authorities should be valued and studied.¹⁹ As the aforementioned encounter between Antony and the Greek philosophers clearly demonstrates, Scripture has conquered grammata. Athanasius, of course, articulates this disavowal of a certain canonical authority using the very language and skills developed in the study of grammata. ²⁰ And his other writings clearly betray a familiarity with Greek literature. Here again it is thus necessary to view this rhetorical construct through a midfourth-century sociopolitical lens. The figure of Antony points not to the rejection of Greek literature per se, but to the rejection of the culture and politics represented by that textual heritage. In this vein, one wonders whether this discourse may also bespeak Athanasius’s own tumultuous conflict with imperial authority. Do we perhaps see reflected here Athanasius contra mundum, an Athanasius projecting onto Antony’s intellectual asceticism his own various political-theological exiles? It is difficult to overestimate the influence of Athanasius’s Greek Vita Antonii in the fourth and fifth centuries. Shortly after its publication, Evagrius produced a very popular Latin translation that experienced a rather wide distribution, traveling throughout the Mediterranean world and spawning a veritable cottage industry of Saints’ lives. And many of these later lives reiterated this antithesis between Greek and monastic-Christian paideia, praising, of course, the latter as far superior to the former. Thus, for example, the legacy of Antony’s paideia lives on in Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of St. Macrina, who rejects the “foreign education” (ἔξωθεν παιδεία) of classical authors in favor of a mastery of the sacred Scriptures.²¹ But what about outside of Christian literary circles? Raffaella Cribiori has persuasively argued that the fourth-century pagan sophist Libanius did indeed read and draw from Vita Antonii in his own autobiography.²² I would like to submit for consideration the possibility that our next textual specimen, Eunapius of Sardis, had read, and perhaps was responding to, this biography of Antony. At

 Urbano, The Philosophical Life, 9.  Urbano, The Philosophical Life, 15.  Samuel Rubenson, “Philosophy and Simplicity: The Problem of Classical Education in Early Christian Biography,” in Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, ed. Tomas Hägg and Philip Rousseau (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 126.  Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist, 62– 75.

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

263

the very least, there is enough indication that Eunapius is offering a forceful response in general to this growing ascetic literary and cultural phenomenon.²³

Eunapius: The Life of Julian Eunapius’s Vitae sophistarum, written perhaps sometime in the year 399,²⁴ presents an account of the lives of various philosophers, sophists, and iatrosophists that includes a rather lengthy excursus on Julian. Although Neoplatonism is a major preoccupation in this text,²⁵ it is not, strictly speaking, doxographical. Eunapius’s overarching interests transcend any specific philosophy or rhetorical theory: what matters is not primarily what his subjects believe but the cultural ideal they represent. Herein resides the fundamental rhetorical import of paideia in this text. By selectively recounting notable events and deeds of various intellectuals in various contexts, Eunapius promulgates an image of the ideal intellectual. Moreover, this idealized master of paideia is positioned over against a clear intellectual antagonist who represents what Eunapius perceives to be emblematic of a distinctly Christian, and obviously destructive, paideia. What is this Eunapian intellectual ideal? Clearly Eunapius emphasizes the importance of a mastery of Greek philosophical learning, especially the Platonic tradition. However, it is equally clear that the Eunapian concept of paideia transcends the boundaries of philosophical acumen. He describes Porphyry’s teacher Longinus, for example, as a “living library and a walking museum,” an expert in the ancient writers, distinguished among all men for his mastery of “all branches of learning” (Vit. soph. 456). Porphyry too, like his teacher, embodies this universal excellence: the paideia of Porphyry included all streams of philosophical thought (Vit. soph. 456), so that by means of this multi-faceted paideia (διὰ ποικίλης παιδείας) he would go on to display an exceptional proficiency in rhetoric, grammar, arithmetic, geometry, moral and natural philosophy, and divination (Vit. soph. 457). Eunapius elsewhere defines his biographical task through the lens of this pan-Hellenic ideal in which his subjects display their

 Indeed, for Arnoldo Momigliano, Eunapius intended Vitae sophistarum to “compete with the lives of the Christian saints”; Arnoldo Momigliano, Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2012), 120. David Buck likewise sees a specific attempt to counter Christian hagiography in Eunapius; David Buck, “Eunapius’ Lives of the Sophists: A Literary Study,” Byzantion 62 (1992): 157.  Thomas Banchich, “The Date of Eunapius’ Vitae Sophistarum,” GRBS 25 (1984): 183 – 92; Thomas Banchich, “On Goulet’s Chronology of Eunapius’ Life and Works,” JHS 107 (1987): 164– 67.  Buck, “Eunapius’ Lives of the Sophists,” 150.

264

Jason von Ehrenkrook

training in every branch of study (πεπαιδευμένων ἀνδρῶν εἰς πᾶσαν παιδείαν ἀναγράφοντι βίους; Vit. soph. 463). If Eunapius’s ideal world, his paradise as it were, is one in which this kind of multi-faceted Greek paideia flourishes, then the inverse of this ideal must approach something close to hell-on-earth. Clearly Eunpaius’s perception of his own social reality—writing, as he is, shortly after the Theodosian edicts of 391 —resembles the latter rather than the former. Specifically, Greek paideia in Vitae is confronted with an external threat, and this threat is manifestly Christian in origin. This opposition between Greek and Christian paideia is indeed brought into sharp relief in his narrative excursus on Julian’s education (Vit. soph. 473 – 476). At the outset of his biography of Julian, Eunapius notes, with obvious derision, that Christian eunuchs were placed in charge of the young Julian in order that he might remain a steadfast Christian. However, Julian is able to successfully overcome these obstacles, displaying the intellectual fortitude needed to withstand the influence of his manifestly incompetent teachers. Indeed, Eunapius explicitly portrays the eunuchs fretting over the deficiencies of their own intellectual tradition: “For [Julian] had thoroughly digested all of their books, with the result that the eunuchs worried about the inadequacy of their paideia” (Vit. soph. 473). Eunapius further notes that Julian’s Christian tutors simply ran out of things to teach this young, precocious genius, exposing the “literary poverty of the biblical texts.”²⁶ They were thus forced to turn him over to the sophists and philosophers who embodied genuine, Greek paideia, a move that enabled Julian to replace the meager puddle of Christian books with the seemingly inexhaustible sea of Hellenic writings. Interestingly, a comparison of Eunapius’s account of Julian’s paideia with Julian’s own descriptions reveals the extent to which Eunapius’s antithesis between Greek and Christian paideia is a rhetorical construct.²⁷ It is true that Julian, in his letter to the Athenians, speaks of his childhood misfortune at the hands of the “tyrant” Constantius, a suffering that included being “taken away from the schools” (τῶν διδασκαλείων ἀπαγαγόντες) and being “shut off from every [opportunity for] learning” (ἀποκεκλεισμένοι παντὸς μαθήματος; Ep. Ath. 271c–d).²⁸ Nevertheless, in another context Julian actually speaks quite fondly of his early education under the Christian eunuch Mardonius, mentioning instruction in the writings of Homer in particular (Misopogon 351b–352c).  Rubenson, “Philosophy and Simplicity,” 121.  Rowland B. E. Smith, Julian’s Gods: Religion and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate (London: Routledge, 1995), 24– 25.  See especially Elms, Sons of Hellenism, 76 – 77.

Christians, Pagans, and the Politics of Paideia in Late Antiquity

265

Whereas Eunapius suggests a clear progression from Christian teachers to philosophers and sophists, from the inadequate curriculum of Christian books to the much more robust classical sources, from Christian paideia to Greek paideia, Julian’s own testimony indicates that classical Greek paideia was very much a part of his early education, even under Christian tutors like the eunuch Mardonius. It should also be noted that Eunapius is not necessarily opposed to Christian teachers per se. After all, he studied under, and held in high esteem, the Christian sophist Prohaeresius—though Eunapius only begrudgingly admits his Christianity (Vit. soph. 493). The problem for Eunapius is a paideia with a distinctly Christian curriculum: Christian teachers teaching Christian books. Which brings us back to his life of Julian. Far from presenting an accurate account of Julian’s education, Eunapius carefully constructs a counterfeit disjunction that polarizes Christian paideia and Greek paideia, a literary construct that bears a striking resemblance to the Eusebian pattern of Origen’s education, albeit with the latter progressing from an inadequate Greek curriculum to the much more sophisticated Christian corpus.

Conclusion The literary oeuvre of Eusebius, Athanasius, and Eunapius spans one of the more transformative and consequential centuries in history. The political upheavals of the early fourth century enabled Christians to bask in the sun of Constantine’s good fortune. It should be no surprise, then, to find Christian discourses on paideia in this period framed within a narrative of Christian triumph. Though masking a more complex social reality, both Eusebius and Athanasius affix to their biographical subjects a story of paideia that underscores the superiority of a distinctly Christian curricular canon. Eunapius too enters this discursive game, albeit as one who perceives in Christian triumph a dystopian landscape wherein the barren wasteland of Christian writings is beginning to encroach upon the rich and fertile fields of a Classical curriculum. As with Eusebius and Athanasius, Eunapius thus views paideia through a lens of canonical competition, a curricular struggle that indeed bespeaks in part the contested boundaries of identity in Late Antiquity.

Jason M. Zurawski

Jewish Education and Identity: Towards an Understanding of Second Temple Paideia One of the most immediate conclusions to come out of our week together in Naples discussing all things Jewish education was that the situation was incredibly complex and truly diverse. Now this should not be surprising. Given the great chronological and geographical spans and given the wide diversity of thought within Second Temple Judaism as a whole, we should expect a great deal of variation and change in education. This is perfectly reasonable. And yet, scholarship on education during the period has lagged behind the wider study of Second Temple history and literature in undervaluing this diversity of thought and its importance for understanding the social and intellectual worlds of Second Temple Judaism. Our meeting and the papers now published here demonstrate that the assumptions and approaches which plagued early scholarship no longer work. Assumed cross-cultural models or continuity with early Israelite education, the uncritical use of late antique depictions of education during the Second Temple period, universally applied postcolonial theory, and notions of normativity during the time are all ideas which prove potentially more harmful than helpful when attempting to comprehend the unique and various conceptions of Jewish education, whether in form or purpose. The necessity, instead, to examine the sources on their own terms and within their own unique historical and cultural contexts is evident throughout the papers in this volume. We can see how drastically education is shaped by, for example, changing political circumstances (see the papers of Schniedewind, Ueberschaer, von Ehrenkrook), the context of a sectarian community (see Goff), or the surrounding Greco-Roman intellectual culture (see Wright, Sterling, deSilva, et al.). Culture continually shapes and is shaped by education. The two are intimately connected. We cannot, therefore, attempt a reductive, essentialist approach in order to theorize a “concept” of Second Temple Jewish education that never existed. The diversity must be allowed to stand. A multiplicity of viewpoints does not negate the possibility of commonalities, though locating a thread common to all of the texts discussed in this volume might prove quite difficult. Perhaps the greatest and most telling thing all the different views do have in common is found not in the details of their curricula or pedagogical strategies, but rather in what it is that they reflect. Each of the unique conceptions of education, idealized or not, reflects and offers a lens DOI 10.1515/9783110546972-016

268

Jason M. Zurawski

into the constantly shifting formation, reification, and reshaping of Jewish identity as it happened. By Jewish identity here I mean not an essentialist category constructed from an external and distanced perspective, whether by modern scholars or a contemporary state apparatus, but rather, from an emic perspective, that multivalent understanding of what it meant to be a Jew living in a particular time and place. The cultural theorist Stuart Hall was fundamental in highlighting the dynamic, fluid nature of identity and identity formation against past essentialist models and the importance, therefore, of viewing identity within specific and unique historical and cultural contexts. According to Hall: Though they seem to invoke an origin in a historical past with which they continue to correspond, actually identities are about questions of using the resources of history, language and culture in the process of becoming rather than being: not ‘who we are’ or ‘where we came from’, so much as what we might become, how we have been represented and how that bears on how we might represent ourselves. Identities are therefore constituted within, not outside representation. … Precisely because identities are constructed within, not outside, discourse, we need to understand them as produced in specific historical and institutional sites within specific discursive formations and practices, by specific enunciative strategies.¹

Because education is historically and contextually determined and because it can represent those issues most constitutive of culture and tradition, broadly construed, it is a phenomenon uniquely situated to provide access to exactly this sort of internal discourse of identity. The connection between education and identity has been extensively discussed in the social sciences, particularly in sociology of education and social psychology.² But, this link is by no means modern. At least as early as Isocrates and his bold argument that “Greekness” was no longer a matter of shared blood or kinship but rather a matter of shared paideia (Panegyr. 50), there has existed

 Stuart Hall, “Who Needs ‘Identity’?” in Questions of Cultural Identity, ed. S. Hall and P. du Gay (London: Sage Publications, 1996), 1– 18 (4). See also his “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1990), 222– 237; and “The Question of Cultural Identity,” in Modernity and its Futures: Understanding Modern Societies, Book IV, ed. Tony McGrew, Stuart Hall, and David Held (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1992), 274– 316.  See, e. g. Pierre Bourdieu, “Systems of education and systems of thought,” in International Social Science Journal 19.3, “Social Functions of Education” (1967): 338 – 358; Cameron McCarthy and Warren Crichlow, eds., Race, Identity, and Representation in Education (London: Routledge, 1993); and Basil Bernstein, Pedagogy, Symbolic Control and Identity. Theory, Research, Critique (London: Taylor & Francis, 1996).

Jewish Education and Identity

269

the profound realization that education is closely bound together with notions of self-understanding, self-representation, and identity constructs. It is not surprising, then, that the role of paideia has been highlighted in several recent studies on ancient Greek and Roman identity,³ particularly during the period of the socalled Second Sophistic.⁴ Tim Whitmarsh describes the principle focus of his 2001 monograph as “the role of paideia in defining the ‘cultural’ category, ‘Greekness’” during the Second Sophistic.⁵ For Whitmarsh, paideia “was not simply a form of social practice (though, of course, it was that too): at a more abstract level, it was also a means of constructing and reifying idealized identities for Greek and Roman, a privileged space of complex cultural interaction (or ‘contact zone’) between Roman ideology and Greek identity, a foundation upon which both peoples constructed their own sense of their place in the world.”⁶ Simon Goldhill, in the introduction to his 2001 volume, is explicit in the attempt to grasp the dynamic process of identity formation as it occurred rather than formulate a reductive, static image: “It is important, too, that despite my criticisms of the term ‘identity’, discussions of ‘cultural identity’ here are concerned with historical and regional variation, as well as with links through the Empire; with education, construction and contest, rather than with an essential core; with multiple and complex affiliations and positions rather than with exclusive (or cumulative) identifications. Our aim is to see the formulations of Greekness in process.”⁷

 Yun Lee Too, The Rhetoric of Identity in Isocrates: Text, Power, Pedagogy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Jan-Jaap Flinterman, Power, Paideia & Pythagoreanism: Greek Identity, Conceptions of the Relationship Between Philosophers and Monarchs and Political Ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius, Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 13 (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); and Nathanael J. Andrade, Syrian Identity in the Greco-Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).  Maud W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, AD 50 – 250 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); Simon Goldhill, ed., Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Tim Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); idem, Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning Romance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Barbara E. Borg, ed., Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004).  Greek Literature and the Roman Empire, 7.  Greek Literature and the Roman Empire, 16.  Being Greek under Rome, 20.

270

Jason M. Zurawski

By all indications, we should expect to find a similar phenomenon within the world of Second Temple Judaism, the authors concerned not with Greek identity or “Greekness,” but with “Jewishness” and the place of the Jewish people within society and the world. And yet, when we compare the studies on identity from the classics side and their strong emphasis on the role of paideia with those on ancient Jewish identity, we find a noticeable lack of discussion on education. This is particularly conspicuous given the recent proliferation of studies on Jewish identity during the Second Temple period, with several conferences, volumes, and monographs devoted the topic and approaching it from diverse, sometimes sophisticated, methodological angles.⁸ Throughout the papers collected here, we can see just how significant different views on education can be to understanding the dynamic discourse of identity taking place. The move from Aramaic to Hebrew scribal education during the Persian period, Ben Sira’s transformation of traditional wisdom education, Qumran’s sectarian curriculum, the proficient utilization of Greek philosophy and rhetoric in the Letter of Aristeas or 4 Maccabees, and Philo’s adoption of Greek philosophical school techniques all had ideological and/or political motivations and ramifications. And they all give us insight into how each author or community understood the place of the Jewish people within a given context and how they wished to represent the Jewish people, whether within or without. Encouraging a particular curriculum or a certain pedagogical technique encourages participation in a shared universe of discourse and a common view of the world. Thus, education itself becomes a discourse of identity.

 See Matthias Konradt and Ulrike Steinert, eds., Ethos und Identität: Einheit und Vielfalt des Judentums in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2002); Jörg Frey, Daniel R. Schwartz, and Stephanie Gripentrog, eds., Jewish Identity in the Greco-Roman World. Jüdische Identität in der griechisch-römischen Welt, AJEC 71 (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Fabian E. Udoh, ed., with Susannah Heschel, Mark Chancey, and Gregory Tatum, Redefining First-Century Jewish and Christian Identities. Essays in Honor of Ed Parish Sanders, CJAS 16 (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2008); Lee I. Levine and Daniel R. Schwartz, Jewish Identities in Antiquity. Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern, TSAJ 130 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); Benedikt Eckhardt, ed., Jewish Identity and Politics between the Maccabees and Bar Kokhba: Groups, Normativity, and Rituals, JSJSup 155 (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Yair Furstenberg, ed., Jewish and Christian Communal Identities in the Roman World, AJEC 94 (Leiden: Brill, 2016); and Stewart Moore, Judean Ethnic Identity and Relations in Hellenistic Egypt: With Walls of Iron?, JSJSup 171 (Leiden: Brill, 2016).

Jewish Education and Identity

271

Paideia as a Discourse of Identity I: Philo of Alexandria My own recent research has focused on the different educational models discussed in late Jewish Hellenistic literature. In some cases, the educational systems or theories found in the texts match well the images of the authors painted by scholars. A good example would be the case of Philo of Alexandria. Though it took some time to move past that era of scholarship that had to force Philo into a box—Greek or Jew, philosopher or rabbi, etc.—the study of Philo has come a long way in understanding the complexities of Jewish thought at the turn of the era, particularly in major Hellenistic cities like Alexandria. Scholars of Philo today do not feel the need to paint him into one particular corner, and while there is by no means a consensus—particularly in the details—most would argue that Philo was both a torah-observing Jew, fully committed to his traditions and his community, and a lover of Greek philosophy and learning, more cautiously sympathetic than overtly hostile to the world beyond the fence of the torah. If we look at Philo’s model of Jewish education, we will find that it largely reflects this depiction.⁹ Saying that Philo had a model of Jewish education is perhaps a bit problematic, for he, one, never sets out a systematic model or theory of education that takes into account all of its various aspects, and, two, he tries as best as possible to avoid ethnic designations when discussing education. Nevertheless, Philo writes on education extensively and quite consistently. Therefore, by piecing everything together we can locate a coherent system or model of education. The model is of Jewish education specifically because this is the education Philo viewed as necessary for most Jewish people, not for all people generally, and, thus, it includes the study of the Jewish law. But, this Jewish education also included training in the encyclical curriculum of the day, which was assuredly Greek, and the study of Greek philosophy. All of these—Jewish law of Moses, Greek encyclical paideia, and Greek philosophy—were integral in Philo’s view of Jewish education. In this system, education via the law of Moses does not surpass the other forms,¹⁰ but rather works alongside them educating at different levels—from el See now Jason M. Zurawski, “Mosaic Paideia: The Law of Moses within Philo of Alexandria’s Model of Jewish Education,” JSJ, forthcoming.  The subordination of Greek education and philosophy to education via the Mosaic law is often assumed in the literature. See, e. g., Harry A. Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1947),

272

Jason M. Zurawski

ementary to advanced—throughout one’s lifetime. Moses’s education is superior to all other forms, not in that it offers unique gifts not available elsewhere, but rather because it is the best possible textbook and teacher, the best means to attaining the same gifts that derive from all education: virtue, wisdom, control over the passions, a balanced life, and, ultimately, the immortal life of the soul. So, the Jewish law is a textbook which teaches the student how to achieve the goals of Greek philosophers everywhere. But, Philo does not conclude from this that the Jewish law is the only required education for the Jewish community or that non-Jews must study the law to achieve these same goals. And in this we find Philo contemplating on and reshaping what were to him the most salient features of Jewish ethics, culture, and identity in first-century Alexandria. While his inclusive view of Jewish education would have seemed familiar to the most elite, well-educated members of Philo’s audience, opportunity and access did not necessarily translate into acceptance and reality. Some in the Alexandrian Jewish community may have avoided Greek education as foreign and incompatible with Jewish values. Others, instead, may have become so enthralled with the intellectual culture of the city that they no longer saw any need for what they would have viewed as the parochial education they received at home or the proseuchai. Philo’s stance in this type of debate is strong and definitive. First, he encourages his fellow Jews to take advantage of all that Greek paideia had to offer, just as he himself had done. Greek education was not something to be shunned or rejected. It was something to be embraced, as it would, if properly attended, enhance education through the law. At the same time, by depicting the law of Moses as the ideal educational resource which offered the same benefits that came from Greek learning, Philo makes a bold case for the continued practice and study of the law. Just as Greek paideia should not be supplanted by the Mosaic, Mosaic paideia must not be subverted by the Greek.¹¹ Philo’s position on Jewish paideia offers us a rare vantage point from which to view that discourse and practice wherein Hall argued identity formation was 1:149 – 50; M. Pohlenz, Kleine Schriften, 2 vols. (Hildesheim: Olms, 1965), 1:324– 30; Alan Mendelson, Secular Education in Philo of Alexandria, HUCM 7 (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1982), 107 n. 2; Tae Won Kang, “Wisdom Mythology and Hellenistic Paideia in Philo: A Case Study of De Congressu Quaerendae Eruditionis Gratia” (PhD diss., Claremont Graduate University, 1999), 252, 266; Maren Niehoff, Philo on Jewish Identity and Culture, TSAJ 86 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 182– 3; and Karl Olav Sandnes, Challenge of Homer: School, Pagan Poets and Early Christianity, LNTS 400 (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 73.  Philo’s often-discussed disparagements of both “literalists” and “extreme allegorizers,” the former ignoring the allegorical meaning in favor of the plain meaning alone (Somn. 1:39, 102), the latter deciding that practice of the literal laws was no longer necessary once the allegorical teaching was discovered (Migr. 89 – 93), can be seen as a microcosm of this larger argument.

Jewish Education and Identity

273

continually in process or Whitmarsh’s privileged space of cultural interaction where idealized identities were constructed. Philo takes paideia, that defining marker of Greek culture and identity, and applies it to the Jewish people. To be Jewish was to share in a common paideia. This education was just that of their elite Greek neighbors, but it was more. It included the education they received throughout their lives from their laws. This was not some particularistic education about parochial, divisive practices and beliefs. It was education in universal cosmic law, the best possible curriculum for learning to live as nature intended. This did not mean that their Greek neighbors also had to be educated by Moses to attain virtue, wisdom, and immortality. It meant that the Jews must be exemplars for the rest of humankind, sparks of wisdom wherever they go (Prob. 71), the priests of the world (Spec. 2:163). This view of Jewish paideia and Jewish identity is a hopeful vision for the Jewish people, which was neither assimilationist nor inimical.

Paideia as a Discourse of Identity II: Wisdom of Solomon We find a different sort of example with Philo’s Alexandrian contemporary, the anonymous author of the Wisdom of Solomon. While scholars are divided, many have viewed this text as far more hostile to the gentile world than Philo. According to David Winston, the author of Wisdom’s polemic against idolatry “is an unmistakable sign of the complete rupture which had in his time sundered the Jewish community from the native Egyptians and Greeks.”¹² Similarly, Giuseppe Scarpat argues that “l’autore della Sap. afferma con vigore la superiorità della Legge dei Padri: l’unico compromesso possibile è la conversione dei pagani all’unico vero Dio degli Ebrei.”¹³ John Barclay used the Wisdom of Solomon as a model of antagonism towards the gentile world and saw the predominant theme of the text as “the social conflict and cultural antagonism between Jews and non-Jews.”¹⁴ What light can the author of Wisdom’s view of education shed on his stance vis-à-vis Hellenistic society and the Jews’ place within it?¹⁵

 David Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon, AB 43 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979), 3.  Giuseppe Scarpat, Libro della Sapienza: Testo, traduzione, introduzione e commento, 3 vols., Biblica Testi e studi 1, 3, 6 (Brescia: Paideia, 1989 – 1999), 1:27.  John M. G. Barclay, Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE – 117 CE) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 184. See also Chyrsostome Larcher, Le Livre de la Sagesse ou la Sagesse de Salomon, 3 vols., EBNS 1, 3, 5 (Paris: J. Gabalda, 1983 –

274

Jason M. Zurawski

The Wisdom of Solomon is a text devoted as much to paideia as it is to sophia. In fact, the author opens by telling us that Wisdom is ἅγιον πνεῦμα παιδείας, “the holy spirit of paideia,” the educator of humankind. While the author, like Philo, is utterly enthralled with paideia, the two have very different views on what constitutes proper education. This could be due to the difference in genre, purpose, or opportunity, for the author of Wisdom had neither the space nor the intention of setting out the kind of detailed discussions found in Philo’s works. But, some of the divergence cannot be attributed to form alone. Primary points of distinction are found in the content of education or curriculum, the means or pedagogy, and the intended students. As to the curriculum, paideia in the Wisdom of Solomon includes, first, the text itself. The author is clear in describing his didactic purpose: “To you, then, O rulers, my words are directed, in order that you may learn wisdom and not transgress [ἵνα μάθητε σοφίαν καὶ μὴ παραπέσητε]. For whoever piously observes holy things will be made holy, and those who have been taught them will find a defense [οἱ διδαχθέντες αὐτὰ εὑρήσουσιν ἀπολογίαν]. Therefore, desire my words, long for them, and you will be educated [παιδευθήσεσθε]” (Wis 6:9 – 11; cf. 6:1, 25). In addition to the author, the other primary teachers in the text are the figure of Wisdom and God. Their lessons include no less than the “full range of human science and philosophy.”¹⁶ Neither of these facets of the author’s educational curricula should occasion much surprise. More curious are exactly those forms of education we would expect to find but do not: the curriculum of encyclical paideia and the Mosaic law. Nowhere in the text is paideia equated with either the subjects typical of the 1985), 1:118; Erich S. Gruen, Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002), 64, 217. Opposing views can be found in James M. Reese, Hellenistic Influence on the Book of Wisdom and its Consequences, AnBib 41 (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1970), 89; Michael Kolarcik, “Universalism and Justice in the Wisdom of Solomon,” in Treasures of Wisdom: Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom, Festschrift M. Gilbert, ed. N. CalduchBenages and J. Vermeylen (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1999), 289 – 301; John J. Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 195 – 202; Luca Mazzinghi, “Wis 19:13 – 17 and the Civil Rights of the Jews of Alexandria,” in The Book of Wisdom in Modern Research: Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology, ed. Angelo Passaro and Giuseppe Bellia, DCLY 2005 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005), 53 – 80; and Gregory Schmidt Goering, “Election and Knowledge in the Wisdom of Solomon,” in Studies in the Book of Wisdom, ed. Géza G. Xeravits and József Zsengellér, JSJSup 142 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 163 – 182.  See Jason M. Zurawski, “Paideia: A Multifarious and Unifying Concept in the Wisdom of Solomon,” in Musar to Paideia: Pedagogy in Early Judaism and Christianity, ed. K. M. Hogan, M. Goff, and E. Wasserman (Atlanta: SBL, forthcoming).  Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon, 172, remarking on Wis 7:15 – 22.

Jewish Education and Identity

275

Greek education of the time or with the study of the Jewish law, the two aspects of education Philo spent most of his time discussing.¹⁷ This, of course, does not mean that the author was not educated in both—he surely was—or that he did not see both as important in the education of others. But, the silence here is telling of his overall view of education and his overall purpose in the text. The pedagogy described by the author of the Wisdom of Solomon too could not be more different from Philo’s. The primary means by which God (or Wisdom) educates humanity is through disciplinary rebukes and punishments, notions inherited from the Septuagint translations where paideia / paideuō is used to translate the Hebrew musar / ysr and, in certain cases, takes on aspects of instructional violence not inherent to the original semantic range of the Greek terms.¹⁸ We find this type of pedagogy elaborated upon throughout the text, and it is often portrayed as God’s testing of humanity. In the final section, the so-called “Book of History,” where the author transforms the unique history of the Israelites and the Exodus into a universal didactic tale, designed to highlight the differences, not between ethnic or cultural groups but between the righteous and the ungodly, the author describes a series of divine tests designed to educate the people and give them a chance to repent for past transgressions. Importantly, God is seen attempting to educate everyone, not just those we as the knowledgeable readers know to be the Jews, though they are never termed as such.¹⁹ The righteous are exactly those who learn from their divine discipline; the impious are those who do not, who ignore their education and continue to err. This idea of divine, disciplinary testing is taken to the furthest extreme in the first part of the text, where we find a group of impious men who have rejected their own paideia and are ignorant about the true nature of life and death, thinking that this life is all that there is (2:1– 5, 12). They decide to test, torture, and murder an innocent individual because his righteousness highlights their own

 Wis 2:12, “Let us lie in wait for the righteous man, because he is inconvenient to us and he opposes our actions; he reproaches us for sins against the law and charges us with sins against our paideia,” is not equating paideia and the Mosaic law, as some have previously argued. See Scarpat, Libro della Sapienza, 1:77, 187. For arguments against this view, see my “Paideia: A Multifarious and Unifying Concept in the Wisdom of Solomon.”  On the phenomenon, see Patrick Pouchelle, Dieu éducateur: Une novella approche d’un concept de la théologie biblique entre Bible Hébraïque, Septante et littérature grecque classique, FAT 2/77 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015); and Jason M. Zurawski, “From Musar to Paideia, From Torah to Nomos: How the Translation of the Septuagint Impacted the Paideutic Ideal in Hellenistic Judaism,” in XV Congress of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies: Munich, 2013, ed. Wolfgang Kraus, Michaël N. van der Meer, and Martin Meiser (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016), 531– 54.  See Wis 11:18 – 14; 12:18 – 27; 16:4– 9.

276

Jason M. Zurawski

iniquity (2:12– 20). But, at the start of chapter three, we learn just how ignorant the impious are and the degree to which even something as horrific as martyrdom could be construed as God’s paideia: “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. In the eyes of the foolish they seem to have died, and their departure was considered a misfortune, and their going away from us their destruction, but they are at peace. For though in the sight of mortals they were punished, their hope is full of immortality. And, having been educated a little [ὀλίγα παιδευθέντες], they will receive great good, because God has tested [ἐπείρασεν] them and found them worthy of himself” (3:1– 5).²⁰ Even death itself—i. e. the death of the body—becomes insignificant compared to the reward earned by the student who passes God’s test: the immortal life of the soul. Corporeal existence in the Wisdom of Solomon becomes a divine contest, an agōn, where God educates, tests, and disciplines humanity to determine their worthiness for the true psychic existence.²¹ We have now seen the differences between Philo and the Wisdom of Solomon with regards to curricula and pedagogy, but the final distinction is perhaps most telling of the author of Wisdom’s own unique understanding of Jewish identity in Roman Alexandria. Philo went a long way in calling for an inclusive model of Jewish education, where both education via the law and Greek forms were important in the Jewish people’s overall education. And while non-Jews were not required to learn from the law in order to gain the benefits that come from paideia, the Mosaic law was unquestionably a superior textbook and teacher. I would argue that the Wisdom of Solomon goes even further in its inclusivist appeals This idea is starkly at odds with those scholars who have viewed the text as a symbol of antagonism and divisiveness. But, if we take seriously 1) the author’s rhetorical choice to not use proper names or to identify Jews and non-Jews, and 2) the view of paideia developed throughout the text, we find an author fully aware of that antagonism but choosing not to participate in it. Detractors  Another text which views martyrdom explicitly as God’s paideia for the people is 2 Maccabees (6:12), though with the significant differences that the martyrs’ deaths in 2 Maccabees are viewed as just punishment for the collective sins of the nation (7:32) and the means by which the people will again be reconciled to their deity (7:33), ideas not found in the Wisdom of Solomon. The author of 4 Maccabees, apparently uncomfortable with the notion of torture and death at the hands of a vicious tyrant as part of God’s education, ingeniously transforms the idea in 2 Maccabees that suffering is God’s paideia to the idea that the martyrs are able to endure due to God’s paideia (1:13 – 19; 5:22– 24, 34; 10:10 – 11; 13:22– 24).  Cf. Wis 4:2 and 10:12. On the Hellenistic agōn motif in the Wisdom of Solomon, see Victor C. Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif: Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature, NovTSup 16 (Leiden: Brill, 1967), 54– 57.

Jewish Education and Identity

277

would argue that even though proper names are not used in the text, the references are perfectly clear.²² The narrator does not identify himself as such, but he is clearly in the guise of Solomon. The “first-formed father of the world” (10:1) is not called Adam, but who else could it be? And there is little doubt that readers even remotely familiar with the ancient stories would not have recognized the Israelites, Egyptians, and Canaanites in the final section of the book. This is all true, but it misses the point. The author went to great lengths to avoid such identifications. His purpose in doing so was not, I can’t imagine, to give his readers a very simple puzzle to piece together. The result of this avoidance is twofold. First, as previously mentioned, it transforms a unique history into a universal, typological narrative.²³ Second, it completely obliterates any distinction between Jew and gentile, not only in the final part of the text, but throughout the book. We don’t know if the righteous man who is killed by the impious is Jewish or not, and we don’t know if the impious are gentiles or not. This ambiguity is by design. Finally, this crafted ambiguity is crucial in the overall view of paideia, which speaks to the outlook of the text particularly when we consider the intended students of both God’s and the author’s education. Because there is no distinction between Jew and non-Jew in the text, there is no distinction as to who is receiving education. And, even though we know that the righteous in the final third of the text are really supposed to be the Jews and the impious the Egyptians or Canaanites, all are educated via God’s disciplinary tests. It is not the righteous alone who are deserving of God’s instruction. And, as to the author’s stated audience of students, they too go unnamed, but they clearly are not made up of Jews alone. The author opens his text, directing his words at the “rulers of the earth [οἱ κρίνοντες τὴν γῆν],” and later tells the kings and judges of the earth (6:1) to heed his teaching and Wisdom’s paideia if they want to earn an immortal kingdom (6:17– 21). In addition, these rulers appear to have already gone astray in some way; they have not ruled rightly (6:4). It is unimportant whether or not the author actually envisioned gentile leaders—or gentiles of any kind—reading or listening to his book. The amazing thing is that he lays out a scenario where potentially wicked kings are given the chance to learn, repent, rule rightly, and earn the immortal life of the soul. This is a remarkable idea and one that does not scream divisive or antagonistic to me.

 On the various arguments for the author’s avoidance of proper names, see Winston, The Wisdom of Solomon, 139 – 140.  Reese argues that this was common in contemporary protrepic discourse (Hellenistic Influence on the Book of Wisdom, 119).

278

Jason M. Zurawski

By articulating clearly the view of education expressed in the Wisdom of Solomon, we are better able to see how the author understood the place of the Jewish people in the world, that is on equal terms, neither superior to their Greek neighbors nor inferior. Every person, regardless of ethnicity, is capable of earning the true immortal life by being educated and living a righteous life. This education may come through the Greek encyclical curriculum or through the Jewish law, but it would also come in the form of arduous tests designed to prove the student’s worth and readiness for the next life. This understanding of paideia speaks to concerns such as worldview and theodicy, morals and ethics, and self-understanding and self-representation. These are but two brief examples of how details of education can serve as windows to the constantly shifting discourse of identity formation. The papers in this volume highlight many more areas directly tied to this discursive space, whether the choice of language within Persian period scribal education, Ben Sira’s curricular innovations, the embodiment of philosophy and the acting out of education on a daily basis, the importance of teacher/student relationships in the Qumran community, or the use of “foreign” rhetorical forms or techniques to display the superiority of native learning in Aristeas, Philo, and 4 Maccabees. These details of Jewish education so well described here are pregnant with possibilities of delving further into the nebulous, complex processes of constructing Jewish identity during the Second Temple period. As Jewish paideia is no longer a forgotten, overlooked object of study, we must continue the types of detailed, contextually-driven studies found here and integrate them into the broader study of Second Temple history and literature.

Index of Modern Authors Abasean, Grigor 142, 183 Abrutyn, Seth 190 Adams, Samuel L. 5, 52, 53 Adams, Sean 6, 164 Aḥituv, S. 14, 15, 16, 17 Aitken, James K. 66 Allegro, John 87 Alloa, Emmanual 242 Ando, Clifford 252 Andrade, Nathanael J. 269 Annas, Julia 64, 68 Arcari, Luca 3, 6, 124 Argall, Randal A. 57 Armstrong, Arthur H. 148, 149 Avemarie, Friedrich 226, 228 Bakhos, Carol 76 Banchich, Thomas 263 Barclay, John M. G. 110, 273 Barnes, Timothy D. 257, 258 Barré, Michael L. 44 Bartchy, Scott 250 Baumgarten, Albert I. 71, 85 Baumgarten, Joseph M. 85 Beaulieu, P. A. 19 Beentjes, Pancratius C. 29, 38, 55 Behm, J. 134 Bellah, Robert N. 190 Bellia, Giuseppe 37, 274 Bénatouïl, Thomas 144, 146 Benoit, Pierre 88 Bernabé, Alberto 114, 119, 120, 123, 124 Bernstein, Basil 268 Berthelot, K. 24 Bertram, Pace G. 134 Betegh, Gabor 123 Betlyon, J. 27 Bhabha, Homi K. 54 Bickerman, Elias J. 5, 68, 69, 71, 74, 236 Biggs, R. 27 Birnbaum, Ellen 157, 170 Boccaccini, Gabriele 3, 56 Bohak, Gideon 193 Bohm, Maria 157

Böhmisch, Franz 32 Bonifazi, Anna 115 Borg, Barbara E. 269 Borgen, Peder 161, 169 Bourdieu, Pierre 251, 268 Bousset, W. 168, 179 Boyarin, Daniel 246 Breitenstein, Urs 206, 219, 223, 225, 228 Bremmer, Jan 119 Brody, Robert 1 Brown, Peter 260 Buck, David 263 Burke, P. 22 Byrskog, Samuel 2, 249 Caizzi, Fernanda Decleva 147 Calduch-Benages, Nuria 29, 37, 274 Cameron, Averil 255, 260, 268 Campbell, William S. 249 Capasso, M. 177 Caquot, André 43, 88 Carr, David 2, 5, 12, 71, 72, 74, 76 – 78, 81, 86, 247 Cassel, Chava 1 Chase, Michael 59 Chazon, Esther G. 2, 72 Cherniss, H. 176 Chester, Andrew 240 Clarysse, Willy 96 Clements, Ruth A. 72 Cohen, N. G. 168 Cohen, S. J. D. 132 Cohen, Yoram 19 Cohn, Leopold 159 Collins, John J. 44, 48, 52, 53, 54, 72, 73, 75, 78, 274 Colson, Francis H. 158, 201 Corbeill, Anthony 243, 244, 245 Corley, Jeremy 38, 48, 51 Cowey, James M. S. 96 Cox, Patricia 260 Crenshaw, James L. 1, 11, 44, 85, 131 Cribiore, Raffaella 75, 76, 86, 99, 171, 255, 256, 260, 261, 262

280

Index of Modern Authors

Crichlow, Warren 268 Culpepper, R. A. 168, 169 D’Alessio, Gianbattista 116 Davies, Graham I. 1 Day, P. L. 42 de Jonge, M. 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139 de Vaux, Roland 88 DeConick, April D. 115 Deissmann, A. 236 Delkurt, H. 131 Demsky, A. 12 deSilva, David A. 64, 198, 208, 213, 217, 223, 228, 229, 234, 236 Di Lella, Alexander A. 56, 57, 58, 61 Diamond, Jared 191 Diels, H. 181 Dillon, John 160 Divino, Verbo 29 Dobbin, Robert 148 Doering, Lutz 101 Donald, Merlin 189, 190 Donaldson, Terence L. 240 Doran, Robert 75, 132 Dorandi, Tiziano 144 Dörrie, H. 171, 181 Drazin, Nathan 1 Duke, R. 24 Dupont-Sommer, A. 206, 210, 223, 225, 236 Dutch, Robert S. 2 Ebner, Eliezer 1 Ebner, Martin 195 Eckhardt, Benedikt 270 Edwards, Mark 148, 152 Ehrensperger, Kathy 6, 239, 241, 242, 246, 248, 250, 251 Elmer, David F. 115 Elms, Susanna 259, 264 Endres, J. C. 138 Eph’al, I. 23 Erbse, Hartmut 113 Eshel, E. 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 88 Eshel, Hanan 76 Evans, Craig A. 2, 160

Feldman, L. H. 132 Ferrer, Joan 29 Finkelberg, Margalit 69 Finkelstein, L. 22 Fischer, Miriam 242 Fitzgerald, John T. 195 Fitzmyer, J. 21 Flinterman, Jan-Jaap 4, 269 Fögen, Torsten 244, 245 Fowl, Stephen 239 Fox, Michael V. 51 Fraade, Steven D. 2, 28 Fraser, P. M. 93, 173 Frede, Michael 97 Fredriksen, Paula 240, 241 Freudenthal, J. 178, 236 Frey, Jörg 270 Fried, L. 27 Fulgseth, Kåre 163 Funghi, Maria Serena 119 Furstenberg, Yair 270 Gartner, H. A. 167 Gasparro, Giulia Sfameni 114, 122 Geljon, Albert C. 162, 167 Geller, Markham J. 21 Gibson, M. 27 Gill, Christopher 144 Giuseppetti, Massimo 116 Glancy, Jennifer 242, 245, 246 Gleason, Maud 245, 269 Goering, Greg Schmidt 31, 33, 37, 48, 274 Goff, Matthew 3, 5, 72, 75, 81, 82, 267, 274 Goldhill, Simon 4, 269 Goodman, Martin 155, 229 Gordley, Matthew E. 117, 118 Goulet-Cazé, Marie-Odile 149 Grafton, Anthony 257, 258, 259 Greenfield, J. 22 Gripentrog, Stephanie 270 Gruen, Erich S. 126, 193, 274 Gryson, Roger 30 Gudeman, A. 167 Gzella, H. 21, 23 Hadas, Moses 106, 236 Hadas-Lebel, Mireille 155, 169

Index of Modern Authors

Hadot, Pierre 59, 60 Hall, Stuart 268, 272 Halliwell, S. 175 Halpern-Amaru, Betsy 2, 72 Hanhart, Robert 29, 36, 44 Harland, Peter J. 66 Harrington, Daniel J. 59, 60, 63, 81 Hauge, Matthew Ryan 2, 241 Hausmann, Jutta 31 Hay, David M. 157, 165, 169 Hayward, C. T. Robert 66 Heininger, Bernard 215 Hempel, Charlotte 61 Hengel, Martin 49, 52, 53, 71, 75 Henrich, Joseph 189 Henry, Paul 148 Herrera, Robert 60 Herrero de Jáuregui, Miguel 113, 114 Heszer, Catherine 241 Hilhorst, Ton 228 Hock, Ronald F. 102 Hoffmann, Philippe 152, 153, 154 Hogan, Karina Martin 3, 72, 75, 274 Holladay, Carl R. 113, 114 Hollander, H.W. 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139 Honeycutt, Hunter 189 Honigman, Sylvie 95, 96, 100, 102, 103, 106, 107, 108 Horbury, William 25, 143 Houston, George W. 164, 177 Hutton, Jeremy 15 Jaeger, Werner 1 James, Patrick 239 Jensen, Jeppe Sinding 186, 193 Johnstone, Steve 75 Jourdan, Fabienne 113 Kamesar, A. 155, 171 Kang, Tae Won 272 Kaplony-Heckel, U. 12 Karanika, Andromache 115 Kautzsch, E. 236 Kee, C. 132, 135, 137 Kennedy, George A. 99, 102, 103, 207, 208, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 224 Kiernan, V. 22

281

Klauck, H. J. 223, 226, 229, 231, 236 Knoppers, G. 20 Koester, Helmut 230, 232, 233 Kolarcik, Michael 274 Koskenniemi, E. 131 Kovelman, Arkady 108 Kraus, W. 134, 275 Kreuzer, Siegfried 37 Kugel, James L. 62 Kugler, Robert A. 80 Kuhn, Thomas 115, 116, 172, 173 Labov, William 25, 26 Lamb, George 48, 75, 206 Landsberger, B. 27 Lange, Armin 2, 77 Larcher, Chyrsostome 273 Lebram, J. C. H. 223, 226 Lee, Mireille 244 Lee, Thomas R. 56 Leisegang, Ioannes 159 Lemaire, André 12 Levine, Lee I. 270 Lickliter, Robert 189 Liedke, G. 136 Liesen, Jan 29 Lieu, Judith M. 61 Lincicum, David 164 Link-Salinger, Ruth 53, 60 Lipschits, O. 20 Lohr, Joel N. 160 Löhr, Martin 2, 44 Long, Anthony A. 147 Lopez, Davina 242, 246 Lucchesi, Enzo 157 Luukko, Mikko 61 Mach, M. F. 132 Mack, B. L. 141, 213 Maresch, Klaus 96 Markschies, Christoph 239 Marrou, H. I. 1, 48, 75, 76, 171, 173, 206, 217, 231, 232 Masulio, Rita 152 Mattila, Raija 61 Mattila, Sharon 53, 54 Mattingly, David J. 239

282

Index of Modern Authors

Mazzinghi, Luca 274 McCarthy, Cameron 268 McNamee, K. 177 McPherran, Mark L. 186 Meiser, M. 134, 275 Meliadò, Claudio 116 Mendelson, Alan 2, 272 Meshel, Z. 14, 15, 16, 17 Michalowski, P. 27 Middendorp, Th. 49, 50, 53 Milik, Józef T. 88 Millar, Fergus 155, 229 Miller, Shem 77 Mitchell, Christine 38 Momigliano, Arnoldo 191, 263 Moore, Stewart 96, 97, 270 Morgan, Teresa 4, 99, 109, 171, 230, 231, 232, 233, 269 Moro, Caterina 124 Morris, Jenny 155 Mullen, Alex 239 Murray, Oswyn 104

Parkinson, R. 16 Passaro, Angelo 38, 274 Pedersén, O. 13 Penland, Elizabeth C. 256 Perdue, Leo G. 2, 28 Petersen, Anders K. 6, 185, 187, 188, 189, 200 Petersen, C. 136 Petersen, David L. 160 Pfann, Stephen J. 86 Pfitzner, Victor C. 276 Philonenko, Marc 43 Piano, Valeria 120, 123 Pitts, Andrew W. 2, 213, 242 Pohlenz, M. 272 Pollock, Sheldon 21 Popović, Mladen 131, 242, 243 Porten, Bezalel 93 Porter, R. 22 Pouchelle, Patrick 6, 133, 134, 275 Puech, Émile 87 Quirke, S.

Na’aman, Nadav 15 Najman, Hindy 65, 73, 81, 98, 131 Nancy, Jean-Luc 242 Naveh, Joseph 20, 22, 23, 86, 87, 88 Newman, Judith H. 68 Newsom, Carol 2, 42 Niehoff, Maren 121, 124, 157, 165, 169, 181, 182, 272 Nikiprowetzky, Valentin 155, 168, 169 Nissen, H. J. 21 Nissinen, Martti 61, 67 Nitzan, Bilhah 2, 72, 85 Nongbri, Brent 192 Nussbaum, Martha 201 O’Neil, Edward N. 102 Oeming, M. 20 Oesch, Josef M. 77 Oestreich, Bernhard 242, 249 Ogushi, Motosuke 133 Ohlemutz, Erwin 117 Oldfather, W. A. 144, 195 Olsson, Birger 2

16

Radice, Roberto 119, 124 Rahlfs, Alfred 29, 36, 44, 133 Rajak, Tessa 205, 229, 247 Redditt, P. D. 223, 226 Reed, Annette Yoshiko 122 Reese, James M. 274, 277 Reiter, Sigofred 159 Renehan, Robert 227, 230, 235 Renger, J. 21 Riedweg, Christoph 113, 114, 115, 118 Rollston, C. 12 Root, B. 28 Rosen-Zvi, Ishay 247 Roth, Sol 60 Royse, James R. 155, 157, 158, 181 Rozenfeld, Ben Tsiyon 1 Rubenson, Samuel 262, 264 Runia, David T. 144, 149, 157, 160, 163, 167, 181, 182 Sabar, A. 26 Saffrey, H. D. 153 Safrai, Shmuel 1

Index of Modern Authors

Sahlins, Marshall 194, 203 Sanders, Jack T. 49, 51, 52 Sanders, James A. 43 Sanders, Seth L. 19, 243 Sandnes, Karl Olav 272 Sauer, George 37 Schaper, Joachim 24, 25 Schiffman, Lawrence H. 83, 84 Schipper, Bernd U. 37 Schmid, Hans Heinrich 44 Schnabel, Eckhard J. 49, 55 Schniedewind, W. 5, 18, 20, 83, 267 Schoors, A. 2 Schubart, W. 181 Schürer, Emil 155, 229 Schwartz, Daniel R. 270 Schwyzer, Hans-Rudolf 148 Sedley, David 144 Severi, Carlo 118 Shi, Wenhua 242, 246 Shirinian, M. E. 142, 183 Shirinian, Manea Erna 142, 183 Shroyer, Montgomery J. 165 Siegert, Folker 141, 159 Simon, Ernest 1 Skarsten, R. 169 Skehan, Patrick W. 56, 57, 58, 88 Skemp, Vincent 48 Smith, Jonathan Z. 193 Smith, M. 14 Smith, Rowland B. E. 265 Soldt, W. van 13 Stadelmann, Helge 2, 40 Stählin, G. 139 Sterling, Gregory E. 6, 75, 143, 149, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 167, 169, 170, 175, 179, 183, 267 Steudel, A. 84, 132 Stökl Ben Ezra, D. 24 Stowers, S. K. 203, 223 Stroumsa, Guy G. 69 Strugnell, John 76, 81 Svärd, Saana 61 Swain, Simon 269 Swift, Fletcher H. 1

283

Tadmor, H. 21 Talbert, Charles H. 256 Talmon, S. 2 Taormina, Daniela 152 Taylor, Joan E. 68 Teeter, Andrew D. 37 Terian, Abraham 141, 159, 163, 169 Tesch, Katja 31, 33 Thiele, Walter 29 Thomas, Rosalind 76 Thompson, Dorothy 96 Tinney, S. 13, 19 Too, Yun Lee 4, 269 Tortorelli Ghidini, Marisa 119, 120, 123 Tov, Emanuel 2, 76, 77, 78, 86, 88 Townshend, R. B. 206 Trudgill, P. 20, 27 Tucker, J. Brian 249 Udoh, Fabian E. 270 Ueberschaer, Frank 2, 5, 38, 267 Ulrich, Eugene 73, 88 Urbano, Arthur P. 256, 262 Van der Horst, P.W. 170 van der Meer, M. N. 134, 275 van der Toorn, K. 12, 19, 73, 75, 76, 77 van Henten, J.W. 197, 218, 223, 226, 228 van Kooten, G. 185 Vanderhooft, D. 20 Vardazaryan, Olga 142, 183 Veldhuis, Niek 11, 13, 17, 18, 19, 86 Vermes, Geza 155, 229 Volgers, Annelie 158 Wan, Sze-kar 169, 170, 176, 179, 180 Wassen, Cecilia 83, 84 Wasserman, Emma 3, 72, 75, 274 Watson, W. 13 Watts, Edward 255 Webb, Ruth 101 Weber, Robert 30 Wendland, Paul 159 West, Martin L. 120 Westerink, L. G. 153, 173 White, Adam G. 2 Whitmarsh, Tim 4, 269, 273

284

Index of Modern Authors

Wicke-Reuter, Ursel 53 Widder, W. L. 133 Willem van Henten, Jan 197 Williams, Megan Hale 257, 258, 259 Wimmer, S. 15, 16 Winston, David 53, 60, 63, 160, 169, 273, 274, 277 Wintermute, O. S. 138 Wischmeyer, Oda 2, 48 Wolfson, Harry A. 168, 271 Wright, Benjamin G. 5, 34, 37, 42, 55, 59, 61, 64, 65, 66, 93, 94, 95, 96, 98, 107, 108, 267 Wyatt, N. 13

Yadin, Yigael 87, 88 Yardeni, Ada 86, 93 Yong Lim, Kar 246 Zamagni, Claudio 158 Zetterholm, Magnus 2, 249 Ziegler, Joseph 29, 36, 43, 44 Zuntz, Günther 107 Zurawski, Jason M. 271, 274, 275

Index of Ancient Sources Acts 7:22

132

Aelius Aristides, Orationes 4.1.47.14

125n50

Aeneas Tacticus, Poliorcetica 4.8.4

121n29

Ahiqar 1.1 C1.1 12, 176 – 179

85n48 133n13

Alcaeus, Fragmenta 142

116

Anaximenes, Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 1.1421b21 – 1422b12

220

Anonymus de Philosophia Platonica, Prolegomena philosophiae Platonicae 26 153n95 Apocalypse of Adam 1:1 8:16 – 17

136n32 136n32

Apollonius the Sophist, Lexicon Homericum 70.33 121n32 103.26 121n32 128.33 121n32 Aristobulus, Fragmenta 2 2.13 2.14 5.14 Aristonicus De signis Iliadis 11.802 – 803 De signis Odysseae 1.65

158n114, 178 178 178 75n13

121n32 121n32

Aristophanes, Vespae 254 Aristotle Athenian Constitution 16.2 – 6 18.4 Ethica nichomachea 1104b31 – 32 1113b24 – 29 Fragmenta varia 146 (Rose) 147 (Rose) De mundo 401a25 Poetica 25 Rhetorica 1.10.3 2.1.8 2.2.1 – 2 1414b De virtutibus et vitiis 5.2 Athanasius, Vita Antonii 1 3 20 66 73 93

133n13

106 215n26 220 220n40 176n43 176n43 123 170 220n40 228 228 226 221n41

261 261 261 261 261 261

Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 5.186e

176n45

Augustine, Confessionum libri XIII (Confessions) 4.2

172n25

Callimachus, Hymnus in Delum 1–4 5 6

116 116 116

286

Index of Ancient Sources

1 Chronicles 11:15 – 19 Cicero De finibus 5.13.36 De haruspicum responso 19 De officiis 1.128 – 29 1.131 1.184 De oratore 1.59 3.216 3.220 3.223 Paradoxa Stoicorum 5.1.34 De republica 3.35 – 37 Rhetorica ad Herennium 3.3.4 4.43.56 – 4.44.57 Tusculanae disputationes 1.1 1.1.2 2.22.52 2.22.53 2.52 3.22 4.57

208, 235

228 244n22 245n25 244n16 244n20 244n20 244n21 244n20 245n27 228 246n31 221n41 212 248 248n37 228n67 227, 233 215n26 227n64 227n64

Clement Protrepticus 7.74.3 – 5 113n3, 114n9 7.74.4 – 5 126 Stromateis 5.12.78.4 – 5 113n3, 127 5.14.123.1 – 5 126 5.14.123.1 – 124.1 113n3, 122 5.14.123.2.1 122n37 5.14.123.2 – 124.1 128 5.4.123.2 – 125.1 126 5.14.126.5 113n3 5.78.4 – 5, 123.1, 126.5, 127.2 114n9 5.123.2 – 124.1 114n9

127.2 133.2

113n3 113n3, 114

1 Corinthians 1:27 – 28 1:26 – 28 2:4 3:1 – 2 4:6 4:17 14:19 15:1, 3

248 248 250 250 249 240, 250 242 240

2 Corinthians 10:10

248

Cyrillus Alexandrinus, Contra Julianum 1.25 125n50 1.35 113 Daniel 2:27 – 30 3 6 16:3, 21 18:13 Dead Sea Scrolls Ages of Creation (4Q184) 4Q184 Beatitudes (4Q525) 4Q525 1 2 4Q525 2 ii + 3 4 4Q525 14 ii 14 – 15 Catenaa (4Q177) 25 Damascus Document (CD) 1:13 – 21 6:9 – 10 3:14 – 16 3:16 4:8 6:3 6:5 6:7 6:11 6:14 – 19

82 235 235 235 235

81 81 73n6 81 78n28 89 79 79 78n27 73n6 78 78 73n6, 78n28 84n45 79

Index of Ancient Sources

7:18 10:6 13:2 13:4 – 6 13:7 – 8 13:11 13:17 13:17 – 18 14:7 – 8 14:13 15:14 15:14 – 15 16:1 – 4 19:34 – 35 20:1 20:4 20:10, 13 20:13 – 15 20:27 20:32 – 33 20:32 Damascus Documenta 4Q266 9 iii 4Q266 9 iii 5 4Q266 9 iii 5 – 7 4Q266 11 17 – 18 Deuteronomyp 4Q44 1 Enoch 4QEnc 5 ii 26 – 27 Exercitium Calami A 4Q234 Exercitium Calami B 4Q360 Exercitium Calami C 4Q341 4Q341 4 – 5 4Q341 6 – 7 4Q341 7 Florilegium 4Q174 3 10 – 12 4Q174 1 11 Genesisf (4Q6) 4Q6 Habakkuk Pesher (1QpHab) 7:4 – 5

78n28 84 84 80 80 80 85n46 85 84 80 80 80 73 78n27 79 79 77 79 79 79 79n31 85n46 85n46 85 83 77n22 82 86 86, 87 86, 87 87 87 87 78n28 84n45 76, 88 78

4QInstruction 1Q26 4Q415 – 418 4Q416 2 ii 20 4Q416 2 iii 2 4Q416 2 iii 13 4Q416 2 iii 16 – 17 4Q417 1 i 6 – 8 4Q417 2 i 17 – 22 4Q417 2 i 24 – 26 4Q417 i 8 – 9 4Q418 81 4 – 5 4Q418 81 17 4Q418 103 ii 3 – 4 4Q418 123 ii 3 – 4 4Q423 4Q423 1 4Q423 5 5 – 6 4Q525 2 ii + 3 6 Mysteries 1Q27 1 i 5 – 6 4Q299 – 301 4QPsx (olim 4Q236) 4Q98 g Psalmsa (11Q5) 18:12 21:11 – 17 22:1 – 15 24:3 – 17 Psalms Peshera (4Q171) 1 – 2 ii 14 3 15 Reworked Pentateuchc (4Q365) 6b 1 – 5 Rule of the Community 1QS 1:1 1QS 1:18 – 3:12 1QS 3:13 1QS 5:2 1QS 5:2, 16 1QS 5:8 – 9 1QS 6:6 – 8 1QS 8:11 – 12 1QS 9 1QS 9:12 – 19 1QS 9:15 – 18 1QS 9:18 – 19

287

81 81 82 82 81 82 82 83 82 82 82 81 82 82 81 82 82 84n41 61n10 81 88n57 73n6 76n19 76n19 76n19 73n6 77 77n22 84 83 80 78n24 73n6 78n24 77 78 80 80 80 80

288

Index of Ancient Sources

1QS 11:3 61n10 Rule of the Congregation 1QSa 1:3 – 5 83 1QSa 1:6 – 8 84 1QSa 1:8 – 9 84 1QSa 2:14 – 22 84n45 4QSapiential Work 4Q185 81 Ways of Righteousnessa-b 4Q420 – 421 81 Words of the Maśkil to all Sons of Dawn (4Q298) 4Q298 80 Demetrius, Fragmenta 2 5

158n113 158n113

Demosthenes, Orations 60 60.1

226n59 226

Derveni Papyrus VII. 3 – 11 VII. 4 ff XVII. 1 – 14 XVII. 6 XVII. 12 XXIII. 4 XVIII. 12 Deuteronomy 2:12 4:1, 5, 10, 14 4:2 4:6 4:9 5:21 5:31 6 6:1 6:7 7:18 10:21 11 11:19 13:6 – 11

120 123 123 123 123 123 123

138 136n29 108 72 136n30 223, 234 136n29 108 136n29 108, 136n30, 140 108 108 108 136 235

14:4 – 21 15:1 – 2, 9 17:10 – 11 18:3 20:19 – 20, 24 21:18 23:19 – 20 24:8 30:20 31:19 32:37 – 43 32:39 32:46 33:1 – 29 33:3 33:4 33:21 Didascalia Apostolorum 1.6

234 235 136n28 55 235 133, 135n27 235 136n28 236 136n29 77 236 72 13 236 36, 55n27 79n 29

259

Dio Chrysostom, De decendi exercitatione (Or. 18) 18.6 – 7 233 18.8 233 Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca historica 3.66.3 117 5.67.4.2 121n29 Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum 1.16 172n24 2.24 172n24 4.4, 13, 24 172n24 5.23, 49, 60 172n24 7.122 228 7.163 172n24 7.180 146n27 8.3.73 151 9.26 – 28, 58 – 59 228n67 9.26, 58 – 60 215n26 9.28 228 9.59 228 10.27 146n27

Index of Ancient Sources

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Antiquitates romanae 4.41.2 215n27 1 Enoch 106:19

82

2 Enoch 2:1 – 5

136n33

Ephorus, Fragmenta 70 Epictetus Diatribai (Discourses) 1 1.praef. 2 1.2.19 – 24 1.2.33, 36 1.4.1 – 32 1.4.5 – 9 1.4.6 – 7, 14, 28 – 29 1.4.6 – 9 1.4.9 1.4.11 1.4.24 1.6.37 1.7.3 – 4, 26, 33 1.8.11 – 13 1.9.1, 22 – 24 1.9.22 – 24 1.10.7 – 8 1.10.10 1.12.2 1.12.3, 23 1.17.11 1.17.12 2.17.36 1.17.13, 15 – 18 1.17.15 – 18 1.17.20 – 26 1.19.6 1.19.7 – 10 1.20.14 – 16 1.20.17 – 19 1.23 1.23.1 – 10

156n104

172 172n22 147n35 147n37 175 146n28 146n26 172, 173n29 146n27 148n46 147n37 229 158n115, 175n40 147n41 147n37 147n41 175n39 146n26 147n43 147n37 146n29, n30 147n37, n40 147n40 146n26 146n28 148n46 147n37 228n67 146n29 147n43 147n44 147n43

289

1.24 145 1.24.1 – 2 195 1.24.6 – 10 147n39 1.25.21 228 1.25.31 147n37 1.26.1 173n29 1.26.13 145n15, n18, 146n23, 175 1.26.18 147n37, n41 1.28.4 – 5 147n41 1.29.18 229, 230 1.29.5 – 8 228n67 1.29.16 – 18, 29, 65 – 66 147n37 1.29.156 147n36 1.30.2 144n12 2.1.15 147n41 2.1.15, 32 147n37 2.1.30 145n15, 146n23, 175 2.1.35 144n12 2.2.8 – 9, 15 147n37 2.2.15 229, 230 2.3 145 2.3.1 147n39 2.4.1 146n32 2.4.8 147n37 2.5.18 – 19 147n37, n41 2.6.9 – 10 146n26 2.6.25 147n37 2.8.15 144n12 2.9.19, 20 147n43 2.12.5 – 8 147n37, n41 2.13.14 – 15 146n29 2.13.21, 26 145n16 2.13.24 147n37, n39 2.14.7 – 22 148n45 2.16.34 146n26 2.16.34 – 35 146n24, 175 2.16.35 147n37, n39 2.17.5 – 6, 11, 35 147n41 2.17.14 – 28 148n46 2.17.34 173n29 2.17.34, 40 146n26 2.17.40 146n31, n32 2.18.18 146n26 2.18.20 147n41 2.18.22 147n37, n41 2.19.2, 9 146n30 2.19.2, 9 – 10 146n31

290

Index of Ancient Sources

2.19.5, 7, 14 146n26 2.19.9 146n32 2.19.14 147n33 2.20 147n44 2.20.6 – 29 147n43 2.21.15 – 16 144n12 2.22.21 147n43 2.22.36 147n41 2.23.20 – 22 147n43 2.23.44 146n26 2.23.42 146n30 2.25 145 2.26.6 – 7 147n37 2.28.1 – 3 145n16 3.1.14 147n42 3.1.18, 20 147n41 3.1.19 – 21 147n37 3.1.30 147n39 3.2.1 – 18 148n46 3.2.6, 13 146n26 3.2.11 147n39 3.2.13 146n31 3.2.13, 15 146n32 3.5.14 146n26, 147n37 3.7 147n44 3.7.8 – 9 147n43 3.7.34 147n37 3.9.18 148n46 3.9.21 146n26 3.12.2 147n39 3.12.7 – 17 148n46 3.12.15 147n37, n41 3.12.17 147n41 3.14.9 147n37 3.15.8 147n34 3.16.5 147n37 3.16.9 145n13, 172n22 3.18.4 147n37 3.21.7 146n26, n31, n32 3.21.19 146n29, 147n37, n39 3.22 145, 229 3.22.24 – 25, 80, 88, 91 – 92 147n39 3.22.26 147n37 3.22.57 – 58 147n39 3.22.60 147n39 3.22.63, 76 147n39 3.22.63 147n39, n40

3.22.95 146n30, 147n41 3.23.6, 27 145n19 3.23.20 – 26 147n37 3.23.21 147n41, 229, 230 3.23.22 147n41 3.23.25 147n41 3.23.26 147n41 3.23.30 145n20 3.23.32 146n29, n30 3.24 145 3.24.38 146n29 3.24.40, 64 – 70 147n39 3.24.60, 99 147n37 3.24.71 228 3.24.81 146n26 3.24.98 – 99 147n41 3.26.3 173n29 3.26.23 146n30, 147n37, n39 3.26.37 146n29 3.242.67 147n40 4.1 145 4.1.1, 60 – 87 228 4.1.18, 142 144n12 4.1.30 – 31, 114 – 118, 152 – 158 147n39 4.1.41, 123, 159 – 169 147n37 4.1.114 147n40 4.1.120 147n41 4.1.123 147n35, 199 4.1.131, 173 146n30 4.1.132 – 135 228n67 4.1.152 228 4.1.172 147n41 4.4.8 – 18, 30 145n15, n17 4.4.13 – 18 148n46 4.4.14, 17 173n29 4.4.21 147n41 4.4.21 – 22 147n37 4.4.34 146n30 4.5.36 173n29 4.5.1 – 5, 33 147n37 4.5.14 147n39 4.6.21 147n40 4.7.29 147n37 4.7.29, 31 147n39 4.8.12 146n29 4.8.17 – 20 147n34 4.8.22 – 23 147n37

Index of Ancient Sources

4.9.6 4.11.19 – 21 4.11.21 4.11.30 10.7 – 10 Enchiridon 49 53.4 Fragments 9 11, 28a 14 15 18

146n26, n29, 147n37, n39 147n37 147n39 147n42 145n14

Esther 3:13 Eunapius, Vitae sophistarum 456 – 457 463 466 – 70 467, 484 473 493 Pseudo-Eupolemus frag. 2 Euripides Troades 101, 474 – 499, 1203 – 1206 144 380 – 381 382, 504 – 505, 1180 – 84 487 – 488 601 758 – 760 1188 – 1191 Hecuba 55 – 58, 282 – 285, 956 – 960 810 766 Eusebius Historia ecclesiastica 2.4.2 – 3

146n27, 175n39 229, 230 146n26 147n37 147n43 147n41 147n41

139n46

263 264 172n20 172n24 264 265

131

232 231 232 232 232 231 232 226n62 232 232 232

2.18.1 2.18.1 – 8 2.18.5 6.1.1 6.2.7 6.2.8 6.2.15 6.3.1 – 3 6.3.8 6.3.9 6.8.6 6.18 6.19.7 – 8 6.19.8 6.21.3 8.16 Praeparatio evangelica 13.12.5 13.12.5.1 – 41

159n116 143n8 157n107 257 257 257 257, 258 258 257, 258 258 258 257 257 174n36 257 256 113n1 126

Eustathius, Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem 1.351.6 121n32 1.399.3 121n32 1.619.9 121n32 3.55.10 121n32 2.702.23 121n32 Exodus 2:1 – 10 2:10 6:2 – 30:10 12:2 – 28:4 12:26 15:16b-21 20:17 22:25 23:4 – 5 23:10 – 11 24:3, 7 28 29:27 34 Ezekiel 37:2 – 3 47:1 – 12

169

291

124 131 155 157 84 77 223, 234 235 235 235 235 103 55 108

236 61n9

292

Index of Ancient Sources

Ezra 4:7 – 10 4:7, 17 5:6, 7, 17 7:6 7:6, 12, 21, 25 7:11 7:11, 12, 21 7:20 10:36 4 Ezra 4:13 – 19 14:38 – 41 Galen My own Books 19.11, 23 19.33, 42 – 43 Order of my Books 2 Gellius, On Providence 7.1.1‒13 Genesis 1 1–3 2 2:1 – 18:2 2:4 – 28:9 2:10 – 14 4:1 – 10 6–9 11:26 – 32 12:1 – 3 12:1 – 4, 6 12:4, 6 17:18 17:25 21:8 22 22:1 – 19 25:27 25:28 27:19 – 21 31:14

26 26 26 73 27 27 27 26 87

207 78n27

173n27 172n23 173n27

53

37 37 31n4, 33 155, 159 155, 157 61n9 235 236 131 200, 201 200 200 131n4 131n2 131 131 235 131 131n4 86 138

34:1 – 31 37:2 37:3 39:1 – 23 39:7 – 12 39:10 46:28 48:1 – 11 49:1 – 27 49:7 49:10

235 131 131n4 235 235 133n14 136n28 76 136 235 79n29

Greek Magical Papyri PGM VII. 1 – 148 [Preisendanz] PGM VII. 80 [Preisendanz]

115 121n34

Gregory Thaumaturgus, In Origenem oratio panegyrica 13 259 Habakkuk 3:10

122n39

Hebrews 11 12:5 – 11

38 213

Heraclitus, Allegoriae (Quaestiones homericae) 12.2 – 3 Hermogenes, Progymnasmata 2.4 3.6 – 4.10 6.12 6.12 – 14 7.14 7.17 8.18 8.19 9.20 9.21 10.23 11.24 11.24 – 25 11.25

121n30

207n11, n12 212n17 214n19 214n20 216 218 218n33 218n32 218n35 219n36, n37 208n15 221n44 221n42 221n43

Index of Ancient Sources

11.25 – 26 11.26 Himerius, Declamationes et orationes 48.10 Homer Iliad 1.46 2.204 – 5 2.335 6.146‒49 9.214, 218 10.243 11.806 13.694 18 18.478 – 608 24.209 Odyssey 1.65 2.233, 394 3.398 4.395, 682, 799 5.11, 198 7.198 10.513 11 11.238 12.1 12.158 – 200 15.63, 313, 554 17.2, 230, 402 22

222n45 222n49

116

121n30 75n13 121n31 54 121n31 121n31 121n31 121n31 207 208 233 121n31 121n31 121n31 121n31 121n31 233 75n13 207 121n31 75n13 233 121n31 121n31 207

Hyperides, Funeral Oration 6 6.38 – 40

226n59 226n60

Iamblichus, De vita Pythagorica 99 71 – 75 71 – 72 104, 152, 158 215 – 222

173n29 172n24 172n21 172n22 228n67

Isaiah 2:5 12:3 30:8 33:22 38:19 41:5 43:2 44:6 48:12 Isocrates Ad Demonicum 36 Panegyricus 50

293

61n10 61n9 79 79n29 136n30 122n39 236 124 124

107 4, 268

Jeremiah 2:13 9:13 17:13

61n9 136 61n9

Job 5:17 6:24 8:8 12:7 – 8 26:5 27:11 31:17 38 – 39

134 136n28 136n28 136n28 122n39 136n28 137n37 37

Joel 4:18 John 4:14 7:37 13 – 17 Josephus Antiquitates judaicae 1.154 – 168 4.211 8.1 13.1 14.1

61n9

61n9 61n9 136n33

122n37 84n42 156n104 156n104 156n104

294

Index of Ancient Sources

15.1 20.1 Bellum judaicum 2.159 7.357 20.263 – 64 Contra Apionem 2.178 2.204 2.256

156n104 156n104 84n42 221n41 252n45 84 84 75n13

Joshua 1:8 24:18, 21, 24

84n41 235

Jubilees 11:16 19:14 20 21 24:18 – 20 31:15 47:9

138 138 136 136 61n10 73 138

Judges 5:14 13:8

79n29 136n28

Judith 4:12

138

Julian (the Apostate) Misopogon 351b–352c To the Senate and People of Athens 271c–d Justin Martyr Cohortatio ad Graecos 15.1 De Monarchia 2.4

264 264

113n4, 126 113n4, 126

KhQ Ostracon (Khirbet Qumran Ostracon) 3 88n56

1 Kings 1:6 1:10 3:6 – 9 17:1 19:19 Letter of Aristeas 1 8 11 16 17 19 22 – 25 26 31 57 58 59 60 67 70 77 77 – 78 86 92 96 – 99 107 107 – 111 109 – 111 121 – 122 122 130 134 – 138 139 143 144 – 160 144 – 171 145 – 147 148 155 158 – 159 160 168 177 182

133 131n3 65 131n3 131n3

100 100 104 97, 104 104 104 94 104 105 101 101 102 102 103 104 104 103 102 104 102 104 103 106 45n41 105 97 97 97 98 234n83 94 97 98 104, 108 108 106, 108 108 98, 102 99, 104

Index of Ancient Sources

184 201 221 – 222 228 314 316 322

98 105 227 108 105 105 100

Leviticus 7:1, 11, 37 7:31‒34 11:4 – 23, 41 – 42 19:9 – 10 19:18b

72 55 234 235 37n25

Libanius, Oration 1.55 1.155

173n29 174

Liber antiquitatum biblicarum 52:4

135n27

Lucian Cataplus 26 Phalaris 11 – 12 Tyrannicida 10 Lysias, Funeral Oration 2 2.1 2.21, 41, 57, 59 1 Maccabees 1:14 2 Maccabees 1:13 – 19 2:14 – 15 3:1 – 6:17 4:9 4:12 4:12 – 13 4:12 – 15 5:22 – 24, 34

215n26 215n26 215n25, n27

226n59 226 226n60

75

276n20 75 208 75 75 74 237 276n20

6:12 6:18 – 7:42 6:19 6:28 6:30 7:1 7:3 – 5 7:7 7:8 7:9, 11, 14, 23 7:10 7:20 7:21 – 23 7:25 – 29 7:32 7:33 7:39 7:41 10:10 – 11 13:22 – 24 14:46

295

276n20 208 210 210 210 210 210 210 210 199 210 211 211 211 276n20 276n20 211 211 276n20 276n20 199

4 Maccabees 1:1 198, 216, 222, 223, 226, 227 1:1 – 2 213 1:1b-2 226 1:1 – 3:18 223n53 1:2 216 1:3 – 4 213 1:5 213 1:5 – 6 228 1:7 – 8 213 1:7 – 11 226 1:7 – 12 223 1:8, 10 205, 234n83 1:10 205, 216, 234n83 1:11 199, 217, 226 1:12 205, 223n53, 226 1:14 226 1:15 – 17 205, 234 1:18 205, 234n83 1:20 228 1:24 228 1:29 214 1:31 – 35 234 2:1 – 3, 17 – 18 235 2:1 – 4 222

296

2:2 – 3 2:5 – 6 2:5, 6 2:8 – 9 2:10 – 13 2:14 – 15 2:16 – 18 2:17 2:19 2:19 – 20 2:21 – 22 2:21 – 23 2:22 – 23 2:24 – 3:2 3:3 – 18 3:5 3:6 – 18 3:7 – 11 3:12 – 14 3:15 – 16 3:17 – 18 3:18 3:19 3:19 – 17:24 3:19 – 18:24 3:20 4:10 4:15 4:16 4:16 – 17 4:23 – 25 4:19 – 21 5:1 – 17:6 5:3 5:6 – 13 5:7 5:7, 9 – 11 5:8 – 9 5:9 5:11 5:12 5:13 5:15 5:16 5:16 – 17 5:16 – 38 5:18

Index of Ancient Sources

213 213, 234 223 235 235 235 222 213 235 213, 222n51 227 223, 227n64 214 228 227 214 208, 213, 222, 235 209 209 209 234n83 205 216, 222n50, 223n52 223n52 223n53 215 206 215 215 215 215 237 223 206 219 224 215, 220 225 220 220, 224 225 220, 225 220 221 225 219 217, 221n41

5:18, 27 – 28, 35 221 5:20 – 21, 29, 34 221 5:20 – 21, 29, 33 – 34 217 5:22 – 24 198, 205, 217, 224, 234 5:23 – 24 234n83 5:25 – 26 225 5:27 215, 221 5:29 235 5:29, 33 – 34 221n41 5:31 217 5:31, 33 – 34, 36 219 5:33 – 35 225 5:34 234n82 5:34 – 35 225 5:35 – 36 217 5:38 198 5:31 – 32, 37 – 38 221 6:1 206, 224 6:1 – 9, 11 210 6:1 – 35 213 6:3 206 6:4 219 6:5, 9 – 11, 13, 17 217 6:7 217 6:10 214 6:10 – 11 225 6:18 217 6:18 – 7:42 228 6:21 221 6:29 199 6:14 – 15 219 6:17 – 22 237n87 6:17 – 23 229n68 6:17 – 23, 27 – 29 219 6:18 – 19 217 6:18 – 20 219 6:18 – 21 221 7:19 199 6:24 – 28 229n68 6:27 – 29 217 6:28 – 29 214 6:31 – 33 213 6:31 – 35 223 6:33, 34 213 7:1 – 3 225 7:1 – 3, 5 214 7:1 – 5 217

Index of Ancient Sources

7:4 7:4, 24 7:6, 8 7:6, 12 7:6 – 7, 9 – 10, 15 7:9 7:11 – 12 7:13 – 14 7:11 – 12 7:16 – 23 7:20 7:21 – 22 7:22 8:1 8:2 8:3 – 5 8:4 8:5, 8 8:5 – 11, 14 8:6 – 7 8:7 8:12 – 14 8:14 8:15 8:17 – 26 8:20, 26 9:1, 4 9:1b 9:1 – 9 9:2 9:2, 6, 18 9:5 – 6 9:6 9:7 9:8, 18, 31 9:8, 22 9:8 – 9 9:10 – 11 9:10 – 11:27 9:10 – 12:19 9:10 – 13:5 9:15 9:15, 17 – 18, 23 – 24, 29 – 31 9:16 9:17 9:18 9:19 – 20

225 214 217 216 225 217 213, 218 217 235 213, 223 206 234n83 205 213 216 215n24 206 220 219 220 215 215 220 206 219 219 221 221 219 221 219 221 237n87 229 205, 234n83 199 221 216 211 212 213 216 219 219 228 229 210

297

9:19 – 21 211 9:23 – 24 198 9:25 233 9:26, 28 211 9:30 215 10:2 219, 237 10:2 – 3, 10 – 11, 14 – 16, 18 – 21 219 10:4 228 10:5 – 8 210, 211 10:10 205, 234n83 10:16 215 10:13 219 11:2 205, 234n83 11:2 – 6, 12, 14 – 16, 20 – 27 219 11:4 – 6 216 11:9 – 12 211 11:12 229 11:14 – 15, 24 219 11:15 237 11:17 – 19 211 11:20 197, 214, 225 11:21, 27 229 11:22 205, 234n83 11:22, 27 214 11:23 215 12:3 – 5 219 12:5 215 12:8, 11 – 18 219 12:11 216 12:11 – 14 215 12:13 216 12:14 205, 214, 234n83 13:1 – 3 213 13:1 – 5 223 13:6 – 7 214, 225 13:8 214 13:9 213 13:9, 12 221 13:9, 16:3, 21 235 13:9 – 10, 12 218 13:9 – 18 219 13:12 213 13:12, 14:20 235 13:13, 16 214 13:13 – 17 199 13:14 229 13:14 – 17 224n54

298

Index of Ancient Sources

13:19 – 14:1 13:22 13:24, 27 13:25 14:2 14:2 – 3, 7 14:3, 7 – 8 14:5 14:5 ff. 14:9 14:11 – 12 14:20 14:13 – 20 15:1, 13, 16 – 17, 29 – 30 15:2 – 3, 8, 27 15:3 15:4 15:4 – 10 15:9 15:11 – 28 15:14 – 21 15:15 – 16, 19 – 22 15:21 15:25 – 26 15:25 – 28 15:28 15:29 15:31 – 32 16:1 – 4 16:3 16:4 16:6 16:6 – 11 16:7, 9 16:8 16:9 16:10 16:11 16:13, 25 16:14 16:16 16:16 – 23 16:18 – 19 16:20 16:20 – 21 16:21 16:22

223, 229 236n84 205, 234n83 205, 234n83 228 225 214 214 199 212 213 218 223, 229 225 224n54 199 132n8 223, 229 205, 234n83 213 210 212 233, 235 212 214 218 214 214, 225, 235 213, 223 218 222n50 231 219, 231 232 232 232 232 232 199 225 214 219 221 213, 235 218, 221 213 221

17:2, 4 – 6 17:2, 5, 8 – 10, 20 – 21 17:3 17:5 17:5, 12, 18 17:7 17:7, 16 17:8 – 10 17:9 – 10 17:11 – 16 17:12 – 16 17:12, 25 17:19 17:20 – 21 17:20 – 22 17:21 – 22 17:22 18:1 – 2, 20 – 21 18:1 – 2 18:1 – 2, 4 – 5 18:4 18:4 – 5 18:7 – 19 18:10 – 16 18:10 – 19 18:11 18:12 18:12 – 13 18:14 – 19 18:20 18:23

225 226 205, 214, 225 214 199 227 227 227 225 214, 227 225 234n83 213, 236 217 227 214 199 227 224 226 199, 215n27 217, 227 219 85n46 215, 237 235 235 235 213, 236 215, 225 199

Marinus, Vita Procli sive de felicitate 8–9 152n77 9 152n78, n79, 172n25 10 – 12 152n80 12 154n97 12, 22 172n24 13 152n82, 153n90, n93, 173n30 22 152n83, n84, n85, 153n86, n87, 154n98, n99 24 153n88 26 173n32 27 173n31 38 173n31

Index of Ancient Sources

Matthew 18:15 – 16

135n22

Mishnah Avot 5:21 Avot 1:6 Pesaḥim 10:4

71n3 74 85n48

Nahum 1:5

122n39

Nehemiah 1:11 8:1 – 8 8:1, 4, 9 8:9, 12:16 13:1 13:13 13:23 – 24

26 73 27 27 27 28 27

Numbers 16:1 – 35 16:41 – 50 21:18 25:1 – 9 26:54

235 236 78 235 138

Origen Commentarium in evangelium Matthaei 17:17 159n116 Contra Celsum 4.51 159n116 4.64 53 Epistula ad Gregorium Thaumaturgum 1–2 259 Orphicorum fragmenta 168 Oxyrhynchus Papyri P.Oxy. XV 1808 P.Oxy. XXVI. 2442 P.Oxy. XXXIV 2688, 2689 P. Berol. 44

123n41

177 116 177, 177n51 125n50

299

P. Hercul. 1003 1385 1471 1670

172n22 172n22 172n22 177

Papyri Insiger 9.9

133n13

Pausanius, Graeciae descriptio 9.30.2 10.8.10

125n50 116

Philippians 1:30 4:8 4:9

249 251 240, 249

Philo De Abrahamo 1–6 156n103 2–5 156n105, 161n122 60 – 67 161n127 68 – 88 161n127 89 – 98 161n127 99 – 106 161n127 107 – 118 161n127 119 – 132 161n127 133 – 146 161n127 147 – 166 161n127 167 – 199 161n127 200 – 204 16n127 208 – 216 161n127 217 – 224 161n127 225 – 235 161n127 236 – 244 161n127 De aeternitate mundi 150 163 De animalibus 6 169 9 169 De confusione linguarum 170 75n13 190 183n76 De congressu eruditionis gratia 15 – 19 240n4

300

Index of Ancient Sources

De decalogo 1 156n103 De ebrietate 1 156n102 De fuga et inventione 2 156n102 Hypothetica 7.14 85 De Iosepho 1 156n103 Legum allegoriae 1–2 141n1, 159n117, 160, 183n78 1.43 – 46 61n10 3 159n117 2.9 – 10 182n73 3.203 – 208 183n76 De migratione Abrahami 1 – 126 200 13, 148 200 14 ff., 44, 76 200 15, 214 200 20, 203 200 24, 53, 37, 70 201 28 200 29 200 34 ff. 201, 202 44 – 45, 89 – 93 183n76 55 202 89 – 93 202, 272n11 124 201 127 – 255 200 131 ff. 202 191 202 194 202 196 200 206 228 De plantatione 1 156n102 De praemiis et poenis 1–3 156n103, n105, 161n122, n124 De providentia 1–2 141n1, 142, 183n78 Quaestiones et solutiones in Exodum 1–2 142, 183n78 1.16 181n65 Quaestiones et solutiones in Genesin 1–3 142, 183n78

1.10, 11, 12, 39 179n57 1.18 182n73 1.36 179n60 1.39 181n65 1.69 182n73 2.8 179n60 2.34 181n64 2.79 181n65 3.11 182n73 3.32 181n64 3.33 181n65 4 142, 183n78 4.37 179n60 4.88, 168, 175 181n65 4.176, 241 181n64 Quis rerum divinarum heres sit 1 156n102 280 – 81 182n73 Quod deterius potiori insidiari soleat 57 – 60 182n73 Quod omnis probus liber sit 1 163 71 273 80 234n83 106 – 107 228n67 160 240n4 De sobrietate 1 156n102 De somniis 1.1 156n102 1.39, 92 – 102 183n76 1.39, 102 272 Specialibus legibus 1–2 142 1.1 156n103 1.8 168n5 1.79 – 81, 131 – 161 183n78 1.79 – 81, 131 – 161, 285 – 345 141n1, 142 1.79 – 161 141n1 1.285 – 345 141, 183n78 2.1 156n103 2.62 168 2.163 273 3.1 – 7 183n78 3.1 – 7, 8 – 64 141n1, 142 3.7 156n103 3.8 – 63 142, 183n78

Index of Ancient Sources

3.178 4.1, 132 – 135 De virtutibus 211 – 213 De vita contemplativa 29 75 De vita Mosis 1.4 2.45 – 47 2.115 2.215 – 16

168n5 156n103 122n38 174n37 182 168n5 156n105, 161n122 259n11 168, 234n83

Philostratus, Vita Apollonii 1.3.1 1.19.2 Photius, Bibliotheca 103 239 Pindar, Pythionikai (Pythian Odes) 4.4.315 Plato Apologia 17c 18 [30c] 28e 26eff. 28d-29a 29c 29c, e 30a 30c 30c-d 38a Cleitophon 407a-b Cratylus 43d 46b 46c Gorgias 474a 491 508c-e

172n22 172n22

159n116 116

125n50

147n41 229, 230 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 198 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 147n41 227, 233 199

527e Leges 1.643e 9.854b 715e–716a Menexenus 239d-240a Phaedrus 64a 77e 93 – 94 Philebus 48bff. Respublica 2.361e 8.546b-c 248c 431a Sophista 222b 228c Symposium 207b 218b 218d

301

199 4 147n41 123 226n60 147n41 147n41 227 147n41 147n41 177 196 227, 233 147n41 147n41 147n41 119n23 147n41

Plautus, Poenulus 522 – 23

244n19

Pliny the Elder, Naturalis historia 2.145

244n18

Pliny the Younger, Epistulae 1.10

147n34

Plotinus, Enneades 1 2 2.9 3 4 5 6

151 151 150n65 151 151 151 151

Plutarch De amore prolis 493a-497e

229n69

302

Index of Ancient Sources

De animae procreatione in Timaeo 1 172 De communibus notitiis contra stoicos 37, 45 176n47 Conjugalia Praecepta 138b 121n29 De fortuna 1 121n29 De fraterno amore 478a-492d 229n69 De Iside et Osiride 360e 121n29 De liberis educandis 5c–e 4 10 171 De musica 14 116 Quaestionum convivialum libri IX 3.praef. 176n45 3.8.1 176n45 4.1.1 176n45 9.praef. 176n45 9.13.1 176n45 Quaestiones platonicae 3.praef 176 5.1 176 9.praef 176 9.1 176 Quaestiones romanae et gracae 12 179n59, 180n62 26 179n59 54 179n59 1, 2, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 15, 17, 18, 36, 48, 66, 88, 89, 94, 95, 100, 104, 106, 108; 31, 36, 39, 46, 50, 52, 53 180n62 De recta ratione audiendi 3 172n21 De Stoicorum Repugnantiis 26 – 27 176n47 43 176n47 Sulla 26.1 – 2 153n94 De tranquillitate animi 475e 229, 230

De virtute morali 440d 442c 443d

227, 233 227 227n64

Porphyry Quaestionum Homericarum ad Iliadem pertinentium reliquiae 2.370 ff 121n32 Vita Plotini 3 148n3, n50, 149n51, n53, 150n61, 172, 174 4 150n62 4–6 172n24 4 – 6, 19, 24 – 26 150n63 5 148n49 7, 9 – 10 150n60 13 150n58, n59 14 149n54, 150n67, 174, 175 15 176, 177n48, 182 15, 16, 18 150n56 15, 20, 21 150n56 16 150n66 16, 17, 20 – 21 150n56 17 151n68 19 177 20 150n64, 151n67 24 151n71, n73 25 151n73, n74 26 151n69, n70, n72, n74, n75 Vita Pythagorae 19 172n24 Proclus Institutio theologica 67.6 In Platonis Parmenidem 871.10 In Platonis Timaeum commentaria 3.8.9 Proverbs 3:3 3:18 4:1 4:4 7:3 8:15

122n35 122n35 122n35

76 236 134, 135 136 76 79n29

Index of Ancient Sources

8:22 – 31 10:11, 31 11:26 11:29 19:18 22:20‒24:22 23:13 – 14 25:1 31 31:5 Psalms 1:2 19:5 – 6 25:3 – 6 34:12 34:19 36:9 – 10 38:24 39:2 – 16 39:32 51:8 – 9 72 78:5 119:6, 10 119:105 104 117 [118]:18 119 148 Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes) 2:16 12:13 Quintilian, Institutio oratoria 1.praef.7 1.1.36 2.3.5 2.4 2.15.6 3.7.10 4.1.5 6.1.51 7.2.24

37 139n44 137n37 139n44 133 51 133n13 135n25 76n19 79

34, 84n41 61n10 34 136 236 61n9 32, 34 34 34 65n30 65n30 136n30 48 61n10 37 135 48, 76n19 37

67 57

172 230 243n15 207 244n22 218 226 226 172

303

Romans 12:1 12:1 – 2

253 252

1 Samuel 2:21 3:13 9:2 12:23 16:11

131n3 133, 134, 135n27 131n3 136n28 131n3

2 Samuel 12:24 23:13 – 17 23:14 – 15 23:16 23:17

131n3 208, 235 209 209 209

Scholia in Hesiodum, Scholia in opera et dies (scholia vetera) 325.21 122n35 Scholia in Homerum, Scholia in Iliadem (scholia vetera) 1.682.1 173 10.136 – 247.4, 315a.4 121n33 19.296.1 121n33 214b.1 121n33 Scholia in Lycophronem (scholia vetera et recentiora partim Isaac et Joannis Tzetzae) 3.29 125n50 Scholia in opera et dies (scholia vetera partim Procli et recentiora partim Moschopuli, Tzetzae et Joannis Galeni) 325.20 122n35 Seneca De Constantia 2.1, 3 3.4 5.6 – 6.8 9.3 16.4 De Ira 2.23.1

229 229 228 229 199 215n26

304

Index of Ancient Sources

Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales 52.12 67.16 75.8 – 18 108.1 108.6 108.23 – 24, 35 116.1 De Providentia 5.10 Simplicius, Theologia Platonica 3.33.11 Sirach 1:10 1:1 – 10 1:11 – 13 1:21 1:26 1:27 2:10 2:14 – 23 2:15 3 3:1 – 16; 7:27 f 3:1‒6 3:21 – 24 3:22 3:29 3:30 3:5 4:1 – 6, 8 – 10, 31 4:1 – 10 4:4a; 7:32 4:5 – 6 4:7 4:7, 27 4:11 – 19 4:17 – 18 4:17, 18, 19 4:18 4:25, 26 5:1.8 5:1 – 8 5:14 – 15 6:10

244 229 148n46 172 172n22 174n35 227n64 229

122n35

56 35, 39 47 35n16 36, 48, 56, 63 47 35n21 35n12 63n18 37n25 35n13 55 56, 63n17 57 35 55 65 35n14 67 32 67 35n15 32 35, 40, 41, 44 66 41 41n33 35n16 32 35n16 35n14 51

6:10‒15 6:18 6:18 – 37 6:22 6:24 – 25 6:28 – 31 6:29, 31 6:30‒31 6:32 – 33 6:33 6:34 – 36 6:34 – 37 6:35 6:37 6:4 – 16 7:4 – 6 7:4 – 8 7:6 7:8, 10 7:9, 31 7:10 7:10, 14 7:10, 32 – 35 7:18 7:19, 26 7:20 – 21 7:23 7:23; 22:3 7:24 – 25 7:29 – 31 7:32, 35 7:32 – 36 7:33 8:5 – 7 8:8 8:8 – 9 8:12 – 13 8:14 9:1 – 2 9:3 – 9 9:10 9:15 10:1 – 5, 8, 24 10:3 10:30 11:2 – 6, 14, 19 11:7 – 13

50, 51 33, 58 33, 25, 44 33 33 33 68 53 38 33 47 74 33, 56 34, 38, 63 35n18 32 35n15 45n41 35n16 65n27 55 65 67 35n18 35n13 32 85n48 35n13 35n13 35n16, 55 67 35n14 67 35n14 47, 48, 63 33, 34, 35 32 35n15 35n13 35n13 35n18 49 35n15 45n41 139n44 35n16 35n14

Index of Ancient Sources

11:11 – 19 11:14 11:16 – 17 11:27 – 32 12:1 12:3 12:8 – 18 13:1 – 7 14:11 13:16 – 19 14:20 – 15:10 15:1 15:1b 15:2 15:2 – 6 15:3 15:10 15:14 – 17 16:19 16:24 16:24 – 30 16:6 – 10 17 17:1 – 14,15 – 20 17:6 – 7a 17:11 17:21 – 32 17:22 17:25 18:1 – 7 18:8 – 14 18:13 – 14 18:29 18:30 18:30 – 33 18:31 18:32 – 33 18:33 19:6 19:20 19:22, 24 20:16 21:1 – 10 21:11 21:13 21:13, 15a 21:15

35n17 47 35n17 35n14 35n14 55 35n14 32 65n27 63 35, 40, 44 63 56 40 40 40 42 31 122n39 33, 63n21 35n19 35n21 31n4, 33, 37n25 35n20 30 56 35n16 55 65 35n19 35n20 39 42 66 66 67, 67n37 67n37 67 66 63 35 139n44 35n16 36, 63n18 45 42 63n21

21:25 22:1 – 23:6 22:3 – 4 22:5 22:25 – 23:6 22:27 – 23:6 23:1 – 6 23:6 23:16 – 28 24 24:8, 23 24:23 24:23 – 27 24:30 – 31 24:30 – 34 24:32 24:33 24:34 25:13 – 20, 22 – 23 25:21 25 – 26 26:1 – 27 26:29 – 27:3 27:8 27:16 – 21 27:22 – 30 28 28:6 – 7 28:7 29:1 – 20 29:8, 12 29:14, 20 30:1 – 13 31 – 32 31:12 – 32:13 31:22 32:8 33:16 – 19 33:2 33:2 – 3 33:3 33:7 – 15 33:18 33:20 – 24 33:26 33:32 34:1

305

66 35n12 35n13 35n13 64n24 65n31 65 66 35n13 35, 66 49 36, 55 61, 78n27 61 43, 61, 64n24, 66 61 61, 66 61, 65 35n13 35n13 64n24 35n13 32 68 35n18 35n12 32 63n18 37n25 67 55 32 35n13 32 35, 54, 57 33 66 42, 64n24 36 63 45 35n19 42 35n14 32 32 66

306

Index of Ancient Sources

34:1 – 8 34:12 34:12 – 13 34:21‒35:13 34:21 – 35:15 34:5 34:5 – 8 34:6 34:9 – 11 34:9 – 13 35:1 – 2 35:1 – 4, 10 – 12 35:4 36:1 – 17 36:1 – 19 36:21 – 26 37:1‒3 37:1 – 6 37:15 37:19 – 26 37:29 38:1 – 15 38:11 38:16 – 23 38:24 – 34 38:24 – 39:11 38:25 – 34 38:32 – 34a 38:34 38:34 – 39:2 38:34 – 39:3 38:34c–39:11 38 – 39 38:9 39:1 39:10 – 11 39:1 – 2 39:1 – 3 39:1 – 11 39:4 39:5 39:5 – 8 39:6 39:7 39:8 39:9 – 11 39:12, 32

66 50 43 55 35n16 66 36 66 38 64n24 63n18 65n27 55, 67 35n16 65 35n13 51 35n18 65 45 66 35n22 65n27 35n17 62, 82 52 35n22 45 63 36 44 64 45 65 50, 63, 66 45 36, 45 62 35n12, 35n22, 43, 44 45, 64 65 65 39, 41, 65, 66 65, 66 65 67 43

39:12 – 13, 32 – 35 64n24 39:12 – 35 35n19, 53 39:21, 29‒30 53, 40:1 – 11 35n17 40:17, 24 55 41:1 – 4 35n17 41:5 – 13 35n13 41:14 – 42:8 35n12 42:3 – 5a 32 42:9 – 14 35n13 42:15 43, 64n24 42:15 – 43:33 35n19, 37, 37n26, 50, 53, 62 42:17 63 42:21, 24 37 42:23 63 42:25 53 43:27 53, 63 43:32 37, 64n24 44 – 50 37, 38n28, 45, 56 44 38n29 44:1 43 44:1 – 15 64 44:1 – 49:24 64 44:1 – 50:24 35n21 44:4 33 44:14 – 15 38 44:15 45 45:17 73 50:25 – 26 64n24 50:27 – 29 62 50:28 62, 63n21 50:28 – 29 57 51 64n24 51:1 – 12 35n16, 65n31 51:13 50 51:13 – 14 65 51:13 – 22 44 51:13 – 25 64 51:13 – 30 43, 44, 76n19 51:18 – 19 63 51:23 44 51:23 – 30 44, 62 51:29 47n2 Sibylline Oracles 3.419 – 32 11.178

75n13 121

Index of Ancient Sources

Song of Songs 4:12 – 5:1 Stobaeus, Eclogae 2.222

61n9

228

Strabo, Geographica 7.7 16.2.29

125n50 52n16

Suetonius, De grammaticis 11

174n35

Testament of Judah 1:6 13:1 Testament of Levi 4:5 9:7 – 8 10:1 13:2 13:3 – 4 13:4 18:6

307

136n32 135

137 137 136 84n42, 137, 139 139 139n46 137n35

Talmud, Babylonian Baba Batra 21a

71n3

Testament of Reuben 3:8 3:9

135 136

Talmud, Jerusalem Ketubbot 8:11, 32c Megillah 73b

71n3 71n3

Testament of Simeon 7:3

137

Testament of Zebulun 2:3 6:6 10:2

135 137n37 135

Tertullian Apologeticus 46:18 De praescriptione haereticorum 7:9 Testament of Benjamin 4:5 10:2 10:3 10:4 – 5

185 185

Theodoretus, Graecarum affectionum curatio 2.30 113n4 134 138 138, 140 138

Testament of Dan 1:4 2–4 6:9

139 137 137

Testament of Gad 6:3 – 4 8:1

135n22 137

Testament of Issachar 7:5

137n37

Testament of Joseph 6:8

134

Theognis, Elegiac Poems 115‒116 979 643‒644

51 51 51

Theon, Progymnasmata 3.101 – 102, 11.121 – 125 5.78 5.79 6.106 6.107 7.119 8.111 8.115 8.115 – 116 8.116 – 117 8.117 9.109 9.110, 112

213 208n13 207 214n19, 215n23 214n21 208 218n33 218n35 219n37 220n39 219n36 216 217n29

308

Index of Ancient Sources

11.120 11.121 11.121 – 122 11.122 11.128 17 59 Theophilus, Ad Autolycum 3.2 1 Thessalonians 4:1 Thucydides, Histories 2.34 – 46 2.43.1 – 4 6.57.4 1 Timothy 2:7 Wisdom of Solomon 1:1 1:4 – 5 2:1 – 5, 12 2:4 2:12 2:12 – 20 3:1 3:1 – 5

221n44 221n43 222n46 222n47 222n48 224n55 175n38

113n4

240

226n59 64 215n26

239

195 65 275 67 275n17 276 195 195, 276

3:2 3:5 4:2 6:1 6:1 ff 6:4 6:9 – 11 6:12 6:17 – 21 6:25 7:1 – 22 7:10, 26, 29 7:13 7:15 – 22 7:21 ff 9:15 10 – 19 10:12 11:10 11:18 – 14 12:18 – 27 12:22 16:3 16:4 – 9 18:4 18:20 – 25 Xenophon, Memorabilia 4.6 4.6.12

195 195 276n21 274, 277 195 277 274 61n10 277 274 65 61n10 137n37 274 196 196 195 276n21 195 275n19 275n19 195 195 275n19 61n10 235

234n83 215n27